The Balmoral family are hospitable

I had just drifted off to sleep when the phone rang. It was quite late at night. My caller was the secretary/treasurer of the Amateur Newspaper Columnist’s Guild (ANCG). She told me I had been selected, presumably at random, to represent the guild by accompanying John Key and his family on their historic visit to stay with the Queen at Balmoral Castle. I didn’t have an opportunity to even express surprise. It was either yes or no and if it was yes then I was to go and get packed. I barely had time to kiss my wife farewell.

I could have gone with the press contingent in Key’s plane, but I found out it was a DC1 with a dodgy fuel pump. So I decided to fly with the national carrier of the country that breeds the world’s greatest yachtsmen and booked on Qantas It was a wise move. We had a stop-off at Dubai and I noticed Key’s propeller driven aircraft with Air-force One painted over the old TEAL markings sitting on the steaming tarmac with some confused mechanics working on one of the ancient piston engines. I wanted to thumb my nose at his entourage but they were sweating profusely and I didn’t have the heart to tell them what a difference pressurisation can make.

Getting through customs in Britain is not easy these days. They were furious about the butcher’s knives I had in my overnighter. I had brought these to give away as gifts but they were promptly confiscated. Fortunately I had also packed some genuine Taiwanese plastic tikis which proved to be hugely popular.

One official took a keen interest in the size of my nose and wanted to know if I a Jew or an Arab? I told him Rick was short for Ikey and I was congenially waved on through.

Key’s plane was still circling around Heathrow looking for a gap in the fog so I decided to get up to Balmoral under my own steam. The taxi driver, a Pakistani who spoke better English than I do, asked me about New Zealand. He said he had seen the Hobbit and was surprised how tall I was. He told me he and his family were thinking of emigrating to Godzone, but he’d read where some chap named Shearer wasn’t too keen on letting Asians own a house there. I told him Mr Shearer’s view of the world didn’t count any more and his successor, a man with the unlikely name of Cunliffe, was yet to announce his housing policy so he ought to make the move promptly before the new man lowered the boom.

I also told him about a man named Mallard who owned a house in Lower Hutt who might be keen to sell at a bargain price.

Getting into Balmoral was a breeze. I bumped into Prince Charles talking to a bed of camellias in the garden and in no time we were joined by Prince Phillip. They were both welcoming and Prince Phillip wanted to know how I’d got past the Beefeater at the gate. I told him how we’d had a friendly chat about eating beef as opposed to cutting it up for sale and he let me slip by.

Charles and Philip allowed that they were both looking forward to meeting Stephanie Key as they’d seen the racy photos of her in the Daily Mirror and they thought she’d make a great page three girl.

Philip, who insisted I call him Phil, invited me to come inside and “meet the wife.”

The Queen was most gracious.

I told her how I’d enjoyed her performance with Rowan Atkinson in Johnny English Reborn, but she told me that both her character and the Chinese look-alike were, well, look-alikes. I did my best to hide my disappointment at this shattering disclosure.

I asked did she enjoy being called a great-granny and she told me she was getting used to it. Small talk was not easy, but the two corgis, Holly and Willow, were making nuisances of themselves so I turned the conversation around to dogs. I said we owned a couple of canines and she wanted to know their names. I told her one of them thinks his name is “Down Boy” and I said the other one’s got such a pedigree that if she could talk she wouldn’t speak to either of us.

I was relieved when John and Bronagh turned up with Stephanie and Max and I was able to leave them to make conversation with the old lady.

I spent the next few days playing polo and shooting grouse.

Soon I was winging my way home and I found myself sitting next to a flaming redhead who I’ll swear was Stephanie Key. She had a packet of McDonald's fries nestled on her lap.

It’s experiences like this you normally only dream about.

“Those who dream by day are cognisant of many things which escape those who dream only at night.” - Edgar Allan Poe

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The tortured road to Damascus

During that period around BC and AD there was a young man named Saul, born in the Middle Eastern city of Tarsus whose great intellect was recognised at an early age. His father, a wealthy merchant, saw that his son was well educated, getting the most noted teacher the Jews had ever possessed, Gamaliel, to privately tutor him. Saul became steeped in Judaism, the religion of the Jews. About that time an outspoken thirty-three-year-old had been crucified for daring to proclaim that he was the Messiah and Saul was incensed that despite his death he seemed to be gathering followers at an alarming rate who were joining a faction called “The Way.”

Saul sought high priest judiciary powers to pursue this “blasphemous” sect and often stood by while followers were stoned to death for what he perceived to be misplaced faith.

On the road to Damascus to seek out disciples of The Way who were growing exponentially in that city he was struck down by an intense white light and a voice came from the presence of the light saying “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?” As Saul looked upon the radiant figure he asked, “Who art thou, Lord? And the answer came, “I am Jesus, whom thou persecuteth.” Saul was blinded by the light, but three days later in a house in Damascus he was “illuminated from within” and his sight was restored.

Saul changed his name to the Roman rendering of it, Paul, at about the same time “The Way” became known as “Christianity” and Paul the apostle or Saint Paul became its greatest advocate. He wrote most of the books of the New Testament and his words of wisdom are still heard to this day and are constantly espoused at church services and funerals.

His enchanting treatise on love is regularly read at weddings.

People who have a dramatic conversion to Christianity are often said to have had a “Road to Damascus” experience.

The road to Damascus, once paved with good intentions, would be a somewhat different experience in the 21st century. Journey down that road today and you might find yourself dodging bullets or inhaling deadly sarin gas.

The Middle East is a powder keg and the civil war in Syria is its likely fuse.

Bashar al Assad is a complex character. Even if he did assault his people with chemical weapons, which is possible, but not certain, his troops have still managed to kill 100,000 of them conventionally anyway.

The rebels are malcontents and overwhelmingly Sunni Muslims. The Assad family is of the Alawite persuasion that follows the Shi’ite interpretation of the Muslim faith and are aligned to the Ba’ath party. Syria is 70 per cent Sunni.

This is a sectarian war and has been brewing in Syria for decades.

Tensions started back in 1980 when the Syrian branch of the Muslim Brotherhood attempted to kill Bashar’s father Hafez, then the country’s president. Two years later Hafez struck back and the entire Brotherhood leadership was liquidated and so too were their families. It is believed up to 30,000 men, women and children were slaughtered in the rout.

Bashar was just 15 at the time and was never intended that he would lead his people after his father’s death. His older brother Bassel was the chosen one and Bashar, who was recognised as the weakest link in the family and had a chin to emphasise this, went to university in Damascus and was then sent to England by his father to study medicine.

According to those who knew him at university, Assad was a middling student, introverted, stubborn and moody. Ironically, it is said he can’t stand the sight of blood and so instead of studying general medicine he opted to become an ophthalmologist, enrolling at London’s Western Eye Hospital.

Meanwhile Bassel was killed in a high speed car crash while driving to Damascus airport in 1999.

British author Patrick Seale, an old Assad family friend, said after Bassel’s death Hafez attempted to instil in his second son, then only 28, the leadership qualities he felt Syria would need. “Bashar proved largely inept. Hafez was desperate to influence and train Bashar as a leader, but he was never the right type,” says Seale. The young doctor was awkward and lacked the common touch to win the loyalty of the population. “He was and still is a terrible public speaker. He blathers on in an uncontrolled way and loses his audience quickly,” says Seale.

And so this moody, introverted, stubborn, blathering individual potentially holds the fate of the world in his soiled hands.

In Armageddon-like circumstances the two sides are neatly lined up. Iran, Russia and China on one side, with North Korea probably itching to join the fray, and the Western Alliance on the other.

Not unlike the situation that triggered the “war to end all wars” nearly 100 years ago.

What we need is a modern-day Saul of Tarsus.

“War will never cease until babies begin to come into the world with larger cerebrums and smaller adrenal glands.” - H. L. Mencken

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Glory Days - before Springsteen

The euphoria in Otago when they lifted the Ranfurly shield from Waikato was short-lived. They say a week is a long time in politics, but it is agonizingly short when you parade your heroes down Dunedin’s main street on Monday only to watch them lose the “Log’o’Wood” the next Sunday. Pity too because the Forsyth Barr Stadium is a great venue to defend the shield in any weather.

Hawkes Bay waited 44 years to have the shield back in their trophy cabinet thanks to their narrow win against Otago, but kept it for just six days when Counties Manakau lifted it in a spirited contest at Napier’s picturesque McLean Park last Saturday. Hawkes Bay Rugby Union’s CEO said the shield had the potential to boost their coffers by more than a million dollars if only they could have retained ownership.

Wairarapa had the shield for twice as long as Otago and Hawkes Bay when they won a famous victory over Canterbury in 1950.

As a ten-year-old rugby-mad kid I can clearly recall the occasion. Wairarapa were more than odds-on favourites to lose the game. I had watched them play at Queen Elizabeth Park a few weeks previous when Poverty Bay beat them convincingly.  Man of the match for me was that day “Tiny” White; the huge lock forward and legendary All Black. Unfortunately he played for Poverty Bay. So too did Brian Fitzpatrick, another All Black and later to father Sean.

The Wairarapa team left that evening for their South Island tour which was to culminate in a challenge for the coveted Ranfurly Shield against mighty Canterbury at Lancaster Park. Their record in their tour lead-up games was not too impressive either. Otago beat them 16 nil. At Invercargill Southland won 17 to 6.  South Canterbury drew with them 3 all.

Despite not being given much chance against Canterbury, the side did have some wonderful players. They were captained by the superb Maori All Black, and member of the legendary Kiwi team Alan “Kiwi” Blake, although he was concussed midway through the game and had to be replaced on the side of the scrum by Noel Desmond. Hooking was another great Maori All Black, Kingi Matthews and propping him were Neville Humphries and Les Sciascia. Hugh Mathieson and Bruce McPhee locked the scrum and Jack Ryan was the other flanker; though we called them “breakaways” back then. Wattie Waaka was at number eight.

Garth Parker was second-five-eighth outside the great Ben Couch at first-five. Couch was an All Black and a Maori All Black. He had a nifty swerve which was to later serve him well in politics. He took over the captaincy when Blake left the field.

Half back was Steve Walsh; Brian Desmond was at centre, with Bernie Patrick and John Geary on the wings. On the bench were Alan “Blue” Corlett, Keith Parker, - brother of Garth - Horrie Thompson, Martin Garrity, Bobbie Lister and Ivan Dale.

Second-five-eighth for Canterbury was Jules Houghton, later to settle here as the much respected manager of Wright Stephenson’s Stock and Station Agency.

Undoubtedly star of the day though was Wairarapa fullback Alf Mahupuka, whose dropped goal, urged on by Ben Couch when passing seemed the sensible option, slotted through the goalpost’s from halfway, just before half-time.

The second half was a torrid affair with Wairarapa desperately hanging on to their slender lead with a sterling performance from the forwards. I had my ear glued to the crackly radio at home and I vividly recall my hero for the day, my cousin John Geary, who had been a record breaking sprinter at Wairarapa College, chasing and catching Canterbury front rower Alan Couling just inches short of the try line in the last minutes of the game. This was Canterbury’s final opportunity to save the day and the underdogs came out the winners by three points to nil.

The Christchurch Press said the Wairarapa forwards won the game and “especially outstanding were J. Ryan, L. Sciascia and K. Matthew’s who frequently broke though the Canterbury forwards, hunting relentlessly with ball at toe.” The Press voted Couch, Walsh and Geary as the stand-out backs.

The citizens of Wairarapa were over the moon with the win. So too were the team They poured themselves on to the Lyttleton ferry that night and set sail for Wellington and then home to glory and a civic welcome at the Masterton Post Office.  I and hundreds of others waited for some time for our first glimpse of the shield.  The team knew how to party. Legend has it that on the bus trip home from the ferry terminal they got the publican of the Central Hotel in Petone, Ian Harvey, out of bed at about 8 o’clock on Sunday morning, demanding that he “shout.”

Harvey, an ex All-Black who had played for Wairarapa was, I gather, more than happy to oblige.

The victors arrived quite late for the reception because they were stopped by coteries of delighted supporters all the way up the valley. Fair enough; a great many of the players were from the highly rated Carterton and Greytown sides. The rugby team that finally held up the shield for the expectant Post Office crowd didn’t look as though they could win a good feed, but we understood their celebrations and excused their resultant demeanor.

Norm Faulkner, who with his brother Bob owned a sports shop directly opposite the Post Office was the team manager and the shield was proudly displayed in their window for the delighted populous to view. I’m sure the whole Wairarapa took the opportunity to glimpse the trophy. I recall going and staring at it most days.

But the display was short-lived.

Although the Wairarapa season was officially over, through some legal loophole and sleight of hand, still unexplained to the rank and file to this day, they were obliged to face a challenge from South Canterbury which they had to accept. The game was scheduled just two weeks after the shield had been won.

The South Canterbury challenge was held at the Solway Showground’s. I’ll never forget the trauma we all felt when we lost the contest in the dying minutes, 17 - 14. Man of the match on that day was the visitor’s captain and 1949 All Black, L. A. Grant. He kicked a penalty goal from halfway and scored two tries, one right on full time to give his side the victory. I despised him with all the hate a ten-year-old could muster.

Small rugby provinces have few chances to bask in glory and we were shortchanged on this occasion, but it was a fabulous fortnight. It is not generally remembered, but Canterbury also only had the shield for a two week stint, having won it off Otago on August the 16th 1950 and then lost it to Wairarapa on the 2nd of September.

Crikey, it’s just occurred to me, if Gary Caffell wins the mayoralty perhaps I can replace him as a 
sportswriter!

“Nobody ever beats Wales at rugby; they just score more points” - Graham Mourie

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A sad slice of American life

I was a keen follower of Close Up on TV One and enjoyed Mark Sainsbury’s searching current affairs interviews, but am less enamoured with the Seven Sharp replacement. The super-confident trio of presenters sit at the one desk and have curious conversations with each other, laughing at their own repartee which I don’t find particularly entertaining. It is probably aimed at a different demographic grouping and so I’ve had to move on.

My first port of call was Campbell Live. Initially Campbell seemed to concentrate on the on-going dramas of people’s lives in Christchurch after the earthquake, which was interesting enough, but he lost my goodwill a few weeks ago when he announced on a Monday night that he was going to spend the week travelling the length and breadth of the country asking the rank and file what they thought of the GCSB amendment bill.

I went searching for another seven o’clock slot for my nightly entertainment and in so doing missed the Prime Minister’s trouncing of John Campbell on the Wednesday night after I’d abandoned him on the Monday.

Never mind, on a channel called the Box, which I’ve scarcely given a cursory glance to in the past, I found my replacement for Campbell Live and Seven Sharp with an erotic sounding programme called Hardcore Pawn.

And now I’m hooked.

Hardcore Pawn is a nightly reality show chronicling the dubious daily goings-on in a Detroit pawn shop called American Jewelry and Loan. The store itself would probably dwarf our local Warehouse and has a matching carpark and fifty staff to serve the city’s less fortunate citizens who join a queue looking for what I suspect are cripplingly high-interest-rate loans, or approach the counters to sell or pawn their precious belongings.

The company owner is Les Gold whose face is as hard as his bargaining skills and he is assisted by son Seth and daughter Ashley. They are constantly surrounded by large muscle-bound men who act as security guards for the family and the business.

Their protection services are certainly well-utilised.

Seth and Ashley are both university graduates and are probably smarter than their father, but not as ruthless and I fear the business may not survive dare he seek to retire. The family constantly bicker and there is some serious sibling rivalry.

This is compelling television; I imagine it will have a cult following in the US, but it is a sad indictment on American society.

Detroit is of course a city in despair. The Japanese and the Koreans have taken the lion’s share of the world’s car manufacturing industry and the city recently filed for bankruptcy. Those who could afford to will have fled the environs and American Jewelry and Loan will be the last stop for those who are left behind jobless and seemingly penniless.

Gold, his children and his senior staff assess the value of the goods that are brought in and inevitably offer an amount that is usually a fraction of what might reasonably be expected. You just know the desperate customer is going to take the pitifully low offer because it is clear their circumstances are so dire any amount of money is welcome.

The opening credits to the programme suggest that parental guidance is advised and that course language may offend. Mercifully the good people at Box, aware of our inbuilt sensitivities, have over-ridden the cuss words and the whole programme is punctuated with beeps.

A large percentage of American Jewelry and Loan customers are African-Americans and they seem to have a language all of their own. English yes, but with a dialect that means the producers often have to put in place sub-titles so the rest of us can understand just what is being said.

Sub-titles, with lots of beeps.

If the language is appalling then the behaviour of some is even more so. If this is reality then America needs to take stock. Last week the last item on TV One news featured a few lines of Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech delivered before a crowd of 250,000 from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington after a civil rights rally in 1963. Switching then to Hardcore Pawn I got the overwhelming impression that fifty years on, the march was in vain and for many the dream has become a nightmare.

“Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn’t have in your home.” - David Frost

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