A Life in the Shadows

 

I like to live in the shadows; I never like to be the centre of attention. If there’s a spotlight, I’m the one checking where the nearest fire exit is. As I grow older, I’m increasingly terrified of situations where I’m forced to be front and centre. Recently I found myself in such a situation and, even though it was for positive reasons, I was in such a state I had to be physically assisted on and off the stage. Nothing says “natural public figure” like needing a small search-and-rescue operation just to reach a lectern.

There is another, less intrusive and far more pleasurable way my love of the shadows shows itself: I’m fascinated by those who, willingly or not, share the shadow with me. When I watch a movie, I focus less on the foreground and more on the background. The actions or inactions of the extras fascinate me more than anything Kevin Costner or Hugh Jackman may be doing. Those unnamed and unrecognised individuals have lives, but for the moment they’re consigned to standing or walking, strictly instructed not to look at the camera and not to be noticeable. That’s no problem for me; I used to do it as a job once, and it was my happy place. Paid to loiter and pretend not to exist? Sign me up.

So, there is something to be said for lying on the ground calling myself Spartacus. But there are more modern manifestations of life in the shadows. It is somewhat archaic, immature and insidious, but it exists – in the New Zealand Labour Party. You know how it goes: Party Leader Chris Hipkins, standing up talking to camera at an “impromptu” press conference (impromptu in the same way your dentist “just happens” to have a drill ready). Inevitably, there will be three or four Labour MPs behind him. Usually, they’ll be his deputy leader Carmel Sepuloni and Willow-Jean Prime, who are both experts in nodding their heads (like those dogs in the back windows of cars) in apparent agreement with every sage pontification uttered by their leader. It’s like watching footage of Kim Jong-un and his entourage, except Kim’s entourage are specially chosen to appear shorter than him; the reverse, for some obscure reason, seems to be the case for the New Zealand Labour Party. Perhaps they’re going for the visual of a slightly annoyed ginger Teletubby flanked by two concerned guidance counsellors.

It is the same with Donald Trump and his entourage. Usually that entourage will comprise Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth and Secretary of Health Robert Kennedy Jr. The last two are useless and collectively a waste of space, like the political equivalent of the two plastic chairs nobody ever sits on at a barbecue, but Rubio is fascinating. For a start, he looks the most intelligent of the bunch and seems to know what he’s doing. He also seems more aware of what’s happening around him instead of being blinded in the headlights of their beloved MAGA leader. Let’s not forget that Rubio stood against, and stood up to, Trump for the Republican nomination in the 2016 election. But watch him carefully at those stand-up press conferences standing behind Trump. Unlike the entourages of Hipkins and Jong-un, he is not gleefully applauding every inane pontification and lie Trump expounds. Rubio is standing there, stone-faced and trying hard not to roll his eyes, radiating the energy of a man who once had ambitions, now wondering if faking his own death mid-press conference would count as a principled stand.

So when I say I like living in the shadows, I don’t mean I’m hiding from the world. I’m just far more comfortable standing three people back, slightly out of focus, pretending to be deeply invested in whatever is being said while secretly wondering what’s for dinner.

Besides, someone has to be the extra in the background of history. Let the Hipkinses, Jong-uns and Trumps of the world stride to the microphone and soak up the spotlights, the scrutiny and the sweat. I’ll be behind them somewhere, hands politely folded, expression neutral, trying very hard not to roll my eyes — and absolutely nailing my one line:

“Please don’t look at the camera.”

If Anyone Needs Their Phone Confiscated, It’s Parliament — Not 15-Year-Olds

 

I am against banning anything except what clearly exploits the innocent and the naïve. Bans run counter to our much‑cherished and often‑invoked freedoms: freedom of choice, freedom of views, and freedom of speech. They also presume that someone else, imposing their views, knows better than you—something I’ve had more than enough of lately.

Which makes it all the more surprising that that supposed bastion of free speech and freedom of action, the Act Party, is proposing a ban on smartphones for children under 16.

Setting aside my belief that political parties have more pressing issues—such as reflection pools and building ballrooms—I cannot understand the rationale for depriving kids of their smartphones. Yes, a ban might be appropriate in schools, and it can certainly be argued (and often is) that children spend too much time on their phones. But beyond school, and for other aspects of their lives—why?

I am old-school, and I value archaic forms of communication such as snail mail (a misnomer in itself). But if kids prefer the immediacy of text and WhatsApp, what’s the problem? There is also a safety issue: if I had a child out in today’s world, I would want them to have some form of mobile communication. The technology exists and it fulfils a need, so why not make it available, instead of limiting it to those whom someone, somewhere—named Seymour—deems mature enough to use it?

I don’t know whether the proposed ban is part of Act’s policy heading into the election, but if it is, it is symptomatic of a wider malaise affecting—and infecting—politics in this country. On one side, the Left, we have no discernible policies from Labour, and we are still harbouring the forlorn hope that the Greens will get back down to Earth before they finalise theirs. But it is the other side that should worry us most. The right‑wing coalition—National, NZ First, and Act—presented us with hope after the disaster of the Ardern‑led Labour/Greens government.

Instead, there is, I think, a growing public perception that the Government has yet to achieve anything substantive and is too hesitant or too frightened to do so. Even more damaging is the belief that any changes needed to get New Zealand “back on track” would happen rapidly. That is another forlorn hope—and an impractical one—but it was frequently promoted in the last election campaign, particularly by National.

Instead, we have largely been offered minutiae, such as banning smartphones for kids. The Government is tinkering at the edges rather than addressing the major concerns affecting our country.

At least, that is the perception. I think the reality is different. I believe the Government is doing something and is putting the country on the right track. The problem is that it is not communicating its actions, at least not in a way that is palpable to the public.

That is not to say that they won’t win the next election and return to power. I think they will. But the sad thing is that it probably won’t be on their merit—more likely it will be a justified fear that the other lot will be worse.

So, by all means, fix the economy, sort out health, tackle crime, and repair the roads. But don’t do it so quietly and if the grand flagship policy is taking iPhones off 15‑year‑olds, we might as well admit we’re not being governed so much as lightly parented.

And frankly, if anyone’s losing their phone for bad behaviour, it should probably be Parliament.

 

Hyrox Hype vs. The Happiest Little Gym in Town

 

This morning I was reading about a new exercise competition that is supposedly taking New Zealand gyms “by storm.”

(Don’t they all?)

It’s called Hyrox. Competitors complete eight workout stations, each separated by a 1km run: SkiErg, sled push, sled pull, burpee broad jumps, rowing, farmer’s carry, sandbag lunges, and wall balls. They can race individually, in doubles, or as part of a four-person relay.

Hyrox was founded in Germany in 2017 by Olympic hockey player Moritz Fürste and businessman Christian Toetzke, combining endurance racing with functional fitness. The inaugural event in Hamburg attracted just 650 competitors. Last year, around 650,000 people took part worldwide. Auckland’s event has grown quickly too, increasing from 6,000 competitors in 2025 to more than 10,000 this year.

But not in the far north of New Zealand—not in my gym.

I doubt that any of the members of my gym have even heard of Hyrox, let alone participated in it.

We are a standard, back-to-basics gym. No frills. We do have an eclectic clientele, though: all ages, all sexes (male, female and in between), all sizes, and all demographics. We have school kids, mums, dads, and grandads. We have police, a few firefighters (maybe), a couple of teachers, and one declutter specialist. I suspect we have a few former or current gang members, but who would know with the ban on patches, and leather jackets not being particularly conducive to gym workouts anyway.

The reasons for going—our motivations—are equally diverse and rarely discernible. There are a couple of poseurs who spend more time in front of the mirrors than on the equipment, but I have no idea why the rest of us are there. I don’t even know why I am there, except, in part, to mitigate the worst effects of the beer I engulf and the whisky I relish.

But I do know it is one of my happy places, where I can go to relax, to wind down. There is, ironically, no pressure there to be anybody other than who we are. While we hardly speak to each other (and that’s part of gym etiquette), there is also a quiet, non-judgmental companionship—a satisfying synergy that can only come from being part of the poorest gym in town.

What we won’t have are fads like Hyrox and its 10,000 New Zealand competitors. We avoid them. We don’t even have Pilates. I think that if they did arrive, they would probably destroy the place.

I am writing this on Matariki Day. The time is 9:40 in the morning. It’s a holiday, and I have a good excuse for not going to the gym. But in a little over two hours, for about an hour, I shall be there—it’s such a happening place for me, where nothing happens.