Growing old disgracefully

We all know what it’s like. When you’re a kid the time span between one Christmas and the next seems interminable. As you age, the gap narrows until it gets to the stage where you’ve barely paid off your credit card from last Christmas and the next one is upon you.

And then there’s the sameness about it all. The same music; Jingle Bells, Snoopy’s Christmas, and John Lennon’s anti-war song And so this is Christmas.

Jingle Bells clearly represents the sound of the cash registers in the busy shops where crafty retailers cunningly add sixty percent to the recommended retail price, remove it and then advertise “sixty percent off.”

Everybody loves a bargain.

And always the controversy. This year it was Race Relations Commissioner Susan Devoy who caused a stir when she agreed with the Auckland Regional Migrant Services policy of avoiding the word Christmas by referring to “Happy Holidays” and “Season’s Greetings” so non-Christians wouldn’t feel excluded.

It was of course a storm in a teacup. Secular New Zealand has never really taken Christmas seriously. For instance they pronounce it Krist-miss instead of its real name Christ-mass. They parade our towns and cities with colourful floats which almost never include a Christ figure; they even call them Santa parades.

“Santa” is derived from Saint Nicholas, but “Old Nick” was a name in ancient English folklore for the devil. Fundamentalist Christians will even suggest that Santa is an anagram of Satan.

A bridge too far perhaps, but you’ll get my drift.

Then there are the carols. “And man will live for evermore” one of them expounds “because of Christmas day.” But don’t get too complacent. According to the church’s sole text book, the Bible, only believers will get to live for evermore.

The Parable of the Sower, documented in three of the four Gospels suggests that only twenty-five per cent of mankind or one in four will become true believers. The last census recorded that forty-nine per cent of New Zealanders said they were Christians which means we may have already exceeded our quota by twenty four per cent.

Perhaps the final straw are the Christmas crackers. This is where the Chinese get square on us for the insidious poll taxes of old and more recently Phil Twyford’s dubious claims about their alleged house-acquiring habits. Comprising tiny valueless plastic toys, cheap as chips paper hats and conundrums that were hilariously funny when we first heard them in the primers they will be producing a profit margin of around five hundred per cent.

Time then to go out and buy the family presents.

Shopping is so foreign to me that last week I went to a furniture store to look for a decaffeinated coffee table. And I’m convinced Sunday is the day God took off from creating the world to take Mrs God around Briscoe’s

I never knew what to give my father for Christmas so one year I gave him $100 and told him “Go and buy something that will make your life easier.”

So he went out and bought a present for my mother.

“I bought some batteries, but they weren’t included, so I had to buy them again.” - Steven Wright 

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Donald's trumpeting causes angst

Apparently there is a petition circulating around Britain barring Donald Trump from ever entering the country. So far this has attracted 430,966 signatures. Another petition doing the rounds is asking the government to close all the UK borders until ISIS is defeated and this one has garnered 443,769 signatures. The sheer irony that one appears to contradict the other will likely have been lost in the process.

Donald Trump’s declaration that if elected president he would ban Muslims from ever entering the country “until we can work out what the heck is going on.” has justifiably sparked widespread condemnation from free-world leaders, uncle Tom Cobbly and all, but amongst America’s conservatives, his popularity increases daily.

It’s not as though there’s a dearth of credible aspirants for the Republican Party’s nomination lining up against him. Texas Senator Ted Cruz, African-American neurosurgeon Ben Carson and Cuban-American senator Marco Rubio would all give the Democratic front-runner Hillary Clinton a run for her money, but all three are lagging in the polls due to Mr Trump’s populist pronouncements.

To tap into the apprehensiveness of America’s and to some extent the world’s trepidation of the potential carnage caused by a terror group who appear to have no fear of death is clever politics, however distasteful.

America as we know it was birthed by its liberal immigration policy poetically expressed on the plaque at the base of the Statue of Liberty that reads: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”

Most Western nations, observing America’s success story, followed suit

Today we have to rely on governments using sophisticated surveillance systems to sort out the wheat from the chaff as far as immigrants are concerned as some seek to destroy our way of life.

Paris has clearly shown that despite having a secret service agency that would probably make our GCSB look amateurish, the French were woefully inept at containing terrorist attacks on at least two occasions.

This is a game on a number of levels, a numbers game, a time game and in the end a game that risks horrendous defeat by introducing more potential jihadists. That’s why Donald Trump has a point, however unrealistic, when he says we need to stop the flow until governments can devise a foolproof system of identifying the chaff.

Trump also gains some traction and support because the unpalatable truth is that most of us are more comfortable living amidst our own kind. Orthodox Muslims praying towards Mecca five times a day, their women wearing top-to-toe clothing and the patriarchal nature of their Sharia laws makes us feel uncomfortable.

And so although we enjoy the diversity that other population groups bring, we prefer to coalesce with our own kith and kin on a day-to-day basis.

Illegal aliens have always been a problem for New Zealand. In fact I would imagine that there will be an unmeasurable segment of Maoridom today who, when Captain Cook and his vulgar boatmen first set foot on Aotearoa, will have wished that their Rangatira’s had circulated a petition declaring that no white honkeys ever be allowed to come ashore again.

“I support making deportation for illegal immigration retroactive, and shipping Anglos back home” - Paul Rodriguez

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The perils of authorship

Last week the Nielsen Independent Booksellers ratings on the country’s Top 20 bestselling books had Bob Francis; A Story of My Town at number one. The book was up against Dan Carter: My Story which came in at number three and international superstar author Bill Bryson’s latest offering which was at four.

Local author, sports writer and district councillor Gary Caffell made a superb job of weaving the tale of Francis’s incredible life story.

The book chronicles the raft of issues facing Masterton’s longest-serving mayor which includes the Judd’s Road murders and the firebombing of a policeman’s house, but the tome has more depth and substance to it than these two widely-publicised issues.

Bob got involved in leading and supporting major strategies to combat significant social issues in the town which included gang problems, domestic violence, and poor parenting. He worked on initiating employment opportunities, had a real passion for the less fortunate and there are a great many facilities for Masterton’s citizens to enjoy thanks to the hard-working mayor’s drive and enthusiasm.

The books wider appeal will have been enhanced by the faithful recording of his stellar career as a rugby referee. He went on to become an international referee assessor and was a member of the referee selection panel at two World Cups. Devotees of our national sport in this rugby-mad nation will find the last thirty pages of the book absorbing.

However I would caution Mr Caffell and Mr Francis about going out and ordering new BMW’s at this critical stage, despite the books early success.

I have had some involvement in writing books. I’ve written two and they’re not necessarily goldmines; though to be fair mine were never in the same league as this one. Back in 2006, I wrote One Man’s Meat and sold out of all copies printed which was a first run of 600, but neither fame nor fortune followed. The all-up cost to produce the books was $10,000, but the return to the author after attendant costs had been paid was half that, leaving me $5000 out of pocket.

I was reminded of Mr Micawber's oft-quoted recipe for happiness as espoused in Charles Dickens’ book David Copperfield. “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen shillings and sixpence, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and sixpence, result misery.”

I went to my bank manager and asked, “How do I stand for a loan?”

He said, “You don’t, you kneel.”

Surprisingly my first book, published in 1976, did produce a creditable profit. It was a book for the meat trade written in conjunction with my accountant Colin Croskery and was sold to pretty well all of the country’s butchers. It was a commercial success because we managed to convince suppliers to the industry to advertise in it.

Mr Micawber would have been proud of us.

Just after One Man’s Meat hit the bookstands I was stopped in the street by a fellow who told me: “From the moment I picked up your book until the moment I put it down, I could not stop laughing.”

“Someday,” he went on, “I hope to read it.”


I should have quit writing while I was ahead.

I asked my publisher what would happen if he sold all the copies of my book he had printed. He said, “I’ll just print another ten.” - Eric Sykes.

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Pillow talk leaves me bamboozled

The TV channel that tends to get most of my attention bombards me each night with advertisements urging me to take out an insurance policy to pay for my impending funeral and then entices me to buy a bamboo pillow that will allow me to sleep the sleep of the just and hopefully increase my life expectancy.

You probably thought, as I did, that a bamboo pillow is made from bamboo. Wrong! It’s the pillowslip that is made from bamboo, bamboo fibre that is. The pillow itself is made from foam.

Foam with a memory, apparently. Well anyway that’s what the salesman told me, lurking behind the counter in one of those pop-up shops that come and go in those wide aisles of a shopping mall in a nearby city.

The day I visited there was a mountebank claiming to cure most of your illnesses with a multi-coloured lamp beamed on the affected part, two stalls selling a huge variety of psychedelic covers for your iPhone, the inevitable chairs that will shake your booty if you dare to stick a two dollar coin in the slot and now two competing well-stocked mini-marts selling bamboo pillows.

I was intrigued. Bamboo fibre I was told is naturally anti-bacterial, hypoallergenic, breathable, cool, strong, flexible, soft and has a luxurious shiny appearance. It absorbs and evaporates sweat very quickly and is three or four times more absorbent than cotton.

About now the well-versed young salesman pauses to draw breath and then goes on to expound that environmentally-friendly bamboo yields ten times that of cotton, without using fertilisers or pesticides. Armed with this information I wondered out loud why there aren’t more Panda’s in the world, but my cynicism is unacknowledged and the young man is now joined by an attractive dark-skinned young saleslady coming to the rescue of her colleague who is blissfully unaware that he needs rescuing.

When I express surprise that the pillow itself is actually made of foam rather than bamboo she tells me that the memory foam’s most unique quality is its temperature sensitivity, which softens the foam when in contact with the body. Memory foam, she gushes, moulds to your curvatures, cradling areas that normally receive pressure and supporting areas that typically do not. Truly miraculous.

I convey my disillusionment however given that when Susan Paul drops the bowling ball on the pillow and doesn’t break the egg beneath the accompanying spiel clearly implies that it’s the bamboo that’s the hero, not the foam.

This narrative is lost on my two young salespersons who I suspect have never had to suffer monotonous TV ads. They probably download movies or watch Netflix; I envy their innocence.

I can get two pillows for $79 they tell me, but when I suggest that having pillowcases featuring bamboo slogans and illustrations will hardly enhance the appearance of our immaculate bedroom they offer as an extra a variety of pastel-coloured bamboo pillowcases, logo free. This bumps up the price tag considerably.

I’m then told that thousands of customers swear by their bamboo pillows.

I’ll bet they do, some louder than others.

“Business is the art of extracting money from another man’s pocket without resorting to violence.” - Max Amsterdam

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The world mourns a gentle giant

The international awe with which the late great Jonah Lomu was held may have come as a surprise to many New Zealanders; even Buckingham Palace chipped in with condolences as the world lamented the loss of this rugby colossus.

I had some inkling of his potential popularity back in 1995 while holidaying in Florida. We were on a mini-bus and I recognised the South African accent of a man sitting in the front seat of the vehicle next to the driver. To initiate a conversation I leaned over and said to him “Remind me again, who won the Rugby World Cup?” He swung round and in a friendly manner demanded to know where I came from. When I told him New Zealand he said “Sorry Kiwi, we did.”

To our amazement the bus driver, who was an African-American, said “No, the real winner was rugby.”

Naturally the South African and I wanted to know just how he could make such an utterance, both assuming that no one in America would have been the slightest bit interested in rugby, but he claimed that the contest was well-publicised and widely viewed.

The conversation almost instantly turned to Jonah Lomu and his role in the triumphant All Black win over England which must have been played and replayed on sports shows to a worldwide audience. The impact of the images of that one game would have set Jonah up for life.

It’s an absolute tragedy that his life was such a short one.

Jonah didn’t feature much in the final against South Africa in 1995. The Springboks managed him masterfully that day, herding him into the middle of the field where he could be lowered to the ground by the loose forwards rather then letting him skirt the outer fringes of the field where he might have wreaked havoc.

And always, when someone as instantly recognisable as Lomu dies, there is a great outpouring of acclamation and glorification. Unlike others however Jonah received much justifiable adoration when he was alive, yet he seemed to have kept his feet on the ground and his outward humility was admirable.

Of course he wasn’t perfect. Three marriages before he turned forty seemed excessive, but my disdain for his “boom-boxed” car is perhaps more of a reflection of my lack of tolerance due to ageing than a serious misdemeanour on Jonah’s part.

But as rugby correspondent Paul Lewis wrote “He was known for the ferocity of his running on the field and his gentleness off it, a dichotomy prized by rugby people and perhaps the natural state of a Pacific Islander.”

I couldn’t possibly comment on his prowess as a rugby player; I’m not really qualified to talk about sport.

I gave up cricket when I found facing a fast-bowler was like standing on the runway at Masterton’s Motorplex and when a car is 22 yards away, trying to get out of the way.

I stopped playing rugby because of illness and fatigue; the coach was sick and tired of me.

The last time I participated in any sport was when I went skiing and broke a leg.

Fortunately, it wasn’t one of mine.

“I always say to people that you have never seen the best of me, and that’s what I mean - I’ve never been fully fit.” - Jonah Lomu

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Pleased to remember, the 5th of November

At school we were taught that a fellow with the unlikely name of Guido Fawkes had once tried to blow up the British parliament. England was closer to us then than it is now and annually we were encouraged to recall this dastardly deed and in the process make ourselves a little pocket money which we were then encouraged to blow on fireworks.

This may have been a brilliant commercial conspiracy encouraged by Nobel and his gunpowder manufacturers, and might have even encompassed our history teachers, but I suspect that it was merely a customary practice maintained over the years and we were reasonably keen to keep it going.

On November the fifth in 1940’s Masterton the early morning streets were alive with the sound of music as receptive citizenry threw coinage towards the gaggle of kids who turned up in groups of four or five every few minutes on their front lawns and projected their voices at the main bedroom which was invariably at the front the of the house.

Provided you had a credible Guy and a chorus of friends with acceptable vocal skills, money literally flew out of those windows.

We lived in Lansdowne and for weeks before the big day we would shape our Guys using our dads’ old pants and shirts stuffed with straw with a flour sack for the head. We would set off, pulling the Guy in home-made carts at 6 in the morning and this gave us two hours before breakfast and school to hound the sleeping citizenry who almost always good naturedly opened their curtains to our intrusion and threw alms into our arms.

Although we would chant “penny for the Guy” inflation had decreed that threepences and sixpences were the least you would expect, and the odd florin and a very odd half-a-crown were sometimes proffered, usually from folk who had been so overwhelmed with Guys and their choristers that they had run out of the smaller coinage.

Four threepences made a shilling and there were twenty shillings in a pound and a pound would buy a huge amount of fireworks. That night, with darkness falling at a more respectable hour than it does today, our families would gather to watch our hard-earned money go up in flames.

The climax of the evening was supposed to be the throwing of the Guy on the bonfire, but this was more often than not discouraged because it seemed a little gruesome to a community that had just come out of a world war and anyway often the clothes you used for the Guy were the same ones your father used to don to work his vegetable garden.

This word picture is starting to sound like a Norman Rockwell illustration of the era, but it’s how I remember it.

Although fireworks featured on the fifth of November this year, scaring the living daylights out of the canine and equine population, the only street merchants were the trick and treat brigade who a few days earlier were knocking on your front door demanding candy while their protective parents hid covertly on the footpath.

Oh how I miss the good old days.

Except of course, they weren’t really that good.

“If you’ve never seen a real, fully developed look of disgust, tell your son how you conducted yourself when you were a boy.” - Elbert Hubbard

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Going back to the future

A new radio station has been brought to my attention with the appropriate name of Magic. (105.5 FM if you’re curious). For septuagenarians and others, the music has a magic quality; it’s the sounds we grew up with.

The music is melodic, the words have a clarity not evident in much of today’s popular music and the lyrics generally talk of love between members of the opposite sex or other interesting themes like tips on playing poker (Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler”) or a seaman desperate to abandon ship (The Beach Boys’ “The Sloop John B”).

And they’re not asexual. Lulu sings “I’m a Tiger” with a sensual growl that would stir the blood of most young men and Nancy Sinatra does the same when she tells us her boots were made for walking.

Today’s pop offerings couldn’t hold a candle to the music of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s which Magic’s strapline claims they “keep alive.” As someone recently said, “It’s called rap music because the “c” accidently fell off the printer.”

I know I’m right about this, except I had the same argument with my parents about their music when I was growing up.

After I left college my father in his wisdom sent me to Palmerston North to learn the trade of my ancestors under the guidance of another Master butcher. I used to do deliveries around the city on a bike with a basket on the front that Granville in Open All Hours would have been proud of. A regular recipient of our fine meats was a Mr Sandys who sadly was bedridden. His wife was a wonderful pastry-cook and would regularly have a hot morsel for the butcher-boy from her well-appointed kitchen.

The garage at the end of their drive was padlocked and I looked through a crack in the door one day and espied a 1926 Austin Seven coupe which I immediately coveted. Mrs Sandys wasn’t sure if her husband would part with it and she ushered me into his darkened bedroom on a number of occasions where protracted negotiations took place until he finally agreed to sell me the vehicle for 100 pounds. My weekly take-home pay at the time was six pounds and tuppence so one hundred pounds was a small fortune to a relatively penurious butcher-boy.

However I had opened a Post Office savings account when I was at primary school which had a credit balance of around one hundred pounds and so I purchased my first car.

I painted “Shake, Rattle and Roll” on the driver’s door, a popular song of the time performed by Bill Haley and the Comets that aptly described the ride caused by the superannuated springing system.

With the hood down I’d hoped it might be a chick magnet, though I’m not sure that expression was actually in vogue then. It didn’t have the desired affect; though I’m blaming the driver for that, not the car.

The point of all this is that the automobile industry has gone ahead in leaps and bounds in the intervening years; the Austin Seven could in no way compare with the car I drive today.

So how come the music’s not as good?

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