Dominic George: Shearer at cutting edge of comedy

Martin Devlin took shearer Willie Hewitson through a few hairy moments. Photo / File

Kudos to Martin Devlin for getting shearing on to Radio Sport this week. The host of the DRS had Willie Hewitson on his show after the Southlander was part of a record-breaking effort in the King Country. To be precise, the world five-stand strongwool lambshearing record was plundered by Mark Barrowcliffe's gang, who beat the previous record of 2638 on their way to a grand total of 2910 over the allotted eight hours.

The best part of the interview was when Devlin fired a few questions at Hewitson to gauge his level of metro-sexuality. Suffice to say, Hewitson played with a straight bat to the questions from the latte-swilling Jafa.

"Male grooming ..." began Devlin, "what do you do?" "Shaving, that's about me," replied Hewitson. "That's not down south is it?" "Nah, she's all above board." Good man.

I myself am concerned at the prevalence of facial hair grooming. I've had one shave in the past three weeks and only succumbed to the razor when an insufferable level of itchiness was reached. But I see too many men shaping and even colouring their facial hair. Shave or don't shave, end of story. And let's not make the mistake of getting carried away with a general beard fad either. There are exceptions but don't forget the beard, until recently, was strictly the domain of academics and conservationists.

Continuing with the theme of hair, Hewitson was asked if he uses hair product. "She's a haircut and that's about it," came his reply. What if someone asked him to borrow his comb? That would be the shearing comb for Hewitson, not the Jamie Mackay in-the-back-of-the-rugby-shorts-on-a-Saturday comb. The salt 'n pepper look? "That's just on the table down here." Outstanding.

On the subject of drinks, Hewitson was asked what sort of coffee he ordered from cafes. The answer: flat white. Acceptable, although I maintain the best way to drink coffee is in small, strong doses of pure black, aka an espresso. Sounds a bit wanky, but it's the way coffee is supposed to be consumed, not corrupted by milk and caramel and chocolate and whatever else these baristas throw into the mix.

What about citrus beer? Well, what do you think? It's a Speight's for Mr Hewitson and co, although the world of beer is a marvellous and ever-developing beast. In fact, when it comes to coffee and beer, and indeed wine, it's interesting to note how quickly New Zealanders have embraced these beverages and we're now used to a relatively high standard. In just a few decades, we've gone from instant coffee, cask wine and a DB to devouring and, in many cases, producing, some of the finest beverages on offer. By the way, citrus beers are horrible unless you throw a sliver of lime into the neck of an ice-cold Corona.

Regarding fashion, Devlin queried whether Hewitson would wear three-quarter pants. Unsurprisingly, yet thankfully, it was a straight "no", although with the small caveat, "not in front of my father, anyway". Three-quarter pants are indeed clip-round-the-ear material.

And finally on the subject of celebrating success, like breaking world records, how do you celebrate? Is it high fives, hugs or handshakes? For Hewitson and his mates it's a no-nonsense normal handshake. I'm pleased with this as sometimes I'm not sure what sort of handshake is heading my way these days.

Is it the straight handshake? The straight handshake that morphs into the arm-wrestle grip? Is it the arm-wrestle grip brought in close to the chest with an accompanying half-embrace? Or is it, worst of all, a disconcertingly limp offering from the fellow handshaker?

I swear there are so many variations on the handshake theme I'm usually left in a tangled mess of limbs and fingers so embarrassing it makes John Key look like a handshaking expert.

In any case we need more Hewitsons on the radio to serve as a reminder that life need not be complicated to be enjoyed and because it means there'll be less citrus beer drinking, three-quarter-pant wearing, beard-grooming arseholes.