In a league of our own

I know that there are many New Zealanders who do not give a toss about the Rugby World Cup. Frankly, I am close to being one of them. I don’t enjoy the games themselves—too much whistle for me, particularly around the scrums. But I do enjoy the enjoyment that most New Zealanders are getting from hosting the tournament. That joy is palpable, mostly in the omnipresent flags. It’s wonderful to see and wonderful to show our many guests. It also shows me something else—something not so palpable—but nevertheless important. It shows me that we New Zealanders are showing a new maturity, and evidence of that is coming from an unlikely source: support for The Warriors. You see, up until now whenever The Vodafone Warriors had a success someone—a leaguee or rah rah—would start the stupid and stupefying debate about which code is the best. Not this time. Some tried, particularly on talkback, but that debate was shut down immediately and those who raised it were made to feel like the retrograde dorks they are. Instead, it’s become obvious that the whole country has got right behind The Warriors, as they have the All Blacks. One of the best quotes I read on that was from, I think, All Black Kieran Read who, when asked what would be the best part of playing Canada during the day on Sunday, replied that it meant “the boys” could get back to their hotel in time to watch The Warriors. Good stuff. Go The Warriors. Go the All Blacks. Go us for growing up and relishing all sports and all our successes.

The Name Game

One of the more archaic parliamentary terms is to be named. I am not sure what being named means but apparently it puts the fear of God, or more terrifyingly still, the fear of Winston Peters up members of parliament, so it must be important as well as gratifying.
Of course names are wonderful things. And numerous. I have been called many in my dealings with the public. We cannot do without them. One, Prince, once tried, and that didn’t get him anywhere—it was a shambolic, symbolic attempt. Even so, sometimes names don’t quite go together and, even if they do, they may be cause for derision. Within my domain I know of a Rocky, Clay, Emerald and Coral Isle. All related. Emerald and Coral, both not yet married, are often and obviously referred to as Miss Isle.
But what interests me most is the evolving nature of names. Those that are in fashion, and those that fall out of favour—often permanently. It would be too much to assume that Facebook will find favour, but someone has named their child that. There is also an Apple and, topically from the English rugby team, the wonderfully named Will Power. I am having lunch today with an equally wonderfully named Priscilla—that’s not a name you hear often these days, but it is like poetry and deserves resurgence.
Less poetic are names that, I think deservedly, have fallen out of favour and hopefully will never return. At the risk of offending some (and here I have at least checked my mailing list) I would include among those: Agnes, Felicity, Maude, Florence, Bert, Algernon and quite possibly the one name above all nobody wants to hear again…Hone.

Get over it and get on with it

My friend Whetu was not among the 600 kaihoe or waka paddlers who were such a large part of the RWC opening celebrations. He tells me that paddling a waka up the Waitemata sounded like too much hard work, best left to “the young fellas.” Instead he parked himself in front of the TV, opened a beer, lit a joint and sat back fully prepared to be entertained. With the possible exception of the joint, Whetu was much like any other New Zealander last Friday; either at one of the live events or glued to the TV to watch one of the most hyped events in New Zealand’s history. If transport and other issues tarnished the downtown event, people like Whetu didn’t care. By his fifth joint and twelfth beer, all fetched by the fellesse, he was fully into the swing of things. And if the two teams on the field were barely distinguishable at that point and he was left wondering why Benji Marshall wasn’t playing, it somehow didn’t matter. He was in party mood. We can learn a lot from Whetu, I think. Get over it and get on with it. We have had a week of fallout from Friday. Yes, things went wrong, and, yes, things had to be fixed and hopefully have been. But does what happened (or not happen) warrant the prolonged media beat-up it is (still) getting? I can only think that our overseas guests are probably bewildered at our propensity for self-flagellation. Except maybe the Brits, who are used to that kind of thing. For my part, I am going to take my cue from Whetu. I am going to sit back and enjoy this thing, and all that other stuff can simply ruck off. Fetch my beer fellesse.

Dear John: Goff

Rt Hon John Key Prime Minister
Care of Distribution Services
Parliament Buildings
Wellington 6160.

Dear John

When one sees you in person or on television one is irrevocably drawn to the image of the, I think Cheshire, cat that has lapped up the cream. There we have it: the perpetual grin, the air of innocence, and the rub my tummy appeal.
Well, that may appeal to the electorate, John, and clearly it does if we are to believe the polls, which I do not. Never have. But it will not win you the election, and I will tell you why.
You see John, what you do not understand about politics is that you cannot treat it as a hobby, which you do. Politics is a full-time profession best left to those who treat it as such and with finesse, skill and respect. A life in politics can be a hard one. Difficult. Challenging. One has to be born into it, ideally, like me, through an academic route. One cannot come to it as an afterthought. An extension of a Parnell cocktail party.
Success in politics requires more than a pretty wife and a planking son.
But your attitude and your approach are not the sole reasons you will not win the next election. There is something far more important. Something you and your advisors have missed and will now find too late to recover.
It is this…
John, you underestimate the intelligence of the electorate. They see through you. They see that you are shallow. They see beyond that perpetual grin and know that it masks a disenfranchisement from the electorate. A desire, if you will, to be among your own kind. Not this kind.
Not my kind.
And this is why you will not win this election John. And why I will. People see me. They know me. They like me. They know I am one of them. Indeed, I am often asked if I am one of them.
They know that I have depth. That I bring to the political table—the mum and dad table of New Zealand—a breadth of understanding, a formidable intellectual equity, a vision and the means to achieve it.
The people of New Zealand are intelligent. They will not be swayed by your superficiality. They want cogent, vigorous politics and confidence that they have a leader with the intellectual vigour to carry them out. They don’t see that in you John. For all your spin-doctors, and for Steven standing in the wings, they haven’t seen that. You haven’t seen that. And it is too late now.
You are on notice. Next week I begin my campaign. Presidential in style. It presents me as who I am. And you are not. Strong. Determined. Brave. A visionary. A statesman. A leader. A future.
It starts with my appearance on Dancing with the Stars.


Sincerely



Rt Hon Phil Goff
Leader of the Opposition.