Modern Pentathlon loses a limb
29th November 2008
The Olympic movement is in disarray after the IOC’s sub-committee for Failing, Unpopular and Just Plain Stupid Sports has decided to reduce the Modern Pentathlon from five events to four.
“The Modern Pentathlon is the silliest event in the Olympics,” asserted IOC spokesperson, Eva Botticelli. “It is not modern so we thought, what the hell, it might as well not be a pentathlon either.”
The Modern Pentathlon is certainly not modern. The brainchild of Baron Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of the modern Olympics, the event was first held about the time the Titanic went down. De Coubertin designed it to embody the ideals of the Olympic movement by gathering into a single event all the qualities of a “modern” soldier. Competitors must shoot an air pistol, fence, swim for 200 metres, ride a horse that is unknown to them over a showjumping course and run 3,000 metres.
Let’s break this down to see just how silly it is. Air pistols? How many armed servicemen or women go into the field of battle with an air pistol? Air pistols are the property of 12 year old boys who shoot at cans and the family hamster.
Fencing and swimming regularly descend into acrimony and were the cause of New Zealand’s Most Embarrassing Olympic Moment when, in 1948, our sole ModPen competitor, Rusty Robertson, formed the mistaken view that he had to construct 200 metres of fencing. Rusty had uncoiled 3 chain of barbed wire across the Olympic stadium before astonished officials dragged him away.
“A horse that is unknown to them” has strained the credibility of the Modern Pentathlon since its inception. Organisers have gone to ludicrous lengths to keep competitors and horses apart, even billeting them in separate countries on occasions. The 1968 winner, Russian Iva Revolstky, was stripped of his medal when photographs revealed him drinking in a bar with his horse the night before the competition.
The IOC’s latest decision is to merge the shooting and running events (I am not making this up) to “restore the credibility of the Modern Pentathlon and give it more audience appeal.” This is NOT A GOOD IDEA. It beggars belief that a sport already confined to a handful of competitors would place its remaining participants in such jeopardy. It will lead to scenes not witnessed since Gunsmoke.
The curious reasoning behind the decision is revealed in the ModPen Federation’s newsletter, Shoot Bang Fire! The newsletter reveals the intense pressure placed upon IOC officials by so-called ‘demonstration’ sports seeking places in the Olympic pantheon. Chief among these is line dancing and the newsletter reveals a history of bad blood between these two disciplines.
“The Modern Pentathlon must never give up its Olympic place to line dancing,” urges one contributor.
“Line dancing’s inclusion would forever besmirch the ideals of Pierre de Coubertin,” exclaims another outraged pentathlete.
The Line Dancers’ Collective has responded by surrounding the IOC’s headquarters in Brussels. Riot police called to the scene are reported to be joining the dancers in their protest.
In a further twist it has been revealed that de Coubertin intended the five events of the Modern Pentathlon to represent the five circles of the Olympic logo. With just a four-event pentathlon the IOC now faces having to drop one of the circles.
“Our view is that Oceania will be dropped,” says Botticelli. “After all, it is just a piece of ocean with Australia in the corner. We can shift Australia into the Asian circle and those other silly little countries will disappear under rising sea levels anyway.”
IOC officials, embarrassed at the prospect of a four-legged pentathlon, have suggested a compromise. Eva Botticelli continues: “we are investigating the inclusion of line dancing as the 5th event in the Modern Pentathlon. We believe this is a satisfactory compromise that will revitalize the sport and more accurately reflect the qualities of the modern soldier.”
Discussions continue.
Friday, November 28, 2008
2011 election campaign has begun
15th November 2008
Comparisons in the media between the New Zealand and American elections have been unflattering to us. Our election, they say, was dull. It lacked personalities, momentum and any glimmer of history-in-the-making. If it’s true that the campaign never reached great heights this is simply because we hadn’t sunk to the depths of America under Bush. Our outgoing government was not an administration of ideologically driven numbskulls. And although we rewrote recent history by electing a male Prime Minister this is nothing compared to Obama’s epoch-making victory.
But if the campaign was dull the events of the past week have made up for it. Overnight our political landscape is transformed and like show-ponies on Cup Day all parties are scrambling to cover ground.
National, isolated for years by an MMP system that threw up few allies on the right, is suddenly everybody’s best mate. Quick-fire deals with ACT, United Future and the Maori Party have left Labour out in the chook shed with just the Greens and Progressives for company.
Why has John Key stitched up deals with so many partners? After all, he doesn’t need the votes of all these small parties and he knows there will be a cost to running a government that includes both Rodney Hide and Pita Sharples. National’s deal-making this week is really the first shot in the 2011 election campaign. They know that the next election is unlikely to be so kind to them and that they have three years to convince the electorate there is a natural grouping of interests in the centre right. This is why the deal with the Maori Party is particularly important. When the electoral mood swings back to the left ACT will dwindle but a centrist Maori Party will be an ally worth having.
And under Helen Clark’s tutelage National has learned a lesson or two about managing MMP. Labour’s decision in 2005 to run a minority government, criticised by National at the time and sneered at by right-wing columnists since, turns out to have been a good idea. It gives the minor partners in government at least the appearance of power while retaining the independence to keep their supporters on side.
This is important because, however risky MMP is for National and Labour, it can be lethal for small parties. ACT has a full hand of cards this week but it would have vanished completely in 2005 if National hadn’t thrown Rodney a lifeline in Epsom.
NZ First’s sudden death at the polls sends shivers through all the small parties. This was a party that once had 17 MPs, whose leader was Minister of Foreign Affairs, whose leader was Winston, for goodness sake. But without a safe electoral seat or 5% of the party vote it is nothing.
That one safe electoral seat can make or break an MMP government, which may be a weakness, depending on whose side you’re on. Only the Greens, through excellent branding, have managed to stay in parliament throughout MMP without an electorate seat. Others – Peter Dunne and Jim Anderton – cling to their seats like tiny life rafts.
NZ First’s best hope of getting back into Parliament is that sometime in the next three years a sitting MP has a falling out with his or her party and casts around for another vessel to sail back in on. Their 2011 election campaign should start now by ditching Winston, shoring up their networks and keeping an eye out for a potential sugar-daddy.
As for Labour, their behaviour this week has been most unbecoming for a party in defeat. The Clark and Cullen vanishing act has allowed them to move from wake to wedding with Hamletic swiftness. They seem almost buoyant in opposition and, with 43 MPs and an experienced leadership team, things could have been worse. As Treasury forecasts bleaken perhaps this wasn’t a bad election to lose. Suddenly 2011 doesn’t seem so far away.
The campaign has just begun.
15th November 2008
Comparisons in the media between the New Zealand and American elections have been unflattering to us. Our election, they say, was dull. It lacked personalities, momentum and any glimmer of history-in-the-making. If it’s true that the campaign never reached great heights this is simply because we hadn’t sunk to the depths of America under Bush. Our outgoing government was not an administration of ideologically driven numbskulls. And although we rewrote recent history by electing a male Prime Minister this is nothing compared to Obama’s epoch-making victory.
But if the campaign was dull the events of the past week have made up for it. Overnight our political landscape is transformed and like show-ponies on Cup Day all parties are scrambling to cover ground.
National, isolated for years by an MMP system that threw up few allies on the right, is suddenly everybody’s best mate. Quick-fire deals with ACT, United Future and the Maori Party have left Labour out in the chook shed with just the Greens and Progressives for company.
Why has John Key stitched up deals with so many partners? After all, he doesn’t need the votes of all these small parties and he knows there will be a cost to running a government that includes both Rodney Hide and Pita Sharples. National’s deal-making this week is really the first shot in the 2011 election campaign. They know that the next election is unlikely to be so kind to them and that they have three years to convince the electorate there is a natural grouping of interests in the centre right. This is why the deal with the Maori Party is particularly important. When the electoral mood swings back to the left ACT will dwindle but a centrist Maori Party will be an ally worth having.
And under Helen Clark’s tutelage National has learned a lesson or two about managing MMP. Labour’s decision in 2005 to run a minority government, criticised by National at the time and sneered at by right-wing columnists since, turns out to have been a good idea. It gives the minor partners in government at least the appearance of power while retaining the independence to keep their supporters on side.
This is important because, however risky MMP is for National and Labour, it can be lethal for small parties. ACT has a full hand of cards this week but it would have vanished completely in 2005 if National hadn’t thrown Rodney a lifeline in Epsom.
NZ First’s sudden death at the polls sends shivers through all the small parties. This was a party that once had 17 MPs, whose leader was Minister of Foreign Affairs, whose leader was Winston, for goodness sake. But without a safe electoral seat or 5% of the party vote it is nothing.
That one safe electoral seat can make or break an MMP government, which may be a weakness, depending on whose side you’re on. Only the Greens, through excellent branding, have managed to stay in parliament throughout MMP without an electorate seat. Others – Peter Dunne and Jim Anderton – cling to their seats like tiny life rafts.
NZ First’s best hope of getting back into Parliament is that sometime in the next three years a sitting MP has a falling out with his or her party and casts around for another vessel to sail back in on. Their 2011 election campaign should start now by ditching Winston, shoring up their networks and keeping an eye out for a potential sugar-daddy.
As for Labour, their behaviour this week has been most unbecoming for a party in defeat. The Clark and Cullen vanishing act has allowed them to move from wake to wedding with Hamletic swiftness. They seem almost buoyant in opposition and, with 43 MPs and an experienced leadership team, things could have been worse. As Treasury forecasts bleaken perhaps this wasn’t a bad election to lose. Suddenly 2011 doesn’t seem so far away.
The campaign has just begun.
RSA faces an uncertain future
1st November 2008
Hidden among the colossal news stories of the week is a snippet about the closure of the Lower Hutt RSA. Falling membership and financial strain have brought the club to its knees and, short of a miracle, it will fold. Gone. Kaput. The report says many other RSA clubs face a similar end.
At the Lower Hutt RSA the failure to attract new members is blamed on misunderstanding about the organisation. “People think we’re a bunch of old soldiers sitting around talking about the war, but I haven’t heard a war story in here for weeks,” said one member. But there can be no misunderstanding. Few organisations are more aptly named: the RSA is the Returned Services Association – a bunch of old soldiers. Perhaps the war stories have dwindled but its rationale remains the support of servicemen and women who have returned. Returned from what? From the battlefield; from what used to be called the ‘theatre of war.’
In which case the disappearance of RSA clubs should be something to celebrate, signifying as it does that we no longer participate in the large-scale acts of carnage that blighted or destroyed the lives of our young men and women in the past.
Did the founders of the RSA intend it to last forever? Were they so cynical? There is no doubt that the RSA is an icon of the ‘rugby, racing and beer’ generations, of weathered faces in smoke-filled rooms, of stern camaraderie and sober countenance. Some RSA clubs strive to break free of those images, to re-invent themselves for a new generation.
Lower Hutt’s neighbouring club, Porirua, recently ditched the military service requirement for members, throwing its doors open to the public. This has not gone down well with the old soldiers of Porirua and you have to wonder what the point is of having a Returned Servicemans’ Association open to everybody.
The Porirua plan appears to be the response of an organisation that has lost sight of itself. The economic imperatives driving the decision are the consequences of overly ambitious expansion. RSA clubrooms used to be just that; a room where members met, socialised and arranged small acts of charity. Over time many clubs expanded to include restaurants, bars and gaming parlours. They borrowed money to build bigger premises and it is the financial burden of these that now undermines the viability of the organisation as much as dwindling membership.
The Porirua RSA and others like it want to increase membership mainly to sustain their restaurants and bars, in which case they become no different than a hotel or working men’s club. Do the new members of the Porirua RSA participate in the other traditional roles of the club? Are they encouraged to march on ANZAC Day? Are they entitled to the benefits received by returned servicemen and women? Do they uphold the values of the club? Or is it just another watering hole?
This is one of those tiny stories that are compelling because they reveal a much bigger picture.
As a nation we are at a point of growth where, lizard-like, we are shaking off an old skin. Many of the structures that have served us well in the past will not be needed in the future. The RSA is just one of many organisations that struggle at this time. Churches, service clubs and voluntary groups all confront their relevance in the new society. Many respond by rebranding themselves: the WDFF becomes Rural Women, churches embrace rock music and Girl Guides transform into action figures.
Ultimately the continuance of organisations like the RSA depends not on branding but on a genuine need for their services. Painful though it may be to some, the RSA may disappear, or its name continue as a meaningless acronym on a chain of neighbourhood eateries. Like the Temperance Unions of the early 20th century it may eventually fall victim not to progress but simply to evolution.
1st November 2008
Hidden among the colossal news stories of the week is a snippet about the closure of the Lower Hutt RSA. Falling membership and financial strain have brought the club to its knees and, short of a miracle, it will fold. Gone. Kaput. The report says many other RSA clubs face a similar end.
At the Lower Hutt RSA the failure to attract new members is blamed on misunderstanding about the organisation. “People think we’re a bunch of old soldiers sitting around talking about the war, but I haven’t heard a war story in here for weeks,” said one member. But there can be no misunderstanding. Few organisations are more aptly named: the RSA is the Returned Services Association – a bunch of old soldiers. Perhaps the war stories have dwindled but its rationale remains the support of servicemen and women who have returned. Returned from what? From the battlefield; from what used to be called the ‘theatre of war.’
In which case the disappearance of RSA clubs should be something to celebrate, signifying as it does that we no longer participate in the large-scale acts of carnage that blighted or destroyed the lives of our young men and women in the past.
Did the founders of the RSA intend it to last forever? Were they so cynical? There is no doubt that the RSA is an icon of the ‘rugby, racing and beer’ generations, of weathered faces in smoke-filled rooms, of stern camaraderie and sober countenance. Some RSA clubs strive to break free of those images, to re-invent themselves for a new generation.
Lower Hutt’s neighbouring club, Porirua, recently ditched the military service requirement for members, throwing its doors open to the public. This has not gone down well with the old soldiers of Porirua and you have to wonder what the point is of having a Returned Servicemans’ Association open to everybody.
The Porirua plan appears to be the response of an organisation that has lost sight of itself. The economic imperatives driving the decision are the consequences of overly ambitious expansion. RSA clubrooms used to be just that; a room where members met, socialised and arranged small acts of charity. Over time many clubs expanded to include restaurants, bars and gaming parlours. They borrowed money to build bigger premises and it is the financial burden of these that now undermines the viability of the organisation as much as dwindling membership.
The Porirua RSA and others like it want to increase membership mainly to sustain their restaurants and bars, in which case they become no different than a hotel or working men’s club. Do the new members of the Porirua RSA participate in the other traditional roles of the club? Are they encouraged to march on ANZAC Day? Are they entitled to the benefits received by returned servicemen and women? Do they uphold the values of the club? Or is it just another watering hole?
This is one of those tiny stories that are compelling because they reveal a much bigger picture.
As a nation we are at a point of growth where, lizard-like, we are shaking off an old skin. Many of the structures that have served us well in the past will not be needed in the future. The RSA is just one of many organisations that struggle at this time. Churches, service clubs and voluntary groups all confront their relevance in the new society. Many respond by rebranding themselves: the WDFF becomes Rural Women, churches embrace rock music and Girl Guides transform into action figures.
Ultimately the continuance of organisations like the RSA depends not on branding but on a genuine need for their services. Painful though it may be to some, the RSA may disappear, or its name continue as a meaningless acronym on a chain of neighbourhood eateries. Like the Temperance Unions of the early 20th century it may eventually fall victim not to progress but simply to evolution.
Daffodils revive flower power
We were delighted when Carol announced at the end of the choir practice that the large bucket of daffodils was a gift to us and that there were several more in the back of her car downstairs. I gathered a small armful, wrapped them in newspaper like fish and chips and bore them home as a hundred tiny sunrises.
When I was a child my dad played five hundred in a local card club at the RSA hall every Thursday night. He was good at it and often we would wake on Friday morning to discover a box of chocolates or three tins of fruit that he had won the night before neatly arranged on the kitchen bench.
This week I have woken to a riot of daffodils – spoils of the choir. My impulsive arrangement in a glass beer jug has been successfully triaged by Sylvia and the blooms are now artfully arranged in several vases around the kitchen. One bunch consorts with a blushing cyclamen near the fridge, another plays ‘touch you last’ with an out-of-control aloe vera on the windowsill.
They beam at me, these daffodils, as I eat my breakfast and I find myself slowing down, drawn into their sunny smiles and silent chatter.
“Warm to us,” they say. “We are spring. Elevate yourself. Rise up. Lighten your heart.”
Perhaps this long, miserable winter has made me impressionable. Perhaps the current mood of uncertainty draws me towards a simpler truth. Whatever the reason, I am enchanted by these flowers. I gaze at them with Wordsworthian intensity, studying them in a way that I haven’t for many years.
To my astonishment I discover that daffodils are not the flowers they used to be. In fact they have completely transformed since I last checked. Where once they were uniformly yellow – yellow petals, yellow trumpets, yellow stamens – they are now a multitude of different colours. Some have white petals and delicate pink trumpets. Here’s one that looks like a fried egg, with creamy petals and a tight, darkly red trumpet. Another has petals like a dawn sky, pale primrose streaked with dashes of gold.
It is not just the colours that have changed; the daffodil’s shape too has transformed. Petals may be bold, soft and lacy or alluringly frilled. Trumpets are now an entire brass section: boozy, blaring tubas, tight-lipped trombones and snub-nosed cornets. There is one flower whose trumpet has completely exploded into four pieces as crazy and complex as a sea anemone or an Elizabethan ruff.
I have counted 9 different daffodils in the bunch I brought home from the choir.
These mutations are almost certainly not accidental. No doubt they are the product of artful and laborious propagation, of science improving nature. I would not be surprised to discover that the daffodil is now an industry, with jealously guarded patents and breathless investors whose fortunes stand or fall on the success of this year’s new varieties. In a world where almost every form of beauty has a price the bulbs that grew these blooms may be rooted deeply in the corporate mire. Even now a tiny fragment of Wall Street may be dedicated to daffodil stocks, and perhaps those stocks will be swept away in the backwash of the next insurance company or mortgage lender that goes bust.
And if that happens, then what? Will my daffodils turn to dust? Will they vanish like zeroes in my bank account? For that matter, are they less beautiful for being the products of genetic modification and corporate profiteering?
Of course not. They are as beautiful as babies, and as innocent. They gladden the heart and quicken the spirit. They are life.
We were delighted when Carol announced at the end of the choir practice that the large bucket of daffodils was a gift to us and that there were several more in the back of her car downstairs. I gathered a small armful, wrapped them in newspaper like fish and chips and bore them home as a hundred tiny sunrises.
When I was a child my dad played five hundred in a local card club at the RSA hall every Thursday night. He was good at it and often we would wake on Friday morning to discover a box of chocolates or three tins of fruit that he had won the night before neatly arranged on the kitchen bench.
This week I have woken to a riot of daffodils – spoils of the choir. My impulsive arrangement in a glass beer jug has been successfully triaged by Sylvia and the blooms are now artfully arranged in several vases around the kitchen. One bunch consorts with a blushing cyclamen near the fridge, another plays ‘touch you last’ with an out-of-control aloe vera on the windowsill.
They beam at me, these daffodils, as I eat my breakfast and I find myself slowing down, drawn into their sunny smiles and silent chatter.
“Warm to us,” they say. “We are spring. Elevate yourself. Rise up. Lighten your heart.”
Perhaps this long, miserable winter has made me impressionable. Perhaps the current mood of uncertainty draws me towards a simpler truth. Whatever the reason, I am enchanted by these flowers. I gaze at them with Wordsworthian intensity, studying them in a way that I haven’t for many years.
To my astonishment I discover that daffodils are not the flowers they used to be. In fact they have completely transformed since I last checked. Where once they were uniformly yellow – yellow petals, yellow trumpets, yellow stamens – they are now a multitude of different colours. Some have white petals and delicate pink trumpets. Here’s one that looks like a fried egg, with creamy petals and a tight, darkly red trumpet. Another has petals like a dawn sky, pale primrose streaked with dashes of gold.
It is not just the colours that have changed; the daffodil’s shape too has transformed. Petals may be bold, soft and lacy or alluringly frilled. Trumpets are now an entire brass section: boozy, blaring tubas, tight-lipped trombones and snub-nosed cornets. There is one flower whose trumpet has completely exploded into four pieces as crazy and complex as a sea anemone or an Elizabethan ruff.
I have counted 9 different daffodils in the bunch I brought home from the choir.
These mutations are almost certainly not accidental. No doubt they are the product of artful and laborious propagation, of science improving nature. I would not be surprised to discover that the daffodil is now an industry, with jealously guarded patents and breathless investors whose fortunes stand or fall on the success of this year’s new varieties. In a world where almost every form of beauty has a price the bulbs that grew these blooms may be rooted deeply in the corporate mire. Even now a tiny fragment of Wall Street may be dedicated to daffodil stocks, and perhaps those stocks will be swept away in the backwash of the next insurance company or mortgage lender that goes bust.
And if that happens, then what? Will my daffodils turn to dust? Will they vanish like zeroes in my bank account? For that matter, are they less beautiful for being the products of genetic modification and corporate profiteering?
Of course not. They are as beautiful as babies, and as innocent. They gladden the heart and quicken the spirit. They are life.
Electricity woes hit the South
My, how the world changes! Monday’s revelation that South Islanders can expect hefty power price rises for several years because we have to buy it from up North has knocked one of the chair legs out from under my generation.
In my formative years there were a few things you could count on: the government was National, the All Blacks were invincible and South Island power kept the lights burning in the North.
Since it was opened in 1965 the Cook Strait power cable has fuelled both pride and pique in Southerners. We’ve been proud to see ourselves as the nation’s engine room, churning out the megawatts to fuel the North’s homes and factories. At the same time the cable has been a focus for southern discontent. Feeling ignored by Wellington politicians? Ridiculed by smartarse Aucklanders? Let’s pull the plug and teach them a lesson!
So it takes a bit of getting used to the idea that the North Island now claims electricity among the many forms of power it exerts over the South, and that this situation is likely to remain for at least several years.
There are two components to our problem: a shortage of generating capacity and bottlenecks in transmission.
Electricity generation has always been a seesaw of supply and demand. In recent winters we have complained about the threat of power shortages, but in the past electricity was often in short supply. From the 1920s right through to the late ‘50s demand frequently outstripped supply as transmission networks grew faster than power stations.
Supply was eventually secured with the massive hydro projects that began in our part of the world with Roxburgh in the mid ‘50s and ended with the opening of the Clyde dam nearly 20 years ago. During those years – the ‘generation’ generation – our imaginations were captured by the scale and creativity of the projects. Benmore introduced us to the power of earth-moving machinery; Manapouri was a tribute to the tunneller’s art and the Mackenzie basin became threaded with gorgeous blue canals.
While the engineering was on display for all to see, the economics of power supply remained obscure. With the government taking on the responsibility for building the dams we paid in high taxes for the privilege of low power prices. It was only in the 90s, when the electricity industry was carved up into all those companies with ridiculous names, that reality began to bite. Power prices have been climbing steadily ever since and apparently we still have some way to go before the price we pay for electricity reflects the actual cost of producing it and getting it to our homes.
In the South Island the situation is complicated by other factors. In the past decade irrigation, industry and population growth have greatly increased our demand for electricity. At the same time power companies have shown themselves less willing than the government previously was to risk their capital in constructing expensive hydro projects. Cheaper and more flexible alternatives available in the North Island; such as geothermal, gas, wind and coal, are either missing in the South or have so far failed to gain traction with power companies and consumers.
Over the same period it seems our beloved Cook Strait cable simply grew old. Perhaps it was lack of foresight or maybe it was the error of trusting our infrastructure to market forces, but somehow we’ve reached a point where the cable can no longer reliably carry the load it once did.
The cost of refurbishing the cable has become contentious. Southern generating companies are being asked to pay the huge cost of upgrading the cable because it enables them to sell power into the lucrative North Island market. They argue that with power now heading south the North Island companies should share the cost.
It is easy to criticise the power companies for placing profit ahead of public interest, but we should remember that South Island power companies have in recent years put up several major projects to increase generating capacity. Each has been knocked back, largely for environmental reasons.
It will be interesting to see how scrupulous we remain as prices climb. Will we sacrifice our landscapes? Are we prepared to invest in power-saving technology? Whatever happens, it will hurt our pockets.
My, how the world changes! Monday’s revelation that South Islanders can expect hefty power price rises for several years because we have to buy it from up North has knocked one of the chair legs out from under my generation.
In my formative years there were a few things you could count on: the government was National, the All Blacks were invincible and South Island power kept the lights burning in the North.
Since it was opened in 1965 the Cook Strait power cable has fuelled both pride and pique in Southerners. We’ve been proud to see ourselves as the nation’s engine room, churning out the megawatts to fuel the North’s homes and factories. At the same time the cable has been a focus for southern discontent. Feeling ignored by Wellington politicians? Ridiculed by smartarse Aucklanders? Let’s pull the plug and teach them a lesson!
So it takes a bit of getting used to the idea that the North Island now claims electricity among the many forms of power it exerts over the South, and that this situation is likely to remain for at least several years.
There are two components to our problem: a shortage of generating capacity and bottlenecks in transmission.
Electricity generation has always been a seesaw of supply and demand. In recent winters we have complained about the threat of power shortages, but in the past electricity was often in short supply. From the 1920s right through to the late ‘50s demand frequently outstripped supply as transmission networks grew faster than power stations.
Supply was eventually secured with the massive hydro projects that began in our part of the world with Roxburgh in the mid ‘50s and ended with the opening of the Clyde dam nearly 20 years ago. During those years – the ‘generation’ generation – our imaginations were captured by the scale and creativity of the projects. Benmore introduced us to the power of earth-moving machinery; Manapouri was a tribute to the tunneller’s art and the Mackenzie basin became threaded with gorgeous blue canals.
While the engineering was on display for all to see, the economics of power supply remained obscure. With the government taking on the responsibility for building the dams we paid in high taxes for the privilege of low power prices. It was only in the 90s, when the electricity industry was carved up into all those companies with ridiculous names, that reality began to bite. Power prices have been climbing steadily ever since and apparently we still have some way to go before the price we pay for electricity reflects the actual cost of producing it and getting it to our homes.
In the South Island the situation is complicated by other factors. In the past decade irrigation, industry and population growth have greatly increased our demand for electricity. At the same time power companies have shown themselves less willing than the government previously was to risk their capital in constructing expensive hydro projects. Cheaper and more flexible alternatives available in the North Island; such as geothermal, gas, wind and coal, are either missing in the South or have so far failed to gain traction with power companies and consumers.
Over the same period it seems our beloved Cook Strait cable simply grew old. Perhaps it was lack of foresight or maybe it was the error of trusting our infrastructure to market forces, but somehow we’ve reached a point where the cable can no longer reliably carry the load it once did.
The cost of refurbishing the cable has become contentious. Southern generating companies are being asked to pay the huge cost of upgrading the cable because it enables them to sell power into the lucrative North Island market. They argue that with power now heading south the North Island companies should share the cost.
It is easy to criticise the power companies for placing profit ahead of public interest, but we should remember that South Island power companies have in recent years put up several major projects to increase generating capacity. Each has been knocked back, largely for environmental reasons.
It will be interesting to see how scrupulous we remain as prices climb. Will we sacrifice our landscapes? Are we prepared to invest in power-saving technology? Whatever happens, it will hurt our pockets.
Mr Connell’s Graceless Exit
6th September 2008
There is both irony and pathos in the photograph in last Saturday’s Ashburton Guardian that shows Brian Connell leaping for joy as he closes his office and departs his political career. To the uninformed this could seem to be a leap of triumph, a celebration of a distinguished and successful career. However, we know this is not the case, so what is the leap about?
The caption – I Survived! – hints at what is really on Mr Connell’s mind. This is the leap of the errant schoolboy who has served his detention, of the remand prisoner whose case has been thrown out of court on a technicality. Mr Connell is pleased to have survived his sentence in politics.
Who committed Mr Connell to the punishment he obviously believes his time in politics to have been? Clearly it was us, the voters of Rakaia electorate. Mr Connell’s message, in both the photograph and the accompanying article, is that he is glad to be rid of us. Unable to reflect upon success he instead uses his final hurrah to lambast party politics, the people of Canterbury, the Resource Management Act and New Zealanders in general. In an attempt to salvage his pride he manages to be as graceless in his departure as he was for most of his tenure.
Mr Connell belatedly reveals (oh, why could he not have admitted this to the candidate selection panel six years ago?) that he’s never believed in politics. In itself, this is not an insurmountable handicap to a successful political career. I know a clergyman or two who struggle to believe in God and yet minister successfully to their flocks.
Mr Connell’s real failure is that he obviously never understood politics. This is evident in his pride at not following the party line, speaking when he should have stayed silent and, above all, remaining his own man.
If Mr Connell had understood parliamentary democracy he may have realised that there are very good reasons for managing the affairs of society through well disciplined political parties. His judgements should not persuade us that our political system is weakened by not allowing a ‘maverick’ such as him to do as he pleases. Political systems that allow ego to flourish unchecked never produce good results for their societies. For better, not worse, we choose to mediate individual pride, ambition and extremist views through the mechanism of political parties.
Mr Connell’s insistence upon speaking his mind may have been simply naïve but it was ultimately selfish because in doing so he sacrificed the interests of his constituents to his ego. Principles and ideals are fine but parliament does not exist to serve members’ personal views. In a democratic society politics is the art of the possible. It requires discipline, compromise and patience. In his refusal to cultivate these qualities Mr Connell let us down. We did not fail him – he failed us.
Mr Connell is obviously an energetic and capable man. But as our MP he has been a flop. How disappointing then that his final words to us are so mean-spirited. If I had written his script for last weekend’s interview I’d have advised him to say ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’. Thank you to the local National Party supporters who backed his candidacy and worked hard to make his term successful. Thank you to the people who showed faith in him with their votes.
And sorry for not being up to the job.
6th September 2008
There is both irony and pathos in the photograph in last Saturday’s Ashburton Guardian that shows Brian Connell leaping for joy as he closes his office and departs his political career. To the uninformed this could seem to be a leap of triumph, a celebration of a distinguished and successful career. However, we know this is not the case, so what is the leap about?
The caption – I Survived! – hints at what is really on Mr Connell’s mind. This is the leap of the errant schoolboy who has served his detention, of the remand prisoner whose case has been thrown out of court on a technicality. Mr Connell is pleased to have survived his sentence in politics.
Who committed Mr Connell to the punishment he obviously believes his time in politics to have been? Clearly it was us, the voters of Rakaia electorate. Mr Connell’s message, in both the photograph and the accompanying article, is that he is glad to be rid of us. Unable to reflect upon success he instead uses his final hurrah to lambast party politics, the people of Canterbury, the Resource Management Act and New Zealanders in general. In an attempt to salvage his pride he manages to be as graceless in his departure as he was for most of his tenure.
Mr Connell belatedly reveals (oh, why could he not have admitted this to the candidate selection panel six years ago?) that he’s never believed in politics. In itself, this is not an insurmountable handicap to a successful political career. I know a clergyman or two who struggle to believe in God and yet minister successfully to their flocks.
Mr Connell’s real failure is that he obviously never understood politics. This is evident in his pride at not following the party line, speaking when he should have stayed silent and, above all, remaining his own man.
If Mr Connell had understood parliamentary democracy he may have realised that there are very good reasons for managing the affairs of society through well disciplined political parties. His judgements should not persuade us that our political system is weakened by not allowing a ‘maverick’ such as him to do as he pleases. Political systems that allow ego to flourish unchecked never produce good results for their societies. For better, not worse, we choose to mediate individual pride, ambition and extremist views through the mechanism of political parties.
Mr Connell’s insistence upon speaking his mind may have been simply naïve but it was ultimately selfish because in doing so he sacrificed the interests of his constituents to his ego. Principles and ideals are fine but parliament does not exist to serve members’ personal views. In a democratic society politics is the art of the possible. It requires discipline, compromise and patience. In his refusal to cultivate these qualities Mr Connell let us down. We did not fail him – he failed us.
Mr Connell is obviously an energetic and capable man. But as our MP he has been a flop. How disappointing then that his final words to us are so mean-spirited. If I had written his script for last weekend’s interview I’d have advised him to say ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’. Thank you to the local National Party supporters who backed his candidacy and worked hard to make his term successful. Thank you to the people who showed faith in him with their votes.
And sorry for not being up to the job.
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