The Race for Grace

Amazing Grace is the best movie I have seen in the last five years. I cannot recollect or compare further back nor do I care: for the moment this movie, exquisite in its telling and rendering, is to be simply savoured. William Wilberforce is largely forgotten today, though there is now the predictable rash of books following this movie on his life. Why he should be forgotten worries me. There have been other reformers of course, many of whom equalled Wilberforce in zeal. None however seemed to be as effective or as eclectic. Wilberforce was not only instrumental in abolishing British involvement in the slave trade, he also introduced free education and the National Health Service, all of which he accomplished without being Prime minister. Yet it took a modern-day film-maker to give him the resurgent fame he so richly deserves. Hollywood is yet to do the same for William Blake, but one lives in hope. So, why the worry? It is simply this: our remembered history is replete with those who did bad—Hitler, Genghis Khan and his soul-brother Kublai, Nero, Rasputin et al. Yet we remember little of those who did good, unless they, such as John F. Kennedy and Ghandi, lived in the 20^th Century. All else we seem to be forgotten. Is it deliberate? Do we simply gravitate to the bad rather than the good and pay homage to the horrible rather than love the laudable? Perhaps its our nature. And, if it is nature that the bad live on in our memory while the good do not, we are condemned. George W. Bush will live on.

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I Need Councilloring (sic)

As George W. Bush said of me, “He’s a good man, a good guy. But as God is my witness, my life, my passion, my raison de etching, I can’t understand him getting into politics; only a moron becomes a politician.” A moron I may be, but I am indeed getting into politics. This week I put my name forward to stand in Rodney’s Hibiscus Coast Ward as councillor. The election is October 13 and the announcement of my candidacy was made by the local newspaper last Tuesday. As a consequence, today is in all likelihood my last day as the Council’s communications manager. I shall be stepping down from that position and going on leave until the election and electorate decide my fate and future. I do so with the full support and love of Maggie, for which I am grateful and without which I would not have attempted this. You on the other hand may not think that standing for councillor is such a big thing, and usually it may not be. But in my case it involves a major life-change. If I am successful I am bound for community service for three years with a massive drop in income; if I am unsuccessful I will almost certainly have not only burnt bridges I will have disintegrated them with an explosion that would put that of George W. Bush’s brain before Iraq into flaccid impotency. Certain people, if they get into power, will likely make my job untenable. I may even have to move to Hamilton to escape. Either way, I intend to return to writing, something I have reluctantly neglected for so long. The present mayor of Rodney, John Law, may think he is the inspiration for this. He is not. He is wrong. For once. The inspiration for my move into politics is indeed the fore-mentioned George W. Bush. I have followed his political path with interest and I am persuaded that his politics are my politics. I, too, believe I am ordained for this role by a higher being—in my case, Ivan Cleary. I also believe I have the fervour, the passion and spirit within me—notably copies quantities of Laphroig Single Malt. Moreover I have a vision of world dominance: it is my intent upon attaining office to invade Waitakere seeking weapons of mass destruction, namely Bob Harvey, and follow that with an unleashing of the dogs of war against political corruption, namely Helen Clark’s wardrobe. I will stand on a platform of positivity. So, I am out of here; gone by lunch time possibly. But Fryday will continue and I look forward to coming back next week—a free man. Enjoy your weekend.

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The Lost Generation

Social mores and movements come and go. But at least they are not usually cyclical, and that’s good; I cannot see any good reason for the return of, for example, women’s liberation. However, women’s liberation, if a little strident, was at least justified and largely successful. Another movement of the time was equally successful (for its authors) but in my view wholly unjustified. In fact, it was intrusive, offensive, pervading, resilient and just simply silly—I refer of course to political correctness. I don’t want to go through all the examples of the damage political correctness wrought on the English language—you and I know them well and ridiculed them enough, but I do want to draw your attention to two residual examples. The first is radio’s most venerable programme, Morning Report on the National Programme. During Maori Language Week a couple of weeks ago they initiated the format of having their opening comments and introductions in Maori. Fair enough for the occasion, I guess. But it has now continued and indeed got worse to the point that the dissertation and distribution of the news and the subsequent commentary on that news is somewhat delayed by the somehow ordained prerequisite to get through “all that Maori stuff.” What’s worse is that it is delivered, with some enthusiasm and alacrity, by two rather aged, middle-class white guys; it therefore is unnecessary, unsubstantiated, unbridled and, depending on your perspective, patronising and offensive. The second example of residual political correctness, and the one that started my train of thought, is a comment made to me yesterday that the word secretary had been replaced by personal assistant. I did not know that. Of course I know some good personal assistants (and in one case an exemplary one) but I also know that the honorific secretary was once an honoured one. Indeed up to the mid 20^th Century it instilled both reverence and fear. Many great works of literature were written not by the assigned authors but by their personal secretaries; it is also believed reliably that British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli gained most of his information, inspiration and motivation from his secretary; so too did Adolf Hitler in his last days, with Martin Bormann. So, I see nothing wrong with being a secretary or being called such. In fact, I think the term personal assistant is by comparison somewhat derisory. Why one has replaced the other, I do not know. The question I ask though is where are those who perpetrated this insidious sickness upon us? Where are those who created this political correctness? Is no-one willing to fess up? Are they too embarrassed, those generators of silliness? It seems so. They are now lost to us, but their damage remains. Clearly, though, I am bored—why else would such matters tax my brain or your time. I apologise. On other matters, Fryday has moved with the times and now has its own blog. You’ll see the URL below. Mostly it will be just replication of the Fryday you get by email, but there may at times be additional stuff, so check it out if you have the inclination.

Tena koutou.

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A Wet Fryday

I was of the view until recently that Hamilton had only one quality which was that God, in a fit of adversity and perversity, created Hamilton to make Auckland look good. Then along came Dick Hubbard, and Hamilton failed even in that endeavour.

That then presented me with the challenge of finding something else totally useless. I excluded politicians and pukekos because, whilst both are blights on the landscape and seem to have little useful function, they are both testimony to God’s frailties and humility—He knows He made a mistake in creating politicians and pukekos but is prepared for them to remain as shrines to imperfection. As is Brian Tamaki, except that Tamaki has nothing to do with God, of He him.

So then we have moss.

What on earth, and particularly on a wet step, is the use of a moss, except to make money for Rod Genden and Wet & Forget? Mosses are, Wikipedia tells me, small soft plants that are typically 1–10 cm tall, though some species are much larger. They commonly grow close together in clumps or mats in damp or shady locations. They do not have flowers or seeds, and their simple leaves cover the thin wiry stems. At certain times mosses produce spore capsules which may appear as beak-like capsules borne aloft on thin stalks.

Sounds like The Green Party to me.

But having just slipped on my step and come close on several other occasions during the recent rains I cannot think of any reason for moss’s existence (Mr Genden apart) and I shall not trouble myself to find one. Moss exists; it is enough.

On a slightly happier subject, I am enjoying a new and previously unknown malt scotch from my beloved Islay. It is called Smokehead and is described such: "It’s like a cannonball - an explosive rollercoaster of peat, smoke and spice with some delicate sweetness. The single malt flavour is described as fresh, fruity and immense, with notes of sherry, iodine, toffee, smoke and sea salt. The taste hits the palate at once with cocoa, peat and some honey sweetness, before exploding with peppery spice and more earthy peat."

Peat is, as many of you know, a rudiment of good malts and particularly so of those of Islay. The major component of peat, which is "mined" for use as a fuel and as a horticultural soil additive, as well as in the production of Scotch whisky, is decaying moss of the genus Sphagnum.

I did not know that.

Oh well, it seems Hamilton in the totally useless stakes, as in much else, continues to stand alone.

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