The Spring of our Content

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are part and parcel of politics, as well as New Zealand on Air funded programmes. But also, as Oscar said: there is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. You see, in my trials and tribulations in running for a seat on the Rodney district council I have history and literature on my side. Shakespeare sympathises; Wilde offers a solution, or at least a consolation. In short, armoured with such majesty, I am inviolate and slings and arrows largely impotent. I am further reinforced by the fact I combat no precedent of history. I cannot recall great gods or kings called Colin, let alone Wayne and the only King John we can recall we would rather forget. So, I sit set to be attacked on all sides, but can I take it seriously? No. Fact is, there are better foes than them (King Wayne?), and worse (or better?) targets than me—George (I am sorry about your traffic jam) Bush among the latter. Bring it on.

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The Race for Grace

Amazing Grace is the best movie I have seen in the last five years. I cannot recollect or compare further back nor do I care: for the moment this movie, exquisite in its telling and rendering, is to be simply savoured. William Wilberforce is largely forgotten today, though there is now the predictable rash of books following this movie on his life. Why he should be forgotten worries me. There have been other reformers of course, many of whom equalled Wilberforce in zeal. None however seemed to be as effective or as eclectic. Wilberforce was not only instrumental in abolishing British involvement in the slave trade, he also introduced free education and the National Health Service, all of which he accomplished without being Prime minister. Yet it took a modern-day film-maker to give him the resurgent fame he so richly deserves. Hollywood is yet to do the same for William Blake, but one lives in hope. So, why the worry? It is simply this: our remembered history is replete with those who did bad—Hitler, Genghis Khan and his soul-brother Kublai, Nero, Rasputin et al. Yet we remember little of those who did good, unless they, such as John F. Kennedy and Ghandi, lived in the 20^th Century. All else we seem to be forgotten. Is it deliberate? Do we simply gravitate to the bad rather than the good and pay homage to the horrible rather than love the laudable? Perhaps its our nature. And, if it is nature that the bad live on in our memory while the good do not, we are condemned. George W. Bush will live on.

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I Need Councilloring (sic)

As George W. Bush said of me, “He’s a good man, a good guy. But as God is my witness, my life, my passion, my raison de etching, I can’t understand him getting into politics; only a moron becomes a politician.” A moron I may be, but I am indeed getting into politics. This week I put my name forward to stand in Rodney’s Hibiscus Coast Ward as councillor. The election is October 13 and the announcement of my candidacy was made by the local newspaper last Tuesday. As a consequence, today is in all likelihood my last day as the Council’s communications manager. I shall be stepping down from that position and going on leave until the election and electorate decide my fate and future. I do so with the full support and love of Maggie, for which I am grateful and without which I would not have attempted this. You on the other hand may not think that standing for councillor is such a big thing, and usually it may not be. But in my case it involves a major life-change. If I am successful I am bound for community service for three years with a massive drop in income; if I am unsuccessful I will almost certainly have not only burnt bridges I will have disintegrated them with an explosion that would put that of George W. Bush’s brain before Iraq into flaccid impotency. Certain people, if they get into power, will likely make my job untenable. I may even have to move to Hamilton to escape. Either way, I intend to return to writing, something I have reluctantly neglected for so long. The present mayor of Rodney, John Law, may think he is the inspiration for this. He is not. He is wrong. For once. The inspiration for my move into politics is indeed the fore-mentioned George W. Bush. I have followed his political path with interest and I am persuaded that his politics are my politics. I, too, believe I am ordained for this role by a higher being—in my case, Ivan Cleary. I also believe I have the fervour, the passion and spirit within me—notably copies quantities of Laphroig Single Malt. Moreover I have a vision of world dominance: it is my intent upon attaining office to invade Waitakere seeking weapons of mass destruction, namely Bob Harvey, and follow that with an unleashing of the dogs of war against political corruption, namely Helen Clark’s wardrobe. I will stand on a platform of positivity. So, I am out of here; gone by lunch time possibly. But Fryday will continue and I look forward to coming back next week—a free man. Enjoy your weekend.

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The Lost Generation

Social mores and movements come and go. But at least they are not usually cyclical, and that’s good; I cannot see any good reason for the return of, for example, women’s liberation. However, women’s liberation, if a little strident, was at least justified and largely successful. Another movement of the time was equally successful (for its authors) but in my view wholly unjustified. In fact, it was intrusive, offensive, pervading, resilient and just simply silly—I refer of course to political correctness. I don’t want to go through all the examples of the damage political correctness wrought on the English language—you and I know them well and ridiculed them enough, but I do want to draw your attention to two residual examples. The first is radio’s most venerable programme, Morning Report on the National Programme. During Maori Language Week a couple of weeks ago they initiated the format of having their opening comments and introductions in Maori. Fair enough for the occasion, I guess. But it has now continued and indeed got worse to the point that the dissertation and distribution of the news and the subsequent commentary on that news is somewhat delayed by the somehow ordained prerequisite to get through “all that Maori stuff.” What’s worse is that it is delivered, with some enthusiasm and alacrity, by two rather aged, middle-class white guys; it therefore is unnecessary, unsubstantiated, unbridled and, depending on your perspective, patronising and offensive. The second example of residual political correctness, and the one that started my train of thought, is a comment made to me yesterday that the word secretary had been replaced by personal assistant. I did not know that. Of course I know some good personal assistants (and in one case an exemplary one) but I also know that the honorific secretary was once an honoured one. Indeed up to the mid 20^th Century it instilled both reverence and fear. Many great works of literature were written not by the assigned authors but by their personal secretaries; it is also believed reliably that British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli gained most of his information, inspiration and motivation from his secretary; so too did Adolf Hitler in his last days, with Martin Bormann. So, I see nothing wrong with being a secretary or being called such. In fact, I think the term personal assistant is by comparison somewhat derisory. Why one has replaced the other, I do not know. The question I ask though is where are those who perpetrated this insidious sickness upon us? Where are those who created this political correctness? Is no-one willing to fess up? Are they too embarrassed, those generators of silliness? It seems so. They are now lost to us, but their damage remains. Clearly, though, I am bored—why else would such matters tax my brain or your time. I apologise. On other matters, Fryday has moved with the times and now has its own blog. You’ll see the URL below. Mostly it will be just replication of the Fryday you get by email, but there may at times be additional stuff, so check it out if you have the inclination.

Tena koutou.

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A Wet Fryday

I was of the view until recently that Hamilton had only one quality which was that God, in a fit of adversity and perversity, created Hamilton to make Auckland look good. Then along came Dick Hubbard, and Hamilton failed even in that endeavour.

That then presented me with the challenge of finding something else totally useless. I excluded politicians and pukekos because, whilst both are blights on the landscape and seem to have little useful function, they are both testimony to God’s frailties and humility—He knows He made a mistake in creating politicians and pukekos but is prepared for them to remain as shrines to imperfection. As is Brian Tamaki, except that Tamaki has nothing to do with God, of He him.

So then we have moss.

What on earth, and particularly on a wet step, is the use of a moss, except to make money for Rod Genden and Wet & Forget? Mosses are, Wikipedia tells me, small soft plants that are typically 1–10 cm tall, though some species are much larger. They commonly grow close together in clumps or mats in damp or shady locations. They do not have flowers or seeds, and their simple leaves cover the thin wiry stems. At certain times mosses produce spore capsules which may appear as beak-like capsules borne aloft on thin stalks.

Sounds like The Green Party to me.

But having just slipped on my step and come close on several other occasions during the recent rains I cannot think of any reason for moss’s existence (Mr Genden apart) and I shall not trouble myself to find one. Moss exists; it is enough.

On a slightly happier subject, I am enjoying a new and previously unknown malt scotch from my beloved Islay. It is called Smokehead and is described such: "It’s like a cannonball - an explosive rollercoaster of peat, smoke and spice with some delicate sweetness. The single malt flavour is described as fresh, fruity and immense, with notes of sherry, iodine, toffee, smoke and sea salt. The taste hits the palate at once with cocoa, peat and some honey sweetness, before exploding with peppery spice and more earthy peat."

Peat is, as many of you know, a rudiment of good malts and particularly so of those of Islay. The major component of peat, which is "mined" for use as a fuel and as a horticultural soil additive, as well as in the production of Scotch whisky, is decaying moss of the genus Sphagnum.

I did not know that.

Oh well, it seems Hamilton in the totally useless stakes, as in much else, continues to stand alone.

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Hello Sailor

I am of the blunt-end sharp-end variety of sailor. In other words I know as much about actual sailing as Helen Clark knows about fashion. But I do have some knowledge of theatre and presentation, and, like many New Zealanders, I am staying up, forsaking the enticements of (among others) Morpheus to stay in bed, in favour of watching Television One’s coverage of the America’s Cup.

For those reasons I feel I am entitled to comment on the commentary. To put it bluntly: Television One’s commentary team of John McBeth and Peter (Pete) Montgomery has to go. The former still knows nothing of competitive yachting, and the latter has failed to recognise that most viewers now do, and he, himself, has reached his use-by date or lay-line as “we” in yachting circles call it.

Am I alone in being fed up to futtocks by McBeth’s incessant giggling at his unfunny “jokes” and by Montgomery’s incredibly patronising attitude to viewers and guest commentators, most acutely recently with Russel Coutts, with repeated interjections such as “for the folks at home, who nothing of sailing, explain what you just said”? Individually these irritations may not amount to much but collectively and accumulatively they are starting to spoil much of this event for me.

So, here’s the plea…

If we are to have New Zealand involvement in the next America’s Cup, and let’s hope we will, get rid of McBeth and Montgomery. Instead let’s have a commentary team comprised wholly of current and former America’s Cup sailors and skippers—people who know what they are talking about. There is precedent. Channel Nine’s cricket commentary team is comprised entirely of former players, so is that channel’s rugby league commentary team—both are the best in the business.

However, will such a team be too technical for us “landlubbers” as Peter Montgomery described you and me Tuesday night? No, I don’t think so. I understood every word Russel Coutts uttered (when he got a chance) that same night and Peter Lester is always clear, concise and accurate. Of course Coutts may not be available as a commentator for the next Cup but Lester will be and Dickson is likely. I am prepared to bet, too, that if Alinghi lose the Cup Butterworth will be looking for something to do.

But that’s for the future. For now I have no choice but to put up with McBeth and Montgomery if I want to watch the live coverage. Unfortunately, with these two around, I have to say my Cup doesn’t exactly runneth over about that.

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A Failure to Amuse

To rise each Friday morning at 6.00 is a pleasure and a privilege. Fryday is a labour of love and an essay of edification. It keeps me in touch vicariously with the dismaying and the dismal such as George Bush, Helen Clark and Hamilton. It allows me to acknowledge and highlight delights such as farm, friends and wife. Fryday lifts my spirits and vanquishes the hangover—or at least I hope and trust it does for I definitely have much of the latter this morning after indulging too much of the former last night.

But there comes a time, a Fryday, where I have nothing to write, nothing to contribute. A failure to amuse. I and you dear reader are left with drivel and dross. Such is the case this morning. I have risen at 6.00, the Muse has not. She remains like many women (though none within my close acquaintance) unresponsive and cold, with a permanent headache.

Is she teasing therefore when she offers up in a whisper her sole contribution that I should pay tribute and thank two other women? If I mention “yesterday” those women will know who they are and know why I cannot elaborate. They also know all about labours of love and are indeed much more adept at coping with one than I seemingly am today. They enrich my life—something which, sadly, you may feel Fryday has singularly failed to do for you today.

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Plonker2

I arrived home last night to find a house on my street; not next to it, not adjacent to it, not even in close proximity to it, but on it. Of course it was prudently parked so as not to impede traffic or create a safety hazard, and for that one is grateful. Nevertheless one still hopes it is not a permanent fixture because a house on a street tends over time to be an inconvenience and an eyesore, nor is house-parking a proper and durable function for the street itself, particularly one already traumatised by being called Gilbransen.

But one has to admire the people who put the house there and will I hope eventually remove it. I have long had a love affair (platonic entirely) with house removal experts, and my house on the street brought to mind a Fryday piece I write many years ago when I was living in Hatfields and still writing Ridin’ the Rainbow. I think it worth repeating. I called it plonkers and I have left in the bit about Bush because it gave the story purpose.

I woke Thursday morning to find that during the night someone had plonked a house on the section next door but one from mine. I heard not a thing. That it had been done and done successfully and silently I consider manifest miracles of a miraculous profession.

I am privileged to know a couple of house removal experts reasonably well. What they do never ceases to amaze me for the laid-back "not a problem" attitude they bring to even the most challenging task. I mean, have you ever seen a house, or even larger buildings such as churches and school rooms on the move at night? Do you ever wonder how confident the men, seen dimly only as silhouettes against a myriad of flashing lights, are that they will get their monolithic charges over that hill, under that bridge, around those bends and up that drive?

They are. They manage. Not a problem.

Truckies generally, and house removal experts specifically, are among the most laconic and likeable men and women I have come across. And whilst this may seem a pointless Fryday, I want to use it to pay tribute to them and their skills. They deserve it. And I spend enough Frydays slagging off at people.

And talking of George Bush...

Have you been reading of the furore surrounding Bush's use of a U.S. Navy S-3B Viking jet aircraft to get himself onboard the USS Abraham Lincoln? The cost of that landing, which is the criticism behind the furore, doesn't worry me. What worries me is the reasoning. Apparently Bush wanted to experience what it was like to be up front with the pilot (as apposed to upfront with the populace) when landing a jet on a carrier. He originally wanted to do it in a Hornet, "like they use in Iraq", but the Secret Service vetoed that in favour of the more sedate and safe Viking (they preferred a helicopter).

So, here we have a President, the Commander in Chief, who delves into the American military toy box--the most powerful and lethal in the world--to indulge his whims. I could say that the whole bloody war in Iraq was an indulgence of a whim. But let's stick to the carrier landing and a reminder of a Fryday I wrote on January 31 listing the reasons why George Bush wanted to go to war with Iraq. One of the reasons I highlighted was this:

"He (Bush) gets to fondle all those choice big guns and stuff."

There you go. Another, but entirely different, kind of...plonker.

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An Unfortunate Accident

Yesterday I heard the killing of Jhia Te Tua described as an unfortunate accident. Setting apart for the moment the fact that very few accidents are, to my knowledge, any less than unfortunate, let’s look at the phrase and how it was used and abused.

The killing of baby Jhia may have been unfortunate (though that is an obscene belittling if this tragedy) but accident it definitely was not. Whilst nobody, killers included, could possibly say there was intent to kill the two-year-old it is entirely wrong to say it was accidental. The drive-by shooting of that house in Wanganui was a deliberate and planned action—probably indefensible. Therefore the result of that action cannot by definition be termed an accident, but it was described as such.

To be frank, I didn’t think about that too much. But there was the other big and tragic event of the week—the killing of two girls in Christchurch by the actions of an enraged party goer. What I found here was a degree of similarity between the two events, yet a curiously different way in which they were perceived and described.

In the Christchurch tragedy, the intent was to create mayhem, there was deliberation and, deliberately or not, people died. In that, it is no different from the Wanganui killing. But I am yet to hear the killing of those two Christchurch girls described as an accident. What is the difference? I would hate to think it is race-based and that the apologists for all things Maori are again on the march. But I don’t think it is that. I think it is instead someone just getting caught up in the emotion of the moment and making a silly and platitudinous statement. Anybody who is questioned by the media is in danger of doing it. I have done it and will do so again.

That’s one point.

But then I wondered if in fact anybody had said it at all! All too often the media in this country, lacking imagination or energy, will simply make up a quote or a headline based impurely on what they THINK may be the case. Let me give you an example. Whether it occurred or not in the Wanganui case I don’t know. But I could point to a thousand examples of it definitely happening in similar cases. Imagine the opening of the television bulletin thus: “Wanganui is in shock tonight at the killing of Baby Jhia.” Is Wanganui? Really? Did a reporter actually go out and find some resident who said “I am in shock?” Unlikely. Even if they did find someone, does that person represent all of Wanganui?

I know that seems an insensitive argument, and I am wrestling here to state where I am coming from. So, I’ll use another example too often heard: “Maori are angry…” Excuse me? These days Maori is an all-embracing term. Chances are the “Maori” who are angry are actually a diminutive group of disaffected activists lacking recent attention. Yet (all) Maori are angry.

Do you get the point? It is too easy for lazy and unimaginative media to come up with these statements without any real foundation for them. Moreover, they seem to trot them out with abandon. Normally, it shouldn’t matter and maybe I am being too pedantic. But to report the shooting of a two-year-old as an unfortunate accident, whether actually said or not, is nothing short of a shameful disgrace.

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Black & White

Let me tell you about my Border Collie, Bess.

Bess is a big fluffy bear of a dog, not unlike one of those exfoliating balls you can buy for the shower. She is about eleven years old, which is not old by Collie standards, but old enough to give her the wisdom to know the difference between right and wrong.

Bess never does anything wrong. She has the gentlest and most generous of natures. Her main aim, after eating and sleeping, is to please. The slight tarnishing of the image and the reality is the alacrity with which she despatches rabbits on the farm—but that is a problem only for the rabbits. In all other respects, Bess wouldn’t hurt a fly, which accounts for the proliferation of flies and paucity of rabbits on the farm. She does patrol the road verge, which suggests a latent militarism, but is more a quest for butterflies with which to meld and bond. Bess’s world on the farm is provided by circumstance and fashioned by subservience. Don’t get me wrong: she is not forced to do anything; she just does anything…to please.

She likes me; I like her.

A week ago today, we both lost a mate. A great mate. No worries for Bess; her mate had left before and always come back. This time that won’t be happening. Bess is yet to realise that. But perhaps that’s best for Bess. Because when she does, I think it will likely take her some time to come to terms with. If ever.

In that, she is not alone.

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Warming to my task

I like debate, particularly when it is intelligent and witty as it so often was in central government in the times of Norman Kirk and David Lange, exquisite orators both. By contrast the debates to which I am most often exposed, those in the chambers of the Rodney District Council, are immature, facile, unproductive and, yes, embarrassing.

But they are not boring.

My God, if you want to know boring (though why would you?) you need go no further than a scientific debate. And there is no better example than Global Warming. I use capital letters here because Global Warming, the issue de jour, seems to have taken on a life of its own and become a substance and an entity without really trying and (germane to the debate) without any real proof of really existing.

Yet scientists and the media have embraced it with alacrity. The catalyst for all this is the release of a United Nations report, scientifically-based apparently, but predicated on the same computer models that consistently fail to forecast the next day’s weather. Previously United Nation reports commanding media attention include the revelation that we (New Zealanders) are smacking our children too much and that our poverty levels are reaching third-world status.

Who the hell researches and writes these UN reports, anyway?

That apart, the UN’s Global Warming report has pitted scientist against scientist and, encouraged and courted by the media, they have administered and admonished us with a plethora of profound and boringly prosaic pronouncements on the subject.

It is second only to the Super 14 as being the most boring contest of wills this year.

Let’s move on. The scientists have had their time in the sun.

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