Soul Searching

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There are those of whom it is said (they) have lost their soul. This is of course impossible. Everybody has a soul for it is a universal diktat of all known religions. What people really mean is that a person who has lost their soul has a disinterest bordering on disdain for what said people believe to be important. For example, I have little time for cats—therefore a cat-lover may think I have no soul.  Hamiltonians go further: not only do they not think I have a soul, they think (and hope) I shall rot in hell.  Another case in point—the annual Fashionistas in the Field at Ellerslie Races. I acknowledge some may be interested in the parade of pretty young ladies and equally pretty young men vying with each other for the attention of the media and each other, but I am afraid it leaves me cold—even if, as is the case this year, an acquaintance of mine won it, and, whatever else I may feel, it is churlish not to share in her deserved delight.

But, beyond that, I have no interest in style and therefore no soul.

What I am interested in though are those who in a heightened way at this time of year attempt to save souls. That is very commendable, though less so of those churches placing a bounty on each soul saved, by way of tithing or through infomercials. 

But there are other, less mercenary, organisations for which soul saving is very much a secondary consideration. They are the most commendable because they  have a belief in the intrinsic sanctity of the soul and can therefore concentrate on doing good work without tying or tithing it to soul-searching: City Missions is one, Salvation Army is another. Both do wonderful work all year round, but particularly at this time of the year. For them there is no tangible reward—no year’s supply of sunglasses or night at Sofitel; there is just another mouth and family to be fed and another tomorrow to face.

Yes, I know it is indeed specious to some to link the glitz and glamour of Ellerslie Races with what goes on under Grafton Bridge—and possibly unfair as well. Fair enough; comparisons are odious. But when I read the Herald and watch the news with pictures of all the pretty young things in their finery at Ellerslie I cannot help but cogitate upon true beauty—beauty with depth and soul— being elsewhere.

Christmas Greetings from Wogistan

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The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

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

Greetings and fellations

The peoples of Democratic Republic of Wogistan sends Christmas greetings to peoples of Democratic Republic of New Zealand, specially Prime Minister Aron Gilmore.

We not celebrate Christmas because it not birthday of our exalted leader Presidente Yoseph Flagrantlie (God give him long life and much children)  but we put special showing of much admired film of New Zealand seenery Lord of Rings on countries cinema if projector fixed. This replace Australian film Crocodile Dundee which has finished its showings.

I also make special offer of no extra for extras at my bathouse for all New Zealand persons who wants Christmas treat not named Colin Craig.

I now go to see film.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathouse.

The Irony before Christmas

Now that was the week that was. A remarkable week in which:

• Len Brown was told to pull his pants up (literally) or else. Or else he’d be told to… pull his pants up, again
• A man is taken in custody from a Northern Motorway overhead gantry and ties up CBD traffic for hours
• Police sue their own commissioner
• The bikini-clad road rager is identified and charged
• A paedophile who pleaded guilty to 60 charges of indecencies, including with an 18-month-old baby, has his sentence reduced on appeal
• A new survey reveals that a dog possesses the ability to recognise its owner
• A week in which Hamilton is described as the city of the future
• And more…

It is truly a weird and fascinating world in which we live and whilst it could be said that any or all of the above may happen at any time of the year, the fact is that they all happened the week before Christmas. Is it coincidence, or irony? The two are not interchangeable. Because these incidents and Christmas have no direct relation it is coincidence. Irony is defined as “the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.” This week—the week before Christmas—when I am  forced to reluctantly scan the jobs section for communication positions the only one advertised is
                          Communications Manager Hamilton City Council.
Now, that’s irony. Have a very Merry Christmas folks. Be kind, be patient and, if you are going to be weird, be prepared to wind up here.

He's over there; I have called the police

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This week I appeared on Shortland Street, and life for many in New Zealand was enriched. The gravitas of my appearance, evocative as it was of Britain’s wonderful repertory knights, will long remain in the annals of great moments in New Zealand television.

At least in my mind.

The reality is though that if you blinked you missed it. Even my wife failed to see me after repeated viewing, asking once if I were the body. I wasn’t. I had a speaking part, but that part consisted of one line: “He’s over there; I have called the police.” I added a special touch by actually pointing to the body when I said my line, plus displayed appropriate panic in my voice and my face—nuances that somehow escaped the notice of the director and, thus far, Hollywood producers.

There is a wonderful scene in Tootsie when Dustin Hoffman, playing a struggling young actor, asks the director what the motivation is for the role he is playing. He asks, plaintively “what is the back-story?” The role he is playing is, I seem to recall, in a Campbell’s canned soup commercial—as the can!

As silly as that situation is, it exists and is something all actors, amateur and professional, relate to.  We want to inject something into the roles we play, no matter how small.

So whilst my time on screen and Shortland Street may have lasted less than two seconds I spent fully a week composing my character and my delivery. What would I be like if I had actually discovered a body (the story-line)? What would my reaction be? What and to whom would I be communicating? What insight and guidance if any from the director would I be given? What indeed would be the state of the body and what influence would that have on my reaction?

So, loins suitably girded I arrived on set to suddenly feel my loins ungirding and panic setting in as my “big moment” approached.

“And, action!”

“He’s over there; I have called the police.”

“Great. Thanks Mike. Let’s set up for the next shot.”

That was it. One take and it was done. I was done.

But I stand ready to go again, Mr Producer. The door is open and I am sufficiently confident in my skill to deliver perhaps two lines next time and let’s not forget my ability to point while talking.

And while I am at it, may I also remind you that indeed I did not play the body. Now, that would be a dead-end job. There is still life left in this old actor yet.

Right, Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close up.