Sequins, Smoke Machines, and Student Loan Balances: Inside NZ’s Most Awkward Glam Night

 Every year, New Zealand’s annual music awards roll around like a particularly glamorous school prizegiving — if your school had sequins, smoke machines, and an open bar.

On cue, the country’s finest musicians descend on the red carpet, bravely pretending they’re not freezing in evening wear designed for a different climate. Interviewers ask deep, searching questions like, “Who are you wearing?” “Are you excited?” and "Growing up, did you ever believe you would be here?" to people who, five minutes earlier, were eating a pie in the Uber.

Inside, the show begins. A host appears, determined to convince us this is the biggest night in New Zealand music, even though we all know half the audience has to be up at 7 am for their day jobs—if they have one. Awards are announced for categories like Best Single, Best Album, and Best Artist Who Hasn’t Moved to Australia Yet.

Inevitably, there will be at least one artist who bemoans the lack of government funding for the arts, conveniently forgetting the unemployment benefit they’re on. Equally inevitably, there will be another artist who bemoans the lack of Māori representation on the awards list, ignoring the fact that 75% of award winners are Māori or purport to be Māori.

Every winner delivers a speech that starts confidently and then slowly dissolves into a panicked list of everyone they’ve ever met. “I’d like to thank my mum, my band, my dog, the barista who believed in me, and the algorithm.” 

The performances are a highlight: pyrotechnics, choreography, and at least one act bravely attempting to make a keytar seem cool again. Somewhere in the back row, a veteran musician leans over and whispers, “In my day, we were lucky if the smoke machine worked.”

By the end of the night, everyone agrees it was a triumph for local music, a celebration of creativity, and an excellent excuse to wear sunglasses indoors. And just like that, the industry returns to normal — until next year, when we do it all again, slightly louder and marginally and hopefully more in tune.

It's all KFC

 

I would like to return to last week’s Fryday and, by way of explanation, answer a question one or two of you have asked. It is a question that I have been asked before, almost every time I either bored or enthralled people with stories of my political exploits.

That question is: how come you were working for Norman Kirk in one election (1972) and Rob Muldoon in the next (1975)? The answer is simple; I worked in Advertising—a profession not widely nor inaccurately known for its scruples. I worked with Bob Harvey’s Macharman Ayer advertising agency on the Kirk campaign (It’s Time”) and for Colenso on the Muldoon campaign (Dancing Cossacks).

It should be known that none of us working on those campaigns did so for ideological reasons. We were simply doing a job and selling what was for us a product. In fact, when we were asked, which was rare, about the perceived hypocrisy of working for two vastly different political platforms, our answer would be “it’s just Kentucky Fried Chicken”, which, incidentally, was a brand Colenso had a hand in introducing into New Zealand.

This in no way disparaging to the politicians. In fact, to this day, Norm Kirk is the most charismatic person I have met, and Muldoon—well, he is the most terrifying. Both were fundamentally good people who held to their beliefs. Both had the country foremost in their hearts and worked diligently to realise their visions for it.

We in Advertising, on the other hand, set aside any political bias we had and just got about doing our job. Which is more than can be said for many of today’s (young) political commentators.

Many of the young men and women who worked on those campaigns stayed on in advertising (some for too long), while others bought pubs. A couple committed suicide. Many freelanced, usually unsuccessfully. A few, very few, went on to become grandiosely named Political Operatives, working in the shadows.

But none of us, I think, lost sight of the endgame: selling product. That and the booze, the gambling, the drugs, the cars and the women.

Asleep on the Soper

 Allow me this conceit, please.

I rarely discuss politics these days. It is such a polarising subject and, quite frankly, if I am in a room with anybody, I almost certainly know more about politics than anyone else there. My eldest son urinated on Norman Kirk, I sat terrified in countless meetings with Rob Muldoon, I was on the Rainbow Warrior with Helen Clark the day it was bombed, I partied hard with Mike Moore (and his wife Yvonne), and I was among a small and select group of people David Lange consulted the day after his election as prime minister in 1984.

So, I don’t talk politics. I have lived it, I am jaded by it, and I don’t want to embarrass anyone I talk to about it.

However, yesterday I purchased Barry Soper’s new book, *One Last Question, Prime Minister*, which regales us with stories from his life as a political correspondent under every New Zealand prime minister from Muldoon through to Luxon. I haven’t finished reading it, but even now I commend it to all my friends. It is insightful, witty and, above all, well written.

My appreciation of the book is heightened by the fact that I knew almost all the people in it personally. In fact, I predated Mr Soper, because he joined the Parliamentary Press Gallery in 1980, and I had been working with Norm Kirk in 1972 (“It’s Time”) and Rob Muldoon in 1975 (“Dancing Cossacks”).

I could write a book about my time in politics, and it has been suggested. But Mr Soper’s book, with its tales of back-room, smoke, and fish-and-chip shenanigans, is far superior to anything I could write.

Still, I will share one anecdote with you that I hope you will enjoy. It concerns the 1975 election, when I worked with the advertising agency Colenso as one of its media directors. Colenso—specifically account director Mike Walls—created the infamous Dancing Cossacks campaign while I was working there.

We saw a lot of Muldoon. He would come into the Whittaker Place agency almost every Friday night. Ostensibly, it was to hear about the latest campaign plans, but we all believed that he secretly relished the relaxed atmosphere and the chance to wind down at the end of the week. We obliged. Before he arrived, the drinks—gin or vodka—were poured, and the prettiest receptionist with the shortest skirt stayed behind to serve them. Nothing untoward happened regarding the receptionist, but she would usher him into our large meeting room, sit with him, and continue to ply him with drinks.

There was method in this madness. Business was indeed transacted at these meetings—namely, the presentation of the planned advertising. But with the connivance and cooperation of his personal campaign team, anything potentially contentious was left to last, by which time Muldoon had usually fallen asleep.

This subterfuge was aided by having Muldoon sit in a dimly lit area of the room, with the other end—apparently for presentation purposes—brightly lit. The strategy was successful. Inevitably, Muldoon, plied with drinks, would fall asleep in the darkness, and our signal to roll out the contentious stuff was his snoring. The meetings were minuted, so if Muldoon subsequently disagreed with something we presented, we could say he was there when the decision was made—asleep, but there.

I was terrified of Muldoon in those days. Ironically, we later became neighbours when we both had homes at Hatfield’s Beach, north of Auckland. We would nod at each other and sometimes chat as we passed each other on the beach. But he didn’t remember me from the Colenso days, and nor did I remind him.

Yes, I could write a book. But, as previously stated, Soper has done it—and done it much better than I could. It’s called *One Last Question, Prime Minister*, and it is well worth the read.

 

A Word About David

 

It is the 100^th birthday today of acclaimed naturalist Sir David Attenborough. And whilst I celebrate that, it has also thrown into sharp relief a curious dichotomy I have long wrestled with.

There’s a bittersweet note lingering in the minds of many admirers, myself included, that this beloved broadcaster and conservationist was never bestowed a lordship, as his older brother Richard Attenborough was.

Richard Attenborough, acclaimed actor and director, became Lord Attenborough of Richmond upon Thames in 1993, recognised for his immense contributions to film and the arts. I have nothing against actors—I was one once.

But Sir David, meanwhile, has dedicated his life to enlightening the world about the wonders—and perils—of the natural world. Through his tireless advocacy, groundbreaking documentaries, and gentle wisdom, Sir David has arguably become one of Britain’s most recognisable and respected figures, his influence spanning continents and generations.

For decades, Sir David has educated, inspired, and motivated people to care for the planet. His voice is synonymous with wonder and reverence for nature. His work has shaped public policy, sparked global conservation movements, and nurtured a love of the environment in countless hearts. He has received knighthoods and countless accolades, but the lack of a peerage feels like a curious omission—one that many fans and environmentalists have questioned over the years.

Perhaps Sir David’s humility and lifelong focus on the natural world, rather than personal accolades, is part of what makes him so cherished. Yet, it’s hard not to feel the United Kingdom missed an opportunity to further honour a man who has given so much.

Still, whether or not he ever becomes Lord Attenborough, Sir David’s legacy is secure. The world knows his name, reveres his work, and celebrates his centenary with gratitude and awe. Titles may come and go, but the love and respect for Sir David Attenborough are truly peerless.

Mischief of Feijoas: One Man, One Hedge, and a Rat-Infested Rain of Green Grenades

 

I can do one or both of two things in the unlikely event that I want to eat a feijoa. I can go down to my local Woolworths and pay $7.10 per kilogram for them, or I can walk out my front door, take two steps, and fight a mischief of rats for them.

I hate feijoas, so I am disinclined to do either in order to acquire them. I just wish they would go away of their own accord. You see, I live next to a feijoa hedge, and it’s feijoa season. As a consequence, we are currently inundated with feijoas falling from the hedge and covering our driveway and paths.

The feijoas don’t stay intact for long. They are soon crushed underfoot or under one or other of our two cars. Either way, they create, in their death throes, a horrid mess. A mess which, for reasons I find hard to fathom, it is apparently incumbent on my wife to clean up.

Why my wife? Because I, at my age and with my build, am unable to pick them up. But it goes deeper than that. You see, we live in a gated community—and it is a community, a good community. Most of us get on very well with each other. Except for one thing: we—my wife specifically—are the only ones who pick up those bloody feijoas.

Nobody else has shown the least inclination to do so, despite—and it is a large despite—the hedge being a communal hedge, owned and shared by the community.

And there lies the issue. This gated community of ours is not the only owner of this hedge. The other owners are the rats that reside and proliferate in the hedge and, more recently, in the engine well of one of our cars.

You may think all of this is of little significance. And perhaps it is. But not to us. We loathe feijoas with a passion—and on that subject, why can’t we have passionfruit instead?

At this point, I’m considering a petition to have the hedge replaced with something more civilised. Passionfruit. Lemons. Plastic. Literally anything that doesn’t launch green grenades at my driveway and invite rats to move into my car.

Until then, my wife will continue her daily feijoa patrol, the rats will continue their feijoa banquet, and I will continue to be the only man in New Zealand who can stand ten metres from a free feijoa tree, watch people pay $7.10 a kilo for the things, and still feel that everyone involved is being ripped off.

 

Dear President Christopher Luxon

  

 

 

 

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

 

 President Christopher Luxon

New Zealand Parliament Gallery

PO Box 55

Wellington

New Zealand

 

Dear President Christopher Luxon

 The Democratic Republic of Wogistans peoples send warm greeting to you.

 I read with much concerns of a coup in your country that you survived—PRAISE BE TO ALLAH.

 My concerns are not that you survived PRAISE BE TO ALLAH, but that you aloud coup to happen in first place. I think what kind of President are you? No coups are aloud in Wogistan. Last coup was mine. Not aloud since.

 I give you good advice to stop you having another one. This is what I do.

•  Make coup makers disappear
•  ·      Make son-in-law or useless second son head of Army.
• ·      Give Army no bullets—give McDonald’s vouchers instead—keep happy.
• ·      Make friends with President Donald J. Trump.
• ·      Pay Donald J. Trump monies.
• ·      Disband middle class—too many thinks.
• ·      Keep lower class happy—instruct State Television to run reruns of Bonanza.
• ·      Join Rotary.

 This make happy country. I look forward to your visit. Bring wives. Much good shopping in Wogistan.

 With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Flanglantelie

President: The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor of Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

 

 

 

The Waikato University Library Book of Lists-- Te Pukapuka o te Whare Pukapuka o te Whare Wananga o Waikato.

 The University of Waikato presents a delightful ambiguity for the observer. On the one hand, it is, and has been for some time, a hotbed and breeding ground for left-wing radicalism, particularly Feminism. On the other hand, it operates in a largely conservative, right-wing rural community. In an effort to define this dichotomy and perhaps explain it, the author has examined the library of the University of Waikato, seeking to delineate the culture through the books available to the student body. This is what we found: The University of Waikato Library’s Book of Lists.

   

·      Most Popular Book among Binary: A study of the misogyny, disbelief, scorn and derision of “normal” people toward binary people—and how to cultivate it.

·      Smallest Book in the Library: Why Binary People Matter.

·      Second Smallest Book in Library. The Contributions of Waikato University Graduates to New Zealand Society.

·      Largest Book in the Library: The Unseen but Not Unexpected Detrimental Effects of Colonialism on Māori Culture.

·      Most stolen Book: Being Māori-- Kei te harikoa ahau ki tenei.

·      Best Historical Book: Why Communism on Campus is Still Relevant.

·      Most Relevant Political Tome: Talking Trotskyism.

·      Best Light Reading Category: A Thesis on the Anomalous Machinations and Conundrums Besetting the Ibellula Insect of the Infraorder Anisoptera…For Dummies.

·      Most Desired Book: Place, Space and Sex: Geographies of Sexualities, published by Rowman and Littlefield.

·      Best Biography: Jacinda—Those Golden Years.

·      Most Despised Biography (withdrawn): The Runner—How Jacinda Ardern Left New Zealand.

·      Best Autobiography: Air Quotes and Stridency: My Story, by Chlöe Swarbrick.

·      Most Popular Political Commentary: A dissertation on the Rise and Rise of The Green Party of Aotearoa/ New Zealand. He tuhinga roa mo te Rise and Rise of The Green Party of Aotearoa/New Zealand.

·      Most Read Medical Book: Common Viruses of New Zealand Cows.

·      Best Farming Book: Sheep Shagger: The Secret Life of a Waikato Farmer.

·      Best How-To Book: Size Matters: How to Use Big Words When Small Ones Would Do.

·      Most Popular Reference Work: A Dictionary of Obscure Words Guaranteed to Make Every Thesis Sing.

·      Most Requested Book: Government University Grants—How to get them, how to use them, and how to book that research trip to Bali.

Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Truth Social: #millionsofpeopleloveme

Dear God,

 

First of all, Happy New Year. A very big New Year. Probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. You’re welcome.

 

I’ve been told by many people—tremendous people—that you’re the King of Kings. Some say you created the heavens and the earth in six days. Very impressive work ethic. Very strong numbers. Honestly, my contractors could never. Maybe next time you want to do a universe, call me. We’ll put our names on a few galaxies. The Trump-God Nebula—people will love it, they’ll say they’ve never seen stars shine so bright.

 

Now, about this past year. I don’t want to say you could have managed it better, but there were some disasters, some fake news, some very unfair polls. A lot of people are saying your approval rating is slipping. If you need someone to handle your PR, I know a guy. Well, I know me. We’ll fix your image—very fast, very easy.

 

For the New Year, I’m asking for just a few small things: good health, a third term, huge wins, and that my enemies continue to be confused, exposed, and, ideally, retired, or jailed—peacefully, of course. Also, maybe turn down the volume on hurricanes and pandemics. People are tired. They want rallies, they want ballrooms.

 

If you could also keep my hair looking good, that would be fantastic. A true modern miracle. People touch it, and they can’t believe it. You did tremendous work there.

 

Anyway, keep up the good work up there. You’re doing an amazing job—though there’s always room for improvement, believe me. Maybe think about term limits for mosquitoes, but not PRESIDENTS!!!!.

 

Anyway, Happy New Year, God. Let’s make it great again—maybe the greatest year in the history of years. You handle the miracles, I’ll handle the branding.

 

Sincerely,

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America and Venezuela and Greenland---but wait, there’s more!!!.

 

Why is Trump Trying to Explain this Crash?

 

It is rare for Fryday to cover the same subject two weeks in a row, but President Donald J. Trump's pontifications regarding the tragedy over the Potomac deserve nothing less than a scathing response.

Even by Trump’s standards, which are minimal at best, his trying to mine political capital from the tragedy is ill-conceived, ill-judged, infantile and pathetic.

Attributing the crash to diversity in hiring as a possible reason for the aircraft colliding is, at the very least, premature and unworthy, considering investigations have yet to start.

They are also unnecessary, given they are not the opinions of an expert, are not supported by evidence (and are unlikely to be), and reflect poorly on the presidency when compassion and gravitas are needed.

To be fair to Trump, he did admit that he had no evidence to support his statement and that “it just could have been [diversity].” But why say it all? The President’s judgement and maturity must be called into question.

But Trump doesn’t stop there.

In the same statement, he suggests that the helicopter pilot might not have been wearing night-vision glasses. Again, this is unnecessary and premature. Why is Trump trying to explain this crash? And from what standpoint? He does not have the expertise, retrospect, or foresight for such utterances.

And he is achieving nothing.

But he does utter one truism in his statement. Well, to be more accurate, it was Vice-President Vance who said, “If you don’t have the best standards when you’re hiring, it means on the one hand, you’re not getting the best people in government.”

He is dead right there. He and Trump only have to look in their mirrors to see that.

 

Letter to God

 

All the news that is S**t to print

 

People losing their jobs is not good news.

But the question is: is it news at all?

I am referring to Newshub's imminent demise and TVNZ's staff cuts, which have led to the cancellation of several long-standing programmes. The number of staff cuts makes for grim reading, but does it warrant the amount of coverage it received from the media? Is it new, and is it, to a certain extent, self-inflicted?

In answer to the first question: I would say no. The fact that a major broadcasting operation, Warner Bros. Discovery, is closing its New Zealand news operation is news and probably does warrant heading the television news of its masthead channel and that of its government-owned rival. But doing so night after night with media-savvy presenters and newsreaders fronting impromptu press conferences was audacious, ludicrous, repetitive, and ultimately, I think, ineffectual.

What is not in question is the media’s right to do it. This is media having access to media. So, they used it. Over-used it, in my view. And that is in stark contrast to the meagre and all-too-fleeting coverage of substantial redundancies in other industry sectors.

But they aren’t the media.

I guess it’s a case of if you have it, flaunt it.

The second question is: is it new? No, the demise and the reduction of media have been going on for a long time and are wholly understandable. Economic factors are a big driver, and I can remember a time in America—a time in the 60s when, notwithstanding it produced some of the greatest columnists of all time, 305 daily newspapers closed their doors. And it has continued; since 2005 the U.S. has lost nearly 2900 newspapers, and 45,000 journalists have lost their jobs. Magazine numbers have had a proportional decline.

Whilst there are no exact numbers for newspapers and other media outlets going to the wall in New Zealand, we see anecdotally the same decline happening here.

So, the third and final question, is the decline of the media self-inflicted? In part, yes. Media can point to greater competition, the advent of social media, the cost-of-living crisis, audience and advertising distribution, COVID-19, and a score of other factors. But could not one of the reasons be that people no longer respect or trust the media—particularly the news media?

I look at what is served up to me today, and what I see and hear is concerning. For example, this morning on ZB radio, the three main news items were about the release of reports—obscure reports by obscure groups on obscure issues—hardly worthy of the research, let alone the publication of that research. Check out the TV news tonight; it’ll probably be the same. Put simply, reporters are not reporting other than to parrot the latest press release about reports soon to fade into obscurity.

They are not doing their job—hunting out and reporting on the important issues.

And then we have the failure of the media—particularly television—to demonstrate any objectivity. You may disagree. But do you recall those days of the Podium of Truth? Jessica, then Tova, then Barry? Jessica saw the light and did a Jacinda (runner), Tova went to podcasts, and Barry is still—well—Barry. But they have been replaced by a new breed: Maikie Sherman (TVNZ) and Amelia Wade (Newshub)—strident, full of self-importance and, given their reporting, totally bereft of credibility.

The perceived Maorification of the media may also played a part in declining ratings for the news.

And then there is the quality of presentation and reportage of the news. We have, for the most part, young, inexperienced news reporters who want to be the next Woodward or Bernstein. They haven’t the training for it, and more importantly, they don’t have the editorial oversight that maintains the standards—grammar, spelling, consistency--and even the objectivity of quality reporting.

There are exceptions. I think Newshub has some good people in there and in my view generally do a better job than TVNZ.

But increasingly, I am turned off and turning off the news—all news.

The old saying, I think from the New York Times, “All the News That’s Fit to Print,” is no longer fit for purpose.