Silly reason?

First published in Column 8 on the 15^th December, 1993

I know Christmas is sometimes called (most aptly) the ‘silly season,’ but some communities go more for the ‘silly reason.’ I’ve probably mentioned the following episode in my column previously, so bear with me being repetitive in my old age.

When my youngest was still at kindergarten, I asked the head teacher why the children weren’t singing Christmas carols during the days before Christmas. She said they couldn’t do that because it would offend those for whom Christmas had no special significance.

The minority rules, okay? Never mind that carols at Christmas, and Christmas itself, are woven into the web of our culture, whether you have any Christian association or not.

Now I see that the wise and respected burghers of Birmingham, in England, have gone the same way. They’ve banned the symbols of Christmas from their street lighting. I could see why some anti-Christian people might throw out Christian symbols, but in Birmingham even Santa Claus (who in his present guise is far more the symbol of commercialism than Christmas) has been given the push.

All in the name of ‘acknowledging’ the other communities. All in the name of tolerance, no doubt. All in the name of political correctness – gone overboard.

Birmingham’s festive lighting can now be seen as anything and everything: celebrating the Hindu and Sikh winter festivals, the Jewish Chanukah and the Chinese and Vietnamese New Year. I think it’s barmy.

Minority cultures expect us to accept their ways – when we’re under their roofs, or within their compounds. We’re not allowed to do certain things because of their protocol. Fair enough. But when the majority says it’s going to deny its own culture, I begin to wonder if it has thought the matter through.

I don’t personally think that Hindus or Sikhs or Jews or Asians are going to care two hoots about what the culture within which they have made their homes does. In fact, my feeling, if I were part of such a minority, would be puzzlement as to why that majority culture wished to deny its own heritage.

That was my argument with the kindy teacher several years ago: why should my children be taught all about someone else’s culture when their own was being suppressed? It doesn’t make sense. Our discussion was at the time when certain parties in the land were claiming that the white majority has no culture – a piece of rubbish that even Christmas goodwill finds hard to countenance.

Enough of grizzling at PC nonsense. Let’s look at something more positive.

People in Paeroa are hoping to become New Zealand’s ‘Christmas Town.’  They’ve been holding an exhibition and festival right through December.

Among the displays is a 90-minute tour of Christmases past and present, an art exhibition, a country music competition, an international food fair, a ‘third world’ café, and a multimedia drama about New Zealand’s first Christmas.

The business people and retailers have offered overwhelming support and about 400 people in the community are expected to be involved. Good on them for going all out for a celebration that can encompass real joy if we’ll allow it.

I don’t see any point in pulling back from the celebration of Christmas, whether you believe I the reasons why we celebrate it or not. Whatever we do, don’t let’s be wimpy like the Brums – let’s be like the people from Paeroa and go all out for it.

Part of Birmingham Christmas Market in the mid-2020s

It’s chilling to read again that as long ago as some time in the mid-eighties there were people already playing the Woke card; our own heritage and customs were being pushed out by the so-called offence to people who didn’t happen to believe in them. Now in 2026 this has taken on the cloak of a huge industry, and anything that’s connected to our British and European heritage is in danger of being wiped out by people who were not only born into this heritage, but who benefit from it.

Not remembering the Birmingham incident after all these years I thought I’d check up on it. Here’s Google’s AI take on it.

The claim that Birmingham City Council banned Christmas decorations and Santa Claus from its streets in 1993 is a longstanding myth.

The rumour stems from a real media controversy that took place that year, but the details were heavily distorted by local press:

·         The Reality of the Lights: In November 1993, Birmingham City Council installed festive street lights along New Street. The contemporary, abstract design of the lights had been unanimously approved by a cross-party committee of councillors and local trade representatives.

·         The Media Backlash: The Birmingham Post ran an editorial criticizing the design because it did not explicitly depict traditional images like Santa Claus, reindeer, fairies, wise men, or angels. The paper accused the council of an "outbreak of political correctness" and deliberately downgrading the Christian significance of the holiday.

·         The Council's Position: The council never passed any ban on Christmas decorations or Santa Claus. UK Parliament records from the time show that MPs even raised an Early Day Motion defending the council, labelling the newspaper's reports as "anti-Labour fantasies" and "press misrepresentation".

·         This 1993 dispute laid the groundwork for the much larger, internationally famous "Winterval" myth in 1997 and 1998, when a generic marketing banner used by Birmingham to promote 41 days of diverse winter events (including Christmas markets and Diwali) was widely—and incorrectly—reported by national media as an official attempt to rename or "ban" Christmas.

I haven’t disputed AI’s take on this – though it would be interesting to see if it would rethink its information – but when you read Michael Chubb’s comments on his Winterval, it seems to me he’s still defending the actions of this council after many years. Why Parliament got in on the story is a bit of a mystery. It really had nothing to do with them; it was the newspapers who spread most of the controversy, and apparently continue to do so after all these years.

Paeroa continues its now longstanding Christmas Show. I’d be interested to know if its drama about the First NZ Christmas was still part of it…

What I learned in 1993

First published in Column 8 on the 22^nd December, 1993. I must have had a bit of a year in 1993: this should have come across as witty, but it verges on the vitriolic.

I learned what a homie is (though I am still not sure if I’ve got the spelling right, or if, in fact, anyone knows). Homies like to wear super-baggy jeans, slung so low round the hips they threaten to slide down to their ankles. They hide their torsos in tent-like tops.

They often have undercuts – another word added to my vocab this year. This means they cut their hair stubble short (often at ‘number one’ on the blades), underneath longer hair. This may be kept hidden – in which case it is only the fact that you have done it that’s important – or the longer hair may be tied up, making the scalp look as though the barber had a sudden seizure.

I learned that homies invade families indiscriminately, rather like stray cats or scabies.

I learned, yet again, that statistics are extremely flexible. It all depends on who is using them. Thus one group can claim that men are almost entirely to blame for violence in the home, while another says statistics show women to be the major offenders – 53% in fact. And that women caused death in nearly 56% of the cases.

That’s an interesting statistic for Suffrage Year.

I learned you can utterly forget that you have been sexually abused as a child, but that certain therapies can help you remember.

I learned also that some therapists can help you remember things that never actually happened, and if you are clever, you can make a lot of money out of remembering – you will need to, to pay your even cleverer therapist.

I learned that other people deny this.

I learned that women in power are no different to men in power, and that there is barely any difference between politicians and poets – both have to be somewhat crazy.

I have also learned that politics is about ambition: it has little to do with integrity, wisdom or servanthood. It has a lot to do with back-stabbing, sudden demotions, and revenge. And that’s New Zealand politics I’m talking about, not Italian.

I learned that I was wise to wear a beard for 22 years: it conveniently hid the ageing of my face. For one beardless week I felt like either Jekyll or Hyde – I’m not sure which.

I learned also that there is a very strong cultural bias against beards: sadly many of the male population have succumbed to the lie that men are better-looking without their beards. (Well, we’ll all have beards in heaven!)

I learned to smile at the frazzled parents of little children when the latter were wrecking things, or carting their baby sisters down the stairs. I now know that being a parent in those years is a delight by comparison with being a parent of a teenager – let alone of four. Teenagers are no different to preschoolers – they’re just bigger.

I have yet to learn whether there is any truth in the theory that children in their twenties are almost human.

I learned that people are just as interested in what I don’t want to write about, as in what I do. In fact, I debated detailing today all the subjects I would not write about in 1994, but I wasn’t sure if I could hold to such a resolution.

I’ve learned that in spite of all the commercialism of Christmas, in spite of the people in our community who would have us wipe Christmas off the calendar – and its message off the map – in spite of Santa Claus proliferating like the flowers that bloom in the Spring (tra la), in spite of the pressures of holidays and presents and even the violence that surfaces so readily at this stressful time of the year, Christ and Christmas do not go away.

Their truth remains, focused in the birth of a child who changed not only the course of history, but is still capable of changing the hears of men and women.

I’ve learned that when nearly everything else around is changing, a few things do not.

Three young men dressed in their homie best

I noticed when retyping this some thirty years later that a subeditor appears to have changed all my contractions to fully written out words, something I was unlikely to be doing after three years of writing the Column. It’s nice to be able to put all the contractions back in again.

I’m not sure why I claim poets are necessarily crazy. Certainly there have been crazy poets – you may even know one or two – but by contrast with politicians they are people of great sanity. Although Rimbaud and Verlaine notoriously had knife ‘fights’ and Verlaine shot Rimbaud in the wrist with a pistol once. Apparently Ben Jonson fatally stabbed an actor in a duel – I’m not sure if this counts…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t want to!

First published in Column 8 on the 17^th November, 1993

Having avoided writing about politics during the election run-up (apart from my recommendation of MMP, a piece of advice most voters in my electorate signally ignored), I still don’t want to write about politics. Politics, and politicians, we’ve had quite enough of.

And I don’t want to write about dinosaurs, even though I allowed myself to be persuaded to visit the mechanical monsters at the museum. The mechanics and the marketing – and the sound effects – were marvellous, but I don’t want to write about dinosaurs. They’ve had enough media attention to last several billion years.

And I don’t want to write about unemployment, even though the French contemplate cutting back everyone’s hours and wages in order to give unemployed people jobs, and even though the English politicians are finally admitting that there is a correlation between crime and unemployment, a fact that our politicians have so far been unable to perceive. Blast, I’m writing about politicians. They’re insidious, and creep in wherever you don’t want them.

I don’t want to write about employment either, even though some gentleman with the memorable name of Mex Bouzaid has managed to create employment in Queenstown – yes folks, the word was ‘create.’ He seems to be beating the Employment Service at their own game.

And I don’t want to write about recycling either, even though we’re told we don’t do enough of it, and when we do, we have to pay to get rid of it, and when we’ve got rid of it no one wants it.

I don’t want to write about the fact that the community is constantly blamed for not recycling enough, when no local authority wants to set up anything that will actually use what we recycle.

And I don’t want to write about the arguments over whether cloth nappies or disposable nappies are better for the environment, because that would be writing about the environment, and I don’t want to write about that either.

I don’t want to write about whether it’s better to use more trees to make disposable nappies that can’t really be disposed of, or whether it’s better to use more water to wash away the poo and the chemicals that clean the poo out of the cloth nappies. I just don’t want to write about such Karitane-yellow matters.

And I certainly don’t want to write about crime and the way criminals make more money out of ACC than non-criminals – because I don’t want to write about ACC either: that would mean I’d have to write about politicians, and as I said…

Nor do I want to write about people being attacked for no more reason that that the exist, because as soon as I start writing about crime I’d be writing about unemployment and politicians – see what happens?

And I don’t want to write about Suffragette Year because it’s politically (!) incorrect for a man to write about women. We mere males cannot possibly understand the complexities of what it is to be female.

I’m looking forward to All Male Year, and suggest we start aside our dollars now to fund it, because I doubt if there’ll be any government subsidies going.

And I don’t want to write about sex, or Aids, or condoms or abortion or homosexuality, because then I’d be moralising, and since the present trend of the world is to believe that morals and feelings and doing your own thing are all pretty much the same, I’d probably be wasting my time.

And I most definitely don’t want to write about film stars, because they get constant attention, while nobodies live and die – and get maybe a centimetre of news space.

And I most definitely don’t want to write about myself. When I write about matters on which I have opinions - my wife says that means opinionated – the world ignores it.

On the other hand, when I write about my beard, or buying clothes, or bringing up kids, everyone and her sister comments on it.

Anyway, is there anything interesting about me which I haven’t already written?

Courtesy of A Great Dream Language School

Karitane-yellow was a joke name in our house for the poo on a nappy, which we saw a good deal of over several years of having five children.

Much more positive

First published in Column 8 on the 27^th October, 1993 

In spite of the strong urgings of the recent Otago Daily Times editorial, I’m going to vote for MMP. [Mixed Member Proportional]

I’ve read several views on the referendum. I’m probably more fortunate, in fact, than many voters who’ve found the argufying back and forth painfully difficult to understand, and who’ve all but given up trying. (Fortunate in the sense that reading is something I enjoy, even when the subject is politics.)

What’s been offered to television-viewing voters who read little? Fatuous Government ads which explain nothing. Tedious to watch, they turn people off in microseconds. I suspect the aloofness of politicians keeps them out of touch with people and they think we’re all nincompoops.

The same actors appear in equally expensive newspaper ads, listing the so-called facts, but offering little in the way of guidelines or help to the confused. (Did they deliberately set out to find actors who would look dumb and bewildered?)

The Times said: Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t – hardly a complement to the present incumbents – and added that this referendum was the ‘most important constitutional event since women were given the vote.’

I don’t agree that this referendum is an equally important constitutional events. The women’s vote changed this country’s history, for a much more important reason than a political one. For the first time men had to think about the way they regarded women. (And still have to.) This referendum is hardly going to change anything as important as that.

FPP [First Past the Post] has the support of big business. That alone should make us suspicious (!) Big business in New Zealand has hardly been the champion of people’s rights. When Mr Bolger called businessmen ‘heroes,’ as though they were somehow saviours of the nation, I woke laughing in the night. Big business profits aren’t ploughed back into the country, at least not into the part of the country that needs it.

Then there’s Shirtcliffe and Co, with their almighty resources. It makes you wonder what motive these pro-FPP bods have in spending so highly on campaigning for the status quo.

I’ve read two major pro-MMP articles. Both were honest enough to say that MMP won’t cure all our ills. They didn’t say politicians would somehow mature overnight, becoming capable of achieving worthwhile tasks. They did remind us that politicians mostly resist the thought of change.

They didn’t say MMP works well everywhere, though it works very well in some places.

What they did say was that FPP isn’t fair. They pointed out that for the majority of voters, FPP wasted your vote. As David McLoughlin says in an article entitled Don’t Blow the Chance of Real Reform: ‘…every NZ Government since 1951 has won a majority of seats in Parliament with a minority of votes.’ Crazy.

Dunedinites, of all voters, must be fed up being represented by Opposition members time after time. Isn’t that a result of FPP?

I’m going to vote MMP, and I hope most other people do too. It would send a strong signal to the politicians of this country, these privileged humans who notoriously ignore the rank and file who elect them.

I’d fed up with feeling that I don’t even have half a say in how this country is run. If MMP did nothing else but remind politicians that they’re the servants of the people, not their dictators, I’d be pleased.

Maybe then my tiny two-pronged vote might count for something more than a pencil tick on a page.

This curious advertisement appeared around the time of the referendum. 

MMP remains contentious thirty years later. One of its curiosities is that it allows unelected members to get into Parliament by being on a ‘list.’ The list is connected to a convoluted system that relates to how many electorate seats are won (or are not won) as against how many…well, it’s too complicated to explain here, so better to read this explanation, because after all this time I’m still not sure I understand it.

This compilation from 1996, after the first election under MMP, gives some of the views of people who voted or didn’t vote for the referendum, plus some animated explanations from Footrot Flats characters.

While MMP allows smaller parties to get a chance at being in Government, it also led to the appalling situation created by Winston Peters three terms ago, when he decided, after days of keeping the country waiting, that he would side with Jacinda and the Labour Party, even though National was ahead. This meant we got a coalition party governing us who turned out to be one of the worst in the country’s history. For many people it felt as though MMP made a mockery of their votes by allowing a coalition decided purely on the basis on one man’s say so.

Self-help books

First published in Column Eight on the 20^th October, 1993 

When I read those self-help How-To books something curious happens. I agree all along the line with what the author says, but as for doing something about the problem, a lazy streak takes over and mumbles, ‘Some other time.’

Only some How-To books, of course, demand a change in our lifestyle or character. The majority are in the How To Boil an Egg, or How To Repair Electrical Fuses and Flexible Cords Safely, mode.

NZ Books in Print shows only 24 titles starting with How To. But the Public Library’s computer lists some 4000! Plainly there’s a great deal of interest in teaching yourself How To Do Something – or at least a great deal of recognition by publishers that How To titles sell.

The variety is cosmic. How To Be a Space Scientist in Your Own Home, or How To Colonize. How To Abandon Ship, How To Be an Alien, and (really useful), How To Count Like a Martian. If physicists continue to redefine time and space and tell us that someday we’ll start going backwards, it may be useful to read How To Avoid the Future. 

As a male I can learn How To Be a Real Man, or a Family Man, or a Gifted Parent, or How To Be a King, or How To Be Popular with My Pet. (For people with dogs, that should be How To Be Pupular.)

A modern woman can read How To Be an Assertive, Not Aggressive, Woman: a total guide to self-assertiveness in life, in love and on the job. Or else she can learn How To Be Chic, Fabulous and Live Forever.

On the other hand she, or her husband, can learn How To Clean Everything (a book I think would have a very short life in all but the most particular households). It may be better to read How To Decorate a Dump.

While we’re on domesticity, we can learn How To Cook a Wolf – useful if we’re travelling in North America – or How To Deep-Freeze a Mammoth (something we may need if Nobel prizewinning scientists continue to produce genetic material from dead insects.) It may then be useful to read How To Tell a Proton From a Crouton.

Gardeners, you can learn How To Enjoy Your Weeds, How To Make a Cloud, a Holepunch (to make rain in the aforesaid clouds, no doubt), or How To Make Snop Snappers and other fine things.

Motorists, you can learn How To Be a Motorist (!), How To Avoid Automobile Accidents, and even How To Get Off Speeding Tickets.

In case someone has borrowed that book first, you may have to read How To Hold Up a Bank, or alternatively, How To Rob a Bank Without Violence.

After that it may be worth reading How To Survive Your Life, or if that’s not so difficult, How To Survive Christmas. At the worst, try How To Eat a Hotdog on the Main St of Thames.

If reading itself is a problem, you can tackle How To Read a Book. And if that’s approaching the matter too broadly, try How To Read a Page (if the worst comes to the worst, and neither of these is where you need to begin, there’s always How To See.)

The scope is enormous: I can learn How To Juggle, How To Spy, How To Be Poor, How To Conquer (it seems a bit late for that), or How To Banish Cellulite Forever. I can even learn How To Be a Pom, which should be useful with my in-laws.

Do you like to look on the negative side of life? Read How To Make Yourself Miserable for the Rest of the Century.

And if all this learning is too much for you, try How To Do Nothing with Nobody All By Yourself.

One of the many covers of this obviously popular book. 

Coming back to this column in 2026, I was interested to find that a number of these books were still in print, and those that weren’t were at least visible and described on sites like Goodreads, where they’re still read. A number of the titles, of course, are of books for kids, containing imaginative and playful ideas.  

One book, How to Enjoy Your Weeds, which took me a bit of tracking down, is out of print. But in light of the fact that this year, in our garden, we’ve spent an inordinate amount of time pulling out weeds (the excess weeds due to more rain than usual, I think), I could do with reading it. I might find something more useful to do with them than disposing of them. I’ve tried storing them in closed bins, but the stink is high when they’re released, and I’m still not sure they’re great for my compost. We’ve shaken the life out of them in order to retain the soil that clings to them, and we left them in large bags to be collected by the Garden Waste people. But still I cling to the idea that they must be good for something, since God made so many of them!  

Whoops!

First published in Column 8 on the 13^th October, 1993

Whoops! My column last week brought two phone calls about two different matters, both of which proved that I don’t know everything. Yet again. Naturally, I’ve since spent several sleepless nights evaluating my worth as a human being.

There was a third whoops (!) regarding an earlier column. In that one I said that the small Canadian town of Chemainus had only 32 murals. In fact, it now has 40. The brochure my wife brought home is the first edition, available at a more reasonable price only because it’s out of date.

To get back to the other two whoopses (!) Last week I talked about the success of Business Grow in Christchurch, wondering why Dunedin hadn’t picked up on the idea. Two days later Business Grow was launched in Dunedin! No credit to me, of course, since the first I heard about it was when the co-ordinator, Lynne Harrison, rang to tell me, but marvellous serendipity all the same.

I’m glad we’ve got in on the act, and hope Business Grow a la Dunedin is a soaring success.

My other phone call was from a European New Zealander. (That police word for Europeans, ‘Caucasian,’ gets up my nose.) He told me that October 10 (the day I thought there was little point in keeping in the calendar), had actually been a day of considerable importance in the history of the New Zealand Chinese community.

The Chinese called the day the Double Tenth, and always had a holiday on it until a couple of decades ago. The anniversary began with the dethroning of the last Chinese Emperor in 1911, when China became a republic.

New Zealand Chinese celebrated the day by shutting up shop completely, and holding a memorial service. Chinese children took the day off school, much to the envy of their European counterparts, and all the Chinese families went on a picnic at which sports and games were played.

One Chinese lady I spoke to said her family always had their portrait taken on that day, in the morning, before going off to Logan Park for the picnic.

By the 1950s the sporting side had become the major emphasis, according to Ng Bickleen Fong, the author of The Chinese in New Zealand and the sense of fellowship was being lost. The sporting aspect became a national affair; travel to the tournament was paid for by the Chinese Association.

In due course the Chinese people shifted the tournament to the Easter break so that more time could be spent at it.

The Double Tenth itself was stopped in 1972, write Dianne and Peter Beatson (in their book Chinese New Zealanders), because our Government decided to recognise the Communist Government in China. However, some Chinese still remember the day with a nostalgic warmth, though they celebrate it in a rather quieter way.

A similar commemoration takes place on November 18, but since it is a very much smaller ethnic group in New Zealand, the Latvians, most of us Europeans won’t have heard of it.

I’ve only ever known two Latvian New Zealanders, one of whom was the wonderful Lily Latisheva, an artistic and operatic lady of considerable presence. Her talents were rather unappreciated in her adopted town. (The other Latvian, conveniently, is married to my Chinese consultant.)

November 18, anyway, was when Latvia won her independence after World War I. Being squashed between other large hungry nations, she lost it again – until the recent demise of the Soviet Union.

Unearthing all these matters hitherto hidden to me makes it worthwhile writing a whoops (!) or two.

Puyi, the last Emperor of China

In 1996 I met Lynne Harrison. She came to the shop I was running to give us some advice on how to use Business Grow, which she was still involved with. I made mention of this in my diary at the time, but had forgotten about it until I checked for any references to ‘Business Grow’ in my own business life.

The full title of Ng Bickleen Fong’s book is Chinese in New Zealand – a study in assimilation.

 

Creating jobs?

First published in Column Eight on the 6^th October, 1993

The third anniversary of my first Midweek column comes midway between today and next Wednesday, on October 10. I could say this gives October 10 something to be proud of each year, but with due modesty, I won’t.

October 10 doesn’t seem to be a day on which other things of great note have happened, though it was the day Liz Taylor and Richard Burton got married for the second time – somewhere in Botswana. Emmeline Pankhurst formed the Women’s Social and Political Union on this day, and a British QC called Igor Judge rose to the High Court and became, confusingly, Mr Justice Judge.

Fascinating stuff, huh? At least the Pankhurst item has some topical relevancy.

Three years of finding column ideas have included hair-tearing when the Sunday evening clock is ticking on towards bedtime and I still haven’t written anything. On other occasions someone has spoken no more than a sentence and ideas have tumbled out too fast to keep up with.

The bit of the brain that produces ideas is a fairly enigmatic corner. It constantly cries, ‘Need more input!’ But having received aforesaid input, it’s just as likely to ditch the lot into some miscellaneous brain bin and inquire why you haven’t fed it today.

Thus, while feeding my brain from my 1988 collection of clippings, I came across a couple of items related to job creation ideas, both of which came from (good grief) Christchurch.

I hear on the news that Canterbury is now the fastest growing area for job creation in the country. Business Grow, the scheme which uses a business adviser to link businesses with a wide range of assistance to help them with expansion, began there. Four hundred have come out of this idea alone. (Has Dunedin begun Business Grow yet?)

Back to the 1988 clippings. On October 12 that year James Maddren, a Christchurch businessman, suggested to the South Island Local Bodies Association that they consider selective immigration to the South Island (like about a million people), to increase our population base and improve our economy. (A new job is supposed to be created for every five new people.)

The association’s executive committee was to investigate the proposal. I guess it did, but I haven’t seen droves of skilled immigrants arriving. Did the Government scotch the idea with its usual anti-immigration approach?

In another clipping a Christchurch law tutor named Owen Dennis ran an ideas seminar in Dunedin for the NZ Institute of Management. What he presented wasn’t new, but the first paragraph of the report reads, ‘Here’s a great idea: start an ideas competition to generate jobs and activity in Dunedin.’

I can’t remember anyone taking this up, although not being the most organised collector of detail, I may easily have missed it. Has anybody tried an ideas competition here in town?

We could do with an ongoing ideas presentation on a public basis, perhaps as a weekly column in one of the newspapers. A list of all sorts of ideas might well stimulate local brains dulled by too much occupation with incomes and outgoings.

The bright, witty, foolish and downright silly ideas would all need to have a home in such a list, because even though a particular idea may have no merit, it may spark off something really useful. They’d need to be ideas, though, not just criticism of the status quo.

Thomas Edison is said to have a goal of coming up with a minor invention every ten days and a major one every six months. He was one man. What might a similar city-wide goal in the job creation area achieve? And if Christchurch can do it, anyone can…I mean, can’t we?

 

Justice Igor Judge, courtesy of the BBC

As things do over 36 or so years, there have been some changes. I don’t know that the ideas idea has ever taken off, but immigration has, at least as far as the North Island is concerned. And Christchurch is a sprawling city nothing like its former self. So maybe the ideas idea worked well there.

Another creative idea in learning Spanish

 At the beginning of Sept I wrote about an approach to one part of learning Spanish that I was trying. It was slow, but was working well enough. It involved memorising ten random sentences and joining them together with a 'story' so that I didn't forget their order. 

The idea was to give me some fluency in getting Spanish words out of my brain in a proper order and onto my tongue. 

I've been doing that over the last few months as one aspect of my Spanish learning, but it takes a bit of effort to keep up with that as well as the daily use of Anki cards, reading the Bible in Spanish, and memorising a couple of Psalms as well (in Spanish, of course - I already know them well in English). 

I'm always keeping an eye out for different approaches because it's easy to get into a rut and not really put any effort into something you've doing for a while. Continuing to be creative, in other words. 

Anyway, another aspect of my learning has been to get Grok (the AI from X, formerly Twitter) to translate a children's book I wrote a few years back into Spanish, one short section at a time. At present we've just finished chapter four, so the progress is quite slow. That's okay, it's all part of the learning process. 

Yesterday I had an idea as to how I could make further use of this translation. Up till now I've been taking various sentences from each section as it gets translated and putting them on the Anki cards. I have a 'deck' on Anki that's devoted to these. Yesterday, I decided to challenge myself further by seeing if I could memorise the latest section that's been translated - in Spanish. This is going to take some time, but then learning Psalm 139 also took some time, but was worth it. It introduced me to new words, gave me a better sense of grammar than I'd previously gained while doing Duolingo, and showed me how Spanish has a different approach to the arrangement of words in sentences. 

I was already aware of that, of course - two years of Duolingo taught me some things at least - but getting that sense of re-ordering in my head rather than just parroting it off Duo forces me to think more carefully about where words go. Sometimes it even shows me why they go that way, though not always (so far!)

So, one more step on the way. I don't have any great ambition in terms of being able to speak Spanish at this point - there aren't many Spanish speakers in my part of the world - though I have improved in terms of reading it. Being able to speak it out, even if it's because I've memorised it, is another way of helping myself become more familiar with the language overall. 

The original cover of the book I'm having translated into Spanish -
one day I may have another go at updating it. 
Cover by Regan Nicholls

Murals

First published in Column Eight on the 22^nd Sept, 1993 

Before my wife went overseas to visit her family, we spent an evening with some friends. These people had not long before to Canada’s Vancouver Island. Since my wife was also going to be spending some time, they encouraged her to go and visit the town of Chemainus (pop 3500). She did. But more of Chemainus in a moment.

I suppose Dunedin is not unusual as a city these days in having a few murals scattered around. Every city has walls that cry out to stop being so boring. Neither, I guess, is Dunedin unusual in that it gives scant attention to those murals when someone decides the walls no longer serve a ‘useful’ purpose.

Considering the immense amount of fuss that’s been generated regarding the proper location of the Art Gallery, I find it strange that on at least two or three occasions I can think of, perfectly good murals have vanished because of some redevelopment.

Obviously art is only of worth when it’s stuck up in a gallery, at the perfect temperature, with lights somewhat dim, and people walking around in reverential tones. Robust outdoor art has to look after itself, and too bad if someone wants to take the wall down and recycle it.

Until a few years ago there was a delightful mural painted on a house on the corner of Tennyson St. All other buildings had been demolished, but this one hung on. Someone was optimistic enough about its future to paint a mural on it, but finally the house, and the mural, crumbled. I have a photograph of it somewhere, and wonder how many other people recorded it.

In the Dowling St carpark another mural was painted, on the shell of what had once been a picture theatre. This was truncated when some city planner decided the the shell served no purpose, and an open-plan carpark would be more aesthetic. Now we have what might be called the Venus de Milo of murals.

Murals are only to stop vandals spraying graffiti, aren’t they? Murals are things kids do on walls, as class projects, aren’t they? Murals are meant to be temporary, right?

That’s how it seems in Dunedin, but in Chemainus (pop 3500), they think otherwise. Over a period of several years the people of nearly-dead-on-its-feet Chemainus refused to let it become a ghost town. Instead they commissioned artists to paint murals on any walls not otherwise occupied.

There are now 32 murals. These murals have a double function: they are firstly a top tourist attraction, and have given Chemainus a revival in income terms.

Secondly, they’re a panorama of the history of the town, from its earliest Indian occupied days through the time when the sawmill made the place thrive, right on up to the present.

These paintings are representational, for the most part, some having an almost photographic reality about them. They’re full of the faces of earlier town residents, usually taken from old photos, each in a setting that explains their part in the town’s life.

Just imagine if, in Dunedin, the stern characters on the Early Settlers’ Museum walls left their portrait gallery and came out to breathe the open air, to be seen doing the things they did in real life. Or if events out of our history book took on a more visual form.

We’ve got plenty of boring, blank-eyed walls lazing around the city – including the new Archives building. New Zealand has plenty of artists who’d be glad of a commission to paint on a large ‘canvas’ a picture that would be seen by more than just the elite or wealthy.

And the people of Chemainus wouldn’t begrudge us imitating them. Karl Schutz, the man behind the idea, has already been in Australia to help set up a similar scheme there.

Almost the only kind of large-scale murals we now have in the city are advertisements, the sort of thing you can see anywhere in the world.

Let’s go for something different.

 

Lurch, a character from The Addams Family, 
which used to be on the entrance to a flat in View St. 

I’d love to say that this column had some effect on those in authority in Dunedin, but perhaps others were already thinking along the same lines. Suffice to say, Dunedin now has a large ‘collection’ of murals that range from the rough-edged to the superb…a few can be seen here. Already some of those that were existence when I wrote this have gone, but in general the newer ones are outstanding examples of what can be done.

I can no longer remember the mural in Tennyson St, and sadly don’t appear to have the photo that I talk about, though I have a wide range of photos of Dunedin murals taken over a number of years.

Chemainus now has around 53 murals. You can find an earlier post here that has links to some other sites with photos of Dunedin murals. 

Curiously enough it’s only in the last few days (late Sept 2026) that a mural of Ed Sherrin that itself dates back only a few years was ‘vandalised’ after his opening act Macklemore started to preach Pro-Palestine at a Sherrin concert.

Ed Sherrin mural before and after 

Useless?

First published in Column Eight on the 1^st Sept, 1993

While attending the last stretches of the Dunedin Competitions, my ear caught a line from a song on suffragettes: ‘We enjoy men individually, but as a group they’re rather stup…id.’

This must be Give Men Flak Week, because I’ve also come across two book titles: Things You Can Do With a Useless Man, and Dads Say the Dumbest Things. Can you imagine the outcry if the subject was the opposite gender? Sexism doesn’t appear to exist when men are being put down – it only runs one way.

Men, solid citizens as they are, have put up with being flailed for decades – long before women’s lib came on the scene. And they continue to suffer it. you only have to look at the television to see the way men are treated in commercials, or in sit-coms. They’re always the fools. The worst examples are the ones where some game is being advertised. Who’s the schmuck who loses? Always the father.

Let’s get real here. What man is useless? Useless is defined (rather weakly) in my dictionary as ‘having no practical use or advantage.’ But the inference in the book title I mentioned is of something even less than that: a person with no purpose or function at all.

You’d think that womankind, having been victims of oppression for so long, would (on gaining a measure of equality), look kindly on those now less fortunate than themselves. Not so. Condescension is the order of the day.

A Useless Man: this sounds to me like a man seen through the eyes of some woman who expects things of him that he has no skill at, or no innate ability to do.

Perhaps a useless man is one who doesn’t fit the Kiwi bloke model: the man who doesn’t drink much, if at all; the man who doesn’t go crazy if he misses a rugby match, or the man who can’t remodel his home because it’ll look worse at the end than it was at the beginning.

On the other hand, perhaps a useless man is one who communicates with his kids (even if, as they grow older, it is with some increasing degree of difficulty). The man who knows when his wife’s birthday, and their wedding anniversary, occur. The man who can take something his wife bought back to the shop, and complain – because his wife is too chicken to. The man who knows how to cook three variations of his favourite mince and rice dish.

The man who continues to love his wife when her logic fails him, when she has PMT three weeks running, when she decides to try out a recipe for a very strong curry or when she’s got the cheque book in a muddle.

If there really is such a creature as a useless male, he must be getting as rare as the yellow-eyed penguin, though perhaps needing less money spent on preserving his species.

One of the positive things unemployment has done for many blokes is to give them time with their kids when they never had it before. Time when they’re not tired, or absorbed in trying to do up the house after tea and on the weekends.

Now they have time to walk with their kids to school, to sit in on classes, to help them with their homework, and tuck them up at night. To go out and play games with them. That can only be an improvement.

But even apart from unemployed men, a feature of modern day manhood is the way in which they parent their kids: how many men of the last generation would have pushed a pram, carried their babies in a backpack, or even changed their nappies?

I get irritated at the way fathers in American sitcoms still act stricken when their wives are having a baby. I saw each of my children born: five wondrous and unforgettable occasions. I even helped deliver the last, a rather frisky fellow. This is something many older men never experienced.

But according to some, men are so useless. They can only repair cars, play pianos, clean drains, paint pictures, empty gutters, wash dishes, program computers, lay concrete, write books, keep wives warm, and snuggle children on their laps.

I’m sure there are many more things they’re useless at, but that’ll do for starters.

The Dunedin Competitions would have been the singing competitions specifically, the section I had most involvement with. I did occasionally accompany instrumentalists in the instrumental section as well.

Somewhat sadly, the two books I mention were both written by men. Men have a great ability to put themselves down.

Respect

First published in Column 8 on the 25^th August, 1993

A caption accompanying a photo of the Tokoiti School children receiving a computer from Mr Bolger was unsure whether the children were more in awe of the computer or of Mr Bolger. After all, he is the Prime Minister.

In the same week, however, we were told that yet again politicians had made it to the bottom of the list when it came to being trusted as a group.

I rather think that answers the question. Nevertheless, this isn’t going to be a column putting down the worthy people in Parliament – they spend enough time doing that themselves. Rather I want to look briefly at the whole matter of respect. (I note that Miles Singe had the same idea in his last column.)

There’s a prevailing theory that no one should be given respect as a matter of right. They have to earn it.

I don’t know when this idea arose, but I don’t think it was the norm in my youth. In those distant, halcyon days, if a person held a position of respect, you didn’t spend time questioning their motives, their behaviour and their attitudes. Rather you just got on with life and assumed they held that position because they’d been entrusted with it.

There have always been some people in authority who have demeaned their positions by poor behaviour. But the poor behaviour of some isn’t a reason to question the behaviour of all.

I believe there’s a place for questioning some in authority, but equally we have to assume a person holds a position more for a good reason than for a bad one.

Television is a prime mover in the demeaning of all sorts of groups, and not just demeaning them, but shoving their faces in the mud.

Television interviewers, in fact, would have to be considered leaders in the ‘earn-your-right-to-respect’ stakes: the normal approach to interviewing a person these days is to drag down all their defences.

Don’t let the person finish a statement; don’t let them contradict what you think they should say; mock anything that smacks of opinion; run down anything that hints of taking a stand.

Unless, of course, that stand is itself one that mocks authority.

When this approach becomes the norm for everyone, no one can do their job properly: someone will always question the behaviour of others, including their proper and good behaviour.

No authority group is immune from this questioning: police, judges, ministers of religion, teachers, civic authorities, parents – the list could be extended for pages.

In my more opinionated moments, I’ve blamed teachers for the way kids behave, and the way kids knock everything that was given due respect in the past. Teachers no doubt blame parents for allowing their kids to go their own way. Wherever the blame lies, both groups suffer, and as they suffer, so ultimately do the kids.

I know some authority figures have let us down, and others will continue to do so. In the end, however, an attitude that says you can’t tell me what to do because you haven’t earned the right to do so, is self-destructive.

A society where no one trusts those in charge, whatever that charge may be, is a society that will wind up trusting no one.

A backstabbing, name-calling, tongue-lashing, slur-casting, lampooning, scoffing, sneering, carping, critical and cynical society. Sound familiar?

Not the place to bring up the kids.

 

Respect across generations
courtesy AlgerianFrames

It’s disturbing to read this piece after thirty odd years: on one hand there is now virtually no respect for any authority, and on the other, there is virtually no authority that deserves respect. Every avenue of society has been affected by this disarray. Worse, for me, is that fact that we all join in this to some degree, in spite of knowing that we are soiling our own trousers in the process. The buck stops firmly at each of our doors.