Yule Be Right

Yuletide is a word rarely heard these days. It is archaic, and irrelevant, like Hamilton and Hone. Yet it is a lovely word that evokes a more pleasurable and innocent past. It smacks of logs on the fire and snow on the sill. It’s better than the more didactic Christmas, which is in reality two religious words stung together. But Yule (a pagan festival) and Christmas (another) are not about etymology, they are about serenity—the time in which the little pleasures of life reign over the self-absorption of other times of the year. A time to share good fortune with friends and family. I will have my brother staying with me, and that is the first time that has happened at this time of the year in, well, years. I have written of my brother before. He lives in Christchurch. He is completely unfazed by quakes, or anything else for the matter. He loves his dog, and to him that’s all that matters. The little pleasures. Serenity. Looking back on my own year, I have met more good people than bad, and again it has been a long time since that happened. It’s been a great year, and it’s going to culminate in a great Christmas…Yuletide, with friends and family. Here’s wishing the same for you, for everybody, even, yes, Hamilton.

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The Real McCaw

This morning the Prime Minister revealed on Radio Sport that he offered All Black captain Richie McCaw a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List. John Key further revealed that Richie had declined because he (McCaw) felt it was too early for such an honour. Implicitly that left the door open for one later, and most New Zealanders would probably applaud that. Having said that, I can think of a number of New Zealanders who have accepted the honour who are far less deserving of it. The criteria of who gets a knighthead these days seems to be a lot looser than that of the Knights of Old and Knights of Bold. If we go back to those days, to gain a knighthood one had—generally—to be brave, chivalrous, to exhibit considerable prowess on the battlefield, and to be diligent in protecting the sanctity of a woman’s maidenhood. Well, if we replace battlefield with rugby field and acknowledge that protecting maidenhoods may be more honoured in the breech than the observance, nobody would be more qualified than Richie. But it won’t be this time. Richie’s decision. But when they do come knocking again—as they will, perhaps on your retirement Richie—accept it then. You deserve it. We deserve it. It honours you. And in some way it honours us, and who we like to think of ourselves as New Zealanders—the Real McCaw.

Footnote: In the same interview, the Prime Minister would not be drawn on whether Graham Henry had been offered and accepted a knighthood. We were simply invited to “wait and see.”

Whetu Solves the World's Problems

I hope I am not courting fate when I proffer the hope that New Zealand is in for a happier year in 2012 than it experienced for much of 2010 and 2011. Touch wood that the only residual dark cloud is nothing new and indeed is so prevalent and perpetual to be almost non-existent: the performance of the NZ national cricket team. It won’t get any easier for them, coming off an Australian tour and then having the South Africans here.
But elsewhere I detect that despite electing a government the majority of us wanted and winning a world cup that we needed—and note there the relative priorities—its still been a hard year. I think the government should make it mandatory that we all take a two-week break after Christmas to recoup and recover and marshal our ravished recourses.
The country can run itself for a while can’t it? Alternatively we could just give it to the Maori Party to run for a couple of weeks—by the time they had finished with the consultative hui etc nothing will have happened, a fortnight will have gone by, and the power base will have been restored. Or maybe we should just let Phil Goff have a go for a couple of weeks—bit like giving the retiring front row prop a kick at goal when the game is already won (or lost)—fun, a nice gesture but ultimately meaningless. Hone would be good except that he would probably be on the first plane to Paris for a fortnight. Then there is Winston—ah, Winston—what would Winston do if given power for a couple of weeks? Well, you couldn’t of course. He would never take it. Two weeks? Two terms more like it, that would be his negotiating position, and then he would be so contrary he would also demand the post of Leader of the Opposition, in opposition to himself.
So, if we did have an enforced break as a nation who should we put in charge? My mate Whetu says it should be him. He says he has the perfect panacea for our ills. He says he wouldn’t need to be prime minister for a fortnight. He would just take us all down to the pub on the first day, Treasury would shout a few Lion Reds, we would collectively solve all the world’s problems in one afternoon and then his government would send us all on hols for a couple of weeks—at their cost. Which is kinda where we started, eh? Go Whetu!

A Soft Election

John Key tells me on his Facebook page that he is starting his morning with a sausage sizzle in Taupo. I am drawn to the obvious conclusion John having his sausage in such a place is far more edifying than his having a hamburger in Hamilton. I have no idea how Phil (me with confidence not) Goff is starting his day—though I can understand if it is with a degree of tiredness and resignation. I imagine that both leaders are greeting this last day of formal electioneering with relief that it is nearly over. I know I am. The aspirations of the leading candidates have hardly been inspirational for the rest of us. I find it interesting and little disquieting that most interest in tomorrow’s result lies with the performance of the secondary parties—most notably The Greens, New Zealand First, Mana and, making a late surge—those happy clappers of the new right, The Conservatives. Perhaps that is how it should be. After the hard twelve months we have been through, to wind up the year with a soft little election to play with may just be what we need and deserve. I am up for it.

Of words, wines and whines

Many whiskeys ago I was asked to write the blurb for a set of labels for a new wine. I must have been successful because the wine sold well and today is considered something of a benchmark among the Marlborough whites. I should be happy but I am not. The result says less for my way with words than for the way of words, and their ability to sell.
You see, I wrote the blurb knowing very little about wine and without having even opened a bottle of this particular brand. I made it all up and delivered characteristics to these wines that to this day I have no idea whether they were accurate.
It didn’t seem to matter.
What seems to matter in this world is the degree of pretentiousness you instigate, instil and infuse into wine writing. The thesaurus is the bible of the wine writer. Where else would they find such meaningless descriptive linguistics as “unctuous”, “intimidating”, “forthright” and (my favourite) “fleet of foot"?
It is almost the purest style over substance in writing. The facts should in wine writing not only not get in the way of a good story, they should be banished to the bottom of the cellar forever hidden from the light.
As evidence, let’s look at some examples I picked lately. The wines don’t matter, the words do:
· The fine milk chocolate appears alone at first and gradually begins to flirt with elegant notes of wood and warm spice which bloom and disappear
· The fruit is restrained, the texture is soft, and there’s a smidgen of that ethereal ‘Sideways’ character lurking in the bottle.”
· The delicate nose succumbs and seduces. Lulls you into a false security before the onslaught…
· El Cid remains resplendent in this evocative red from the steppes (sic) of Spain.
· The palate offers the slightest of orange chocolate with the citrus providing a loving and gifted partner upon a marriage bed paradoxically redolent of Scottish heather.
That last one, and the propensity to evoke all kinds of other tastes, provoked one frustrated drinker I know to exclaim, “Why can’t it (wine) taste like grapes?” The wine writer I know replied simply, “Then it would be grape juice.” True. But about the only thing in wine writing that is.

Living next to a Garrett

It’s not for me to speak ill of the (brain) dead, but if the reports of former Act MP David Garrett’s bizarre behaviour are true he certainly deserves public condemnation.
You’ll remember Garrett. It was he who was forced to resign from Parliament last year after revelations he stole a dead baby's identity to obtain a false passport and had an historic assault conviction.
Since then, this week he pleaded not guilty to a drink-driving charge; last month he was suspended from holding a lawyer's practising certificate for 12 months and ordered to pay court costs of $8430 after a Law Society disciplinary hearing. The hearing related to a false affidavit he swore while facing charges over the false passport.
He was previously censured by the Act Party over lewd comments, made homophobic comments on a television show panel, and has been accused of drinking heavily and using online dating sites to meet women while still married.
Now he is reported to have locked his wife and children out of their Kaukapakapa house and told his wife, a Tongan, to “go back to your tribe.”
Now you might be of the ilk that says this simply makes Garrett a man’s man. If you are I guess that’s not sunburn on your neck. For the rest of us he is, at best, a dork and it’s galling to me to have him living just up the road.
So, when it comes to David Garrett, I am feeling anything but neighbourly. If you want to read the full story, you’ll find the report on which this Fryday is based on the Stuff local news website.

A rest is as good as a change

To save the planet one has to first get on it, and The Greens’ election manifesto shows little indication of that happening soon.
I admit The Greens are passionate and sincere in the beliefs, but I also believe that they are terrified of having true power and a mandate to put some of their more wacky policies into action.
The latest, announced today, is to ban the sale of lollies, sweet drinks and chips at school. Now, that may sound laudable to some, and it certainly is not new, but that’s not the point. The point is that, as a policy, is it likely to secure for The Greens one additional vote that they weren’t going to get anyway? It’s hardly a deal-breaker.
To be fair, there are more substantive aspects to the party’s education policy. For example, they want to reduce class sizes to 20 (probably impractical) and do away with National Standards. But, again, is any of that going to swing any new votes their way?
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing much is changing or will change with this election. It is, for me, amounting to little more than a huge yawn. I am not saying, as some do, that the result is a foregone conclusion; I am saying there is little that is new, little that is visionary, little that captures the imagination (or my vote) from any party in this election.
Given the traumatic 12 months this country has had that yawn quality may just be the welcome change this country needs.
But it is still an election and it is still sad that the political parties disappoint in the way that they do.


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The Executive Committee
International Rugby Board
Huguenot House
35—38 St Stephen’s Green
Dublin 2
Ireland.


Dear Sirs

We refer to the matter of the presentation of the Webb Ellis Cup at the conclusion of the Rugby World Cup (9 October 2011 inst).

Television footage of the event and personal observation from members at the event offer clear evidence of unauthorised use of our token (more commonly though erroneously called a handshake) by non-Masons, namely IRB chairman Bernard Lapasset, New Zealand prime minster John Key and All Black captain Richard McCaw.

The use of the token in such a manner in a public arena, and indeed in private context, is entirely inappropriate and demeaning to the United Grand Lodge of England and its affiliated Lodges worldwide.

Freemasonry is a fraternal organisation with origins in the late 16th to early 17th century. Freemasonry now exists in various forms all over the world, with a membership estimated at around six million, including approximately 150,000 under the jurisdictions of the Grand Lodge of Scotland and Grand Lodge of Ireland, over a quarter of a million under the jurisdiction of the United Grand Lodge of England and just under two million in the United States.

The actions of the International Rugby Board (IRB) and the individuals involved are an affront to the venerable status of all lodges.

Under the circumstances, we have no option but to impose upon the International Rugby Board and the three individuals named a collective fine of Ten thousand Euro (10,000).

The monies to be paid to this organisation no later than 13 November 2011 inst.

An invoice is attached. We accept Visa, but not cheques.


R.A.H.Marrow Esq
The Grand Secretary
United Lodge of England
Freemason's Hall
Gt Queen Street
London

PS: Bernard—looking forward to catching up with you at the Rugby League Four Nations, Dick.


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Whetu Calls: The Wider View

The country is in a sombre mood. The litany of disasters, none of our making (though culpability for Pike River is still to be determined), is evoking questions such as why us and how much can one small country be expected to take.
Even that barometer—some say adjudicator—of popular culture, The Zuckerberger, is uncharacteristically quiet: some are trying jokes on it but the Facebook firmament, already hit by Steven Jobs, is simply not in the mood at the moment. Nor am I. When a guy said to me yesterday, “All this and Dan Carter!” I bit my lip and said nothing. I was funnier in the midst of my recent melanoma operation.
So it was something of a surprise when the knock on the Ranchslider came.
Then again, perhaps it wasn’t…

ME:Good morning.
HE:Bro.
ME:What are you selling this time? Mt Maunganui Brylcream?
HE:Funny.
ME:Not really.
HE:Not selling nothin’
ME:Nothin’?
HE:Nah. Giving something away. Koha for youse because youse been so good to me.
ME:What is it?
HE:Wells, you knows that new waka wot the Prime Minister opened yesterday?
ME:Did you go to that?
HE:No.
ME:Why not? You’re Maori.
HE:Wrong tribe.
ME:Me too. Anyway…
HE:Anyways that new waka wot you paid for…
ME:Yes.
HE:Me and the bros want to present you with a small token of our thanks for forking out that two and half million bucks.
ME:Well it wasn’t me only.
HE:Yeah. I knows. But it was all youse white fellas, with wide-screens.
ME:I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. But, anyway, I appreciate the recognition.
HE:The wot?
ME:Forget it. Do you want to make that presentation now, or later?
HE:Later.
ME:When?
HE:Saturday night. We’ll come to you.
ME:What time?
HE:Dunno. What time’s the game on?

Palin into insignificance

Surprise, surprise! Sarah Palin is no longer running for the American presidency. She said her decision not to run was made only after “much prayer and serious consideration.” Instead, she said, she and her husband Todd would “devote (themselves) to God, family and country.” Interesting that remark, given it is exactly what President George W. Bush did, and in exactly the same order, for two terms as President. He managed. Kind of. Methinks her decision was rather less divine than a dawning realisation that her current campaign has little traction with American voters outside of the Bible Belt and still less with Grand Old Party powerbrokers of the Beltway. It might also have more to do with Palin signing up a number of lucrative TV deals, writing two books, and setting up a successful fund-raising outfit. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe she is just doing what God told her. After all who are we to question the honesty and sincerity of a politician? And who are we to doubt the power of God—the IRB is everywhere these days.

In a league of our own

I know that there are many New Zealanders who do not give a toss about the Rugby World Cup. Frankly, I am close to being one of them. I don’t enjoy the games themselves—too much whistle for me, particularly around the scrums. But I do enjoy the enjoyment that most New Zealanders are getting from hosting the tournament. That joy is palpable, mostly in the omnipresent flags. It’s wonderful to see and wonderful to show our many guests. It also shows me something else—something not so palpable—but nevertheless important. It shows me that we New Zealanders are showing a new maturity, and evidence of that is coming from an unlikely source: support for The Warriors. You see, up until now whenever The Vodafone Warriors had a success someone—a leaguee or rah rah—would start the stupid and stupefying debate about which code is the best. Not this time. Some tried, particularly on talkback, but that debate was shut down immediately and those who raised it were made to feel like the retrograde dorks they are. Instead, it’s become obvious that the whole country has got right behind The Warriors, as they have the All Blacks. One of the best quotes I read on that was from, I think, All Black Kieran Read who, when asked what would be the best part of playing Canada during the day on Sunday, replied that it meant “the boys” could get back to their hotel in time to watch The Warriors. Good stuff. Go The Warriors. Go the All Blacks. Go us for growing up and relishing all sports and all our successes.