A Special ANZAC Day

Tomorrow we will remember and honour those New Zealanders who participated in the many armed conflicts inflicted upon this small nation of ours. Not one of those conflicts, as I recall, initiated or orchestrated by us. But that doesn’t matter. We did the job. Among those we will honour will be primarily the dead; those who in most cases did not return. The ultimate sacrifice. Then we will remember the others—the others who fought and, increasingly these days, those who supported them at home and behind the lines. In these enlightened times, tribute will be made to the women and their role in these wars and, today, the women who serve on the frontline in the armed services. Inevitably, reference will be made to the increase in the number of us attending Dawn and other commemorative services; mention will be made of the number of “young people”. And so we should—if accurate. But the sad fact is that with the exception of those who served in more recent conflicts—Malaysia, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq—most of those we now honour are done so in spirit; there will be none from the First World War, and a sadly diminishing few from the Second. Yet, because of that and because this is a special ANZAC Day, there is tomorrow a poignant change—it’s become personal. Whereas in the past we have rightly honoured the many, this year I am detecting that in my family and most likely in yours we are honouring, remembering, our own. In this small nation of ours there are few families, even today, that did not have a relative who fought. There are few families that do not have a reason to look back in pride, even a 100 years on. There are few families that don’t have faded photographs or treasured letters. There are few families that tomorrow, when those immortal words “Lest we Forget” ring out, will not have a very very personal reason and right to respond: “Not a Chance.”
Private George Isle
No. 38288
Canterbury Infantry Regiment
New Zealand Expeditionary Forces 1917.
R.I.P.

When Whetu Calls: On Winston Peters

New Zealand First leader Winston Peters is the new MP for the Northland electorate, the electorate in which I now reside. I haven’t met him, I have no reason to. But my friend Whetu has, and he has a reason. Here is what transpired.

ME (Whetu): Kia Ora, Bro.
HE (Winnie): Good morning.
ME: Choice you sees me, ‘cause I wasn’t one of those fellas whose voted for youse.
HE: As the new Member of Parliament for Northland I see it as my job to represent all the people of Northland—Maori, Pakeha, Everybody. Northland has been neglected for too         long by this Government. The people of Northland have voted me in to send a clear message to John Key and his cronies in Wellington.
ME: So, we don’t have to use email then? Choice!
HE: What can I do for you? I have an important appointment.
ME: I want to knows what happened to the two miles.
HE: Two miles? What two miles?
ME: You knows Ninety Mile Beach?
HE: Yes.
ME: It isn’t.
HE: Isn’t what?
ME: Ninety miles.
HE: What on earth are you talking about? This is a waste of my time. I have a message to…
ME: I been on my mate’s computer and I looks it up on that Wiki thing and it says that Ninety Mile Beach is really eighty-eight miles.
HE: So?
ME: Sos, I want to know where the other two miles went.
HE: What???
ME: I think those Pakeha fellas took it and me and my mates wants compo…compaps…compon…money for it.
HE: Compensation.
ME: That’s it! Youse choice with words.
HE: Look, I haven’t time for this. My job is to send a clear message to Wellington. I have no time for you—or your mates. I have an important appointment.
ME: Whats more important than ours two miles?
HE: My hairdresser.

A Bush in the Hand

Fryday has enjoyed a raft of new readers over the past two weeks. They are welcome, whether they be readers of the blog or the email. Those on the blog I do not know—at last count there are about 20,000 of you. The email e-letter is a little different—I know all of you, because it goes only to those whom I like. It has been that way from the start. Fryday started 20 years ago in 1995 as an email to 20 friends attempting in my vain and inglorious way to discredit a panelbeater. It was my first and I think only malicious Fryday email, though some of you may think my disparagement of George W. Bush, “Bishop” Tamaki, and particularly Hamilton, attests to the converse. Then again, most of you also know that much of Fryday is a piss-take, to use a revolting phrase. Nothing you read here should be taken to seriously. I mention all this, not only for the edification of  my new readers, but also because there is a very real prospect of Fryday finding a new outlet in the mainstream media. In other words, a publisher. This is of course exciting. But also worrying. I am concerned that a wider distribution may lead to an adverse—read legal—reaction from those whom I deride. Seemingly the common element  among those “victims”, including the hole of Hamilton, is that they lack humour. But my legal advisor, Whetu, who has over his years had much to do with the law, sees it differently. He opines that as I am simply “poking the borax”, though he admits to having no idea what borax is, and nor have I, there is no chance of legal action. The worst that could happen, in his view, is that I get invited to participate in a charity boxing match against Cameron Slater—and that is nothing. So, after 20 years it is onwards and upwards—literally and literarally, publish and be damned. And even if the halcyon days of George W. And God, Helen Clark and Michelle are gone, there remains the Hamilton Public Library, my old mate Whetu,  Handsome Sampson and 123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard to go on with and, yes Hardman, there is Jeb Bush just waiting in the wings. Bring it on.

We are Farrrrrmaleee!

A week ago I took the unusual step, for me, of commending the Australian cricket team for their sportsmanship. I highlighted their apparent concern for tailender Umesh Yadav after he was felled by a Mitchell Starc bouncer. In the light of subsequent and much reported Australian behaviour at the Cup Final I somewhat regret writing that post. It has also been pointed out to me that I should have questioned the temerity of bowling a bouncer to a tailender in the first place, particularly as it was tacitly countenanced by an Australian team captain who wears a black armband in memory of a team mate felled and killed by a bouncer.
However, I am adding nothing new here. All this has been written about before and even attempts by such writers as Chris Rattue to present a fresh perspective by playing Devil’s advocate, “They (New Zealand) surrendered in the final, and took this whole nice-guy business too far.”, lacks vigour and, some would say, credibility.
So, for my final word on the ICC Cricket World Cup I want to leave you with what it left me. Like much of the country I felt a real pride about the on and off field performance of this New Zealand cricket team. In terms of representing this country it was an almost flawless performance from beginning to end. The team was universally commended for the way and the spirit in which they played. It did not go unnoticed world-wide and in Australia it drew the inevitable comparison with their own team.
In sporting terms we were gifted with magical moments and memories. Some games were pure theatre that would defy scripting. Almost all games included examples of individual brilliance, and not always from the same individual. And then there was the way Brendon McCullum’s side went about their business—methodical, determined, skilled—getting the job done.
For themselves. For us.
And that is the point. It was us. I believe this team did something that no other New Zealand team has ever done. Yes, we have unified behind teams in the past—the America’s Cup team once or twice, the All Blacks often and the The Breakers repeatedly.
But somehow—and I cannot explain it—the New Zealand cricket team succeeded in making each and everyone of us feel that we were part of the team. Think back—did you not feel, as I did, that mix of dread, fear and anticipation every time Mitchell Starc stormed in at Eden Park? Did you not stand alongside Brendon McCullum for each and every ball wondering whether it was going to be an out or a six? We were there. Eden Park got crowded. Even the MCG got crowded. There were so many of us out there in the middle.
New Zealand’s participation and performance in this tournament had a family feel about it. So did the team itself. I felt that watching the NZ Cricket Awards last Thursday. There was a real sense of camaraderie in display there. This was a homogenous unit, unified on and off the field and remarkably free of any obvious ego. The speeches were heartfelt and eloquent—none more so than the perfectly crafted yet spontaneous and sincere speech by the team’s dying uncle Martin Crowe. That speech, even the gentle admonishment to Daniel Vettori to get a shave, was a perfect exempla of how this nation can handle itself when it sets out to be itself—without pretence.
Yes, it is just a game. A cricket game. A sport.
But you know what? It did something magical. It endeared ourselves to ourselves. During the course of this tournament we looked at ourselves.
And guess what?
    We liked what we saw.