Quite a quote

Thanks to my dear friend who reminded me in a comment on my last post of one of my favourite quotes from Friedrich Nietzsche. ‘What does not kill me, makes me stronger’ is something I often chant to myself while struggling through a triathlon or a particularly daunting day at work.

I was thinking of quotes this weekend when at my writer’s group, someone mentioned one of Jack Kerouac’s essentials for his spontaneous prose method of writing: ‘Be in love with your life’. This is a wonderful sentiment, although sometimes hard to follow when you are stuck in an office with the wind and rain howling and lashing outside.

But at least I am not stuck out in it. I have food, shelter, and love – so really, what more could I want? I have a job that I don’t hate and I live in a beautiful (albeit windy) part of the world. I have a loving husband, a great family, fabulous friends, and an adorable cat. I have had a good education and enjoy fine health and the ability to pursue my theatrical and sporting interests.

And I am lucky – I know it. When I see people living in rubbish tips in the Philippines or dying of disease and starvation in Africa, or bound by restrictive fundamentalism in many parts of the world, I think ‘There, but for the grace of god, go I’ (attributed to John Bradford). Another of my favourite quotes is from Cecil Rhodes (although I have also seen it attributed to Rudyard Kipling): ‘To be born English is to win first place in the lottery of life'. At first glance this smacks of arrogance, but I believe it is actually humility – we do know how lucky we are.

But luck plays its part only to a certain extent. After that it is up to us to determine our fate, or, as the great William Shakespeare said; ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves, that we are underlings'. We have to make the difference, as Jean Jacques Rousseau pointed out; ‘Man is born free but everywhere he is in chains’.

Man by his very nature will always try and achieve greatness, and he may often do this at the expense of others – ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others’ (George Orwell) – whereas the converse nature of man is that someone will always try to preach tolerance and right the wrongs of inequality. ‘Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so too'. (Voltaire).

Of course, the Bible echoes this attitude – ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. Honesty and tolerance are the golden rule to live by, and once again good old Bill steps into the breach; ‘This above all: to thine own self be true’. These two tenets of humanity provide some of my favourite quotes: ‘A man who loves whisky and hates kids can’t be all that bad’ (WC Fields) and ‘Someone said football is a matter of life and death, and I said, Listen, it's more important than that’ (Bill Shankly).

This is just off the top of my head and I realise, looking over this list, I have missed out many funny, witty, pithy sayings, but these are more than comedy quips – they are mantras for modern living, without the popular psycho-babble. What are yours?

The other thing I notice is that all of my favourite quotations are from men, and I haven’t even mentioned Oscar Wilde. There could be some form of heated debate as to why this should be so, but for now let’s leave the final bons mots to Emmeline Pankhurst: ‘Deeds not words!’

Believe it or not...

When I was a child my big brother used to tell me all sorts of nonsense and I believed it – ‘brrr’ was Latin for cold; the strips that hung from the back of cars were to prevent motion sickness (what are they for, actually?); the tunnels that held up the nearby fly-over were used as air-raid shelters… and so it went on.

It was like living in a permanent episode of Call My Bluff. Except I never did. And it wasn’t until I blurted things out at school to be met with an incredulous look and the words, ‘Who told you that, your brother?’ that I realised the full extent of my gullibility.

I never had a younger sibling, so I could never wreak my revenge. No one ever believed my stories, even (sadly enough) when they were true. But now I am an aunty and all that is due to change. My nephew is four. He’s at that age where he’s learning things, before he becomes a teenager and knows it all.

He’s quite a serious chap and constantly seeking answers and explanations. When I went away for a week, he (and his mother) fed Chester in our absence. I bought a little gift and said it was from Chester. He furrowed his little brow and said, ‘Chester didn’t really buy it, did he mummy?’ Mummy – bless her – is equally unfettered with an overactive imagination and replied that no, of course he didn’t, he’s a cat.

The other week we were out at a café and nephew was rootling around in the flowerbed where he came across some rat poison. After his hands had been thoroughly washed, the torrent of questions began. They mainly centred on why we wanted to kill rats in the first place. Mummy explained that it was because they carried disease.

‘How do they carry disease, mummy?’ he piped. ‘In their handbags’ I replied. Furrowing of brow and quizzical looks ensued. Mummy would neither confirm nor deny (fence-sitter) and I felt the situation slipping away, especially when he pronounced that rats didn’t have handbags. So I asked him if he had ever seen a rat (with or without accessory) and he had to admit that he hadn’t.

I think I’ve got him. Of course, I can’t know for sure until he drops it into casual conversation in the school playground and opens himself up for ridicule, but I think the woodcock may be near the gin, as they say in Shakespeare (trust me!).

You may consider this cruel, but apparently it’s just character-building. And he’ll thank me one day, when he has tales of aunt-cruelty to tell on his own blog. He may even publish a book about how mean we all were (preferrably in an Irish location) and he'll make a sob-story fortune.

Take (at least) two at bedtime

A couple of months ago I began hallucinating about the perfect beer to drink after a long walk. It would be fair to say that all of the pints that sprang to mind were English and most of them were milds.

I believe, however that I may have tracked down a Kiwi tipple to suit the purpose. Kid Chocolate by Yeastie Boys is an immensely sessionable 3.6% and has a satisfying thirst-quenching taste. The boys describe it as ‘chestnut coloured with a little autumn fruit on both the nose and the palate’.

It is heartily enjoyed by Him Outdoors in Bar Edward where he retires with his running club after they have thrashed their legs up and down the hills. Admittedly he is from Lancashire (I may have mentioned Burnley recently…) and he does possess a flat cap but you don’t have to own one (or stuff ferrets down your trousers) to appreciate this fine English-mild style ale. It’s champion and certainly not lightweight.

Which brings me conveniently (and perhaps contrivedly) to the name; apparently Kid Chocolate was a Cuban boxer who enjoyed ‘wild success both in the boxing ring and in society life during a span of the 1930s’. Thanks Wikipedia. He was the world lightweight champion and the inspiration for the character Chocolate Drop in Clifford Odets’ play Golden Boy – the Yeastie Boys 2008 offering. Do I detect a theme?

Meanwhile, we attended the launch of their newest brew – Pot Kettle Black – last night at the Malthouse. This is the new version of the American style porter that so impressed at Beervana last year. And I’m pleased to announce it doesn’t disappoint. Judging from the tasting notes on the Yeastie Boys website, at 6% ABV it is both stronger and bitterer than the previous year’s offering. It certainly packs a punch. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

It’s dark, bitter and hoppy and tastes like iron and chocolate. It’s a tough no-nonsense drop with a malty finish that makes you sense your haemoglobin levels rising by the mouthful. Vampires might drink this as a socially acceptable draught. It just tastes like it’s beneficial. Just what the good doctor ordered – if you had a particularly good one who was not averse to prescribing alcohol, that is.

This morning as Him Outdoors bounced out of bed he remarked, ‘I should drink that every night. I slept well and my legs don’t hurt.’ This may sound like a random recommendation until put into context – he has erratic sleep patterns at the best of times and had done an intensive track session before heading down t’pub. Ye gods, Yeastie’s good!

Cultural Collision

Living in New Zealand, as I do, there are many things that I will never get used to. For a start the seasons are the wrong way round – how can you have Christmas in the middle of summer, Bonfire Night in spring when you have to wait until 10pm to set off the fireworks, and Easter when all of nature is curling up and going to sleep rather than bursting into life?

Secondly, they call the wrong thing football. Here’s a tip – if it’s ‘a solid or hollow sphere’ that you kick with ‘the lower extremity of the leg below the ankle’ then it’s football. If you pick up an ovoid inflatable and run with it, then it’s either cheating, or it’s rugby – union or league depending on the level of violence involved – American football if there’s padding, and Aussie rules if there are no discernible rules whatsoever.

And other thing: although we share a similar history, the popular iconography is far more American than English and, according to a friend I mentioned this to, becoming more so each day. I noticed this when I was writing the Midsummer Night’s Dream review. My 80s was clearly a very different time to most Kiwis’ 80s. And this is not the only decade to suffer this phenomenon.

When we first arrived to these fair shores we were invited to a fancy dress party (the love of those is also a Kiwi thing I don’t understand – Him Outdoors has his theories which I have mentioned before but shan’t again). The theme was 70s. Naturally, we went as punks – ripped jeans, tatty leather and safety pins galore – expecting to hear The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Everyone else was dressed in kaftans, headbands, love beads and painted flowers. They tripped around drippily to Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, and The Beach Boys. Wrong decade, surely, I thought – and may well have said. I was an aggressive punk after all – I felt like a Hell’s Angel that had just turned up to Woodstock.

This feeling of displacement continues daily. We are lulled into a false sense of security and familiarity – they play cricket; their judicial and political system are based on ours (although how someone who is not even wanted by their electorate can still occupy a seat in Parliament bewilders me); they screen Coronation Street twice a week (it’s a year behind) and they speak a version of our language. But the popular iconography – from the plastic news presenters to the ‘fashion’ of vests and baseball caps – is largely American.

Not all, I hasten to add. There are pockets of Scottish ‘it’s cold and it’s wet and we like it’ heritage (Southland); there is a large Yorkshire ‘we are better than everyone else and why talk when you can grunt?’ element (Otago); there are prime examples of Home Counties ‘what school did you go to and who are your parents?’ affectation (Canterbury); and a delightful patch of faux French ‘let’s fly the tricolour and call our streets by Gallic names’ chic (Akaroa).

Of course there is a rich and distinctive Māori culture which adds a unique and valuable component to the heritage. And there are colourful swathes of Pacific Island traditions, Asian customs, and all sorts of bits and pieces of European inheritance from the Italian-style blessing of the boats at Island Bay to a strange Viking connection at Dannevirke (settled by a handful of Danes and Norwegians).

The result of all this is a little curious and unsettling like one of those dreams where you know something is different but you’re not sure what. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it is odd. Some things are simply ingrained in your formative years and when they change, you may never get used to them. Ah well, ‘Vive La Difference!’ as they say in Akaroa.

Dream On

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Stagecraft, Gryphon Theatre, 24 May - 6 June

In his diary Samuel Pepys called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life”. Director Paul Kay and assistant Joy Heller would take delight in this description of their version of the bard’s silliest comedy.

Set in the '80s with all the fashion and music that engenders, this production eschews any hidden depths (filial duty; loyalty and compromise; sexual politics; gender inequality) to frolic in the shallows.

This approach sits comfortably with the audience who are content to laugh at fluorescent lycra leggings, big hair, shoulder pads and sparkly eye-shadow. A friend once asked me in all seriousness why grown women wear glitter make-up; ‘Just who or what are they hoping to attract, and why?’ He’s got a point.

The set design (Anna Lowe) is intriguing with many levels used to great effect to denote the power struggles and parallel worlds imperative to any production of this play. Fairies eavesdrop on the mezzanine level and leap off it, and it would have had even greater use had Oberon (Stephen Walter) not broken his finger in rehearsal.

The coloured squares on the dance-floor suggest a Michael Jackson video as does the striking lighting design (Don Blackmore). Wreathes of dry ice may get the front row coughing but they add a mystical element to the wood, and the roving spotlights create a nightmare episode from a twisted fairytale into which the lovers stumble.

Helena (Melanie Camp) is the best of the lovers displaying a fine acting range from lover to fighter – one minute pathetic puppy dog; the next fearsome virago. The wedding feast (that is not a plot spoiler – if you don’t know it by now…) is organised by Anna Beccard as Philostrate, the wedding planner – she is my one to watch for the future. Meanwhile Matt Bentley as Theseus comes into his own as he harangues the mechanicals in their performance, channelling his inner Johnny Vegas.

His wife, Hippolyta (Jasmine Embrechts) gets to wear all the best costumes, looking resplendent in bikini, riding jacket and a distinctly un-'80s flapper frock. Most of the costumes, however, are hideous (although excellent; the wardrobe team are to be highly commended and I promise not to ask if any of those items are their own).

The fairies are all renamed as '80s constructs from Goth to Legwarmer and everything in-between. Thankfully we’re not in America or Bumbag would have to be Fannypack. They are more off-putting than ethereal, but Puck (Reuben Brickell) is fluid in his movements and I’m not surprised to learn he is a contortionist. He brings a mix of strutting arrogance and fawning cringe to the role which gives him an uncanny resemblance to Gollum.

The interaction between their king, Oberon, and queen, Titania (Michelle Jordan), is one of the highlights of the play. Oberon looks like Adam Ant and sounds like Keith Richard – the monotonous tone is originally jarring yet he is good enough to carry it off – ‘I am invisible’ – and my companion declares that she finds him quite sexy by the curtain call.

Titania occasionally appears awkward when she delivers her soliloquies and the audience attention wanders during her static stance. This could be because she is uncomfortable in her dominatrix outfit, but when she cracks her whip and stalks the stage we are soon brought back to heel. Their odd duet, Love is a Battlefield, has an edge, and not just because of the hilariously erratic dance (God we took ourselves seriously didn’t we?), proving that ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’.

The rude mechanicals are the other stand-out of the show. The role of the long-suffering foreman, Peter Quince becomes Petra, a giddy aerobics instructor. I was concerned about a female cast in a male role (one of my frequent bugbears with staging Shakespeare) but I needn’t have worried. Rebecca Parker is one of Wellington’s finest amateur actors and she enhances every nuance of the script with a delightful performance.

Despite some over-simplification of the text (trust your audience!) these scenes are excellent and the play-within-a-play at the end, which so often seems like an unnecessary addendum, is a lot of fun. Alan Carabott once again displays his impeccable comic timing in the part of Bottom (who else?); Gillian Boyes is impossibly cute as Snout/Wall; and Helen White also steps up to the gender bending challenge of Frank Flute/Thisbe, finding a new paradox in the lines, ‘Nay, faith; let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming’.

The musical interludes provide distraction and a unifying theme as the cast break out into choreographed movements (like Fame School came to Whitireia Community Polytechnic). There was some great music in the ‘80s (The Cure; The Smiths; Depeche Mode; The Pogues; The Clash; Madness; Fun Boy 3; OMD; Blondie; The Pretenders; New Order; Happy Mondays; The Stone Roses; The Beastie Boys; Echo and the Bunnymen; Adam and the Ants – I could go on, and on) but none of it is used.

There is a hint of Ultravox, The Human League and Frankie Goes to Hollywood but many of the cast, who weren’t alive then, will think that the 80s consists solely (or soullessly) of tasteless disco pop and air guitars. A friend told me she feels slightly insulted that these youngsters look at the 80s as we look at the 60s – something to be scorned and ridiculed or plundered for comic effect and fancy dress parties – but we lived through it and we wore those clothes (and that hair and make-up) without irony.

Paul gleefully admits he has done the decade a great disservice. Apparently he has a level below which he refused to stoop (Air Supply and Def Leppard were mentioned) for which I suppose we must be grateful. For the final number, the cast line up to sing I Want to Know What Love Is underpinning (or is that undermining? Paul rants, ‘you should never have to apologise for a play’) the epilogue. Rumour has it one earnest cast member asked what their motivation was to sing the song. Apparently Paul replied, "Motivation? You’re a f*&%ing fairy!" I can only hope that story isn’t apocryphal (that’s my zeitgeist, Paul!).

My sister, not a big bardolater, loved it – she said it brought Shakespeare alive for her. This show should tour schools. Some of Shakespeare’s plays are for the gentry and others appeal to the groundlings. Paul told me he would never be so irreverent with King Lear for example. Having seen how well he can act angst, I would love to see him direct something weighty and dark. Maybe next time…

What's the point of prison?

A couple of weeks ago, when down in Christchurch, I was given a tour of the women's prison. It's clean and, although not exactly comfortable, every necessity of food and shelter and many of well-being are provided for.

Facilities include a library, a mini gym and a games room. Some prisoners share villas with a couple of other inmates. Mothers and babies have special areas for family development. Legislation states that a baby born in prison stays with the mother for the first 6 months, although this may be extended with approval.

With a heavy dose of understatement, the corrections officer explained, "It's not the baby's fault - it's quite strange. The legislation currently is looking at extending that to the age of two which in itself is going to create a lot more issues. Currently our self care unit is the area where we keep mums and babies because you can’t be locked in the cell with a baby from 5-8; it doesn’t work. But toddlers in prison; where are we going to keep them?"

Prison nurse, Anne Hofmeester, tells me that some people don't feel prisoners are entitled to health-care or indeed any benefits at all. "They are quite shocked that we provide prisoners with any help. They think they should get absolutely nothing. People in the community get cross that they have to go to their doctor and pay – it’s $70 to go to after-hours – but prisoners get it for free."

When the prisoners have demonstrated that they are ready to be rehabilitated and they are no longer a threat to others, they are relocated to 'villas' within the prison, where they share with three others in a flatting type situation, learning to budget for their food and toiletries and getting a small allowance for these necessities once a month. According to the Department of Corrections, the average cost of keeping an offender in prison is $90,747 a year.

They work in various 'industries' which includes the sewing room, kitchens, gardens and painting and decorating. Some of them take courses through the Open Polytechnic. As a corrections officer said, "Why wouldn't you? You've got the opportunity there to make something - to better yourself."

Again, some people disagree with this. They argue that they would like to study and learn to sew or play a musical instrument, but they are busy working every day to pay for food, clothing and shelter. How can it be right that those who have committed crimes, get the perks? Well, I can see their point, but I guess it comes down to the purpose of a prison. Do you want to punish, or do you want to rehabilitate?

She says she connects with the prisoners by talking about their family. Many of them miss their children more than anything while they are locked up and, for those who break the cycle of re-offending, they do so because they want to spend more time being a parent and less being absent or detained.

The prisoners are locked in their cells for a couple of hours over midday so that the corrections officers can have their lunch and do their paperwork. They are also locked up alone (for now - there is talk of introducing double-bunking in some prisons, but that is a separate issue) from 5pm until 8am, unless they have special duties. The cells they are locked in are tiny. I spent three minutes in one and I got claustraphobic.

There is a sense of menace in this place, compounded by the close proximity and the boredom of the inmates. They are constantly watched and frequently resentful. No matter what these people have done, the corrections officer I spoke to explained that her job is to ensure the "safe, secure and humane containment" of the prisoners.

"Getting through the day safely without any incidents is always a good one, and ensuring that your prisoners are safe. That to me is your challenge every day – that yourself and your colleagues are okay, and your prisoners are okay. The judging has already been done, which is why they’re in prison. It’s not up to me to judge again."

Naturally, everyone who enters and leaves the prison is searched and monitored. There may be wide blue spaces above, but there are razor-wire perimeter fences around the premises. In The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde refers to "that little tent of blue that prisoners call the sky". When he learns that one of his fellow prisoners is to be hanged, he declares, "Dear Christ! The very prison walls/ Suddenly seemed to reel,/ And the sky above my head became/ Like a casque of scorching steel;"

To be deprived of freedom is a terrible thing. It may well be a necessary thing, but what do you do with people when you have locked them up? If you don't agree with the death penalty, which I don't, then surely you intend to release them back into society at some point. And hopefully they will have managed to have altered their behaviour in such a way that they will never want to return again.

Having seen the inside of a prison, albeit a nice new one with pleasant facilities, I know that I never want to be in there again, and certainly not if the means to get out don't rest in my hands. What price do we put on freedom? I know that I value it at more than a pool table and an open polytechnic course.

By the way, you can click on any of these pictures to make them bigger. The inmates can't.

Mutual satisfaction

I found some beer notes that I wrote a while ago, so I thought I'd share them with you here. They are about Epic Mayhem, which was available at The Malthouse at the time. I don't think it still is. This was back in February around beer festival time - sigh, how I miss those heady days.

Auckland brewer Luke Nicholas explained that Epic had grown by 200% in the past 12 months, so he must have been doing something right. In a typically erudite Kiwi fashion he said, "I'm making beer because I like it. I'm making beer with flavour because I like beer with flavour" and he struck a blow for beer enthusiasts everywhere when he said, "It's not just about cold fizzy lager".

Unable to compete with the major breweries, he indulges himself by playing around with combinations of hops and malts and various flavours. And so Epic Mayhem was born, beginning life as a festival brew, and winning best in class in 2006. It is a 6.2% amber beer with notes of citrus, spic, passionfruit, malt sweetness and caramel and apricot flavours. Only the word 'malt' makes the label out of place on a Gewürztraminer. That isn't original unfortunately - I would love to claim I said it, but I would be lying. I can't remember who did though - let me know and I'll credit it!

And there are hops - yes, you knew we'd get there soon. Most beers sold in New Zealand have approximately one hop per bottle. The delicious Epic Pale Ale has 15. Mayhem has 26. That's a lot of hops. They're a mixture of US-grown Cascade and New Zealand-grown Riwaka hops. And they're all crammed into a bottle bursting to be let out. I can help with that.

Mr Nicholas has been in England making beer for the world's largest beer festival, which concluded earlier this month. I've told all my friends in England who drink beer (which is nearly all of them if we're honest) to try it. They think New Zealand beer = Steinlager and so assume that tasty Kiwi ale is an oxymoron. Their tastebuds should get a welcome surprise. If anyone had some while over there, please let me know.

Luke Nicholas also said (and this is my favourite bit), "I get a lot of satisfaction out of people who drink it and buy it". I'm pleased we make each other happy, sir. Long may our mutually beneficial arrangement continue.