When communication counts

One of the things I enjoy about theatre and performing or directing is the way all the elements come together. Sometimes these blend almost seamlessly, and at other times they are more awkward.

We are currently in 'black week' for the Alexandra Musical Society's production of The Full Monty. This is the term given to the week before the performance where the actors, having been the focus for the past three months of rehearsal, are no longer centre-stage. Instead the director turns his or her attention to aspects of sound, lighting, cotumes, hair and make-up, the band and traffic.

This show uses 'trucks' or set pieces on wheels which must be rolled into position and then removed from stage for various scenes. We have to negotiate urinals, pianos, police sergeant's desks, sofas and coffins: the stage-crew are busy. There are very quick changes: the costume department are very busy. Microphones have to be attached and removed in a rapid time-frame; meanwhile lighting and sound cues are crucial to the actors and the band.

It's all coming together and it will be a wonderful show. Many people are learning a lot and learning it fast. Our director, Bryan Aitken, is a good teacher - he spells things out clearly and concisely. The most important lesson he teaches is, "It's not just about you. Make sure you communicate". The stage manager calls the show - he or she makes sure that the actors are ready; the sound and lighting technicians know when their cues are; the band are tuned up and focussed in the pit.

No one component can start without the other. It is a giant dramatic jigsaw puzzle and each piece fits in exactly the right place - if it doesn't, then the picture will be subtly (or radically) altered. Clear forms of communication are necessary between departments, which may mean that not everybody has to pipe up at the same time and create a chaotic cacophony.

Meanwhile the rest of the nation is embroiled in the throes of the Rugby World Cup. The media here is still harping on about the mess of the 'party central' when lots more inebriated rugby fans, and other folk, turned up to the Auckland waterfront than were expected so all public transport was thrown into turmoil, even though this was routinely advertised as 'the place to be'.

Ignoring the sideshow, the players have been out and about mingling with the public and attempting to foster good PR networks. You may have noticed that I went along to meet some of the England team when they visited the local school. Other team members (including top trump Jonny Wilkinson) went to Wakatipu High School for a skills sessionwith the young players.

Asked for advice, Jonny Wilkinson (OBE) said the most important aspect of any team sport was to communicate clearly with your team so everyone was aware of what the others were doing all the time. It's all very well to be the Flash Harry, but for the sake of cohesive teamwork and ensemble performance, it's better to be Johnny-on-the-spot.

Some Corner of a Foreign Field... That is Forever England

I don't know who was more thrilled by the prospect of some of the England rugby team visiting the Arrowtown Primary School - the adults or the kids. The children were arranged in rows wearing their red and white to meet and greet the players. The word went round, 'Johnny's not coming' but that didn't seem to dampen anyone's spirits and there was still much excitement as we waited for them to arrive.

And they came from out of the sky...

They were welcomed with a haka, which seemed to bemuse them slightly. Later Mark Cueto said they had received many welcomes and many hakas, but he could 'speak for the lads' in saying that this was probably the best they had heard. Whether this is true or not, it certainly endeared him and his team-mates to his audience. He then paid tribute to the Arrowtown team who reached the Rippa Rugby 'World Cup' Final, and in doing so achieved instant hero status.

 

Moving inside to assembly, the children sang another welcome and had all learned the words impressively. Many were face-painted with the flag of St George which may seem a little odd on the other side of the world, but when head-master, Robin Harris, asked the children to put their hands up if they had English ancestry, at least half of them did so.



Mark Cueto: my new favourite English rugby player



James Haskell hongis the leader of the haka



As the guys listened to the speech by the headmaster, they looked a little like naughty schoolboys, but eventually they began to relax during the informal Q & A session.

James Haskell ponders his royal appointments

One of the children asked if they get to "hang out with the Queen"? James Haskell replied that although they were all invited to the royal wedding and have been honoured to meet The Queen, you generally need an official invitation, and so they don't get to "hang out at the palace much" - he added that "Mike [Tindall] does, but he tends to go on his own."

The Wee Red Hen leads the school in the New Zealand national anthem

When asked why they played rugby rather than other sports, a couple of kids in the audience shouted out, "Yeah!" - they had chosen Liverpool and Man Utd shirts for their emblematic red and white outfits, so it was clear where their loyalties (or those of their parents, anyway) lay.

James Haskell, probably somewhat disingenuously said it was because he was rubbish at all other sports, as anyone who had see him try and play football could confirm. He admitted to being a noisy child who was always getting into trouble and his mother lied about his age so she could get him not the Rugby Under 7s when he was five. When his Dad found out you could have a beer down at the rugby club on a Sunday he went along too giving Mummy Haskell the added advantage of getting them both out of the house at the same time.

Alex Corbisiero looking pensive

Dylan Hartley (right) is keen to relate someone else's embarrassing moment

In answer to the question, "What's been your most embarrassing moment on the rugby pitch?", Dylan Hartley was keen to pipe up, "because it's not about me". He related the incident of the fox on the pitch at Twickenham when England played Scotland in the Six Nations earlier this year. Apparently when he went in for the scrum he smelt something vile and realised Alex Corbisiero had 'rolled in fox poo'. Adults talking about animal poo - the kids absolutely loved it!

The All Blacks are the biggest rivals according to Mark Cueto. He's played them several times as an England and British Lions player and not been on a winning side yet. Here's hoping...

Alex Corbisiero answered that what he most liked about Queenstown and the surrounding region was the spectacular scenery - he says he lives in London so helicopter rides over mountains are not the norm for him. He also claimed that some of the team had discovered Fergburger at which the rest of the team burst into laughter and all pointed him out as the burger munching menace.

Who ate all the pies? Alex Corbisiero, apparetly

And then they were challenged to a dry weetbix-eating competition by this lad in a white wig and England flag/cape. And they all accepted the challenge and ate the thing without water ('I'll bet you gave the All Blacks water!' they said). Don't tell me they haven't done this before - it's fairly standard at sports clubs everywhere, usually followed by downing a pint, but they still giggled their way through the process and looked nothing like serious elite athletes - bless them. It took them 48 seconds - apparently the All Blacks can do it in 14. "If that was Richie McCaw, he was probably cheating" - James Haskell

And then the Wee Red Hen led a rousing rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, which the kids sang beautifully and the England players tried to sing, although they didn't know that it had verses as well as a chorus. James Haskel filmed the whole thing on his camera so he'll probably be able to watch it later and learn the words. Or perhaps not.

"Psst - does anyone know the words?"

Lots of signing stuff outdoors. I was too embarrassed to queue up will all the kids, so I gratefully accepted the Wee Red Hen's offer to get my scarf signed.

Extreme concentration from Chris Ashton

One very happy fan

That's my England scarf! Make that two very happy fans!

When English sports teams go away there's always a lot of negative media surrounding their tour. The latest trash talk is trying to pin a scandal on Mike Tindal. Despite the fact that the team's judgement should be questioned for visiting possibly the skankiest pit in Queenstown, the rest of the press should be entirely positive. 

The kids (and their parents and various hangers on) who witnessed the PR session at Arrowtown were all thoroughly charmed by the boys from Blighty. Sample comment heard from a teacher - "That went better than I was expecting. They were a lot friendlier and more personable than I was expecting. And much better loking too." You know it. C'mon England!

Haere Mai

I’ve never been a fan of opening ceremonies – I find them shallow spectacles, lacking in substance and too politically correct to actually be entertaining. I am anxious about the complete cock-up London will make of the Olympics (the sheer weight of necessary cultural touchstones will doubtless sink the enterprise), however, so I watched the opening ceremony of the Rugby World Cup with interest, and a couple of girlfriends and a bottle of two of bubbles.

It began with a karanga (the Māori call at the start of the pōwhiri – the official welcome) which was spine-tinglingly beautiful, and her frock was pretty cool too, although not ‘o for awesome’ as the commentator opined (that’s actually a Kiwi in-joke based on an intellectually challenged comment by a boxer with a left hook and a bad haircut). As she emerged from the swirling mists projected onto the central oval stage (which incorporated Scenic landscapes with Air New Zealand design motifs), she resembled the lady of the lake.

Which was apt, as it happened, as next-up appeared boats on wheels that appeared to glide across the stage representing the city of sails. The Mysterious Minx pointed out that they had holes in them and probably wouldn’t catch the breeze all that well (she’s a Sagittarius and disturbingly pragmatic). This would not have been felicitous considering the hammerhead shark graphic that proceeded to circle across the projected screen. Following the recent death of a bodyboarder due to a shark attack at a popular Western Australia surf spot, perhaps this was specifically intended to intimidate the trans-Tasman competition?

We were then treated to a thundering haka with columns of fire and red and gold flashing lights that recalled the violently geological formation of this land. The Fudge Princess mentioned that there was ‘a bit too much bum’ for her liking and that the ‘star jumps’ were ‘a bit out of time’. She claims Māori descent so is officially entitled to her opinion.

Next a small lad clad in the red and black strip of Canterbury protected a very large rugby ball from about 100 burly blokes as he negotiated scrums and tackles with the assistance of flying harnesses, bendy try-lines and some dodgy manoeuvres. I was taking notes as I fully expect the All Blacks to make use of these methods to win ‘the prize’ – represented here by a sort of gilded cage type affair. He approached the ‘mystery guest’ at the head of a ladder of top-try scorers. Jonah Lomu materialised as the embodiment of the world’s worst kept secret and encouraged the young Jeff-Wilson-look-a-like to ‘do it for Christchurch, my friend’. It was actually quite emotional and well-executed.

Not so the World in Union, which was beautifully sung but marred by drums, ukuleles and ‘freestyle’ dancers who looked like your drunken aunts and aunties at a wedding. The problem with mass participation performances is that they either look like the Nuremberg Rally or a complete shemozzle. This was the latter.

Old ‘smile and wave’ (or John Key as some people like to call the Prime Minister of New Zealand) smiled and waved and hoped that having a rugby world cup on his watch would make up for his political absence, and then the IRB dude came on and spoke both Māori and English with ridiculously improbable accents to declare the games officially open.

People called to each other on conch shells (I liked the one on the lighthouse even if the ever-practical Mischievous Minx pointed out, ‘You wouldn’t really be able to hear that’) to signify the start of the fireworks. I had heard great things about these – they were going to represent pohutukawa, kowhai and kiwis. Perhaps it was the coverage, but they looked like a damp squib.

The out-of-tune accompaniment on the recorder (or ‘squeaky tube’ as my dad used to call it, with justification based on this evidence) didn’t help, and the remote-control dancing container lifters were like something out of one of Peter Jackson’s early B-Movie attempts.

Outside the stadium, there were folk attempting Spiderman antics on the side of tall buildings, and a pipe bandon the Domain illuminated by the lights of the Auckland Museum, who could at least play in time. I’m not being fair – that bit was remarkably affecting for someone who moved 12,000 miles to get away from bagpipes!

What Achievement!/?

 

Depending on your point of view, the punctuation after that headline is an exclamation or a question mark. The All Whites (New Zealand's football team, because they have to give everything nicknames here) won this country's highest sporting/ popularity vote at the Halberg Awards.

Their coach, Ricki Herbert won coach of the year for getting his team to the World Cup and ensuring that they didn't lose a game. They achieved more than New Zealand has ever done before in this global competition, contested by almost 200 countries (ten times more than play rugby world-wide). They had previously never got a point at the World Cup.

However, neither did they win a game - and therein lies the problem. There has been controversy stirred up by the awarding of the team of the year accolade to a team that didn't win anything. One of the members of the judging panel has resigned in protest - he is a rugby supporter. The All Blacks were also nominated (they have won all but one test this year) Hamish Bond and Eric Murray were finalists in the team award (they won gold at the world rowing championships) as were the Kiwis (the Rugby league team who beat Australia in the final of the four nations) and the Silver Ferns (gold medal in netball at the Commonwealth Games).

Many of the comments on news and sporting blogs have become quite snide and spiteful, such as the following sample:

"The All Whites shouldn't have even been there. Giving them the team award is an insult to all the sports men and women who actually won something - not get knocked out of the first round of a multi-round competition."

"I don't know how a team that didn't win anything can scoop the awards."

"Congratulations New Zealand for rewarding mediocrity, Way to show the youth of today that participation is the key."

It all begs the question - what are the criteria? If it means winning above all else, then no, the All Whites didn't do that. If it means achieving more than your country has ever achieved, then yes, they did. Incidentally, Julian Dean would have been my sportsman of the year - he completed every one of the UCI World Tour events, a phenomenal achievement which no New Zealander has ever done before.

If it means capturing the attention of the nation and bringing the sport to national recognition, then they have certainly done that. Football is the most popular (both player and spectator) sport in the world and New Zealand's fastest-growing sport. Apparently winning is not explicitly mentioned in the voting criteria, whereas showing 'sporting excellence on a world stage against high-quality opposition' is.
 
The decision was reported in USA Today - "Rugby-mad New Zealand has awarded its highest sporting honor to its national football team which was unbeaten at last year's World Cup in South Africa." It's a big talking point it seems. Don't hold your breath, but they might even stop calling it soccer. So, what are your thoughts?

Foul play

Andy Gray has been sacked and Richard Keys has resigned from SKY for making derogatory and sexist comments about Sian Massey, a female linesman (so that's why they changed the name to referee's assistant). They weren't able to mention her without commenting on her looks (because, of course, that's how all women should be judged), suggested the game had 'gone mad' for allowing female officials, and then cast aspersions on the ability of women to understand the off-side rule. This is disgraceful, but not surprising.

Having played and watched football for many years, I know the off-side rule as well as anybody, despite the 'modern interpretation' being ridiculous - as Bill Nicholson said as manager of Spurs, "If he's not interfering with play, what's he doing on the pitch?" (That quote is often attributed to the great Bill Shankly, but apparently he said, "If a player is not interfering with play or seeking to gain an advantage, then he should be", which is a different matter entirely, although equally valid.)

Boorish behaviour dictates that only men can talk about sport - I think we are meant to stick to diets and babies (two of the world's dullest subjects to my mind). I have been in pubs in South Island New Zealand where blokes ignore my opinions on sport because I am female. Recently I told a man who won the National Sevens (Auckland) and he didn't believe me - he had to confirm it by asking another man, who wasn't even there. Incidentally this Queenstown-hosted event was advertised on SKY with fast athletes (men running with balls), tough competitors (bruising tackles) and fantastic scenery (a close-up of a woman's cleavage), which tells you all you need to know about the sport appreciation in this country.

The International Sevens are also usually advertised with pictures of scantily-clad trollops preening for the camera and not watching the games. Admittedly, football is my favourite sport which isn't as popular in pub-talk here, but my friend, Psycho Phil, knows more than most men about rugby and can (and does) talk ad nauseum about the All Blacks - she receives similar treatment.

Sian Massey 'ran the line' in the Wolves v Liverpool game and made some excellent decisions and brave calls - my team won that match 0-3 which may fractionally influence my endorsement. To suggest that women don't know the off-side rule is sexist, ignorant and predictably lazy. It's the same casual sexism that says we can't read maps or drive. As my sister The Weevil was the World Orienteering Champion, and statistics prove that men have more road accidents than women, I refute these uninformed pronouncements.

In some respects New Zealand has led the way in promoting women’s equality, being the first country in the world to give women the vote and first in the world to simultaneously have a woman governor general, woman mayor and elected female prime minister. However, casual sexism and misogynistic remarks are rife in the laddish culture that sports commentary can breed. Programmes like these are often less about sports and more about pretending to have a personality - throw in a cheap sexist joke and apparently you're a 'character' and if you don't find it funny; you have no sense of humour.

No, I don't find it amusing when women are considered merely as sexual objects. New Zealand loves its netball - the players are rated in the paper, not in terms of ability, but in terms of 'hotness'. Nor do I find anything to laugh about when people suggest women are inferior. This supposes that thay can be treated badly because they don't count as much. Last week in New Zealand a woman was burnt alive and left on a rural road. Police suspect it is an honour killing - women can be used as commodoties because they are 'second class citizens'.

You may say that to connect these things is a giant leap, but I believe if you condone casual sexism you are taking the first small steps towards degrading and debasing women. And if you are one of these women who encourage such sentiments, I despise and pity you in equal measure.

End of the World (Cup) as we know it

So the World Cup is over for another year. I will miss it. I won’t miss the vuvuzelas, but I will miss the World Cup. Football begins again soon, though – Liverpool’s first real game is in less than a fortnight as they kick off their Europa campaign.

People have said that the World Cup wasn’t very exciting this year. That is because they are rugby supporters. This year seemed to be all about defence, and I used to play right back, so I am happy enough with that. It was all very well to display your silky skills up front, but if you were leaking goals at the back then you weren’t going to get through to the next round.

Spain may not have scored the most goals, but they conceded the fewest and that’s why they lifted that amazing 18 carat gold trophy. New Zealand have the distinction of being the only unbeaten side in the 2010 World Cup – that will be a pub quiz question for many years to come, in this country at least.

The media here is paranoid that football is edging out rugby in the popularity stakes. Actually, they call it ‘soccer’ (although the New Zealand Football association officially calls it football, along with every other country, apart from America), and refuse to give it the correct status as the beautiful game; more watched globally than any other sport.

The media make a lot of money out of rugby, so they don’t want to admit that more people are interested in football. New Zealand are top of the IRB World Rankings – there are apparently 95 countries that play rugby, approximately 20 of them competitively (Namibia and Romania are included in the top 20). 207 countries play football – a quarter of the way down that list we find New Zealand at 54, after gaining 24 places from their strong World Cup performance.

Glamour attaches itself to the All Blacks – there is a myth in this country that real men are hard and stoic (think monosyllabic and unresponsive – like your stereotypical Yorkshireman). They are afraid of emotion as it might demonstrate weakness (i.e. personality), so despise the fact that footballers hug each other in delight after scoring. A true New Zealander merely does a war dance and sticks his tongue out at the opposition – much more mature.

More children play football – just look at the sports fields of any city in the country on any weekend, but then they are lured away to the oval ball. Just in case this might not happen, they are reminded that they must worship the scrum. When the FIFA World Cup was on the television and graced the front cover of the SKY magazine – it is after all the most watched event in the world – the Kiwi press wrapped a picture of an All Black around it. They weren’t even playing any games that month. Running scared? I’d say so.

The Cromwell Races - doo-dah!

Having been to the Alexandra Blossom Festival, I thought I should also try out another Otago event – the Cromwell Races. Him Outdoors works for an outfit who were going as their Christmas do, so we trotted along with them. We were picked up by a coach as we stood at the side of the road at Arrow Junction and then the day began.

Let’s talk about the horses first – that is (in theory) what we were there for – although the free food and booze seemed to be an equally big hit. I like horses – they are amazingly powerful beasts and I love to see them run. They paraded around the paddock before they hit the race course and you could see their glossy flanks and noble faces.

Horses are sociable beasts and also highly sensitive – picking up vibes from others around them. There were a couple of smartly dressed blokes on calm steeds who walked around excluding serenity for the racehorses to assimilate. These horses were friendly and liked the attention of being stroked and patted – well, who wouldn’t? – and between the races they stalked along the course by the railings charming the crowd.

I don’t really bet. The last bet I placed was on the final of the 2003 Rugby World Cup. ‘How many points is a drop goal worth?’ I asked, and was reliably informed that it was worth three. I knew that Johnny would kick us to victory in the last minute of the game – I just knew it. So I placed my bet for England to win by three points and as I screamed at the television and my premonition eventuated, I was indescribably smug.

When I went to collect my winnings, however, I was told that I had bet on the outcome of 80 minutes and not 100. They didn’t pay out. I was gutted (although England had won the World Cup after all, which sort of made up for it) and lost all faith in the TAB system, vowing never to bet again.

So, I sent Him Outdoors up to the little ticket window to hand over our five dollars to place (he has all the lingo) while I ‘studied the form’ – this consisted of finding a name of a horse that I liked or colours that the jockey was sporting (pink armbands were a favourite – I thought this might mean they were going swimming as well) and going ‘I’ll have that one’. This began with ‘Sweet About Me’, ‘Ratsandall’ and ‘Tiddley Pom’.

It turned out to be not the best method of picking a winner. I’ve since been told that the way to do it is to watch them come out into the birdcage and pick the one which does the biggest pre-race constitutional as this will make him lighter. It’s all about weight, apparently.

In fact, we soon realised that the best guarantee of success was to choose the horse that Chris Johnson was riding. He may be just a wee jockey (they’re all just tiny but very angry for some reason – they remind me of Rumplestiltskin) but he seems to know his stuff and we soon started betting on him rather than the horse.

In the last race he was down in the programme to ride ‘Illicit’ but he didn’t – someone else did and the horse plodded across the line in eighth place while the one that Chris Johnson did actually ride won the event. We tried to cry foul but the TAB people didn’t care – they really are heartless, that lot. As I said, I don’t trust them enough to bet with them.

The horses were great though and I loved watching and hearing them come thundering past. A vet's vehicle sped after each race, going a fair clip and still being well out-paced, but fortunately it wasn't needed at all and break-neck speed was merely a metaphor.

So there was horse racing and betting, but mainly there was drinking and leching. We were in a marquee where a barbecue service turned up, cooked steaks, sausages and kebabs, accompanied by heaps of bread and salad, and, after we had eaten it, they carted it all away again. There were bottles of wine and crates of beer – it was all kept cool in those chilly bins and everyone seemed to have sufficient.

At one point we went for a walk to see what the poor people did. It seems they went to the general bar (hastily established in an old shed), spread rugs on the grass and held impromptu picnics.

They sheltered from the wind and the sun as best as they could while some bought bag of the season’s first cherries from the back of vans. The army were there trying to recruit – although I wouldn’t have thought sunburned drunken hoodlums are exactly what you want in your armed forces – and in fact, the people we saw were wearing camouflage and eating ice creams.

There were a lot of well-dressed women. They go for the fashion and the occasion to wear jaunty hats or fascinators – what a great word for a few flimsy feathers.

A lot of them had made an effort and were tripping daintily around hanging onto their floaty dresses and sinking into the turf with their stilettos. To be fair, as the day wore on and the sun cream wore off many changed from swanky to skanky, but at least they all seemed to be having a good time – alcohol and inhibitions simply don’t mix.

The men let the side down somewhat. True, a couple had worn their best shirts, but most looked like your average Kiwi bloke – jeans, polar fleece, baseball cap with folded arms a bottle of Speights in one hand. Despite their lack of sartorial (or indeed any) elegance, they appraised the women like they were the horse flesh – standing and grunting as attractive young fillies walked by, while leaning against the railings with their backs to the races. You know what I mean, and if you don’t, this picture should tell the story.