Olympics: water and horses

As I have previously mentioned, one of the things I like about the Olympic Games is getting to watch sports that I never normally see - slalom canoeing anyone? This event was quite spectacular; the way those guys throw their hips around and ride those waves is amazing. I find it hard enough to keep the boat the right way up when I get hit by a tiny wave, let alone one of those man-made monsters.

The event had all the excitement and drama of glamorous competition: speed was not necessarily of the essence with time penalities and aquatic agility taken into account. There were world champions, unknowns - go Togo! - and a Brit, who powered and thrashed his way to a silver medal. Wow! David Florence is a new superhero. That was worth watching!

I love the swimming events and was thrilled to see 'our girls' Rebecca Adlington and Jo Jackson swim to a gold and bronze medal in the 400m freestyle. I'm also fascinated by their GB swimming caps which look like they are wearing targets on their head.

And Michael Phelps is still on track to achieve what he set out to accomplish. Five gold medals; five world records. I thought Ian Thorpe was astounding (and still do), but Phelps is incredible, though I would hesitate to use the term - heard on Kiwi commentary - 'a freak in the water'.

It seems Britain is good with boats and horses, remaining competitive in the rowing, sailing and equestrian events - two bronze medals for the equestrian team hauls Britain into the top 10 on the medals table at the time of writing.

Meanwhile, the poor New Zealanders struggle in their football games - being drawn against Brazil for the mens and USA for the womens. I would feel more for them if they didn't give their teams such ridiculous names. The All Blacks I can cope with, but the Oly Whites? Come on; how old are you? What's wrong with 'New Zealand' - it's nothing to be ashamed of, and there's no need to give the teams diminutive monikers involving black, white, silver, and ferns. The height of humiliation should have come when they tried to name their badminton team the black cocks. Just stop it, will you?

And apparently the 'oh-so-cute' kid who sang at the opening ceremony (singing children - don't get me started...) was lip-synching. Apparently the real kid who sang the song simply wasn't cute enough. So China puts on a false face to fool the world, and people are suprised by this? Did they learn nothing from Mao Tse-Tung?

Olympics: Negative advertising

I don't usually watch TV One news and sport - I find their presenters smug and ill-informed. But they have got the Olympics, and so I have to watch it. I have SKY, which I am happy to pay for and I would far rather the Olympics were on that as well, and then I could have the choice which version to watch - and it wouldn't be One's.

Yesterday I watched as commentators stumbled through sports they knew nothing about - I can forgive that. One of the great things about the Olympics is the fact that every four years you get to watch sports you know nothing about - and won't watch again for another four years. I was intrigued by the fencing, in which the outfits looked like something left over from the Dr. Who costume department.

What I can't forgive is the amount of advertising displayed throughout the sports. I know that advertisers have paid for them to afford the rights (although, as I said, I would have preferred to watch it on SKY) but must they put adverts on every ten minutes - I timed them. They came on during football matches and the crucial parts of the women's road-cycling race. Events were missed or shortened as they were busy prostituting the ethics of The Games.

In cricket, adverts are put on at the end of overs; in tennis at the chage of ends; but in football, it seemed appropriate to just throw them in at random. Why could they not have waited for a goal kick, or after a goal was scored (there were a handy five against New Zealand when they played Brazil). So I idled away the down time between sports by making a list of the products I won't be buying. I know who they are, but I won't give them extra publicity here.

Even more infuriating were the adverts for TV One scattered throughout - I'm already watching your station! I shan't again unless I absolutely have to, especially not Fair Go - is it fair that I am trying to watch the road racing and your mug keeps popping up with annoying regularity? And as for that advert that tells me to 'watch sporting history being made in high definition', I can't bloody watch it anything with all these sodding adverts!

In the rare breaks between rampant commercialism I saw Britain's first gold medal, as Nicole Cooke ploughed through the teaming rain to win the road cycling race and then rushed to embrace her teammates. It was a fantastically gutsy performance and I forgot my gripes as she celebrated her well-deserved victory,. Congratulations Nicole!

I'm also keen to see Michael Phelps storm through the waters in the pool. I wish him all the best in his quest for eight gold medals. That would be a truely phenomenal achievement and a story worthy of the Olympic Games. If he 'only' wins a few, I shall not think he has failed, or feel smug that he didn't achieve his goals. I am impressed by the fact that he can and he thinks he can. I hope he does.

My Newest Favourite Thing: Jewellery

A couple of months ago I went to the National Jewellery Showcase in Wellington. I took my mother – it’s always good to take your mum to these places. She actually bought me an exquisite necklace of green glass and ornate wire shapes, but I promise I hadn’t been hinting at anything!

It was such a joy to look at these pieces and to imagine wearing them – I could put together an entire outfit around their colours and inherent suggestions of style and mood. We were drawn to cases where things caught our eye. We have different tastes but we both appreciate fine things. And there were some very fine things indeed on display.

Juerg P Muff - this man made my wedding ring so I was delighted to see him here and to have the opportunity to introduce him to my mother. The picture he was using to advertise his wares is the wedding ring of a friend of mine. His works of timeless elegance or contemporary design is made to order, and he works gold, platinum and precious stones with the magic of a Swiss wizard.

Monique Therese (Creatif Design) makes fine and intricate pieces incorporating traditional and contemporary styles, emeralds, gold and diamonds.

Tony Williams displayed a scorpion brooch with a hinged tail ending in a diamond sting - a beautiful piece with more than a hint of menace. You would certainly make a statement with his jewellery. Apparently he endeavours to fulfill Ruskin's maxim that 'fine art is that in which the hand, the head and the heart work together.'

Chris Idour also has fantastical pieces, working in a mixed media of precious metals and stones. From butterflies and dragonflies to teddy bears, his work has a 'middle earth, medieval and Nordic feel, which is quite fitting with Chris's Norwegian ancestry.'

Henderson Jewellery stood out with spider and cross motifs - these are works of art with messages of a darker side and deep emotions. Iain Henderson claims, 'I have no boundaries and don't care what others think of my jewellery', which might be just as well. All of the pieces have names, and this necklace - 'A Question of Faith' - can be worn without or without the hanging spider.

The settings of Christine Hafermalz-Wheeler were striking and bold. They are distinctive and individual - you can imagine forming a personal attachment with these creations. She says, 'My preference is for warm, organic forms that drape the body like well cut cloth; subtle combinations of materials often carry stroies that extend meaning beyond immediate visual impact.' She won the award for fine jewellery and believes that every day is an occasion and that people should wear special jewellery whenever they want.

I really liked Gold Ore Silver Mine, based right here in Cuba Mall. These New Zealand handmade designs of gold and silver, greenstone, paua and other gemstones are exquisitely simple and immensly classy.

Hey Jo's Silver combines stones and silver in bold designs, and often pictures tell stories reflected in the jade, tiger's eye and amenonite.

Another favourite was Emily Lake's Flame Art Jewellery. It felt slightly out of place here as it was glass - beads and pendants and gorgeous paperweights full of flowers or seahorses. She lives and works in Picton and runs workshops where she takes two people and teaches them her techniques - what fun it would be to take a ferry over and spend a few days there, blowing glass and tasting wine! I took her card.

The halls were thronged with people exclaiming and enjoying, touching and trying on. So many beautiful things were brought together under one roof and everyone seemed to be enjoying the art and design. This is a really fun way to spend a girls' day out. Take in a film and a meal with a few glasses of wine and the day is complete!

Individual Olympics

The Olympics have begun, with an opening ceremony that him indoors described as, ‘Thousands of people doing synchronized running around. It’s not my sort of thing at all, but they’re very good at it.’ They also wafted about on aerial hoists and let off numerous fireworks, which must have done wonders for the smog situation in Beijing.

I’m not particularly fussed for the opening ceremony – it’s a fantastic waste of money as far as I can see (although I love the fireworks and think it is weird how the athletes all come out with their camcorders filming the crowd as though they were the celebrities), but now the games begin properly and the sporting types are out in earnest.

Certain things have always blighted the Olympics, and I’m not even going to touch upon the politics. There is no way that politics can be kept out of sport and anyone who suggests they should be (the ‘keepoos’ – KEEP Politics Out Of Sport – as Tim Shadboldt calls them) is evidently deluded.

My qualms centre on what sports are included and which are overlooked. Whether I like synchronized swimming, BMX jumping or rhythm gymnastics or not (I don’t) is not the point. Beach volleyball is also besides the point as it is simply ridiculous and not a real sport – any discipline that has regulations about how skimpy your clothing must be makes a mockery of the athleticism of the games.

I don’t think team sports should be included. I don’t believe football (which only America and New Zealand insist on calling soccer) should be included. This is not just because it would be the only time we play this game under the guise of Great Britain. Similarly, hockey, basketball, handball and waterpolo should be ousted from the tournament.

The Olympics are about the strength, speed and skill of the individual. Team games are fantastic to watch and have an entirely different dynamic from individual sporting endeavours, but they do not embody the principles of faster, higher, stronger which the Olympic Games represent.

Because I am completely arbitrary and this is my opinion, I will allow relay teams in running and swimming, and teams in cycling (pursuit and madison) and rowing (pairs, fours and eights, coxless or otherwise). I’m not entirely sure why, but these things seem right whereas baseball and softball don’t. Actually, softball never seems right (you might as well have underarm cricket), but that is another issue

I have heard the argument that no sport should be included if it has another and greater sporting stage – such as tennis or road race cycling. Does anyone who has just watched Wimbledon or the Tour de France really care who wins the medals for these competitions? I agree with this, but it is not the issue under discussion here.

I feel that these team sports remove the gloss and the prestige from the real medal winners – I mean, in a team sport you can have a stinker of a game and your team still wins. Do you deserve an Olympic Gold medal? I think not. If there is any doubt, ask Lay Down Sally.

Green fatigue

So the power crisis is officially over for another year - that's a relief. The power conservers, or eco-Nazis, happily tell you what you should and shouldn't do to be 'green' and love to point the moral finger if you step out of line. It is so easy to feel smug and to criticise others.

Just as the born again anti-smoking brigade make me want to go out and light up a fag although I have never smoked in my life, these people make me want to mix my compost with my plastics, although I have been recycling since we gave bundles of paper to the Scouts and rinsed our milk bottles and put them on our doorsteps as children.

Nothing in this eco-crusade is straight-forward. We grew our own vegetables when we had a garden. We had to irrigate them with water. We now live in an apartment in town - we sold the car to reduce pollution and so had to move closer to the city. There is no garden for vegetables, but there is no car to wash and consume the precious water.

The businesses in town leave their lights on so that the reflections look pretty in the water - and they do. I like to look at them. The streetlights illuminate my late night run or cycle ride, which I do outdoors, on the streets, not in a gym with bright lights, pumping music, and blazing equipment.

I take baths rather than showers. I lie in the bath and relax for hours. If I stood under the shower for that long I would waste a lot more hot water. I already pay exorbitant prices for hot water, which the power company turns off at certain times when they think I don't need it. Will they start dictating when I have to turn my lights out and go to bed? Baths are a simple pleasure, and one for which I am censured.

But I am saving power every day by choosing not to have children. I don't put on extra loads of washing and drying. I don't buy cheap plastic toys and clothing from sweatshops in China that will end in landfills in two weeks when the little darlings have outgrown them. I don't leave the heating on in the house all day because they need to be kept a certain temperature. I don't drive a 4WD to the shops because I have such precious cargo on board that I have a right to guzzle resources and kill anything I come into contact with.

My non-existent children will not grow up to drive cars, burn fuel, fly around the world, and heat and light houses or offices. They will not buy and dispose of umpteen electical gadgets and telecommunication devices. They will not consume food which uses precious resources to produce. So let me have my bath without opprobrium.

My friend calls this backlash against the holier than thou environmental set, 'green fatigue'. It's an apt expression. The escalators in the publc library were turned off to conserve power. This action saves very little power, but it does force the elderly (for that is the largest proportion of library users) to walk up the stairs or plead for assistance to use the lift. The people who did this are the same people who oppose wind farms because they don't look pretty and they make noise.

Meanwhile mothers drive their children to cafes where they spill fluffies down the front of their new clothes. The pitter patter of tiny feet produces great big carbon footprints. And they welcome their friend's babies to the world with cards made from recycled paper and a superior smile because they are being good to the planet.

Books read in July

The following are short reviews of the books that I read in July. The marks I have given them in the brackets are out of five.

The President’s Last Love – Andrey Kurkov (3.4)
Apparently this novel ‘conjures up both Gogol and Dostoevsky’ according to the book blurb from the Scotsman, and I suppose it does. There is something intriguing about Russian novels – I love reading them even if I don’t always know what’s going on, and this modern example is no exception. It also reminds me of a Chekov play in which people self-destruct and you are waiting for the calamitous but cathartic ending. Andrey Kurkov is Ukrainian but was born in Leningrad and has written a modern Russian novel, with all the quirks of classic Russian literature.

A Dramatis Personae at the beginning lists the characters in the story – beginning with the ‘women in the life of Sergey Pavlovich Bunin’ and there are a lot of these. He is married four times and has a few mistresses along the way. The plethora of female intrigues become increasingly confusing as the novel is arranged to run three strands of time consecutively so that one chapter will be in 1983, the next in 2003 and the next in 2015, then returning to 1985, and continuing on until they all overlap. It is highly complex and difficult to keep track of, but the fact that the reader loses the thread and forgets in which era we are is, I suspect, entirely intentional.

The narrative style suits the underhand machinations of Russian politics in which people are taken away in the night, favours are distributed for no apparent reason, envelopes of money appear and furniture vanishes. Bunin is President of the Ukraine in the 2015 version, with a heart transplant that might or might not be bugged and monitored. His aides are suddenly replaced overnight and mysterious folders full of papers demand his signature. He washes everything down with whisky and tries not to reflect on his troubled relationships.

Characterisation is superficial as Bunin wanders through existence in a dream-like state. He admires beauty and is frequently drawn to art galleries, forever seeking another level beyond the superficial and alarmed to consider there might not be one. The style of the novel is mainly perfunctory, with staccato chapters that make it hard for the reader to engage. Occasionally, however, the language breaks into beautiful description and some of the imagery is stunningly and archetypically Russian.

The Alphabet Sisters – Monica McInerney (1.3)
If I weren’t committed to finish every book I start, I would have stopped reading this after the second page – I knew what was going to happen and it did. It is chick lit of the lowest order and entirely predictable.

Anna, Bett (short for Elizabeth), and Carrie are three sisters who used to dress up in matching outfits and sing harmonies, under the watchful eye of Lola, their interfering old grandmother. Naturally, they were called the Alphabet Sisters and all was ticking along nicely until Carrie nicked Bett’s fiancé, Matthew, and they all had a great family ruction and haven’t spoken for years. Lola attempts to reunite them and insists they all return to the family-run motel somewhere in the Australian countryside for her eightieth birthday.

She writes a musical about her life and the history of the small town where she grew up, and she insists that her grand-daughters direct, act and play it. They are initially resistant because it is “like she took all her favourite pieces from all her favourite musicals, [and] flung them into a blender with a few lines of dialogue.” The same could be said of this novel as a whole.

McInerney tries to inject colour into her novel after writing a monochromatic outline, but the ‘details’ she adds are both tried and tired. When the inevitable tragedy comes, it is not to whom we expected, but this minor twist is not enough to save the novel from sinking into the mire of mediocrity.

Dark Green – Bright Red – Gore Vidal (3.9)
When published in 1950, this book was considered scandalous; it dared to suggest that American foreign policy was to interfere with South American countries and stage revolutions against Communists to further their own business interests. Of course, this couldn’t possibly happen, could it? The novel is set in a mythical country where there is a mix of cultures – mainly Spanish and Indian – and the exiled former leader (General Alvarez) has returned to attempt to usurp the democratically elected president.

Peter is a naïve American, court-martialled from the US army, who joins a revolutionary movement out of principle. He finds things challenging but exciting, from the General’s daughter, Elena, with whom he has an affair, to the native food. His co-conspirators include the General’s son Jose, a priest, and a cynical writer.

There are elements of deceit, double-crossing and a skewed perspective of ethical behaviour. A theatrical metaphor underpins the novel and it frequently breaks into script-writing dialogue or dramatic set directions. It is a skilful and slim novel, packed with a political punch that would work very well as a play – it is a timeless classic with a touch of the Graham Greenes about it.

Lilian’s Story – Kate Grenville ((4.4)
How have I managed not to have come across this novel, or indeed, this author before? This fantastic book follows the story of poor fat Lilian, bright not beautiful, who tries hard to be one of the boys and seeks solace in food. Her mother, father, brother, John, and Aunt Kitty, are all mad in various ways, and Lilian ends up on the streets of Sydney after a spell at university, in an institution and in prison.

Told in episodic form, each chunk is a new heartbreak until you are aching for the girl. All the characters are expertly drawn with their quirks and idiosyncrasies.
She pretends things which she comes to believe. Is this madness or an active imagination? And where do the boundaries blur? Locked in her mind she discovers a kind of freedom where she is not expected to conform to anyone’s idea of physical beauty. Hijacking taxis and making a public nuisance of herself, Lilian always wanted to be someone and now, at last, it seems as though she is. “My story was beginning to have a part in the stories of others, and I was becoming a small part of history.” She confirms that, “Some women have babies and others have stories.”

Interestingly many reviews I have read of this novel said they found it hard to get into, but enjoyed it more as it went on. I found it the other way around, but still think it’s wonderful! It is marvellous and poignant and Lilian Singer is a fabulous creation, larger than life in many ways.

The Wall – Jean-Paul Sartre (2)
Known for his philosophy as much as his literature, Jean-Paul Sartre is every teenage boy's hero. Minutely scrutinising behaviour, worrying about the arbitrariness of existence, the false consciousness of the bourgeoisie, the loathing of the body in which the protagonists find themselves, and the pervasive sense of alienation and absurdity, he is the poster-boy for adolescent angst. In this series of four short stories, Sartre attempts to convert the reader to his existentialist view of the world.

He writes very well as a man, boy and a woman, getting inside the mind, but he does so with tediously attentive attention to detail, self-obsession and stream-of-consciousness style. All of his characters try and work out their place in the world and the meaning of their existence, playing with philosophical conceits until they are convinced they are too unique and complex to be analyzed.

Don’t we all think things like this when we’re kids? But then we grow up and have other things to worry about, like going to work and paying the mortgage, and we stop sitting around gazing at our navel and contemplating the meaning of our existence in the world. This type of thing appeals to teenage boys who wallow in the darkness of their rooms and the angst of their souls, but we are really not that important in the grand scheme of things whatever these adolescent amateur philosophers may think. And yet Sartre is regarded as one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. Perhaps it’s just me who doesn’t understand him or his music.

Film Festival

Well, I've not been posting an awful lot just lately because I have been immersed in the International Film Festival - sneaking out of work for extended lunch breaks and then frantically trying to catch up on the working hours I missed.

Hence my head is in a whirl with seven films so far and another three to go - ten films in a fortnight is a lot for me. Especially when added to two plays, a comedy act and a couple of parties. I am meant to be taking it easy, but this is a state that never seems to eventuate. So in the meantime, here's the review of one of the films I have seen.

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