Flat, below sea level and shrouded in fog

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When I was a young man I was visited from beyond the grave.

My visitor, in most respects courteous and gracious though dead, told me a curious story. He said that when he was alive and I was a boy he had been introduced to me but not as it transpired accurately. He was, he said,  introduced as a family friend. He was not. He was in fact my grandfather’s brother, my granduncle or great-uncle depending on the nomenclature. The reason for the duplicity was that he had been disowned by the family when he became a conscientious objector in WWI. From that time and until his visit, and after, the family had not spoken to or of him. *

I have not spoken of Hamilton for a long time. No problem. Nor has anyone else. We all seem to have forgotten Hamilton. Forgotten—not ignored; to ignore someone he or she must have done something to ignore. Hamilton has not.

She has certainly kept a low profile. Not hard when you are flat, below sea level and shrouded in fog. I am certain she still exists, why else would the multitude of travellers going south go the long route to avoid her? Or are they too being deceived?

Has Hamilton simply disappeared?

Yes. I am afraid to say it has. Proof has come from Hamilton itself (a dichotomy) evidenced by a visit to the Passionate Hamilton (an oxymoron) Facebook page, which often features live-cam photos of the city. Above is this morning’s.

 

* Many years later I spoke to my grandmother about my granduncle. She was shocked but confirmed the veracity of the story he told. It was true. I suppose many families have relatives they would rather forget or not talk about for whatever reason. In our case it was my granduncle; In New Zealand’s case it’s Hamilton.

 

Stuck in a Rudd

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Queenslanders have had a good week.

Not only did their team win the second State of Origin, their man won the prime ministerial post…back. Some say that both were foregone conclusions, and they are right though few could have predicted how emphatic the wins would be.  But that is not all they had in common; both were in a sense farces: in the case of State of Origin, the sin binning of four players (two from either side to even it up) was ludicrous and, if not addressed, could dilute the great game—a game which incidentally is perhaps more important to Queensland than Kevin Rudd. And Kevin Rudd’s win also had an element of farce about it—or at least very poor theatre. The Ruddless government of Julia Gillard never quite managed to navigate its way through the cauldronian conundrum—for conundrum it is—of Australian political life, particularly Labour life. Voters fled and the backroom contrived and connived. With a massive election and limousine loss looming something—someone—had to go. Gillard had to go, and she did. Ousted. It was predictable and understandable, but replacing her with someone who had already been there done that is questionable. So is how long Kevin Rudd will be there.

But somehow there has been something lost in the subsequent media coverage. Have a look at this series of headlines:

·      Was Julia Gillard a 'real' female prime minister, or a leader who was female?

·      Gillard's tumultuous term showed difficulties women face in top job

·      Gillard right to play gender card

·      Was Gillard a 'real' female PM?

There are other headlines of course but those I have selected are representative of a fairly large group focussing on two things, that Julia Gillard was female and the part that (may) have played in her defeat. That is disquieting because of what it says of Australian misogyny. When “our” Helen Clark was ousted there was nary a word about her gender—or lack of. Nor in Britain with Margaret Thatcher. Nor even in Pakistan with Benazir Bhutto. Yet in Australia gender is the first thing they point to when their first female prime minister is thrown out of office. There are even headlines saying that (Julia Gillard) has destroyed all chances of a woman becoming prime minister for a long time to come.
Was Julia Gillard simply an unfortunate experiment then?
In Australia, it seems so.

Or will Australians confound us all again and go the other way, so to speak?

Having tried a woman, will they now give a gay a go?

Speedos, anyone?

Notes from a Larg(ish) Island--with apologies to Bill Bryson

Last week I had the pleasure, and I will add privilege, of spending two days on Great Barrier Island, New Zealand’s fourth largest island and the largest of Auckland’s Hauraki Gulf. The island is a paradox to me: I had heard a lot of it but knew nothing about it. What did I know? The odd murder, a disappearance or two, a brutal kidnapping. Nothing you wouldn’t find on the Mainland but more acute on a smallish island with a permanent population of fewer than 1000. So Fryday went there with a sense of adventure, and adventure it was from beginning to end—and end that will never end as the memories live on.  This is one of the most beautiful places in New Zealand and one of the laziest most relaxing I have been to. Even a day on the island seems longer as if each day is reluctant to depart--something it shares with at least one of the island’s two airlines but that is a story for another time. And then there are the people—the islanders—in no hurry to embrace much that is modern and in no hurry at all to embrace Auckland but will welcome Aucklanders. And that makes a refreshing change from some of the places I visit. And a special one. Don’t get me wrong; many of the people in many of the places Fryday visits in the course of work are “special.” But not like Great Barrier. Despite my predictions and predilections there was not a banjo to be heard. Not one.

Wogistan: The Dunne Deal

Game of Throws

This week’s State of Origin match from Sydney was a hit and not miss affair. Paul Gallen’s classic one-two combination on Nate Myles just before half time is exempla. Neither punch missed; but also neither punch had a lasting effect, on or off the field. Nor will the criticism of it by hypocritical rugbyites, wowsers and other talk-back callers who claim this as “yet another” example of rugby league brutality. That criticism will subside and the game will continue. The reason why is that fights, brutal and otherwise, are part of the game—most games in most codes—and they do far less damage and even some good on the playing field than if elsewhere (uncontrolled) in society. I learnt to box as part of strength training in my days of playing rugby league. The only times I actually used that skill—and skill it is—were on the footie field. My fights were frequent but none but one had any lasting effect beyond the beer at the end of the game. If anything, they gave me the confidence to deal with other matters in my life then and now. So criticise the fight of Wednesday night all you like. That is your right. But be aware that most are unaware and don’t care. I certainly don’t. Besides and with age as a constant companion you learn, and I have learnt sometimes to my cost and never to my credit, that there are far more devastating ways of damaging a person than anything Paul Gallen threw at Nate Myles. That is the greater dismay.

A Bastard of a Boss

Most of us know that Monday is not the Queen’s birthday other than in the honouring. Queen Elizabeth II’s actual birthday 20th April and she is now 87. But we and other countries of the Commonwealth choose another day. Though, to be more accurate, the day is chosen for us. You may not know that whilst Queen’s Birthday varies among countries it is usually around the end of May beginning of June to coincide with—and get this—“the likelihood of fine weather in the Northern Hemisphere to accommodate outdoor celebrations.” All very fine for the Brits and the Canadians but looking out my window at the weather here I more than content to leave the mother-country to it and go back to bed. Some see Queen’s Birthday as an archaic and foreign tradition. Some want to do away with it entirely; others want it replaced with Matariki (Maori New Year) or the more politically palatable Hillary Day. The impetus for the last was as late as 2009. But as far as I am aware there is no intent to change in the near future. One change I have noted of late though is the newly-found propensity to turn Queen’s Birthday into a four-day weekend a la Easter. I know many who are taking today (Friday) off. Maybe it is the proximity to Easter and our desire to “shout” ourselves another long(er) weekend , maybe employers are more flexible—maybe we are more in tune with life balance. Whatever the reason, I am pretty sure that traffic on the road this morning will be lighter than usual, at least inbound to the city. So what is it to be for me? Bed or business? It be business. I work for myself, self-employed, and I be a bastard of a boss. Have a good weekend, whenever it starts.

Ties that bind

Two things that seemingly have gone out of fashion are farting and ties. The former was once omnipresent and everybody except the Queen did it. For men farting was greeted as an abject multi-sensory display of machismo—competitions were made of it; a film—Blazing Saddles—was made by it. But no more; it seems years since I have heard or smelt a good manly fart—and I spend much of my life working with roading engineers! Ties have also gone. I see them rarely these days, and none at all on people I like. When seen, ties almost have a priggish effect and are, these days, most often confined to senior bankers, junior arse-lickers, HR managers and politicians, upon which I rest my case and my contention. The only person with some modernity who assiduously wears a tie is Seven Sharp’s Jesse Mulligan but he hails from Hamilton and the tie may also have been a quick exit mechanism had the show’s ratings not improved and he decided to hang it all. But the question I often ask is where did the tie go? Its exit seems so quick and complete. Only a matter of two or three years ago most men—and some women—were wearing them. So, what happened? Did we all wake up one morning and say today I am not wearing a tie? Yes, we did. It was a Friday. It was the day that companies created casual Fridays—the adult equivalent of school-days’ mufti days. For one day a week we were allowed to wear what we willed and for most that meant jeans, and for men it didn’t mean ties. And we got used to that, liked it. On Monday we were back to slacks or suits but the tie remained in the closet, which these days is about the only thing that does. Does anybody miss Ties? No. They are I think and on balance much like Hone Harawira: ill-conceived, of no practical use, and now past their use-by date. We have cut our ties with ties. But you can stay Jesse.

Fryday congratulates George W. Bush

This week the George W. Bush Library and Museum in Dallas was finally opened. It opened to considerable speculation as to which book, other than The Bible, the library would contain. The choice of Tolstoy’s War and Peace came as a revelation, though a spokesperson for the President quickly explained that President Bush had not read all of it. He said the President had read “about half; skipping over the peace bits to get to the war bits.” Now, in writing that passage I can reasonably expect to get sued by President George W. Bush or at least receive a visit from our GCSB. The passage is clearly defamatory or it would be without the qualification that it is nonsense, clearly made-up and clearly untrue. It is satire. The same satire Fryday employed with Bush’s Letters to God and Helen’s letters to her therapist. It is the same satire that I intend to employ in respect—but without respect—to the Conservative Party leader Colin Craig. Should I be worried? Well, Mr Craig threatened to sue The Civilian, but then again he stated emphatically that he, Mr Craig, had a well developed sense of humour. A well developed sense of humour and a right-wing and righteous Christian seems a bit of an oxymoron to me, but I’ll let that pass. Archaic phrases such as “Day of Reckoning” (on the redefinition of marriage) are more telling. For what it is worth, and to George W. Bush it is worth very little, Fryday congratulates President Bush and his family. Every former President receives a library; President Bush is no less deserving. If I have mocked it, then I hope I have done so gently and in good humour and in some reverence for our shared past. As for Mr Craig? Well, I reckon that day of reckoning is still to come.

Leaning to the right

It may have been used before but I first heard the term “New Journalism” in relation to American writers of the 60s Tom Wolfe, Truman Capote, Hunter S. Thompson and others. As I understand it New Journalists didn’t just report on the story, they became part of the story and, in the case of Hunter S., became the story. Today’s journalists could and should have learnt from that. To do that. We then wouldn’t have had so many recent cases of shoddy reporting. Take the Jesse Ryder affair. When that story broke we were told that Jesse was in a critical condition with a fractured skull, broken ribs and a collapsed lung after having sustained a brutal and prolonged attack where he was beaten mercilessly at the hands and feet of up to four or five men. His subsequent recovery was deemed to nothing short of miraculous. And so it would have been if the first reports had an ounce of accuracy. Instead we learn now that—allegedly—there were just two men, one (king) punch and Jesse’s injuries amounted only to severe concussion. * How could the media have got that wrong? Inexperience? Interviewing their iPads? Haste to get the story out first? Probably the latter. But even so could not “Cricketer Jesse Ryder is in hospital following what is believed to be an assault.” Suffice? With more later when the facts are procured? Another example came last night when radio news bulletins told me that 70 people had died in the Texas fertiliser explosion. This morning I read it was 15. A journalist colleague and I were both canvassed recently about the introduction of a new industry body called The Foundation for New Journalism in New Zealand. The communication was so convoluted that we were and are still unsure of what they are and what they intend. That’s not an auspicious start. That apart, it seems that one of their objectives is to arm young journalists with the skills and the ability to service the new Internet-based media. All very laudable, if late. From my point of view those new journalists, we the public and a certain cricketer from Wellington would be better served if the Foundation concentrated on teaching those new journalists the basics—the basics being get it, and get it right. * This is in no way a criticism of Mr Ryder, who has been as ill served by the media as much—if not more—than the rest of us.

I'll dine out on that...

A few years ago I disposed of an unused chest freezer by giving it to a charity collecting scrap-metal as a fundraiser. Two burly scrap-metal merchants of questionable charitable intent duly arrived, tossed the freezer into the back of their ute, and drove off leaving a stench that I thought would linger longer than Peter Dunne. What I hadn’t realised was that the freezer, lying dormant and switched off for over a year, contained a meat pack. I had not before the time smelt anything like it. I fully expected to receive a complaint and a cleaning claim from the scrap-metal merchant and numerous complaints from those along a route which surely for a while would be a road less travelled. Neither happened. I guess the good people of Helensville thought the odour just another element in a far from rich tapestry of life more akin to sack-cloth than fine needle-work. This month Helensville suffered another loss. Porcini, the restaurant that for years had been the gild in Helensville’s fast fading lily, closed for the last time. Owners Peter and Karen had enough. There would be few who blamed them for that but many who would still regret it nevertheless. In its time the restaurant hosted prime ministers, mayors, sailors, disgraced lawyers, obnoxious individuals and excited and excitable families—my own included. I went often. What happened inside Porcini, stayed inside Porcini. The culture, the conviviality, the courtesy that permeated that place couldn’t survive outside. Not in Helensville. Not ever. There is that which lingers in Helensville. The bad and the good. My freezer odour among the former; memories of Porcini truly among the latter. Thank you Peter. Thank you Karen.

Whetu Calls: Gangnam Style

News this week that ads by online electricity store Powershop featuring Mao Zedong dancing Gangnam style were pulled by Auckland Transport because they might offend New Zealand’s 120,000 Chinese immigrants set me thinking. Would that move not pose a greater risk of offending the 50 million South Koreans from whom Gangnam style originated? And what of our old friends of the Democratic Republic of Wogistan (123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard-3rd door on the right) who have adopted Gangnam style as their national dance? I believe they are writing to Auckland Transport. But there are some of blissful ignorance for whom this move passed unnoticed. Those not easily offended. Maori for one; Whetu for one. It had to happen. The knock: ME: Hello. HE: Bro. ME: What do you want, and how much will it cost? HE: Me? ME: He…You! HE: Me? Nothin’. Just come to say me and the bros in morning. ME: Morning? HE: Ten Guitars dead, Man. ME: Dead? Mourning. HE: Whatever. Gone. Got new song. ME: What? HE: Haka. ME: The Haka is not new. HE: Gangnam style. Want to see it? ME: Okay. HE: Two bucks. ME: Of course. Here you go. HE: Ready? ME: Ready. HE: Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Ka mate! ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru Nāna nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā Ā, upane! ka upane! Ā, upane, ka upane, whiti te ra! Seeeexxxxyyyy Lady. Gangnam style! Well of course you had to see it to believe it.