Posts by Jonty
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<It seems to me emblematic of something worrying that a column acknowledging the lives and careers of interesting and often important people has been replaced by photos of champagne-holding celebs and posing civilians at some heavily sponsored function.>
A salutary comment that sums up perfectly the tabloid rag that the Herald has become. Avoid it like the plague!
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I'm always amused to hear that paragon of success in NZ, Bob Jones, always refer to the country as Noo Zulland. Never allowed success to blunt his native brogue.
But another curiosity is the word 'our'. The Scots of course say 'oor' with a rolling R on the end and I and most Poms say 'ower'. But I hear many NZers say 'ow' and wondered at the origin.
Bruce Chatwin in 'The Songlines' discusses how Aboriginal use of English has infiltrated the common pronunciation of certain words, as well as te vernacular.
I'm certain the Maori, in their attempt to get their tongues around English, have also bequeathed us certain pronunciations, and the word 'ow', which seems to be universal among Maori, is one of them. -
<After lining everything up, I would step in between the middle rungs of the ladder and strap on my skis. Then I would hoist the pack up, leaving the ladder suspended around my waist.>
This practice was discontinued after Artur Testov inadvertently suspended the ladder with one rung between his legs. He later underwent a name change to Arfur Bolokoff.
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It seems incest was alive and well in early NZ. From "Distant Homes; or the Graham family in NZ" in the Maoriland series:
Lucy Graham was working very hard at a number of fancy bags and baskets, evidently intended for a Christmas tree, when her brother George entered the room.
“Mamma wants you, Loo; go to her dressing-room, and then back to me. Look sharp like a good girl, I want you very much.”
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<If that's true, the only thing I'd be worried about would be 15 different versions of the 'fat cats club' with the same members all running similar campaigns.>
And you can bet your sweet life the BRT and their mates are already searching for devious ways to circumvent the new rules.
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I felt Minto was talking more about 'business' calling the shots on how education seemed to be being shaped to produce the graduates it needs. That universities, once seats of learning designed to produce well-rounded, broadly educated individuals, were now churning out truck loads of lawyers and business graduates or any degrees that will guarantee a gilt-edged meal ticket.
A few years ago the nauseating Holmes was interviewing Peter Webb, the art 'entrepreneur'. Holmes asked him: "What advice would you give budding artists today". Webb replied: "Paint for the market". I almost vomited. Van Gogh turned in his grave.
I recall Peter Ustinov once saying, apropos of travelling, that if you wanted to understand a society quickly, watch it's television for a week. I shudder to think TVNZ reflects NZ society? -
After the invasion of Ruatoki by Darth Vader look-alikes just recently, thought you might like this ...
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When I were nobbut a lad I hated cheese. Just couldn't understand why anyone would eat something that smelled like old socks. Until, that is, the day of my conversion. When I were about 12 I did a bread round. That is, I helped the bread delivery man (known as the baker) every Saturday for about 7/6d. This all took place a long, long time ago in an England that has long since disappeared. In those days deliveries were made in an old Fordson van that reeked of petrol fumes and fresh bread, if you can imagine such a combination. Pulling up outside a grand house I would open the back doors of the van and, with the help of a long round pole with a shiny 6" nail through the end, I would hook out still warm loaves and place a variety, together with a selection of packets of tarts, into a large wicker basket and proceed up the path or drive to the house (tradesman's entrance), often accompanied by a few feisty corgies snapping at my ankles. The lady of the house would sniffily squeeze the loaves and usually settle on a small Hovis (to keep the cost down). Upon being asked politely if she could possibly manage to settle her long outstanding account she would snap: "Next week" and shut the door in my face. I would then have the long trek back to the van, keeping the corgis off my ankles with a few well-placed kicks, to report to the baker that payment was there none. It was at this time of my life that I first began to perceive that the English class system was propped up on an elaborate system of credit. About the middle of the day, having been on the round since about 7am, the baker would find a quiet spot to pull over and produce his flask of tea and packet of wife-made sandwiches, usually cheese. On the particular day of the aforementioned conversion I had overslept and rushed from the house without taking my own packed lunch. I now sat in the smelly Fordson absolutely ravenous listening to the baker noisily munching cheese sarnies, slurping hot tea, all the while dabbing his indelible pencil on his tongue while he brought his accounts book (held together by an enormous elastic band) up to date. Just when I thought I was going to expire from hunger the baker noticed I wasn't eating. "No lunch lad?", he said. "No time to make any this morning, slept in." "Oh", he said disinterestedly, and went back to his tea and indelible pencil. Finally it was time to move on. He pressed the starter button, a cloud of fumes belched in from under the dashboard. It was then he caught me eyeing his last remaining cheese sandwich. "Fancy a sandwich", he said casually. I pounced on it like a dying man. It was the most heavenly sandwich I had ever eaten. I savoured every mouthful. I never thought cheese could be so wonderful. My mother never suspected that it was a near-death experience that had brought about my sudden conversion.
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Curious that the cops smash in the front of Peace Action Wellington's HQ a week after their involvement in the protest outside the Duxton against the arms dealers doing business inside. Maybe the cops got the time and place wrong?
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I don't know about over-invested in rugby culture, but I'll bet if it had been rugby and not soccer that Fijian goalie wouldn't have been banned!