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.