Whetu Calls: The Political Party

-->From time to time one reaches a watershed in one’s life. Each day is different, but some contain events so momentous they change your life and set it off in a new direction. Such a watershed happened to me recently and as a result I see new vistas opening before me and much that is fading into darkness and memory behind me. Of the latter there will be few regrets. There is much I wish to consign to the darkness from whence it came. Whetu may well be one of those. However, it is not to be…

ME: My god! How did you find me?

HE:  Kia ora bro.

ME: You are the last person I expected to see up here. How did you know I was here?

HE: I got cuzzies up here. They told me youse arrived. Choice place youse got here. Cost you a lot?

ME: What do you want Whetu?

HE: I is on the campaign trail.

ME: Campaign? What campaign?

HE: Political campaign, bro. Me an a few cuzzies joined a new party and we’s putting up some can…candy…canner…peoples in the next election.

ME: You? What on earth could you offer the country?

HE: Wells, as that Kennedy fella said ask not what you can do for your country, instead ask what your country can do for you.

ME: Other way around.

HE: Not for us bro.

ME: So, I suppose you want a campaign contribution? Is that what you are here for?

HE: Youse mean money?

ME: I’s…I mean money.

HE: Nah: we got all the money we’s need.

ME: How on earth did you get that?

HE: Cusin Hone got us to join the Kim Dotcom party. Said he was rich bro and we could fleece—borrow—alls we like from him. Sweet bro.

ME: You have joined the Internet Party?

HE: Yus bro. The in-to-the-net party. That’s us. All the moneys and all the fishing we wants. Sweet as.

A Messy Affair

Election 2014 is shaping up to be a messy affair. I personally don’t believe it will be as close a result as some say, but if the events of the last fortnight are anything to go by it will certainly be a knockdown drag-out election and as such one of the most interesting of recent times.
I worked on a number of general elections through the 70s and 80s. The first was in 1972, which saw Norman Kirk sweep into power and the last (to date) was 1984 and the advent of David Lange. Lange and Kirk were both larger than life characters full of charisma—but their similarities beyond that were a little less than you may think. What they did have in common was the diminutive and malevolent spectre of Muldoon. And it was Muldoon who added the fire and the interest to those and all the intervening elections. I worked for him on 1975’s “Dancing Cossacks” campaign and whilst I am thankful to be involved with one of the most pioneering if polarising political campaigns in New Zealand history, my memories of Muldoon are less than savoury.
I have little memory of Palmer, Bolger, Shipley and even Clark. There was a blandness there that was reflected in most of their elections. John Key is not much different in that regard although I think I am right in thinking he is the most popular of those listed. Bland could also describe Cunliffe.
Key v Cunliffe? Hardly riveting stuff.
So, why do I think this may be one of the most interesting elections since the Muldoon era? Well, it is not because of what we know (or are told), it is because of what we may not know. The events of recent weeks—the relentless pursuit of Judith Collins, the (strangely less relentless) revelations regarding Maurice Williamson and the peculiar and as yet unexplained shift by Labour from Williamson to Woodhouse all hint that there is a lot in the background that is not being revealed and may well be being held in reserve. Further gist to that particular mill came yesterday with John Key’s rather less than veiled threat of “Don’t Go There” to Labour over the cash for access issue. Maybe that issue, too, will die a hurried death.
Nevertheless one is left with the impression that there is no shortage of replacement revelations to be rolled out in the weeks and months ahead. There seems to be some formidable strategies in play here—from both parties. The danger for both however is that they overplay the dirty politics card. From what I am hearing many of us have had a gutsful of it already.
But then again politicians can’t help themselves, can they? It’s their world.

Memories and Medals

A photomontage is next to me as I write this. It comprises photos of my eldest son, my father, my grandfather and myself. My father compiled it to show the first-born (male) of four generations. For that reason alone, it is an important keepsake. But it is also treasured as the only known photo of my grandfather. He is pictured staring sternly at the camera at some racecourse somewhere—probably in Christchurch where he lived. He enjoyed the races, an enjoyment my father inherited but I did not. What I did inherit however is much more important. They are memories and medals.
My memories of my grandfather are of an imposing figure often sitting on a high-back chair, which of course we christened the throne.  That was in the house he and my grandmother owned in Godley Avenue Papanui (in point of fact one of the most ungodly avenues in town and long-since renamed). Nobody else was allowed to sit on that throne. Nobody else, but me. Why me, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I was his favourite, but it was me who went out with him trudging through the ditches of those long Canterbury roads picking wild mint that we later sold by the sack-load to Boss Sauce. It was me he taught to hunt and trap rabbits. And it was me he always found a “special” book for. And it would be me, me alone, who would have treasured memories of all of that.
As for the medals? I have his medals from both world wars for he had served in both. I have those, and a shell case he purloined from World War I’s Western Front. I also have his discharge papers from that first world war that tell me my grandfather was 5’9” (slightly shorter than me), and that he served as a private in the Canterbury Infantry Regiment for a period of 2 years and 191 days, 2 years and 41 days of which he served overseas on the Western European Front during 1917/18. He was awarded the British War Medal and the Victory Medal. He was discharged 25th April 1919 at the ripe old age of 25. In the Second World War he served for 3 years and 99 days with the Royal New Zealand Airforce, and discharged 5th July with the rank of lance corporal. His occupation is given as rabitter.
It is information such as this, and those memories, that keep my grandfather close to me. Yet they are not needed. Like those many many thousands of New Zealanders and Australians who this morning honoured their forebears I need no tangible aid or physical item to remember. Those men and women who served are justly and always remembered on this day and every day, not because of what they accomplished, but because of who they were, what they did, and what they left us all…Pride.
Lest we forget? Not a chance.

Good Fryday

This is a day of meditation. I have meditated today. I have meditated on the origins of the term Good Friday. To describe this particular day as good seems strange to me, given that it the day Jesus Christ is purported to have been crucified. So as one does when one meditates on the great mysteries of the age one turns to Google. Even here though the mystery is not completely solved. There is in fact more than one explanation presented and no guidance as to which is more credible. So, Fryday précis both.
Some declare Good Friday is good  because Christ, by His Death, “showed His great love for man, and purchased for him every blessing.” Good, in this sense, means "holy," and indeed Good Friday is known as Holy and Great Friday among Eastern Christians, both Catholic and Orthodox. Good Friday is also known as Holy Friday in the Romance languages. This seems a good explanation, except for the fact that Good Friday is called good only in English. In its entry on Good Friday, the Catholic Encyclopedia notes: The origin of the term Good is not clear. Some say it is from “God's Friday" (Gottes Freitag); others maintain that it is from the German Gute Freitag, and not specially English. Sometimes, too, the day was called Long Friday by the Anglo-Saxons; so today in Denmark. If Good Friday were called good because English adopted the German phrase, then we would expect Gute Freitag to be the common German name for Good Friday, but it is not. Instead, Germans refer to Good Friday as Karfreitag—that is, Sorrowful or Suffering Friday—in German. So, in the end, the historical origins of why Good Friday is called Good Friday remain unclear and may never be known.
Nevertheless it is an important day in the Christian calendar and is deservedly revered as such by such. For the great majority it is also the beginning of our longest weekend of the year and will culminate in the shortest working week of the year. It is indeed a good good Friday; I hope you thoroughly enjoy yours.

Showdown in Deadwood

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“ A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” is a phrase consigned sadly to history.

It probably originated in those penny-dreadful novels of 19^th Century America set in Deadwood featuring a man with the tautological two guns, and a dame in distress.

But there is little call these days for machismo and even, it seems, male courtesy. To open a door for a woman, if not frowned upon (though it can be), is often treated with suspicion and is certainly rarely understood. Even less understood is the Victorian courtesy of walking on the road side of a footpath when accompanying a woman. For that matter who “accompanies” a woman these days?

But I am of an age, and of an Age, that says bugger it.  I will continue to display common courtesies to women even if that leaves me open to derision by men and women both. I will continue to do it because:
A: I know how to do it, and,

B: It is still important to some women.

But there is one other reason, and that is one of reasoning and realisation. One realises as one grows older is that there are far more people younger than you than older. You are confronted by them hourly and they are just as perplexing to you as  you were to your parents and elders way back then.

But here is the thing. For those young people, those who care, we are equally mysterious. They do not know what drives us, they do not know what aspirations and hopes we could possibly have. If they are particularly cruel, they probably think we could not possibly have any hopes and aspirations, not at our age.

Realising that, my reasoning is to capitalise on that air of mystery—not to fight it.  If I am to be looked upon as an aging relic of an earlier age, then I shall also be looked upon as someone to whom a young person can go to for sage advice. 

I find myself in that role increasingly of late and I have been rewarded. I have a young goddaughter (with and IQ of 120) whom, I am told, adores me; I have the young lady with communications aspirations who I wrote about a few Frydays back and I have a new friend whom I am mentoring on writing—something, incidentally, I did for my goddaughter’s mother many years ago.

The rewards are that I have been treated with respect and I have been given insight to the coming generation—and what I have seen of that generation is deeply encouraging.

To those young ladies, I will open car-doors any day, every day, not because I have to, but because I want to—and they deserve it.

Guy Forks

Anna Guy

Someone said, probably on more than one occasion, that comparisons are odious. As an all-enveloping statement it is not strictly accurate and should not preclude us from making comparisons. Nevertheless some comparisons are odious, particularly when the comparisons are of odious people such as Kim Dotcom and Hone Harawira and Russell Norman and Colin Craig. The first coupling seems a strange love-fest at the very least, and the second, a defamation and counter-claim, is a waste of space and time. When we compare all four we must be drawn to the conclusion that the common factors are that they are all superficial, stupid and seemly oblivious to the “who cares” reaction they generate among most of us. Bit like Anna Guy really.

Fate as a Friend

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Some say that Life is made up of lost opportunities. Whilst that may be correct, Life is of course comprised of many aspects and to imply missed opportunities is foremost among them displays a negative mind-set that may even, for those of that demeanour, escalate those lost opportunities.

Nevertheless when I look back at my life I can think of many opportunities that I have not taken, regret not having taken and today—at 63—despair of ever taking. They range from the relative mundane such as not going to the Bruce Springsteen concert to the life changing such as not travelling the world or not becoming proficient at playing a musical instrument—I would have loved to be a rock drummer.

But one opportunity I did take, one afforded me by my late mother, was to become a writer. It wasn’t immediate, I started as a delivery boy in a newspaper, but doors opened continually and often fate intervened to help. In that regard, and in having the mother whom I did, I have been truly blessed. Let me say this though—and here we are arriving at the theme of this Fryday—I don’t think I am particularly talented as a writer but I am a good reader, a vociferous reader, and that, along with fate, the mother and luck, has helped immensely.

A young lady whom I met yesterday and who is yearning to be employed in the communication industry prompted these thoughts. She is a hard-worker, intelligent and has a supportive mother; yet you can see the doubt in her eyes and what is extravagantly called the fear of the future. That is understandable; at her stage of life, much of the future stretches before her like an unmapped desert. Yet she will have guides across that desert. There will be people to help her. There will be opportunities that come up—some of her own doing, others through sheer luck or the intervention of Fate. Nobody, and I mean nobody (unless they choose) is left to face the future alone.

My life has undergone many changes. One of the most abrupt and ultimately joyous was in 1986 when I won a major writing competition that I had not even entered. But Fate intervened, and I was subsequently offered, and took, the opportunity to write full-time. Another more recent was the meeting of my wife under a set of circumstances so unlikely that many have said it was Fate playing Cupid. I agree. It was.

I am now likely to make another change (with my wife, not to my wife J) and like that young lady yesterday I, too, have a new and uncharted desert to cross.  But cross it I will, because I will have Fate as a friend and a glorious nurturing thing called Life to lead and to lead me.

Jumping the Shark

My one and only appearance thus far on Shortland Street has had none of the expected or desired effects. It has not furthered my acting career, it has not given me street-recognition, and it has not even prompted an invitation to appear on “Shorty Street” again. The fact that I was not prominent in Ellen DeGeneres’ Academy Awards’ selfie is further evidence of my abject failure as an actor—shared by Lisa Minnelli. And the reason I have grown a beard is not, as I hoped, to escape unwanted attention, but simply because everybody else is doing it and I have a fear of loneliness.
So, there I am a sad forlorn case consigned to watching Jones and its repeat broadcasts of some of the classic shows of my youth. And therein lies a silver if somewhat perverse lining and a vivid example that I am in fact not alone. Many of the actors seen on Jones today are, like me, one-hit wonders, or close to it. Many are dead of course and it is very hard to come back from that even for The Love Boat or Fantasy Island. But others are consigned to memory, rest homes or the nostalgia circuit. Which is where I think some of their shows should also stay. Opinions will differ but it is clear that some shows stand the test of time (and a repeat on Jones) while others do not. Of those that do not—in my opinion—I would list, among others, Happy Days, On the Busses, and Bonanza. Of those I believe warrant repeats and I am thoroughly enjoying are Columbo (Stephen Fry calls Columbo one of his favourites), High Chaparral, and Cheers.
British comedies such as Dad’s Army deserve even more repeat viewings, but where is Hancock’s Half Hour?
Some of the programmes I have listed were in fact in the midst of their death throes first time around, which makes the repeats even more inexplicable. Uppermost among these are the later episodes (post Ron Howard) of Happy Days. Watch them now. Fonzie is a shadow of his former self—resorting to jumping over sharks in an ill-conceived foray to Hawaii. That very act, jumping a shark, has become a nomenclature for any show that resorts to outlandish situations to instil life into a moribund corpse. Another trick was to introduce new blood, usually someone sickingly cute. Happy days had Chachi Arcola  (Scott Baio) and the dreadful Roger Philips (Ted McGinley), and All in the Family introduced kids in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to infuse life into an already dead programme. Archie didn’t need it; nor, before him, did Alf have it.
But good on Jones for bringing these shows—good and bad—back. Where else on television these days can you see again such great characters as Buck Cannon and Manolito Montoya (High Chaparral), Norm and Cliff (Cheers), Louie De Palma and Reverend Jim" Ignatowski (Taxi) and of course Columbo?
It is just a great pity that we have to wade through sharks to get to them.

Letter from Somalia (2)

Dear Frydaygroup Friends
Wonderful, wonderful news. I am quite overcome with excitement and cannot wait to share that excitement with you.
But first I must bring you up to date with what happened since we last corresponded. You will remember that on that occasion I was in the midst of Somalia at night watching distant lights approach our grounded plane. My new-found lady friend opined that they may be the lights of bandits or pirates whom I believe are quite prevalent in these parts. We were cautioned into silence. I am happy to be able to tell you now that our caution was unwarranted. The lights belonged to a convoy of Christian missionaries, which my friend thought just as bad. But when they finally arrived at the plane, I found them quite delightful and very much helpful. They kept saying they wanted to save us, though I know not from what. Our plane was by now fully repaired (as subsequent events so proved) but they seemed to be very persistent. It was only when I began my recitation on the breeding habits of the Devonport Guppy that they thought to leave and our plane could take off.
It was a delightful interlude, but there were no other events before our arrival at Bosasa two days later. And here we arrive at my wonderful news. Who should I see here in Bosasa but none other than my erstwhile brother-in-law Prince Mongatabo, brother of my late husband King Abundo. What excitement! He recognised me immediately! But what would bring Mongatabo all the way from Nigeria to Somalia? Well, it appears that he has some sort of role with the Somali Navy, and I shall tell you more of that in a moment. Most exciting of all is that he already has many friends in New Zealand! Many of whom, he says, started as investors in his Nigerian businesses whom he met by email. By email, can you imagine! It is a small world. He asked me how many friends I had in New Zealand and I told him about all my Frydaygroup friends and he says he will write to you all so that he can be your friend too. It will be lovely.
Now for my other good news and one that has much to do with my guppy hunt. I am to be taken to sea tomorrow for an off-shore search. And I have Mongatabo to thank for it. You see, I said he had something to do with the Somali Navy. I do not know that for sure, but I do know that he introduced me to twelve or so friends of his whose job is to go to sea in their small boats and help guide big ships through Somali waters, and they have offered to take me along when they go out tomorrow. They are heavily armed. But, as Mongatabo says, so is everybody else and these men need protection from sharks and crocodiles and such like. From what I have heard, said I, we might add pirates to our list of hazards. Mongatabo simple smiled (he has a lovely smile) and said pirates wouldn’t be a problem. I cannot wait, I am quite in a tis as you can imagine.
So, from Somalia and soon to sea, bless you my friends.
Much love,
Phyllis.

Yours truly,

Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss).

Internet support kindly provided by Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium

With love from Wogistan (you know who you are).

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

Email: Info@officeoftheforeignsecretary.govt.wg

Her Serene Highness

The Queen of England and other Countries not U.S.a.

Bucking Ham Palace of the Peoples

London

In England.

Greetings From Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

I am instructed by esteemed president President Yoseph Flagrantlie (hollowed is his name) that said President Yoseph Flagrantlie does require seven seats in Royal Box at Wimbeleton Tennis Courts to watch Wogistan’s number one tennis player President Yoseph Flagrantlie win matches. President Flagrantlie has won all matches in Wogistan (Inc) except one to the late Major General Yoseph Tztortion.  Will win more.

President Yoseph Flagrantlie enter tennis tournament at Sochi Winter Olympics. But he such a feared opponent that no other nation turn up to play tennis. President Flagrantlie win Gold Silver and bronze medals, but Russian dictator Vladimir Putin refuse to give. We go war.

But we loves beloved British peoples in not U.S.a. We willing to be in fashionable tournament and be in royal box with your Phillip who went to school in Greece with second uncle of Wogistan Minister of War and Farm Implements, Yoseph Kazakstan.

Minister of War and Farm Implements Yoseph Kazakstan carry Presidents tennis racket. Not need seat.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

Kim

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To me, having an innate aversion to a name is irrational and illogical. Yet I have it.  In my early days the name was Felicity. But at least I could explain why I disliked Felicity—I disliked Felicity. Felicity Smith was a girl who followed me in every primary class we attended. She latched on to me like a limpet and it was only when we went to separate secondary schools that she stopped. Felicity was never popular and was as a consequence lonely and morose—which only added to her problem and in retrospect my own: the guilt I now feel for the way I treated her which ran along the lines of I don’t want to be associated with you because you are bad for my image.

That said, I still have an aversion to the name Felicity. But at least I have an explanation as well.

But how do I explain Kim? Why do I not like the name Kim? Is it again that I associate it with the traits of some people I do know of that name though not intimately—Kim Kardashian, Kim Dotcom and Kim Jong-un? Maybe.

I am such an evil devious bugger that I even went on the Internet to find other people named Kim whom I could dislike. What I found surprised me—not the number of people, but the number of sites devoted to the name Kim. There is of course the omnipresent Wikipedia listing, but there also any number of sites listing famous people named Kim (they all seem to come up with the same three I did) and one site for “Men named Kim”.  There is even a site for people who wished they were named Kim. For those of a scientific bent there is a Web-thesis on the gender-neutrality of Kim.

None of these sites adds much to the store of common knowledge but they perhaps illustrate the fact that you can find anything about anything on the Internet, and that there are too many people with too much time on their hands. Like me.

I will now go and do something useful.  Before I go, however, there are some riders to this Fryday. They are:

1.     I know very few people named Kim.

2.     The only Kim with whom I have a close acquaintance is one of the loveliest people I have met and of whom I have the greatest admiration and adoration.

3.     None of the other Kims I have mentioned have invited me to any of their parties (in the case of Kim Dotcom he seems to have invited everybody else) and thus allowed Fryday to form a different opinion of them. Until they do…

And finally...Felicity. My hope there is that she has grown to live a full and happy life.  That won’t assuage my guilt, but it will at least allow me to think she has the strength and the depth to smile benignly and knowingly on my apology.
Happy Valentine’s Day Felicity, wherever you are.