Britain's Daily Mail, 1999: Rumours of Golly's demise were greatly exaggerated. Today, he's enjoying a revival

It is perfectly possible to be a diplomat and still tell it like it really is. So-called Rugby Ambassador Andy Haden has apologised for using the word Darkie to describe Polynesian rugby players, who he says (much more importantly) are subject to a colour-based quota by Canterbury’s Crusaders. Apparently, even Polynesians who know about rugby have noted that statistics seem to support Haden, who sticks by his claim.

The alleged culprits have issued a somewhat limp-wristed denial, but that has been all but drowned out by the bizarre fury surrounding Haden’s “three darkies, no more” comment. Instead of fretting because (sensibly) no one has laid a complaint about this toss-away remark, Race Relations Commissioner Joris de Bres should have been onto the quota claim immediately. His inaction is in stark contrast to that lightning response when a bunch of teacher-inspired Otaki schoolchildren objected to Wanganui Mayor Michael Laws, and Debris printed certificates for them. http://www.gog.org.nz/2009/10/24/what-a-wharce-the-undignified-spectacle-of-an-inverted-racist/

The silence from his worthless organisation on Haden’s grave allegation has been deafening. If the Crusaders have a hidden agenda, that’s very serious and should be investigated.

Andy Haden is just the latest in a long line of politically incorrect prat-fallers, victims of a creepy campaign that began in the 1980s when British jam-maker Robertson’s was forced to stop giving away Golliwog badges. Those lovely, enamelled Golliwogs are now collectors’ items. Such misguided attention to the wrong target also claimed children’s author Enid Blyton, now widely banned in public libraries. Her Golliwog character was condemned for bullying Noddy in Toytown.

Look what PC did to Arnott's Golliwog bikkies...

The Haden case is entirely unlike Paul Holmes’ rant against former UN Secretary-General Coffee Annan, which amounted to a stupid piece of personal abuse. Any such comparisons that have been made in the media have not been properly thought through.

It’s likely that this PC lunacy will not end until Cadbury and Whittakers have been forced to drop the term Dark Chocolate.

Meanwhile, further north, the natives are restless. The Bay of Plenty’s Te Arawa Iwi has seriously annoyed 120 of its tenants – many of them Whities – by telling them to destroy their homes and vacate land leased from the tribe on an idyllic bit of coastline in Little Waihi. They are allegedly polluting the nearby estuary because their own landlords failed to provide a decent sewerage system (while carelessly permitting them, in some cases, to spend large amounts on their homes – ownership of which, under the lease, reverts to the iwi on vacation). Who pays the rates on this land? And what happened to the Western Bay of Plenty District Council’s $32 million 2006-2016 Waste Water Plan, which included Little Waihi?

Little Waihi - big stink

Some suspect that – rather than experiencing a sudden and novel epiphany about the environment – the tribe has realised that, if public money can be found for a decent sewerage system, Te Arawa will be sitting on a piece of coastal real estate worth millions. Perish the thought – and banish the nightmare of what such people could be capable of elsewhere, if they won control of an entire National Park or if 15,000 kilometres of foreshore and seabed were handed over to their tender care.

You’d have thought that Debris, who we all pay to be our Race Relations Ambassador, would have hot-footed up to Little Waihi to sort this out long before it festered into yet another nationwide, race-based controversy. Such a notion is clearly ludicrous, for it would involve repudiating the idea of two separate societies and concentrating instead on developing a united, harmonious community.

And that would put Joris de Bres out of a job.

http://www.tpk.govt.nz/en/region/te-arawa/

Rugby - The Profession is exposed as a load of overpaid bottom-feeders

There being little of significance to discuss, let us turn our attention to matters of no importance. For example, on Page 5’s “In Brief” column of The New Zealand Herald on Thursday or Friday (how time flies when you’re having fun doing something useful instead of reading newspapers), we learned of a minor power outage in Wellington. This caused premature darkness for an hour or two, marooned a few people in lifts, suspended two window cleaners on a high-rise building, and failed to deter parking wardens who continued to issue tickets in the gathering gloom that surrounded powerless trolley buses. It had no effect on the bums occupying the Seat of Government – and no taxpayers noticed. Nobody died.

So, not much to write home about – unless you foolishly bought The Dominion Post, expecting a good read. The DomPost devoted almost all its front page to this faux catastrophe – caused, as it turned out, by an idiot and a piece of broken wire that did no damage to the Dominion Post’s outlying readers. Of course it was a piece of wire, stupid. Everyone knows that Wellington depends on one piece of wire, one electricity sub-station and one railway station – which also regularly grinds to a halt, thanks to a similar lack of investment in infrastructure. That’s why Wellington is so laid back and slack. Or, some suggest, lags behind the times. Other New Zealanders pay dearly for Wellingtonians’ arrogant laziness and wonder about jumped-up elected people who believe a Wallywood sign is more important than dealing with unpleasant vagrants and various other litterati that Wellington freely displays to its visitors. Or installing 21st Century trains and a reliable electricity supply.

Not that The Herald has 20/20 news sense or good timing or unusual energy, either. While relegating the dreadful power outage to Page 5, its lead story was all about a Melbourne rugby league gang that had been over-paying players (and therefore winning all the games) by – wait for it – all of $1.1 million over five years. That’s an average of $220,000 a year. Split evenly across the squad, it hardly covers the burly boys’ expenses in beer and off-field hookers. Yet revelation of the rort caused total meltdown at the club – and a rare chance for the densoids on the media’s sports desks (these people are normally confined to the rear-end of the newsroom) to grab a piece of the front pages.

That $1.1 million hardly stacks up against the billions lost by New Zealanders whose money went into the accounts of finance company high-rollers. The activities of these birth canals over decades were never the subject of such courageous investigative journalism. Even today, our fearless journalists can’t quite bring themselves to reveal who is planning to steal your money.

And who gives a toss about professional sport? The hallowed NZ Rugby Union Corporation’s $15 million loss provides a valuable clue. Most people are sick and tired of rugby – and of the TV and newspaper hacks who take our so-called “obsession with sport” for granted. That’s why rugby is losing money and fans. There is far too much cricket and rugby – and for consumers, most professional sport has become as boring, expensive, corrupt and predictable as politics. By contrast, soccer in New Zealand seems relatively innocent, and we love underdogs and lost causes. Plus, there are much more exciting things to watch, such as Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model, the Living Channel’s Watching Paint Dry Without Feeling Inadequate and Relocation, Relocation Revisited and Grand Designs Revisited with a GPS, which is popular viewing in the waiting rooms of Britain’s divorce and bankruptcy courts.

Fewer than millions of Dunedin International Airport passengers had their flights disrupted by a small Icelandic volcano and an enormous fake bomb. What a disgrace. Somebody must be to blame. RNZ's top evening news presenter Mary Wilson must demand: Who did it, and who will pay?

Is there a flight from Dunedin to Los Angeles or London? If not, Dunedin International Airport is a misnomer. It’s also unqualified for the title, following a bomb hoax that gripped the entire nation, thanks to a gullible media and an incompetent bunch of crisis handlers who delayed a few hundred passengers and caused needless flight disruption by taking five hours to reveal that the bomb was probably just a bar of soap embedded with a couple of wires connected to a dead battery. Blues legend John Mayall (who lives in slightly livelier Los Angeles and has just completed a hugely successful tour of New Zealand) was coolly sanguine, hanging about the airport in 75-year-old shorts and sandals. He must have thought the rumour was true: New Zealand is a place where people wait in desperation for something to happen.

And it almost did, when several suspicious cola cans were found strapped to a Green Island road bridge the very next day. The “art student” responsible said ruefully: “I thought it was all a bit blown up.” The nodding dogs who man and woman our newsdesks reported the false alarm with the usual earnest urgency.

No sooner was this non-drama over than The New Zealand Herald exposed The Bloody Hamburger Scandal on Saturday’s front page, along with a small but gory picture. Dark-hued Timothy Hughley and wife Rachel are outraged that the burger they bought from an outlet in West Auckland came with an added ingredient: human blood from the chef, who cut his hand while wrapping up the burger. Spurning the offer of an apology and vouchers for more burgers, this leading unpaid-up member of Victimhood NZ says he may take legal advice.

For which, all taxpayers will no doubt swallow the costs.

“What would have happened if my wife had bitten it and got hepatitis or Aids?” Timothy bleats.

Well, she didn’t. So shut your greedy mouth, Timothy, find a better restaurant, and move on to a healthier diet.

As for the basket case that is New Zealand journalism: Get some ear protection, try to regain a sense of balance, and stop headlining trivia and time-wasters.

Donut Quote of the Week: After a raid that netted hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of stolen goods, Auckland’s Detective Inspector Greg Cramer said: “The huge variety of goods turned up is probably a clear indication that drug crime, burglary and dishonesty are linked.”

But in all likelihood, by 2050, the bankrupt islands once called New Zealand will be part of the Chinese People’s Autonomous Region of Australasia.

Separate development: This kind of policy is not acceptable in New Zealand, even when it comes from the brown minority

In the meantime, there are genuine social issues facing large sections of our immigrant population. The Government is thought to be studying plans for Pakeha Ora, a revolutionary health and welfare system. The idea sprang from Whanau Ora, a scheme for people in dysfunctional Maori families who suffer from unusual medical and social issues mainly related to over-consumption of unethical food and a disinterest in personal effort; it’s the brainchild of Tatiana “Big is Not Good” Tureena.

Tatiana believes in a staple diet of spoon-feeding that includes State-funded reduction of your stomach if you present at the airport, needing two seats but with only the cash for one. This operation – cleverly adopted by another of “our people” using public funds, before the fraudster spent time losing more weight in jail – should be subsidised by normal people, says Tatiana, because it was not her people’s fault that other people’s people invented the jet engine, or Kentucky Fried Chicken, or TV.

Like Whanau Ora, Pakeha Ora is based on separate development (once known elsewhere as apartheid).

A Government source says: “Pakeha have special problems, including Clenched Buttock Syndrome. One of the symptoms is an inability to pronounce Nyzylnd.” The Government believes that funds must be set aside to deal with these unique issues, which encompass everything from an inability to read or add up, down to bad driving and poor behaviours such as watching too many cooking programmes instead of developing a healthy diet. “We need to broaden our base and reduce the size of our bottoms.”

Pakeha Ora will develop strategies aimed to exclude members of Whanau Ora, even if they are lean and healthy and employed. It will establish Pakeha-only hospitals, dental clinics and psychiatric support units to help disenchanted non-Maori experts who seek to flee the country. If successful, separate funding could be extended to other activities, such as DoC (Fauna and Flora Ora), Forest and Bird (Kea Ora), and broadcasting (Jim Mora’s Ora).

Of course, when the population eventually coalesces, we will need only one:

The Diaspora Ora.

She has managed to rise without trace. And that’s worth commenting on.

Helen Clark. Weak wave

Heather Simpson, right, and her friend Margaret

UN HQ. Helen Clark allegedly works here, but Reception didn't know who she was. Picture by Ndiebold at Dreamstime

Alfred the Great... PC banished the satirical bigotry, but the slack accent became fashionable. BBC picture

Suddenly, Johnny Speight’s marvellous creation had become an unintended role model. Listening again to Alf in Till Death or In Sickness and in Health, you’re struck by the astonishing candour and freedom of public expression that the ensuing and sickening wave of political correctness put paid to, leaving us cowed, timid and forbidden to laugh at each other. And anyone who knows Estuary English, as practised by the new adult population of the UK, can guess its origins.

Something similar to Alf happened in New Zealand. Not with a loud-mouthed (and foul-mouthed) Londoner, but with Ginette McDonald’s infamous creation: Lynn of Tawa. What the good folk of Tawa did to deserve being associated with the common-as-muck, gum-chewing, risingly intonating Lynn is anyone’s guess, but her parody of certain younger females some 20 or maybe 30 years ago hit the mark.

As with Alf, there were some who just didn’t get the joke, and instead took Lynn as a role model. Possibly the better part of an entire generation, if what we hear on local radio and television these days is anything to go by.

On what used to be called the Concert Programme (is it still “Radio New Zealand … Concert”?), you often hear someone singing delightfully, and then the singer is interviewed. Her shocking diction is so atrocious that you’d think she had been “discovered” propping up the local bar, or a lamp post.

You know they have undergone some form of speech training from their beautiful musical delivery, but why did they never discover how to talk proper? They are clearly not dim, but show themselves to have been let down by an uncultured society that believes careful and clear speech is of little importance.

Perhaps we should be grateful that they can sing, and that they have been trained to enunciate properly when delivering arias. Perhaps we should just enjoy their performances… and encourage them to engage someone else to do the talking for them, when interview time comes around.

As for our television and radio presenters, weather girls and boys and the roving reporters: we sadly have no such luxury. They talk as badly as they dress. Students of the decline and fall of the English language know it probably began here with Radio New Zealand’s Morning Report anger-man (rather than anchor-man) Shaun Plunket. The strangulated delivery that Plunket is famous for is now so widespread that (although we can do little about radio folk such as Shaun the Mangler) subtitles will soon be needed on New Zealand television.

As for our Prime Minister, special tuition is required. He will also have to dissend sivrul octeeves before he reaches the baritone required (and achieved by Hillin Claaak) to qualify as a voice that can be easily understood and seriously taken. He will need to remove the South Island country accent (concentrated even more by what seems to be an acute case of buttock-clenching) and stop saying Ny’Zlind, before the rest of us can understand what he is saying. Tirrible human eras are one thing, John, but vocal errors in a world statesman are quite another.

The people who organised the opening ceremony at the Olympics in China may have unwittingly come up with a useful precedent that could also satisfy a need for job-sharing in response to our current economic woes: keep the pretty presenters, singers and politicians on, but take away their mikes or mute them out, and then – for God’s sake – get someone who can speak or read clearly, to do the voiceovers.

Chichester Cathedral - somewhat phallic. Picture by Ian Britton, Freefoto.com

It suggests that town hall officers should use “general public” as a positive and less offensive alternative. Fortunately, Chichester is a long way from South London, or they would probably be threatening that other cherished term for public opinion, “the man on the Clapham omnibus” and seeking to change it to “the gender-neutral person on the Clapham unibus,” while seeking further public funds to investigate the sexual connotations of Clap as it relates to Ham.

The council’s dotty new guide also kills off the phrase “manning the switchboard” and suggests “staffing” or “running the switchboard” instead.

These suggestions have rightly been criticised as an example of repulsive political correctness. Tony Colpoys, down-to-earth chairman of Ebernoe parish council, West Sussex, said: “This kind of thing really gets my goat – it’s not as though anybody in their right mind would believe that the ‘man in the street’ referred solely to the male sex. It’s just stupid.

“I think political correctness is one of the most ghastly things about our society – it’s one of the most repulsive things ever invented.”

The council said that the document, which is distributed to all staff and council members, is not a rulebook but a guide to help staff and members find the “correct” words. A spokesman (sorry, spokesbeing) said: “We introduced the guide because, as community leaders, we must be aware of what modern society requires of the public sector. This includes the sensitivity of various individuals and groups, and current thinking in society in general.

“It is easy to make fun of individual phrases or words, but what we are seeking to do is to be more sensitive and responsive to the needs of others in our society.”

The seven-page guide offers other suggestions, including avoiding terms such as “old woman”, “old fool” and “old codger”, which, the council said, make old people seem fussy, stupid and dependent. It suggests simply using the phrase “old person” instead.

What an awful collection of totally PC prats those poor ratepayers have to suffer (and doubtless pay through the nose for) in Chichester. This is a town that has 2000 years of male-dominated history, from the Romans, through the Saxons and Normans, and any number of devout male Christians, as well as lending its name to lone round-the-world yachtsperson Francis Chichester (or was it Frances?).

The dumbed-down Dodo... cherished in Chichester

We wonder what the town hall’s half-blind dunderheads would prefer to call a “Grumpy Old Geezer”?

Maraenui, before and after the tremor. Picture by 31vick

As dawn broke, it became clear that the quake had severely shaken this quaint, forgotten but otherwise vibrant fragment of idyllic Napier, the cultural art deco heart of Hawke’s Bay. Early estimates put the insured cost of repairs to private homes as high as $29.99.

Several priceless collections of mementos from the Waiouru War Museum, cherished honesty boxes, pre-loved public statues, secondhand bronze memorial plaques and numerous highly sought-after P pipes were scattered around, some damaged beyond repair. Three iconic areas of historic burnt-out cars were badly disturbed and will be relocated to a new heritage-focused village centre.

Earthquake Minister Michael Cullen, who lives nearby, helicoptered into the village and rubbed sensitive parts of his body against those of reluctant local leaders. Mike declared his Government’s commitment to rebuilding the community into an enduring example of ethnic art and a centre of exportable software excellence boasting economic transformation.

Meanwhile, pre- and post-quake trauma among the population was evident. Many locals described the shock of being woken up well before their weekly benefit money was due.

Radio WINZ-FM reported that hundreds of residents were wandering uncontrolled, confused and bewildered, still trying to come to terms with the fact that something interesting had happened in Maraenui that didn’t involve the police. One resident, a 15-year-old mother of three, said: “Yeah, no, I was still shaking when I was watching it on telly the next morning, eh?”

Local entrepreneurs vowed to carry on business as usual. And thriving, growth-driven enterprises involved in lootings, muggings, car crimes and welfare fraud pluckily carried on regardless. Although shoplifting had to be put on hold while damaged stocks could be replaced, industrious leaders expected brisk business to resume before long. A spokesman said that it was important not to let organised groups such as the police or paying customers gain a foothold in their patch.

By the weekend, the Red Cross had managed to ship 4000 cartons of Lion Red to the area but warned that this had done little to relieve the plight of stricken residents.

Tragically, rescue workers searching through the rubble found large quantities of personal belongings, including benefit books, priceless jewellery from the Warehouse, bone carvings from the $2 Shop and significant quantities of pharmaceutical goods.

An appeal has been set up to seek essential supplies for victims.

The desperate need is for clothing. Aid workers said the most important items in short supply were:

* Baseball caps

* Hoodies

* Tracksuit tops (his or hers, X, XL, XXL or mini-tent-sized)

* White sport socks

* Trendy Nike running shoes, or white gumboots

Culturally appropriate food parcels are harder to assemble, but your efforts can make a big difference. Microwave meals, baked beans, chippies, ice cream, mince, fish and chips and cans of budget cola or Lift Plus are ideal, simple choices. Please do not give anything that needs peeling or cooking.

Remember:

* 45 cents buys a ballpoint pen for filling in welfare “top up” claims

* $4 buys enough chips, chicken nuggets and a blue fizzy drink to fatten a family of nine

* $10 will supply one packet of Rothmans and a lighter to calm a child’s shattered nerves.

Also urgently needed is tinned dog food or Wag-style rolls for starving pit bulls and grandparents.

When asked if they wanted the council to build a tip (supposedly to take the quake rubble), a spokesman replied that better housing was not an immediate priority.

Bottoms up, boys!

The parade then goes ahead, with a record-breaking audience of men in dirty raincoats leering on.

Talk about a load of bollocks…

And who cares? The tawdry, artless display is just a monumental yawn. We weren’t there, because we had a headache and were washing what remains of our hair.

To make matters even less alluring, virtually all the birds ride those dreadful old Harley-Davidson thumpers, which are the nearest thing to a tractor on two wheels that you are ever likely to come across. Oops! There we go again…

The real problem with New Zealand isn’t fiscal drag. It’s image lag. No matter what the Labour-led Government does between now and election day, the fact is that everybody’s thoroughly fed up with the same tired and ancient faces, lecturing us with the same boring and discredited messages. We see through them easily. We want to see something new.

So look instead at Italy.

There, they run a voting system that (believe or not) is even more potty than ours. It has provided them with more than 60 governments since the end of World War 2. A never-ending series of loosely riveted coalitions has made the place ungovernable by anyone other than the Mafia.

Not that the Mafia makes a good fist of it, either. They run the rubbish collection in Naples, which is piled so high with rotting trash that desperate residents are now building bonfires. This leads to clouds of toxins that have poisoned the local cows and put an end to some important cheesemakers.

But all is not lost, because the Italians long ago gave up listening to prattling politicians. Newly re-elected premier Silvio Berlusconi shrewdly realises that people actually prefer style over substance. Just take a look at some members of his new Cabinet:

Now take a look at what Labour has to offer in New Zealand:

In a badly lit Russian milking parlour, that cheesy lot would look drop-dead gorgeous. But you’ll get more commonsense out of the four-legged milkers…