Cynicism

 Cynicism

Published in Column 8 on 13 May 1992, on my 47th birthday.  The column focuses on the loss of the America's Cup, something that came as a shock to the 'country' after thinking we could never lose it again. Crump and Scotty - one a real person, a popular writer, and the other an actor - bewailed the loss...or at least Scotty did. Unfortunately I can't find a link to it on the Net. Various politicians are mentioned here, along with well-known sportspeople. The programme, More Issues, a satirical series often included real people as guests, actors pretending to be real people, and occasionally some puppets. 

 

After my Clayton’s column of last week – the column that wasn’t a column – I’ve decided to tackle (round the neck if necessary) one of the lesser issues of which I spoke. 

I know I’m not alone in having a facet of my personality that I need to keep under strict supervision. However, cynicism (that facet) still creeps in the cat-door even after I’ve locked it. 

I was relaxing – but only for a moment, mind – in front of the television (actually, I was supposed to be washing the dishes but my neck wouldn’t stretch far enough round the corner) when I saw the Crump and Scotty ad in which the latter mourns New Zealand’s loss of the America’s Cup.

Cynicism bowelled up from the depths. I tried to thrust it down, without success. ‘This ad must have been made before we lost,’ said Cynicism. ‘And if that’s the case, there’s an alternate version, in which they celebrate the win.’ 

That version, of course, will now be locked away in the agency’s vaults. Participants may carry the guilty secret to their grave. The ad may only see the light of day if a thesis-lacking student discovers a need to investigate ‘Ads which never made it.’ 

Cynicism, however, gave me some idea of what it would contain. 

First, Scotty and Crump return to the pub, an admiral’s uniform replacing the sailor suit. Along with a champagne-swigging cast of thousands, who only manage to inhabit this building because the walls stretch, they perform a new and improved – and even more uplifting – rendition of Side by Side. 

This time the words centre on such Kiwi-magical concepts as a humbled world bowing at the feet of a NZL-20 T-shirt. 

The ad then uses cleverly spliced film of Mr Bolger handing over his job of Prime Minister to Michael Fay, as a result of the overwhelming gratitude of all true-blue New Zealanders. Schoolchildren’s happy faces are seen in montage as the crew distribute miniatures of the Yacht That Won. 

Jenny Shipley and Ruth Richardson appear to congratulate the crew (although it’s a moot point as to whether the ladies themselves are visible or their lookalikes from More Issues.) 

The ladies good and true hand out large amounts of money to all and sundry (sundry debtors?). Why?, you ask. The implication is that now the cup is ours the economy must bloom; no one will ever cry poor again. and the two First Ladies can stop taking all the flak for their supposedly callous decisions. 

In a variation on red-nose day, imitation bow-sprits appear on all vehicles. John Kirwan and Martin Crowe sing a ditty which implies that anyone who doesn’t put one in place will be considered a piker lacking national pride. 

The advertisers thought this idea could be taken up as a road-safety norm because it would encourage vehicles to travel a a safer distance from each other. In their enthusiasm they hadn’t considered problems with parking. 

During the two full minutes that this ad lasts, the entire history of the race is seen in potted form, and every mug shot of Denis Conner is in place. 

In fact, his rude words during the previous race are formed into a kind of rap with repeated shots of his snarling, and sudden head movements. Again the advertisers had high hopes for this aspect of the ad, thinking that Michael Jackson might use it as a basis for a major hit. 

Television NZ, being so grateful for all the advertising revenue they’ve received as a result of the cup ‘fever,’ would have shown the ad free. None of this is to be. Instead we must face, interminably, a post mortem 30 seconds’ worth of maudlin Scotty and Crumpled cold duck.