Trevor Mallard’s Last Stand
18th November 2006
The home of Welsh rugby, the National Stadium, dominates the centre of Cardiff. The castle and surrounding buildings are dwarfed by massive pylons supporting a retractable roof.
At ground level the stadium is masked by a maze of narrow streets, tightly packed with shops, pubs and business houses. Rounding a corner of a street the first view of this vast sports ground is unnerving. It rears above the city like a beached supertanker - concrete and cavernous. Circumnavigate the building and all you see is a vast circular backside. The eyes, heart and intent are turned inward, focussed on the hallowed turf.
But this concrete tenant, this idle giant reclining across the breast of the city, is a source of immense pride to the Welsh, and on match days it opens like a flower, resplendent with colour and excitement. My experience of a rugby test in Cardiff remains one of the most pleasurable sporting memories of my life.
I don’t know the story of how Wales transformed Cardiff Arms Park into the shining National Stadium but I’m sure it attracted controversy. Obviously at some point they rose above the rhetoric and set to building the thing.
I hope the same will happen with the proposed waterfront stadium that has kept our media solvent this week, though I think the government couldn’t have got off to a worse start.
Their first mistake was to appoint Trevor Mallard as the minister responsible. It’s a clear signal that the government, beaten all around the park this year over election funding and Taito Philip Field, has lost its nerve. Trevor Mallard is a brawler and to make him the man to sell the stadium is saying that the government anticipates a battle.
Labour could argue with justification that in the current political climate any decision it makes will be mined for controversy by the media and for political advantage by the opposition, which is exactly what has happened. Commentators and journalists have fastened gleefully upon the negative story while politicians have approached it as another round of point-scoring.
Mallard has been woeful, as shifty and defensive as a cream bun in a factory canteen. Instead of talking up the new stadium he allowed himself to be drawn into discussing piling and access problems as obstacles to developing Eden Park, arguments that sounded as implausible as they were later revealed to be.
The architects for the waterfront stadium fared no better. Having released images of the project that presented it in the worst possible light their spokesperson, challenged by a journalist on National Radio that the stadium would be inward-looking and therefore unattractive, felt compelled to sell it as a sort of colourful Saturday flea market.
Clearly the government’s consultation has been selective at the very least. The thing that surprises me however is how badly Labour has sold this story. This is a government famous for its discipline in promoting policy and for having all its spokespeople and supporters reading from the same script.
If Trevor Mallard can’t simply say why the government has chosen the waterfront option I’ll say it for him.
First, we can afford it. Having been basted for years as being tight-fisted Labour can answer its critics by loosening the purse strings and splashing out. Second, the stadium is a feel-good project, a symbol of national pride and prosperity. It demonstrates, like the America’s Cup, that we can punch above our weight. Third, as the focus of the 2011 Rugby World Cup it will be, for a short but invaluable period, a showcase to the world. We may not be big enough to host the Olympics but we can show ourselves off on a smaller stage with equal razzamatazz.
The third reason is the clincher for the stadium to be built on the Auckland waterfront and not at Eden Park. In our urbanised digital age the great images are all downtown. Think of Sydney 2000, New York on 11th September, the Berlin wall, Gaza, Baghdad. International television audiences are not drawn to aerial images of suburbia. A stadium at Eden Park might as well be in Hororata or Lumsden.
There is one other option for a stadium that as far as I know has not yet been considered but which might be a nifty way through the debate. I was reading recently that Maersk, the shipping company, has launched a fleet of giant supercarriers that are, get this, as big as THREE FOOTBALL FIELDS. Now, if I was Trevor I’d be on the phone to Mr Maersk to charter one of these behemoths, tie it up to the Auckland waterfront at the end of 2010 and stick a pair of goal posts on it. Plenty of room for hot dog vendors and a big grandstand at one end.
They could call it the Mallard stand. Or perhaps Mallard’s last stand.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
The Road to Failure
Saturday 20 September 2003
I don’t want to burst the bubble of local confidence but I’ve found out the survival rate for small businesses in New Zealand is about the same as for a kakapo chick in a cattery. According to Statistics New Zealand 70% of businesses employing less than five people fail in the first three years.
The failure rates decrease with the size of the firm. Businesses with 100 employees or more hardly ever fail.
As soon as I saw these figures I knew there’d be trouble. They should have come with a Surgeon General’s Warning: “Caution! These figures do not mean you are assured of success simply by employing 100 people”.
If you run a mower repair business from your garage do not, DO NOT, go out and recruit 99 other guys. They will not give you immunity from business failure. In fact, they will increase the chances of failure. They’ll drink your tea, clutter your ashtrays and undermine your carefully crafted business plan.
The road to entrepreneurial failure is obviously paved with the corpses of small businesses. Many are called to the corporate trough, but few survive long enough to get fat.
As I’ve thought about this over the past few days, all my musings have led me back to one man - Shrewdy Henderson.
‘Shrewdy’ (real name unknown) was a colossus of my boyhood, and taught me most of what I know about success in business. Shrewdy ran an electrical appliance shop in Tuatapere in the 1960s. Actually, to say he ran it is probably talking the business up a bit too much. Let’s say he stumbled into the shop one day, picked up a screwdriver and sat with it in his hand for 25 years.
Business advisors will tell you success is built upon strong cash flow and impeccable service. Shrewdy would disagree. Shrewdy’s cash flow was as lively as a Central Otago streambed in a February drought, and he served like a one-armed tennis player.
His shop was a cast-off from Gunsmoke: weatherboard façade with corrugated iron verandah and a couple of dusty plate-glass windows displaying Goblin Ace vacuum cleaners and half a dozen 45rpm records, with titles that were antiquated even by the standards of 1960s Western Southland: Green Door, Yellow Bird, My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.
In appearance Shrewdy’s shop was not out of place on Main Street, Tuatapere. Most businesses were of the low-wattage-lighting and fly spot variety, with aging proprietors seated in Dickensian finality behind plain wooden counters. Some stayed that way throughout my entire boyhood. For years I thought the word prop. painted on the shopfront referred to a support for building or owner.
What set Shrewdy’s apart was the man himself. Through my child’s eyes he was a big old man, burly and ponderous. His skin was brown and shone with sweat or grease. His bald head sported a massive crater, about the size of a serving spoon, where the skull had collapsed or been removed. In a sawmilling town like Tuatapere this sort of sight was less uncommon than in most other places. I took it for granted he’d been a bushman who, through an accident, had slipped down the employment ranks to shopkeeper.
Shrewdy was like one of those prisoners they put on home detention. He never moved outside of his shop. Actually he never moved beyond the tiny repair room at the back of the shop. This room, the size of an average ensuite, was lined from floor to ceiling with drawers and shelves from which electrical cables, fittings and spare parts sagged, streamed and tumbled. The floor sloped towards a single grimy sash window. The workbench had one tiny clear space, no bigger than a computer keyboard, lit by an anglepoise lamp. Shrewdy sat at this workspace almost completely immobile.
How did his business survive? I think it was because of television. Shrewdy rode the wave of early television, when receivers were unreliable, reception was ghostly, and we were forever adjusting the vertical hold.
Shrewdy wrecked havoc in our district with his peculiar form of customer service. When our TV set broke down Dad took it to Shrewdy, who gave him another so we’d have something to watch while ours was repaired. Months went by, and Dad’s visits to the shop to retrieve our set were met with mumbled apologies about ‘getting a part out from Invercargill.’
We eventually found our TV set in a neighbour’s house. Shrewdy had given it to them while he repaired their faulty set. In my memory half the town’s TV sets were in the wrong lounges. I don’t know how the situation was resolved. I’d like to think we all got on the phones and organised a swap-meet at the Domain.
My mum tells me Shrewdy died a rich man. I’m glad of that, because he certainly lived like a poor one. Perhaps that’s how he came to be called Shrewdy. Whether rich or poor, he is an icon of small businessmen, forever defying Statistics New Zealand’s gloomy forecasts of early failure.
Saturday 20 September 2003
I don’t want to burst the bubble of local confidence but I’ve found out the survival rate for small businesses in New Zealand is about the same as for a kakapo chick in a cattery. According to Statistics New Zealand 70% of businesses employing less than five people fail in the first three years.
The failure rates decrease with the size of the firm. Businesses with 100 employees or more hardly ever fail.
As soon as I saw these figures I knew there’d be trouble. They should have come with a Surgeon General’s Warning: “Caution! These figures do not mean you are assured of success simply by employing 100 people”.
If you run a mower repair business from your garage do not, DO NOT, go out and recruit 99 other guys. They will not give you immunity from business failure. In fact, they will increase the chances of failure. They’ll drink your tea, clutter your ashtrays and undermine your carefully crafted business plan.
The road to entrepreneurial failure is obviously paved with the corpses of small businesses. Many are called to the corporate trough, but few survive long enough to get fat.
As I’ve thought about this over the past few days, all my musings have led me back to one man - Shrewdy Henderson.
‘Shrewdy’ (real name unknown) was a colossus of my boyhood, and taught me most of what I know about success in business. Shrewdy ran an electrical appliance shop in Tuatapere in the 1960s. Actually, to say he ran it is probably talking the business up a bit too much. Let’s say he stumbled into the shop one day, picked up a screwdriver and sat with it in his hand for 25 years.
Business advisors will tell you success is built upon strong cash flow and impeccable service. Shrewdy would disagree. Shrewdy’s cash flow was as lively as a Central Otago streambed in a February drought, and he served like a one-armed tennis player.
His shop was a cast-off from Gunsmoke: weatherboard façade with corrugated iron verandah and a couple of dusty plate-glass windows displaying Goblin Ace vacuum cleaners and half a dozen 45rpm records, with titles that were antiquated even by the standards of 1960s Western Southland: Green Door, Yellow Bird, My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.
In appearance Shrewdy’s shop was not out of place on Main Street, Tuatapere. Most businesses were of the low-wattage-lighting and fly spot variety, with aging proprietors seated in Dickensian finality behind plain wooden counters. Some stayed that way throughout my entire boyhood. For years I thought the word prop. painted on the shopfront referred to a support for building or owner.
What set Shrewdy’s apart was the man himself. Through my child’s eyes he was a big old man, burly and ponderous. His skin was brown and shone with sweat or grease. His bald head sported a massive crater, about the size of a serving spoon, where the skull had collapsed or been removed. In a sawmilling town like Tuatapere this sort of sight was less uncommon than in most other places. I took it for granted he’d been a bushman who, through an accident, had slipped down the employment ranks to shopkeeper.
Shrewdy was like one of those prisoners they put on home detention. He never moved outside of his shop. Actually he never moved beyond the tiny repair room at the back of the shop. This room, the size of an average ensuite, was lined from floor to ceiling with drawers and shelves from which electrical cables, fittings and spare parts sagged, streamed and tumbled. The floor sloped towards a single grimy sash window. The workbench had one tiny clear space, no bigger than a computer keyboard, lit by an anglepoise lamp. Shrewdy sat at this workspace almost completely immobile.
How did his business survive? I think it was because of television. Shrewdy rode the wave of early television, when receivers were unreliable, reception was ghostly, and we were forever adjusting the vertical hold.
Shrewdy wrecked havoc in our district with his peculiar form of customer service. When our TV set broke down Dad took it to Shrewdy, who gave him another so we’d have something to watch while ours was repaired. Months went by, and Dad’s visits to the shop to retrieve our set were met with mumbled apologies about ‘getting a part out from Invercargill.’
We eventually found our TV set in a neighbour’s house. Shrewdy had given it to them while he repaired their faulty set. In my memory half the town’s TV sets were in the wrong lounges. I don’t know how the situation was resolved. I’d like to think we all got on the phones and organised a swap-meet at the Domain.
My mum tells me Shrewdy died a rich man. I’m glad of that, because he certainly lived like a poor one. Perhaps that’s how he came to be called Shrewdy. Whether rich or poor, he is an icon of small businessmen, forever defying Statistics New Zealand’s gloomy forecasts of early failure.
Guy Fawkes Day – Boom! Crash!
5 November 2005
Two small boys slipped unnoticed from the party. Squeezing through a wire fence they entered the deep gloom of the bush, high-stepping across coarse ferns, shin-deep in moss or crackling deadwood.
A clay bank ran sharply downhill, the remnant of a bulldozer track, held fast by the roots of black beech trees. The boys poked around in the bank with a sharp stick for a while, then crouched down to share their treasure.
They were instantly and totally absorbed, their shoulders hunched in concentration, heads close together. They were making mischief.
From the pockets of their grey school shorts they pulled strings of firecrackers, small red paper explosives. Three, four, five, six, the crackers spilled onto the dry clay, twenty to a string, like tiny chipolatas, their perfect wicks closely plaited. Quickly, expertly, the boys unpicked the woven fireworks, then gently tugged the wick from each and poured the fine, black powder – gunpowder!- into the small hole they had dug into the bank. The pungent saltpetre smell made them shiver with excitement.
One boy knotted several wicks together to make a long fuse which they packed into the heap of gunpowder before sealing the hole with lumps of dirt and small stones.
Their preparations complete they sat for a few minutes, breathless with excitement. They said little, their minds running too fast for words, anticipating the comic-strip climax of their game: Boom! Pow! Crash!
One boy, the taller of the two, fished out a battered matchbox. Now their shoulders touched as they bent closer to the fuse, truant and umbilical among the dry leaves. A sizzle of flame and it sprang to life. Whooping, the boys scurried up the bank, eyes fixed to the sparking fuse. It burned on, into the hole. A pause. Heads craned.
The explosion was quick and terrifying. A cloud of smoke shot out of the bank and grew. Knobs of dry clay rattled among the ferns, stones smacked against tree trunks. The stink of explosives filled the air, unstopping their voices.
“Wow!”
“Woo-Hoo! Did you see that?!”
“Yeah! Boom! I could feel it in the ground, it was shaking.”
“And that stone. It did a ricochet!”
“Yeah! Bing! Bang! Right through that tree.”
“Let’s see the hole,”
“Can’t see it in all this smoke. Woo-Hoo! All this smoke!”
The boys jumped down from the bank, capering among the wreaths of smoke, voices like machineguns. Forensically, they worked over the site of their triumph, analysing each clod of dirt, each fragment of paper, until darkness forced them home.
* * *
Like all young boys I loved fireworks. Blowing that hole in the clay with my brother was one of the purest moments of pleasure in my life. It inspired or was woven into a hundred childhood games where we became commandos, cowboys, assassins or that barely-understood shadow, Guy Fawkes himself.
Fireworks inspired a thousand pleasures. Sparklers were perfect for terrorising little sisters. Skyrockets taught us the science of trajectory – calculating a perfect angle between hen house and plum tree. Roman candles and catherine wheels mesmerised with pyrotechnics of spark and colour.
But, above all, I loved firecrackers. I loved their perfect cylindrical shape, the smooth red paper surfaces, the odour of explosives and, always, their marvellous potential energy. Light a match – bang! It was pure, thrilling naughtiness.
As an adult I naturally concur that the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day is nonsense. The season is wrong, the sentiment diabolical and as a society we simply don’t have the moral restraint any longer to handle the public sale and use of even ornamental explosives.
Like you, I want to wring the necks of those idiots who have formed the view that Guy Fawkes is the festival of exploding mailboxes. Where on earth did they get that idea? Do they really believe that Mr Fawkes and his fellow conspirators nursed a towering grievance against the postal service? Or that their outrage against the king was expressed in a desire to explode his private bag?
Furthermore, is it not irresponsible in these uncertain times to exalt the memory of a terrorist? The original purpose of Guy Fawkes celebrations was a cautionary reminder to the king’s subjects about what happens to those who plot his overthrow. But over time the rationale has morphed into a celebration of the baddie. Guy Fawkes has become heroic, and nobody spares a thought for King James. It’s a reminder of the very fine line between terrorist and patriot – an uncomfortable, if not seditious, truth in the eyes of certain world leaders.
Which is probably why I wouldn’t cancel Guy Fawkes Day. Its value lies in naughtiness, that tiny hint of treason as you light the fuse. It’s the pleasure of snubbing authority, the thrilling fantasy that you could blow up your overbearing boss – or at least his mailbox. It’s hooray for the little guy, the underdog, the backbencher.
Remember that as you light your fireworks tonight. Boom! Bang! Crash!
5 November 2005
Two small boys slipped unnoticed from the party. Squeezing through a wire fence they entered the deep gloom of the bush, high-stepping across coarse ferns, shin-deep in moss or crackling deadwood.
A clay bank ran sharply downhill, the remnant of a bulldozer track, held fast by the roots of black beech trees. The boys poked around in the bank with a sharp stick for a while, then crouched down to share their treasure.
They were instantly and totally absorbed, their shoulders hunched in concentration, heads close together. They were making mischief.
From the pockets of their grey school shorts they pulled strings of firecrackers, small red paper explosives. Three, four, five, six, the crackers spilled onto the dry clay, twenty to a string, like tiny chipolatas, their perfect wicks closely plaited. Quickly, expertly, the boys unpicked the woven fireworks, then gently tugged the wick from each and poured the fine, black powder – gunpowder!- into the small hole they had dug into the bank. The pungent saltpetre smell made them shiver with excitement.
One boy knotted several wicks together to make a long fuse which they packed into the heap of gunpowder before sealing the hole with lumps of dirt and small stones.
Their preparations complete they sat for a few minutes, breathless with excitement. They said little, their minds running too fast for words, anticipating the comic-strip climax of their game: Boom! Pow! Crash!
One boy, the taller of the two, fished out a battered matchbox. Now their shoulders touched as they bent closer to the fuse, truant and umbilical among the dry leaves. A sizzle of flame and it sprang to life. Whooping, the boys scurried up the bank, eyes fixed to the sparking fuse. It burned on, into the hole. A pause. Heads craned.
The explosion was quick and terrifying. A cloud of smoke shot out of the bank and grew. Knobs of dry clay rattled among the ferns, stones smacked against tree trunks. The stink of explosives filled the air, unstopping their voices.
“Wow!”
“Woo-Hoo! Did you see that?!”
“Yeah! Boom! I could feel it in the ground, it was shaking.”
“And that stone. It did a ricochet!”
“Yeah! Bing! Bang! Right through that tree.”
“Let’s see the hole,”
“Can’t see it in all this smoke. Woo-Hoo! All this smoke!”
The boys jumped down from the bank, capering among the wreaths of smoke, voices like machineguns. Forensically, they worked over the site of their triumph, analysing each clod of dirt, each fragment of paper, until darkness forced them home.
* * *
Like all young boys I loved fireworks. Blowing that hole in the clay with my brother was one of the purest moments of pleasure in my life. It inspired or was woven into a hundred childhood games where we became commandos, cowboys, assassins or that barely-understood shadow, Guy Fawkes himself.
Fireworks inspired a thousand pleasures. Sparklers were perfect for terrorising little sisters. Skyrockets taught us the science of trajectory – calculating a perfect angle between hen house and plum tree. Roman candles and catherine wheels mesmerised with pyrotechnics of spark and colour.
But, above all, I loved firecrackers. I loved their perfect cylindrical shape, the smooth red paper surfaces, the odour of explosives and, always, their marvellous potential energy. Light a match – bang! It was pure, thrilling naughtiness.
As an adult I naturally concur that the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day is nonsense. The season is wrong, the sentiment diabolical and as a society we simply don’t have the moral restraint any longer to handle the public sale and use of even ornamental explosives.
Like you, I want to wring the necks of those idiots who have formed the view that Guy Fawkes is the festival of exploding mailboxes. Where on earth did they get that idea? Do they really believe that Mr Fawkes and his fellow conspirators nursed a towering grievance against the postal service? Or that their outrage against the king was expressed in a desire to explode his private bag?
Furthermore, is it not irresponsible in these uncertain times to exalt the memory of a terrorist? The original purpose of Guy Fawkes celebrations was a cautionary reminder to the king’s subjects about what happens to those who plot his overthrow. But over time the rationale has morphed into a celebration of the baddie. Guy Fawkes has become heroic, and nobody spares a thought for King James. It’s a reminder of the very fine line between terrorist and patriot – an uncomfortable, if not seditious, truth in the eyes of certain world leaders.
Which is probably why I wouldn’t cancel Guy Fawkes Day. Its value lies in naughtiness, that tiny hint of treason as you light the fuse. It’s the pleasure of snubbing authority, the thrilling fantasy that you could blow up your overbearing boss – or at least his mailbox. It’s hooray for the little guy, the underdog, the backbencher.
Remember that as you light your fireworks tonight. Boom! Bang! Crash!
My Hose Has Gone Limp
11th February 2006
My hose has gone limp. It’s hard not to see it as a personal failure, though the circumstances are beyond my control. The condition is erratic, which puzzled me until recently: it works well in the afternoon but, come the evening, it flops and lies dejectedly in my hand.
I’ve tried running it out to its full length, I’ve experimented with a range of attachments - all to no avail. The once majestic flow has dwindled to a trickle.
My neighbour’s hose is also limp and, in my evening walks around Tinwald, I observe men standing, glumly, with limp hoses.
I told my mother. She said it must be something in the water. I said she had a dirty mind.
It’s not something in the water. It IS the water - or the absence of it.
It is February and the lawns and gardens of our town are drawn across the landscape like a patchwork of carpet underlay. Never mind the momentary greening from this week’s rain. A farmer friend informs me the all-important subsoil, that nursery of nature’s wellbeing, is as dry as Helen Clark’s wit.
Years ago we’d have simply shrugged our shoulders, licked our dust-caked lips, squinted into the burning sun and put it all down to another drought.
But that was before we discovered we’d been living on a layer cake of aquifers, through whose alluvia ran rivers of water far richer than seams of gold. There’s plenty of water. There must be, or Ecan wouldn’t keep dishing out consents. “Drink up,” they tell the cockies, “sink that well, and another, no worries about supply.”
Well, I’m standing in Tinwald with a limp hose in my hand and I reckon somebody upstream is getting my share.
When I say this I might as well be the Little Red Hen.
“It’s not my fault,” exclaims the acquaintance from Alford Forest Road, “my well ran dry in October.”
“Don’t blame me,” retorts the colleague from Winslow, “we’ve gone to 40 metres just to boil the jug.”
“It couldn’t possibly be us,” chides the friend from Winchmore with the large centre pivot. “Our well’s at 250 metres. That must be too deep to affect you.”
And was that a shadow of a blush?
I don’t ask for much: a few drops for my tomatoes, a light shower over the roses every now and then.
I laboured through January, watering only on even numbered days, in accordance with my street address. Dutifully I waited, hose in hand, while the clock ticked through the minutes and seconds to 6pm, the magic moment when I could lawfully release the bountiful waters upon my parched soil. The clock struck, I opened the valve.
At the same moment thousands of other householders opened their valves. We stood in our gardens, from Netherby to Willowby, while the water pressure collapsed, and we watched our hoses wilt – united in impotence.
When 31 January was followed in quick succession by 1 February and my garden wilted for three days while my odd-numbered neighbours splashed about with impunity, I rebelled.
I called the District Council and demanded they relax their tyrannical bylaws.
Our hands are tied, they told me. If we ease the restrictions the whole system will go down.
There must be another solution, I raged. Some mean bugger in Greenstreet is hosing down his cowshed with my tomato plants’ water.
The only way around it is for you to dig your own well, they told me.
My own well?
Yep, they said. If you’ve got your own well the hosing restrictions don’t apply. Of course, you’ll need resource consent.
My own well! My mind raced – a cunning plan was forming.
One week later, and several hundred dollars lighter, I had the resource consents. I phoned the well-digger.
“How much does a well cost?”
“$170 per metre plus extras.”
“Right. I want a 2 metre well.”
“Two metres! In Tinwald you’ll have to go to 30 at least.”
“Nuh. Two metres is what I want. And you can stick a pumpshed on top with a nice fat pipe going into the turf.”
So they did. Now I have a well, with a pumpshed and a pipe, for all the world to see. My well gives me licence to suck the town water supply 24/7. I hose my garden, my house, my driveway, the neighbour’s cat. I run sprinklers from every tap on the place. You can almost hear the town pumps groaning as my zucchinis swell.
With each passing day my property becomes more of an oasis among the dustbowls of Tinwald. Moisture drips from fern and frond, the lawn breathes deeply beneath my feet.
It’s obvious I’m flouting the law, but what can they do. The law is powerless.
I have a well.
Nobody said it had to work.
11th February 2006
My hose has gone limp. It’s hard not to see it as a personal failure, though the circumstances are beyond my control. The condition is erratic, which puzzled me until recently: it works well in the afternoon but, come the evening, it flops and lies dejectedly in my hand.
I’ve tried running it out to its full length, I’ve experimented with a range of attachments - all to no avail. The once majestic flow has dwindled to a trickle.
My neighbour’s hose is also limp and, in my evening walks around Tinwald, I observe men standing, glumly, with limp hoses.
I told my mother. She said it must be something in the water. I said she had a dirty mind.
It’s not something in the water. It IS the water - or the absence of it.
It is February and the lawns and gardens of our town are drawn across the landscape like a patchwork of carpet underlay. Never mind the momentary greening from this week’s rain. A farmer friend informs me the all-important subsoil, that nursery of nature’s wellbeing, is as dry as Helen Clark’s wit.
Years ago we’d have simply shrugged our shoulders, licked our dust-caked lips, squinted into the burning sun and put it all down to another drought.
But that was before we discovered we’d been living on a layer cake of aquifers, through whose alluvia ran rivers of water far richer than seams of gold. There’s plenty of water. There must be, or Ecan wouldn’t keep dishing out consents. “Drink up,” they tell the cockies, “sink that well, and another, no worries about supply.”
Well, I’m standing in Tinwald with a limp hose in my hand and I reckon somebody upstream is getting my share.
When I say this I might as well be the Little Red Hen.
“It’s not my fault,” exclaims the acquaintance from Alford Forest Road, “my well ran dry in October.”
“Don’t blame me,” retorts the colleague from Winslow, “we’ve gone to 40 metres just to boil the jug.”
“It couldn’t possibly be us,” chides the friend from Winchmore with the large centre pivot. “Our well’s at 250 metres. That must be too deep to affect you.”
And was that a shadow of a blush?
I don’t ask for much: a few drops for my tomatoes, a light shower over the roses every now and then.
I laboured through January, watering only on even numbered days, in accordance with my street address. Dutifully I waited, hose in hand, while the clock ticked through the minutes and seconds to 6pm, the magic moment when I could lawfully release the bountiful waters upon my parched soil. The clock struck, I opened the valve.
At the same moment thousands of other householders opened their valves. We stood in our gardens, from Netherby to Willowby, while the water pressure collapsed, and we watched our hoses wilt – united in impotence.
When 31 January was followed in quick succession by 1 February and my garden wilted for three days while my odd-numbered neighbours splashed about with impunity, I rebelled.
I called the District Council and demanded they relax their tyrannical bylaws.
Our hands are tied, they told me. If we ease the restrictions the whole system will go down.
There must be another solution, I raged. Some mean bugger in Greenstreet is hosing down his cowshed with my tomato plants’ water.
The only way around it is for you to dig your own well, they told me.
My own well?
Yep, they said. If you’ve got your own well the hosing restrictions don’t apply. Of course, you’ll need resource consent.
My own well! My mind raced – a cunning plan was forming.
One week later, and several hundred dollars lighter, I had the resource consents. I phoned the well-digger.
“How much does a well cost?”
“$170 per metre plus extras.”
“Right. I want a 2 metre well.”
“Two metres! In Tinwald you’ll have to go to 30 at least.”
“Nuh. Two metres is what I want. And you can stick a pumpshed on top with a nice fat pipe going into the turf.”
So they did. Now I have a well, with a pumpshed and a pipe, for all the world to see. My well gives me licence to suck the town water supply 24/7. I hose my garden, my house, my driveway, the neighbour’s cat. I run sprinklers from every tap on the place. You can almost hear the town pumps groaning as my zucchinis swell.
With each passing day my property becomes more of an oasis among the dustbowls of Tinwald. Moisture drips from fern and frond, the lawn breathes deeply beneath my feet.
It’s obvious I’m flouting the law, but what can they do. The law is powerless.
I have a well.
Nobody said it had to work.
Planting Pineapples in Otautau
21st October 2006
I have become a victim of global warming, or rather a victim of the media storm about global warming.
It’s like the signs of aging. For years you look into the mirror and nothing about your appearance changes. Then one day you spot a grey hair and suddenly all you see are grey hairs and wrinkles and yellowing teeth.
Global warming has crept up on me the same way. One day I noticed it and now I see nothing else. I open a newspaper and my eye falls on a story about global warming. Turn on the radio or TV – global warming.
Then the imagination takes over and each story, each shift in the weather gathers new meaning. The nor’west gales have ‘global warming’ printed all over them. June’s snowfall is sinister rather than freakish. October’s soaring temperatures and sudden storms are pregnant with foreboding.
Like a fuel injected engine my imagination is fired by media statistics and images. Twenty of the 21 hottest years on record happened in the past quarter century. Mountains covered in glaciers a decade ago are now bare rock and dust. Siberian perma-frost thaws to become a vast, carbon-belching swamp.
Recently my imagination, as it often does in moments of crisis, has slipped effortlessly from the malign to the ridiculous. I woke up the other night thinking about Otautau.
To any Southlanders reading this story I hasten to say that Otautau is a charming little town.
What is ridiculous is the connection between Otautau and global warming. It goes like this. When I was growing up in Western Southland Otautau hosted the first A&P show of the season, at Labour Weekend. The showgrounds, Holt Park, lay on western edge of town, a great grassy field ending abruptly in a steep bank that had been terraced and set with wooden benches as a natural grandstand or amphitheatre.
Every Labour Weekend we’d make the trip over the hill to the Otautau show. It was awful. I remember huddling under blankets on those grassy terraces gazing down on a scene of flapping canvas and cowering livestock, their backsides turned into the jaws of a southerly gale.
This probably only happened once or twice but in my memory it went on for years. Actually it must have done because the organisers of the Otautau show eventually gave up on Labour Weekend and shifted to mid November, but by then we’d given up on the Otautau show.
Now, in global warming hysteria, it dawns on me that Otautau could seriously contemplate recapturing Labour Weekend. After all, with global warming won’t some of the world’s climatic hell-holes become our future tropicanas?
I know they’re anticipating this in Southland because my sister sent me an advertisement for a coastal subdivision at Orepuki, on the south coast between Riverton and the end of the world. Forgive me, but Orepuki really is ridiculous. The views are stunning - when you can see them – but don’t waste your time building a deck on your seaside holiday home. A couple of modules from Scott Base would be more apt. But, who knows, perhaps in five or ten years it will be the new Kaiteriteri.
There are scientists who continue to deny global warming. There are even a few who argue its benefits. Their most famous manifesto is the 1998 Oregon Petition, a highly marketed refutation of climate change signed by 17,000 scientists world-wide that urged the US government to reject global warming. It has been cited by almost every politician and stakeholder in the status quo ever since.
The Oregon Petition enjoined us to reap the benefits of global warming. “We are living in an increasingly lush environment of plants and animals as a result of the carbon dioxide increase,” its authors claimed. “This is a wonderful and unexpected gift from the industrial revolution.”
If this seems “yeah, right!” unbelievable to you then you’re on the button. The Oregon Petition originated out of a private research institute funded by ExxonMobil, a company that sells nearly $2b of oil a day. Anybody with a degree could sign it. Most of the signatories had no more idea about climate change than you or I.
The Oregon Petition and similar rubbish-science would have withered in the avalanche of evidence supporting global warming if it had not been for the election of George Bush. His administration, powered by big oil companies, has blocked all attempts to address climate change.
Bush’s people have constantly smudged the real picture. The head of his environmental agency was forced to resign after he was caught changing the wording of scientific papers – he got a job with ExxonMobil the following day.
Perhaps I should be grateful. Bush and co. kept the voices of reason at bay and earned me a few more years of ignorant bliss. How alluring it is to associate global warming with golden days on the beach at Orepuki, or planting pineapples in Otautau.
I fear the reality will not be so gentle.
21st October 2006
I have become a victim of global warming, or rather a victim of the media storm about global warming.
It’s like the signs of aging. For years you look into the mirror and nothing about your appearance changes. Then one day you spot a grey hair and suddenly all you see are grey hairs and wrinkles and yellowing teeth.
Global warming has crept up on me the same way. One day I noticed it and now I see nothing else. I open a newspaper and my eye falls on a story about global warming. Turn on the radio or TV – global warming.
Then the imagination takes over and each story, each shift in the weather gathers new meaning. The nor’west gales have ‘global warming’ printed all over them. June’s snowfall is sinister rather than freakish. October’s soaring temperatures and sudden storms are pregnant with foreboding.
Like a fuel injected engine my imagination is fired by media statistics and images. Twenty of the 21 hottest years on record happened in the past quarter century. Mountains covered in glaciers a decade ago are now bare rock and dust. Siberian perma-frost thaws to become a vast, carbon-belching swamp.
Recently my imagination, as it often does in moments of crisis, has slipped effortlessly from the malign to the ridiculous. I woke up the other night thinking about Otautau.
To any Southlanders reading this story I hasten to say that Otautau is a charming little town.
What is ridiculous is the connection between Otautau and global warming. It goes like this. When I was growing up in Western Southland Otautau hosted the first A&P show of the season, at Labour Weekend. The showgrounds, Holt Park, lay on western edge of town, a great grassy field ending abruptly in a steep bank that had been terraced and set with wooden benches as a natural grandstand or amphitheatre.
Every Labour Weekend we’d make the trip over the hill to the Otautau show. It was awful. I remember huddling under blankets on those grassy terraces gazing down on a scene of flapping canvas and cowering livestock, their backsides turned into the jaws of a southerly gale.
This probably only happened once or twice but in my memory it went on for years. Actually it must have done because the organisers of the Otautau show eventually gave up on Labour Weekend and shifted to mid November, but by then we’d given up on the Otautau show.
Now, in global warming hysteria, it dawns on me that Otautau could seriously contemplate recapturing Labour Weekend. After all, with global warming won’t some of the world’s climatic hell-holes become our future tropicanas?
I know they’re anticipating this in Southland because my sister sent me an advertisement for a coastal subdivision at Orepuki, on the south coast between Riverton and the end of the world. Forgive me, but Orepuki really is ridiculous. The views are stunning - when you can see them – but don’t waste your time building a deck on your seaside holiday home. A couple of modules from Scott Base would be more apt. But, who knows, perhaps in five or ten years it will be the new Kaiteriteri.
There are scientists who continue to deny global warming. There are even a few who argue its benefits. Their most famous manifesto is the 1998 Oregon Petition, a highly marketed refutation of climate change signed by 17,000 scientists world-wide that urged the US government to reject global warming. It has been cited by almost every politician and stakeholder in the status quo ever since.
The Oregon Petition enjoined us to reap the benefits of global warming. “We are living in an increasingly lush environment of plants and animals as a result of the carbon dioxide increase,” its authors claimed. “This is a wonderful and unexpected gift from the industrial revolution.”
If this seems “yeah, right!” unbelievable to you then you’re on the button. The Oregon Petition originated out of a private research institute funded by ExxonMobil, a company that sells nearly $2b of oil a day. Anybody with a degree could sign it. Most of the signatories had no more idea about climate change than you or I.
The Oregon Petition and similar rubbish-science would have withered in the avalanche of evidence supporting global warming if it had not been for the election of George Bush. His administration, powered by big oil companies, has blocked all attempts to address climate change.
Bush’s people have constantly smudged the real picture. The head of his environmental agency was forced to resign after he was caught changing the wording of scientific papers – he got a job with ExxonMobil the following day.
Perhaps I should be grateful. Bush and co. kept the voices of reason at bay and earned me a few more years of ignorant bliss. How alluring it is to associate global warming with golden days on the beach at Orepuki, or planting pineapples in Otautau.
I fear the reality will not be so gentle.
A Possum Fur Coat
28 June 2003
My heart goes out to the young Ashburton man who recently won $3.6million in LOTTO. He is the innocent victim of a shabby twist of fate, a dupe of the laws of probability. To buy a LOTTO ticket and not win is entirely acceptable behaviour. To buy a LOTTO ticket and win A VERY LARGE AMOUNT is life-shattering.
Consider this poor young man’s fate. Here he is, a completely normal, inconspicuous member of our community. He plays a bit of sport, socialises with his mates, thinks of moving in with the girlfriend. He seeks neither fame nor fortune. He buys a LOTTO ticket each week because that’s what you do, the pleasure of it being the slight frisson of anticipation when you check the numbers on a Saturday night or Sunday morning. All in all, life is good.
Then comes that fateful moment, those few seconds when the universe warps: a ball rolls, a number falls, zeroes sprout in the bank like silently mocking mouths. The fabric of this young man’s life is rent asunder and through the shreds he sees vistas of opportunity he’d never dreamed of. Terrifying.
He knows that nothing in his life will ever be the same. Sure, he’s heard the platitudes of previous big winners: “this is not going to change my life”, and so on. But he knows that a very large number is like a very large planet; it possesses an inescapable force of gravity that distorts anything in its path.
Above all, his wish is to remain anonymous. If word of his win leaks out he’ll be a marked man. Imagine the effect it will have on his friends and family. Buying a round of drinks will never again be a simple gesture of mateship. Every fundraiser and charity drive will be an agony of unfulfilled expectations: “he’s loaded but he only gave ten dollars to the animal shelter, the mean bastard”.
But anonymity in Ashburton is about as likely as good manners at a stag party. The whispering and pointing brigade are out on the streets, the grapevine sprouts and snakes through the conduits of our community like one of those fast forwarded Telecom ads. It’s bad enough for us non-winners, with everyone looking sidelong at each other, checking out who’s bought a new jumper or who’s splashed out on an extra large filled roll for lunch. Our hapless hero knows that one slip of form and his secret will be splashed from Rakaia to Tinwald.
What this young man with his $3.6million needs is a fall guy – somebody who will step up to the block and claim to be the winner. After considerable thought and discussion with my family, and purely out of a sense of compassion for this innocent man, I have decided to offer myself in that role.
Yes, I am prepared to take on the burden of publicity and sundry other consequences for nothing more than the satisfaction of helping a rich young man preserve his privacy. Well, okay, I’d be asking for a fairly large whack of the winnings as well, but nothing more than you’d consider a reasonable professional fee.
I’m prepared to go all the way with this. The first thing I shall do is make very loud and persistent denials that it was me who won. As any public figure knows there is nothing like denial to convince people of your guilt.
At a strategically considered moment I shall own up and, in a startling reversal of form, talk loudly and persistently about my good fortune. I will insist on a front page in the local paper - buying the space if necessary - and have myself interviewed endlessly on local radio, interspersed with my favourite Bachman Turner Overdrive hits.
I shall acquire the habits of the rich: become outrageously drunk in public places, be discovered naked and cavorting in the Baring Square fountain at mid-morning on a Tuesday, and have my nose reshaped by plastic surgeons of dubious repute.
I shall buy cars for each of my pets and hold up the traffic on West street while they alight to pee against the lamp posts. I will establish a charitable foundation and give large sums of money to futile causes such as Tranzrail and the Ashburton Riverbank Beautification Society.
I shall dress outrageously, in a three-quarter length possum fur coat and freezing works gumboots, to walk past the shops on East street waving effeminately and screaming loud hellos to my many friends.
I know these actions will have brutal consequences for my health, my public standing and my family’s wellbeing. But I will be buoyed up by the knowledge that I am helping a worthy young man retain the privacy he deserves – and by large dollops of cash.
Having effected this service once, I don’t see why I couldn’t do it for others. In fact, I could become a professional proxy for all the overnight LOTTO millionaires around New Zealand. Every Sunday morning you’ll find me blazoned across the front pages: Verstappen Wins Again – Unbelievable!
I urge Ashburton’s young millionaire to contact me at my website: www.foolsrushin.com
28 June 2003
My heart goes out to the young Ashburton man who recently won $3.6million in LOTTO. He is the innocent victim of a shabby twist of fate, a dupe of the laws of probability. To buy a LOTTO ticket and not win is entirely acceptable behaviour. To buy a LOTTO ticket and win A VERY LARGE AMOUNT is life-shattering.
Consider this poor young man’s fate. Here he is, a completely normal, inconspicuous member of our community. He plays a bit of sport, socialises with his mates, thinks of moving in with the girlfriend. He seeks neither fame nor fortune. He buys a LOTTO ticket each week because that’s what you do, the pleasure of it being the slight frisson of anticipation when you check the numbers on a Saturday night or Sunday morning. All in all, life is good.
Then comes that fateful moment, those few seconds when the universe warps: a ball rolls, a number falls, zeroes sprout in the bank like silently mocking mouths. The fabric of this young man’s life is rent asunder and through the shreds he sees vistas of opportunity he’d never dreamed of. Terrifying.
He knows that nothing in his life will ever be the same. Sure, he’s heard the platitudes of previous big winners: “this is not going to change my life”, and so on. But he knows that a very large number is like a very large planet; it possesses an inescapable force of gravity that distorts anything in its path.
Above all, his wish is to remain anonymous. If word of his win leaks out he’ll be a marked man. Imagine the effect it will have on his friends and family. Buying a round of drinks will never again be a simple gesture of mateship. Every fundraiser and charity drive will be an agony of unfulfilled expectations: “he’s loaded but he only gave ten dollars to the animal shelter, the mean bastard”.
But anonymity in Ashburton is about as likely as good manners at a stag party. The whispering and pointing brigade are out on the streets, the grapevine sprouts and snakes through the conduits of our community like one of those fast forwarded Telecom ads. It’s bad enough for us non-winners, with everyone looking sidelong at each other, checking out who’s bought a new jumper or who’s splashed out on an extra large filled roll for lunch. Our hapless hero knows that one slip of form and his secret will be splashed from Rakaia to Tinwald.
What this young man with his $3.6million needs is a fall guy – somebody who will step up to the block and claim to be the winner. After considerable thought and discussion with my family, and purely out of a sense of compassion for this innocent man, I have decided to offer myself in that role.
Yes, I am prepared to take on the burden of publicity and sundry other consequences for nothing more than the satisfaction of helping a rich young man preserve his privacy. Well, okay, I’d be asking for a fairly large whack of the winnings as well, but nothing more than you’d consider a reasonable professional fee.
I’m prepared to go all the way with this. The first thing I shall do is make very loud and persistent denials that it was me who won. As any public figure knows there is nothing like denial to convince people of your guilt.
At a strategically considered moment I shall own up and, in a startling reversal of form, talk loudly and persistently about my good fortune. I will insist on a front page in the local paper - buying the space if necessary - and have myself interviewed endlessly on local radio, interspersed with my favourite Bachman Turner Overdrive hits.
I shall acquire the habits of the rich: become outrageously drunk in public places, be discovered naked and cavorting in the Baring Square fountain at mid-morning on a Tuesday, and have my nose reshaped by plastic surgeons of dubious repute.
I shall buy cars for each of my pets and hold up the traffic on West street while they alight to pee against the lamp posts. I will establish a charitable foundation and give large sums of money to futile causes such as Tranzrail and the Ashburton Riverbank Beautification Society.
I shall dress outrageously, in a three-quarter length possum fur coat and freezing works gumboots, to walk past the shops on East street waving effeminately and screaming loud hellos to my many friends.
I know these actions will have brutal consequences for my health, my public standing and my family’s wellbeing. But I will be buoyed up by the knowledge that I am helping a worthy young man retain the privacy he deserves – and by large dollops of cash.
Having effected this service once, I don’t see why I couldn’t do it for others. In fact, I could become a professional proxy for all the overnight LOTTO millionaires around New Zealand. Every Sunday morning you’ll find me blazoned across the front pages: Verstappen Wins Again – Unbelievable!
I urge Ashburton’s young millionaire to contact me at my website: www.foolsrushin.com
Gudgeoned, Futtocked and Bollarded
Saturday 14 June 2003
Jonathan Hunt, the Speaker of Parliament, has refused to allow the word ‘bugger’ into the debating chamber. “I have a respect for the English language which indicates there is not a need for that sort of word in the House,” spoke the Speaker.
Frankly, I think this is a bit precious from a man who wears a shoulder-length wig to work. MPs are quick to take up the cry that they, like the rest of us, are no longer able to express themselves fully and completely without recourse to the ‘b’ word. I haven’t consulted with Brian Connell about this, but I’ve no doubt he’s among our respected MPs knee-capped by the Speaker’s ruling.
In support of our embattled MPs and others, I have, at considerable personal cost, come up with a solution: Verstappen’s All-Purpose Index of Rude and Racy Words, VAPIORARW for short.
The idea came to me in a flash of inspiration - an epiphany, if you want a word that sounds a bit rude. It happened last Saturday when I was standing in Mitre 10’s fixtures and fittings area: you know, the bit to the right of the main entrance. Having recently bought the house of my dreams I now spend all my weekends at Mitre 10, and on this day I had a list of things I needed. The problem is, when it comes to the language of home improvement I wouldn’t know my elbow joint from my architrave. That is, I know what I want, but I haven’t a clue what it’s called.
I’ve decided the English language is an intricate cave system. If I keep to the well-lit passages I get through life with reasonable success. But stray into one of the many dark chambers on either side and I’m as lost as Colin Meads in a yoga class. The fixtures and fittings department is a very dark chamber. Whatever language they use in there, it’s not my mother tongue.
My conversation with the Mitre 10 man went something like this:
Me. ‘Ah, I’m looking for a sort of screw thingy that goes into a post, with a bit sticking up…?’
M10Man. ‘What’s it for?’
Me. ‘Putting a gate on.’
M10Man. ‘You mean a gudgeon screw?’
Me (feebly). ‘Do I? Okay. And then I need a sort of loopy bit that attaches to the gate for the gudgeony thing to slide up into.’
M10Man. ‘Good description, sir, and the rude gestures are a big help. It’s a lug you’re after.’
Me. ‘Right. Now (taking a deep breath) I’ve got these hose fittings…’
M10Man. ‘Right over here. Is there a brand name you’re looking for?’
Me. ‘Umm, I think it’s Hex.’
M10Man. ‘Hex. Nipple or socket?’
Me. ‘Not sure.’
M10Man. ‘Well, is it a threaded female or a straight coupler?’
Me. ‘Umm…’
M10Man. ‘Is it a waste coupler, a tap jumper, a bang rubber zip, shower zip or a flange?’
Me (pointing desperately). ‘I think it’s one of those.’
M10Man. ‘Oh, a pressure bush reducing cap. Why didn’t you say? Now is that a left hand, right hand or triple bypass?’
Me (gurgling). ‘I don’t know.’
M10Man. ‘And you realise you’ll want a swage tool to fit that.’
Me. ‘I think I’ll just sit down for a bit.’
And right there was when the flash of inspiration hit me. Who needs tired, hackneyed ‘bugger’ when we can plunder the riches of the English language and come up with ‘gudgeon’ and ‘swage tool’?
When you think about it, basically any word using f,c,g,b or k has potential as a Word Of Emphasis. Never mind if they are nouns. They can quickly be changed into verbs or adjectives with astonishing effect: as in, ‘get off my gudgeoning toe, you idiot, or I’ll give you a good swageing!’
Once bitten, my curiosity knew no bounds. I realised there are a myriad dark chambers of fertile technical language waiting to be mined for good and useful expletives. I e-mailed my brother-in-law, George, a mariner of repute (I should add that neither ‘mariner’ nor ‘repute’ is a rude word). He knew instinctively what I needed and sent me a long list of nautical terms for the All-Purpose Index. Beautiful words they are; like futtock, bollard, orlop, grommet, binnacle and fid. He reminded me it’s not just modern words that will serve my purpose, archaic language provides even richer pickings. For example, futtocks, according to George, were bits of timber used in the hulls of square-rigged sailing ships.
So if, like our de-buggered MPs, you’re looking for a few new expressions to enrich your vocabulary, I offer you the VAPIORARW. You can find it online at www.bollards.com. I can’t wait to see an array of new and challenging words introduced into parliamentary debate. Will Mr Hunt give a gudgeon? I’m futtocked if I know.
Saturday 14 June 2003
Jonathan Hunt, the Speaker of Parliament, has refused to allow the word ‘bugger’ into the debating chamber. “I have a respect for the English language which indicates there is not a need for that sort of word in the House,” spoke the Speaker.
Frankly, I think this is a bit precious from a man who wears a shoulder-length wig to work. MPs are quick to take up the cry that they, like the rest of us, are no longer able to express themselves fully and completely without recourse to the ‘b’ word. I haven’t consulted with Brian Connell about this, but I’ve no doubt he’s among our respected MPs knee-capped by the Speaker’s ruling.
In support of our embattled MPs and others, I have, at considerable personal cost, come up with a solution: Verstappen’s All-Purpose Index of Rude and Racy Words, VAPIORARW for short.
The idea came to me in a flash of inspiration - an epiphany, if you want a word that sounds a bit rude. It happened last Saturday when I was standing in Mitre 10’s fixtures and fittings area: you know, the bit to the right of the main entrance. Having recently bought the house of my dreams I now spend all my weekends at Mitre 10, and on this day I had a list of things I needed. The problem is, when it comes to the language of home improvement I wouldn’t know my elbow joint from my architrave. That is, I know what I want, but I haven’t a clue what it’s called.
I’ve decided the English language is an intricate cave system. If I keep to the well-lit passages I get through life with reasonable success. But stray into one of the many dark chambers on either side and I’m as lost as Colin Meads in a yoga class. The fixtures and fittings department is a very dark chamber. Whatever language they use in there, it’s not my mother tongue.
My conversation with the Mitre 10 man went something like this:
Me. ‘Ah, I’m looking for a sort of screw thingy that goes into a post, with a bit sticking up…?’
M10Man. ‘What’s it for?’
Me. ‘Putting a gate on.’
M10Man. ‘You mean a gudgeon screw?’
Me (feebly). ‘Do I? Okay. And then I need a sort of loopy bit that attaches to the gate for the gudgeony thing to slide up into.’
M10Man. ‘Good description, sir, and the rude gestures are a big help. It’s a lug you’re after.’
Me. ‘Right. Now (taking a deep breath) I’ve got these hose fittings…’
M10Man. ‘Right over here. Is there a brand name you’re looking for?’
Me. ‘Umm, I think it’s Hex.’
M10Man. ‘Hex. Nipple or socket?’
Me. ‘Not sure.’
M10Man. ‘Well, is it a threaded female or a straight coupler?’
Me. ‘Umm…’
M10Man. ‘Is it a waste coupler, a tap jumper, a bang rubber zip, shower zip or a flange?’
Me (pointing desperately). ‘I think it’s one of those.’
M10Man. ‘Oh, a pressure bush reducing cap. Why didn’t you say? Now is that a left hand, right hand or triple bypass?’
Me (gurgling). ‘I don’t know.’
M10Man. ‘And you realise you’ll want a swage tool to fit that.’
Me. ‘I think I’ll just sit down for a bit.’
And right there was when the flash of inspiration hit me. Who needs tired, hackneyed ‘bugger’ when we can plunder the riches of the English language and come up with ‘gudgeon’ and ‘swage tool’?
When you think about it, basically any word using f,c,g,b or k has potential as a Word Of Emphasis. Never mind if they are nouns. They can quickly be changed into verbs or adjectives with astonishing effect: as in, ‘get off my gudgeoning toe, you idiot, or I’ll give you a good swageing!’
Once bitten, my curiosity knew no bounds. I realised there are a myriad dark chambers of fertile technical language waiting to be mined for good and useful expletives. I e-mailed my brother-in-law, George, a mariner of repute (I should add that neither ‘mariner’ nor ‘repute’ is a rude word). He knew instinctively what I needed and sent me a long list of nautical terms for the All-Purpose Index. Beautiful words they are; like futtock, bollard, orlop, grommet, binnacle and fid. He reminded me it’s not just modern words that will serve my purpose, archaic language provides even richer pickings. For example, futtocks, according to George, were bits of timber used in the hulls of square-rigged sailing ships.
So if, like our de-buggered MPs, you’re looking for a few new expressions to enrich your vocabulary, I offer you the VAPIORARW. You can find it online at www.bollards.com. I can’t wait to see an array of new and challenging words introduced into parliamentary debate. Will Mr Hunt give a gudgeon? I’m futtocked if I know.
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