Ladies and gentlemen, it's a great proofs.

In the city of Wellington on the north island and what can only be described as the New Zealand International Comedy Festival continues at pace.

And here in this hot ass humid bar of a terrarium place where turtles or fed worms from the ceiling and palm trees grow in the daytime where I found a truffle pig in the back room hunting for mushrooms in this moisture laden atmosphere.

What they call the Fringe Bar or if you're from here in the Fringe Bar. In New Zealand, the smartest man in the world proup cast commences Hale, one and all, welcome Kiwis and friends of Kiwis. I'm Greg Proup's key.

And what a place it is where the winds blow ceaselessly in from the sea here.

Yesterday, almost gale force, today a sprightly semi gale force. After the tornadoes that unfortunately hit Auckland yesterday, I was having lunch with my wife at one of your fabulous dockside pubs here.

I won't say the name of it, the first part is Saint the last part is Jones and home of a staggering bowl of green-lipped mussels, something I'd only seen in the most exotic confines of the section that holds seafood in the most remote places in Los Angeles.

A confection from the sea only doled out at low tide if people have been extra good that day and have lived up to all their parents' expectations.

Yet here, they're given out at lunchtime for the paltry sum of $10 in a commodious bowl, little with a sauce that can only be described as the embryonic fluid of everything that was ever born from the sea.

An exquisite melange of salt and butter covering each green-lipped mussel as they gently open up and succumb to each one, feeling its way around your mouth as it submits to your desires.

Semi-open and semi-hard they are received and gigantic and hard to swallow they are consumed.

It is both a sex act and an act of comestible eating all at once and with wedge-sized chips the size of small points used for building.

Dipped in both aoli and gravy as if France and Canada had conspired to make New Zealand the fulcrum of all that makes one's ventricles clog in the night with platelets hitherto unseen.

The green-lipped mussels shall go down in my memory here in New Zealand along with all the other mollusks I have murdered.

I am, in fact, the Geoffrey Dumber of mollusks in this land because all have fallen before me.

What are they called? I'm going to forget the name. The oysters, they're a powa.

Oh, powa, don't even powa, powa, wow! So fucking powa full are these powa that I consumed.

Not just in Abelani because in Abelani sits by itself on a rock all day adhered with but the giant mussel that nature gave to the powa

leaps on to your plate and screams eat me. They were gently battered today when I received the powa.

Having not had one before and I had to ask twice because I'm damn and the accent doesn't get through all the way until a few hours out in the acclimating climbs of conjoining with other people in social intercourse.

Having only just come from our room I had to ask twice for the powa and then when I found out what it was to lie isn't the word that I could describe.

I felt as if I was swooshed up from the bottom of the ocean, Nemo guiding me the whole way.

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