As long ago as 8 December 2009 I wrote a blog entry about the looming Rugby World Cup entitled “Fleeing the Football”. Already, back then, I was starting to panic about the abyss of booze and hyper-silliness into which the RWC threatens to plunge us all.
I mentioned having seen a kind of countdown clock in Christchurch Cathedral Square which was already, even then, proclaiming the number of days and nights before the advent of Rugby Heaven. Has that thing survived the earthquakes? If it has, can anyone get near it in the CBD Red Zone to see it and worship? Anyway, I can announce that it is now 79 days to the opening ceremony -- we get the countdown every evening immediately prior to the TV One 6 pm news.
Moreover, we now have stories of “wannabees” auditioning for dance troups and the like for the RWC opening ceremonies. I might consider auditioning to dance at the closing ceremony... But here were all these odd and ofttimes apparently talentless people prancing around in the hope of free entry.
We have dark debate about whether Eden Park is up to it. The only time in my life I have ever been near Eden Park was in 1981, protesting the All Blacks’ final test against the Springboks. The police made very sure we never got into the park. But that was the day of aircraft low-level flour-bombing of the park, and much violence. The protesters that day were sorted initially into groups of graded willingness to get batoned by police and otherwise assaulted. Barrie MacCuish and I joined the group with the most nuns and people in wheelchairs. It was a great day on which we said that some things matter more than Rugby football.
Christchurch’s facilities are of course no more, and there is much grief about that.
There remains no solution about escape from all this, unless I am willing to cough up whatever it costs to take a cruise down the Rhine, or spend some weeks on Niue. The thing is going to last for weeks. I have not had the courage to find out how long it lasts.
Possibly, for all our Rugby tradition and fervour, the country is just now too preoccupied to be greatly bothered, and all the hype will end up struggling for attention. Everything about it seems tiresome to me -- such as the report tonight that most of the “Kiwi-made” artifacts and mementoes on sale in the tourist shops are actually nothing of the kind. They are made in China or Vietnam, fake, cheap, embarrassing. It’s trashy and sad.
We have huge problems to occupy us in NZ at present, some aspects of them bringing out the best in Kiwis. It’s hard to see how the RWC will be anything other than a nuisance, and some occupational therapy for the sports-mad and simpletons.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Hymnody
For some 19 years Maureen Garing has run a half-hour programme on Radio NZ, early Sunday mornings, called Hymns for Sunday Morning. Well, I imagine it was never intended to appeal to our country’s growing throngs of unchurched and agnostic, most of whom would be profoundly unconscious anyway at 7 am on a Sunday. Hymns for Sunday Morning is for memories and nostalgia chiefly among my generation perhaps.
But to get to the point… Last Sunday Maureen Garing presented her final programme. And to mark this she played a selection of her own favourite hymns. They were all wonderful -- George Herbert, Purcell, Handel… The best of all for me was the one she chose as the representative Scottish Metrical Psalm, the end of Psalm 72, His name for ever shall endure. I am unable to find words to describe why, with all that has happened over the years, I still respond immediately and instinctively to this spirituality, its robust faith, the songs arising from mists and hardship.
I am well aware that this selection of hymns would have been largely incomprehensible to most of the contemporary church, or what’s left of it. What we have now is the generation that arises inchoately to How great thou art, or plays the bagpipe version of Amazing Grace whenever possible. The only psalm they know is The Lord’s my shepherd, but they don’t know it’s a psalm. They don’t know what a psalm is. Maureen Garing’s selection moreover included not one Colin Gibson or Shirley Murray. So of course it was archaic -- and I loved every note of it.
Then I came across another reaction, to a previous hymn selection by Maureen Garing. This is by some Methodist bloke in his parish newsletter:
Not known for her innovative choice of hymnody to greet our waking hours, Ms Garing excelled herself by announcing she was planning to play the hymn without which, in her words, the Advent/Christmas season would not be complete. The hymn? Ding Dong Merrily on High!! As I headed for the shower, I wondered, troubled, what possible relevance such a song might have for bereft families in the mining communities of the West Coast, or the farming communities of Northland facing the arid realities of drought. Not that the rest of the programme had been much better. There had been but one solitary indigenous carol, one in ten maybe. The rest was meringue stuff - light and fluffy, beautifully articulated and modulated by some of the best cathedral choirs in England, but engaging at what point in the cares and struggles of listeners dealing with the sharp and wounding realities of today's New Zealand?
Well, OK. Ding Dong, Merrily on High, if you trouble to read the rest of it, is actually a song of high Trinitarian doctrine. But never mind. This bloke calls it meringue stuff, light and fluffy. He prefers something like that silly NZ carol, Upside Down Christmas.
The church which inspired and motivated me simply isn’t here any more. I love and celebrate its memory. I grieve at its passing, but of course all things pass. Perhaps I romanticize it. Hearing its echoes, however, stirs me still.
But to get to the point… Last Sunday Maureen Garing presented her final programme. And to mark this she played a selection of her own favourite hymns. They were all wonderful -- George Herbert, Purcell, Handel… The best of all for me was the one she chose as the representative Scottish Metrical Psalm, the end of Psalm 72, His name for ever shall endure. I am unable to find words to describe why, with all that has happened over the years, I still respond immediately and instinctively to this spirituality, its robust faith, the songs arising from mists and hardship.
I am well aware that this selection of hymns would have been largely incomprehensible to most of the contemporary church, or what’s left of it. What we have now is the generation that arises inchoately to How great thou art, or plays the bagpipe version of Amazing Grace whenever possible. The only psalm they know is The Lord’s my shepherd, but they don’t know it’s a psalm. They don’t know what a psalm is. Maureen Garing’s selection moreover included not one Colin Gibson or Shirley Murray. So of course it was archaic -- and I loved every note of it.
Then I came across another reaction, to a previous hymn selection by Maureen Garing. This is by some Methodist bloke in his parish newsletter:
Not known for her innovative choice of hymnody to greet our waking hours, Ms Garing excelled herself by announcing she was planning to play the hymn without which, in her words, the Advent/Christmas season would not be complete. The hymn? Ding Dong Merrily on High!! As I headed for the shower, I wondered, troubled, what possible relevance such a song might have for bereft families in the mining communities of the West Coast, or the farming communities of Northland facing the arid realities of drought. Not that the rest of the programme had been much better. There had been but one solitary indigenous carol, one in ten maybe. The rest was meringue stuff - light and fluffy, beautifully articulated and modulated by some of the best cathedral choirs in England, but engaging at what point in the cares and struggles of listeners dealing with the sharp and wounding realities of today's New Zealand?
Well, OK. Ding Dong, Merrily on High, if you trouble to read the rest of it, is actually a song of high Trinitarian doctrine. But never mind. This bloke calls it meringue stuff, light and fluffy. He prefers something like that silly NZ carol, Upside Down Christmas.
The church which inspired and motivated me simply isn’t here any more. I love and celebrate its memory. I grieve at its passing, but of course all things pass. Perhaps I romanticize it. Hearing its echoes, however, stirs me still.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Down the hatch
“He said part of growing up was learning how to drink in a mature way.”
I extracted this quote from the current furious debate on how to stop our youth turning up at A & E legless and obnoxious, or jumping off the motorway overbridge. I neglected to note which society pseudo-sophisticate said it. However…
Just how do you ingest ethanol (C2H5OH) in a mature way? Do you have little sips? Is it in a mature way if you are in socially sophisticated company?
“Growing up”, he said. You know when you’re growing up because you are drinking “in a mature way”. Well, isn’t that nice. This chap seems to have missed that they are growing up anyway, however they drink.
Alcohol is inseparable from any human society with the possible exception of the Johnsonville Play Centre -- the tots, you understand, not the mums. The earliest human records show fermentation of grain and the consumption of booze. The same records tell of drunkenness and disorder. The children in Fiji knew how to make a heady toddy from the central shoot of the coconut palm. Plenty of people in every age have gone through life choosing not to take alcohol, but most have happily indulged, many to grave or even lethal excess.
How pompously I am writing about all this. My point is that drinking in a mature way can only mean ceasing when you know you have had enough. “Enough” may mean that you have had all you want right now, or it may mean that if you have any more you will be at risk of behaving obnoxiously, driving dangerously, making an ass of yourself, or simply feeling sick. That point of decision, for whatever reason, is a mature decision, I guess -- and maybe it’s what the societal sophisticate means.
The reality is that once you have already poured some alcohol down your throat your brain has rapidly got less able to make that mature decision. There is also the deep question of will -- if what I want is to drown sorrows and cares, have a joyous time, enjoy getting legless (which is what school kids and others now unashamedly confess on TV), I may be unwilling to obey the call of wisdom and maturity. Peer pressure too may override any sensible decision.
One reaction to recent tragedies among binge drinking secondary school kids was an article by a woman whose name meant nothing to me -- she remembered her own adolescence which was marked by much booze and mayhem. She knew she brought some years of anxiety to her parents and others, and did a lot of damage. “But hey!” she said, “we had fun!” Well that’s alright then. Granny Herald actually published this drivel. We had fun. I didn’t. Being overcome with joy as the room swivelled around at 2 am is not quite the way I recall it.
So I would like to know from our society bloke precisely how he proposes to foster this maturity by feeding free alcohol -- beer and Bacardi, whisky and wine, champagne and cocktails -- to 100 teenagers under “controlled conditions”, before their school ball.
It is idiotic, irresponsible, deeply mistaken, bad leadership and example. Drinking is drinking. No one needs to do it. I personally believe life is better without it. But let’s not fall for this silly myth that you can drink in a mature way, which is innocuous.
I extracted this quote from the current furious debate on how to stop our youth turning up at A & E legless and obnoxious, or jumping off the motorway overbridge. I neglected to note which society pseudo-sophisticate said it. However…
Just how do you ingest ethanol (C2H5OH) in a mature way? Do you have little sips? Is it in a mature way if you are in socially sophisticated company?
“Growing up”, he said. You know when you’re growing up because you are drinking “in a mature way”. Well, isn’t that nice. This chap seems to have missed that they are growing up anyway, however they drink.
Alcohol is inseparable from any human society with the possible exception of the Johnsonville Play Centre -- the tots, you understand, not the mums. The earliest human records show fermentation of grain and the consumption of booze. The same records tell of drunkenness and disorder. The children in Fiji knew how to make a heady toddy from the central shoot of the coconut palm. Plenty of people in every age have gone through life choosing not to take alcohol, but most have happily indulged, many to grave or even lethal excess.
How pompously I am writing about all this. My point is that drinking in a mature way can only mean ceasing when you know you have had enough. “Enough” may mean that you have had all you want right now, or it may mean that if you have any more you will be at risk of behaving obnoxiously, driving dangerously, making an ass of yourself, or simply feeling sick. That point of decision, for whatever reason, is a mature decision, I guess -- and maybe it’s what the societal sophisticate means.
The reality is that once you have already poured some alcohol down your throat your brain has rapidly got less able to make that mature decision. There is also the deep question of will -- if what I want is to drown sorrows and cares, have a joyous time, enjoy getting legless (which is what school kids and others now unashamedly confess on TV), I may be unwilling to obey the call of wisdom and maturity. Peer pressure too may override any sensible decision.
One reaction to recent tragedies among binge drinking secondary school kids was an article by a woman whose name meant nothing to me -- she remembered her own adolescence which was marked by much booze and mayhem. She knew she brought some years of anxiety to her parents and others, and did a lot of damage. “But hey!” she said, “we had fun!” Well that’s alright then. Granny Herald actually published this drivel. We had fun. I didn’t. Being overcome with joy as the room swivelled around at 2 am is not quite the way I recall it.
So I would like to know from our society bloke precisely how he proposes to foster this maturity by feeding free alcohol -- beer and Bacardi, whisky and wine, champagne and cocktails -- to 100 teenagers under “controlled conditions”, before their school ball.
It is idiotic, irresponsible, deeply mistaken, bad leadership and example. Drinking is drinking. No one needs to do it. I personally believe life is better without it. But let’s not fall for this silly myth that you can drink in a mature way, which is innocuous.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Repulsive human activities
I concede at the outset that what is repulsive to me may be bliss to others (eg. “rugby heaven”). I further concede that it is not my function to pass judgement on others, and that even seeming to do so may excite their wrath and indignation. I think we all however should form judgements about various dubious pastimes.
1. Boxing. In the noble sport of boxing the goal is to brain damage your opponent to the extent that he can’t get up off the floor. This is done mainly by punches to the head. Punches around the chest and midriff also help in the general deliberate debilitation, but it is the grogginess that counts, and that signifies brain damage. I can see why this appeals to some people. It excites the worst features, blood lust, bullying, violence, in human nature. It is not noble at all. Morally, medically, boxing is without excuse or justification. I do remember that it is immensely popular in some cultures such as Samoan, and inexplicably with some intelligent individuals such as Sir Robert Jones.
2. Motor sport. This won’t win me any friends either. Motor sport is noisy, polluting, hideously expensive, pointless. I am not aware that it contributes to fitness or social welfare in any way. It is a happy hunting ground for petrol-heads and lovers of inordinate speed, power and danger, and the females who seem to hang about. It was a good day when Auckland decided it didn’t want the annual Formula One event clogging up our streets and bringing the inner city to a halt for days on end. I sense that Hamilton is now starting to regret that they ever took it on. Stock cars and such things seem simply juvenile and silly to me. (Of course there is also the motor bike. I know of one surgeon who reputedly refused to treat any victim of a motor bike smash -- and I know of another one who had a love affair with his Harley Davidson. Motor bikes are here to stay, of course, and I know that many people ride them responsibly. So I’m not including them in my criticism of motor sport.)
3. Foul language. Well, I guess it’s my upbringing in the first instance. We were not allowed to use “bad” language, ever, at home -- let alone “foul” language. But it’s also a matter of good taste, which now seems widely lost. Foul language is now endemic. It has become unexceptional. People now think it is justified by usage. Women as well as men swear frequently and pointlessly in their normal conversation. It fouls the air. It has become part of the general trivialising of words and meaning. My attitude also reflects, I realise, the respect for my native language in which I was raised. The language, well used, is not like that. Are these people chronically short of adjectives, or simply general vocabulary? The English language at its best is built and equipped for subtlety, for shades of meaning and expression. Perhaps people no longer possess subtleties and insights anyway, let alone know how to express them. Anyway, foul language is not used in our home.
1. Boxing. In the noble sport of boxing the goal is to brain damage your opponent to the extent that he can’t get up off the floor. This is done mainly by punches to the head. Punches around the chest and midriff also help in the general deliberate debilitation, but it is the grogginess that counts, and that signifies brain damage. I can see why this appeals to some people. It excites the worst features, blood lust, bullying, violence, in human nature. It is not noble at all. Morally, medically, boxing is without excuse or justification. I do remember that it is immensely popular in some cultures such as Samoan, and inexplicably with some intelligent individuals such as Sir Robert Jones.
2. Motor sport. This won’t win me any friends either. Motor sport is noisy, polluting, hideously expensive, pointless. I am not aware that it contributes to fitness or social welfare in any way. It is a happy hunting ground for petrol-heads and lovers of inordinate speed, power and danger, and the females who seem to hang about. It was a good day when Auckland decided it didn’t want the annual Formula One event clogging up our streets and bringing the inner city to a halt for days on end. I sense that Hamilton is now starting to regret that they ever took it on. Stock cars and such things seem simply juvenile and silly to me. (Of course there is also the motor bike. I know of one surgeon who reputedly refused to treat any victim of a motor bike smash -- and I know of another one who had a love affair with his Harley Davidson. Motor bikes are here to stay, of course, and I know that many people ride them responsibly. So I’m not including them in my criticism of motor sport.)
3. Foul language. Well, I guess it’s my upbringing in the first instance. We were not allowed to use “bad” language, ever, at home -- let alone “foul” language. But it’s also a matter of good taste, which now seems widely lost. Foul language is now endemic. It has become unexceptional. People now think it is justified by usage. Women as well as men swear frequently and pointlessly in their normal conversation. It fouls the air. It has become part of the general trivialising of words and meaning. My attitude also reflects, I realise, the respect for my native language in which I was raised. The language, well used, is not like that. Are these people chronically short of adjectives, or simply general vocabulary? The English language at its best is built and equipped for subtlety, for shades of meaning and expression. Perhaps people no longer possess subtleties and insights anyway, let alone know how to express them. Anyway, foul language is not used in our home.
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