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.

Stepping Up

A friend of mine told me she had started wearing a pedometer – you know; one of those things that count your steps. The recommended number of steps is 10,000 a day for adults (children need to do more) - that's just to maintain a healthy weight - you need to do more if you want to lose weight. Apparently most of us don’t do enough.

She said she was feeling pretty smug because she went for a half-hour run a day, but she has a sedentary job, answering phone calls, and was alarmed to find that although she considered herself to be reasonably fit, she wasn’t doing the required number of steps.

As a writer, I too have a sedentary job so I wondered how many steps I do a day. I have been wearing one of these devices for the past three months (apart from the odd occasion when I wear a dress – there is no way you can ‘discreetly’ clip it to your knickers) and I can scientifically tell you that my average daily step count is 10,251.

Yes, that’s not bad (and no, that's not me - sadly), but the thing is that I was training for a 10km in that time. I am now training for a triathlon series so some of the steps have been replaced by swims and bikes – these don’t count on the gadget.

I reckon I’m okay because I make myself walk into town every day (that’s 4,000 steps and approximately a kilometre each way). I get lonely working from home and have to see or speak to a real person at least once a day, so I post letters or buy bread or just have a coffee at the cafe, so that I can have human contact.

There is a lot of support for people to be active for at least half an hour a day, which is a good thing – but if you are walking as your activity, that’s about 4,000 steps. I’ve seen people drive to the gym rather than walk, do a work-out on some machines, and then drive back to their office and sit at their computer. It’s not enough.

Adverts trumpet the benefit of various contraptions that look like instruments of torture and fold conveniently under the bed. Apparently they work all your core muscle groups in three minutes. That’s nowhere near enough steps.

Of course, people with active jobs in service and trades will do plenty of paces. I've seen stats that show how many kilometres people run in football matches (Stevie G does about 10km).

Some canny children in surveys tie them to their pets' collars - I bet some of those dogs do heaps!

But so many of us work from home or from offices on computers and only get up to make a cup of tea or go to the toilet. Retail assistants spend a lot of time on their feet, but it’s standing still. Bank clerks, receptionists, and teachers are going nowhere – literally if not metaphorically.

I’m not suggesting that everyone run a marathon, but it is quite frightening to think how many more steps most of us need to do.

The Great Mince Pie Bake-Off

I’ve been through this before – everything is upside-down here and the seasons don’t fit.

Certain Christmas traditions with which I grew up seem out of place in New Zealand. There is hardly any possibility of a White Christmas; turkey with all the trimmings will leave you feeling stuffed; it’s too hot to dress up as the fat bloke in a red felt suit and a big white beard (unless you live in Wellington); and the robins look different.

So I was delighted to be invited to a great mince-pie bake off. The lovely Amanda Wooldridge of XL Coaching and the charming Anna Passera of Vivace Group were holding a contest to see who makes the best mince pies.

In a blind tasting with a glass or two of bubbly, friends and connoisseurs gathered to taste the gourmet delights. And delightful they were. I love a good mince pie and these two were fine examples. Brandy butter, custard or whipped cream are often the perfect accompaniment, but these two varieties boldly held their own without need for enhancement.

I had some insider information into the secret recipes – apparently (as the French have always maintained) the key to success is butter. In common with that other Christmas staple (mulled wine), the coup de grace is the spirit you choose to add a certain je ne sais quoi. It seems that a soupçon of whisky or Cointreau is preferred.

There has been some recent brouhaha over claims that mince pies can push you over the alcohol driving limit. To this I say pish-posh. Every second year chemistry student knows that baking alcohol means it’s not really alcohol anymore – something to do with evaporation or some such. This was exposed on BBC Radio 5 Live. Alarmingly the segment went on to condemn Christmas cake instead, for soaking up the three or four bottles of sherry that people (by which I mean my mum) pour over it in the lead-up to the big day.

I read that infamous killjoy Oliver Cromwell banned mince pies (the devil’s food or some such piffle) in 1647 and, since the law has never been revoked, it is still actually illegal to eat them in England. Obviously no one takes this seriously and they really are an institution. They are handed out as a treat at such diverse venues as trains and theatres throughout the land.

One of the big mince pie traditions, of course, involves leaving one out for Father Christmas on Christmas Eve to say thank you for filling our stockings. In our house, this used to be accompanied by a glass of sherry and a carrot for the reindeer. *Spoiler Alert* It was when I heard Dad asking if Father Christmas could have a glass of whisky instead that my doubts were aroused.

FC used to leave us clues to find our presents – we had to work for them, you understand. The clues often comprised complicated physics equations or anagrams of cabinet ministers and football teams. These were particularly challenging as Dad (I mean Father Christmas) couldn’t spell, but Dad always seemed to know what he meant – they had long chats over the mince pie and whisky, apparently. I liked to picture this for years, but really it was an obvious giveaway. That and the suspiciously familiar handwriting.

Best films of the decade - part 2

Carryng on from where I left off yesterday, here are my further musings on the films I have seen on the combined 'best of/definitive' films of the last decade from The Times and The Telegraph.

The Last King of Scotland: Great film, great acting and James McAvoy

Little Miss Sunshine: Made me laugh and cry out loud: very embarrassing and very surprising!

The Lives of Others: Quite simply outstanding

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring / The Return of the King: The first one was the best, I was bored by the end – just get on with it for God’s sake! There's a reason neither listed the middle of the trilogy - it was mind-numbingly dull. The projector broke down four times while I watched this film; I thought I would never get out of there alive. NZ went into orgiastic self-congratulatory mode.

Memento: I love Guy Pearce – I loved this film

Michael Clayton: Guess what; good actors and a good script can make a great film. It's a suspense, but not a thriller.

Milk: Not bad for an ‘issues’ film, but I love Sean Penn – the man can do no wrong. I prefer Mystic River as his better performance of the decade, however.

Minority Report: I like future-world-gone-wrong films, and they go very wrong here indeed


Moulin Rouge: Who thought it would be a good idea to take two actors who patently can't sing and put them in a musical? It seemed to work - Parisian slums never looked so glamorous and sales of absinthe rocketed

Mulholland Drive: I never got David Lynch, so I watched this to see if it would help – it didn’t

No Country for Old Men: Would have been a great film with one of the most excellent scenes – flipping the coin at the gas store – but ruined by the rambling pseudo psychoanalysis at the end

The Pianist: Adrien Brody shone, America continued it's love/hate relationship with Roman Polanski. Whatever you think of the man, he makes a damn fine film

The Piano Teacher: Ouch! Painfully uncomfortable to watch, deeply disturbing and typically European

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl: Is it weird when you and your mum fancy the same bloke? Johnny Depp desperately deserves an Oscar for making pirates sexy again.

The Queen: I love Helen Mirren and I love The Queen

The Royal Tenenbaums: So much hype; so many good actors; so ultimately disappointing

School of Rock: Strangely appealing – grown men acting like geeky teenagers is occasionally funny – as long as it’s not real life

Shrek: I'm not a big fan of animation or kid's films, but I'll make an exception for the grumpy green ogre and the funky soundtrack

Sideways: Great understated film although merlot gets a shockingly bad rap

Slumdog Millionaire: How could anyone not like this film?

Spiderman: Not a patch on Batman but Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst are cute together

Syriana: Everything's political - I love stuff like this

There Will Be Blood: Will there ever! Often compared with No Country For Old Men, I preferred this, but then I studied the book at university

This is England: Margaret Thatcher has so much to answer for; this film is part of her legacy – brilliant (the film, not the legacy)

Traffic: Ho hum; too worthy for it's own good

United 93: Why did I watch it when I knew it would all end so badly? Depressingly realistic

The Wind That Shakes the Barley: I never expected Ken Loach to sympathise with the IRA – nearly walked out of the cinema in disgust

Films of the decade?

'Tis the season to compile lists of 'best of's. As it is a year with a 9 at the end, we can extend that for a whole ten years! The latest list from The Times sent to tyrannise me is The 100 Best Films of the Decade. Unlike The Telegraph list of 100 Books That Defined the Noughties, this list goes further by suggesting they are the best films.

I have of course had a look, and find I have seen 41 of their 100. I then realised that The Telegraph had done a list of 100 Films That Defined the Noughties, so I had a look at that too. Curiously, I discovered I had seen 41 of their choices too (20 of which were the same). I neither agree nor disagree with thier order on the list, but these are my comments on what I have seen of their chosen films, in alphabetical order:


28 Days Later: According to Him Outdoors, this is the perfect Valentine’s Day flick. Great opening scene - kind of like The Day of the Triffids but with zombies

About Schmidt: Sometimes I just don’t understand why films get nominated for Oscars

Amelie: Utterly nauseating. Some of my best friends liked it; I try not to hold that against them

Atonement: I liked the film almost as much as the book - high praise, indeed!

Billy Elliot: Any film with The Jam and The Clash on the soundtrack has got to be good, and this is superb

Bend it Like Beckham: Some fantastic actors explain the off-side rule. And some others launch their career

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan:is niiiice. How that man is still alive is beyond me

Bowling for Columbine: Guns don’t kill people: highly-charged testosterone-fuelled morons do

The Bourne Supremacy / The Bourne Ultimatum: Good action films but I’ve seen better. I suppose they were filmed in tandem (like LOTR) so should get similar kudos, but I wish cinematographers would learn to hold the camera steady!

Brokeback Mountain: What is it about the words ‘short story’ that Ang Lee failed to understand? Two men lie and cheat on their wives – why is this a big deal? Why should I feel sorry for them? Because they’re gay? So what? Lying and cheating is lying and cheating.

Casino Royale: Bond is back – I wasn’t sure about a blonde Bond, but he really is a living action man

Children of Men: In the future there is Clive Owen and no children – I can’t wait!

Chopper: Played ‘drink along a swear word’ to this – got very very drunk

The Constant Gardener: Despite the bland title, this was a spectacularly good film

Control: Great music; great acting (even from Samantha ‘yes, it-would-kill-me-to-smile' Morton); great directing; great city – what more can I say?

Crash: We learn that racism is like so not cool

Dancer in the Dark: Bjork is just plain weird

The Dark Knight: I know it’s sacrilegious, but I preferred Jack Nicholson’s Joker

The Departed: Classy drama/thriller from the in-crowd

The Devil Wears Prada: Saw this on a plane and was surprised to find myself enjoying it. I liked the Meryl Streep character – and Emily Blunt – but wanted to slap the insipid assistant

Downfall: Powerful, frightening, mesmerising, German

Erin Brockovich: Julia Roberts proves she's not just a pretty face

Gladiator: It took a long time for Russell Crowe to worm his way back into my good books after this talent-free epic. I bet he was gutted

Good Night, and Good Luck: I so wanted to like it and yet I can barely remember it

Gomorrah: The matter-of-fact unglamorous violence scared the shit out of me – I never liked Naples much anyway

Gosforth Park: Brilliantly acted upstairs/downstairs drama works on so many levels - ha!

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: It's not the best but it was the first. Apparently J.K. Rowling stipulated that all the actors must be British, which is why the deries of films remains so fine

In the Loop: One of the best films I’ve seen this year


Kill Bill: Women with good figures everywhere drove blokes wild dressing up in yellow leather. As far as I'm concerned, the 2000s was simply not Tarantino's decade.

I'll continue this later...

Books read in June

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

Luncheon of the Boating Party – Susan Vreeland (3.3)
This novel is the imagined story of the Impressionists; in particular, Auguste Renoir and in even more particular, his painting of the Luncheon of the Boating Party. It’s not especially well written with too much repetition and off-putting changes in narrative voice, but when it focuses on the art and technique of painting it is at its best. The depictions of regatta races, lengthy meals, indolent bicycle rides and languid afternoons are ideal for a film. The motif and historic interest is supplied by the group of painters that created a movement and challenged a regime.

Vreeland writes well of the emerging style, explaining how Renoir and Monet had discovered together that “juxtaposed patches of contrasting colour could show the movement of sunlit water”. She notes that the tantalising impressions rather than faithful reproductions owe much to train travel. “The squinting and the speed made the countryside whiz by, transforming market gardens and houses into blurred shapes, momentary sensations of colour and light without detail.” Renoir believes that everything has layers which he builds into his paintings, loving the texture of the paint and the shapes, sounds and sensuality of a place.

Vreeland’s Renoir is lusty and full of life. He chronicles actors and actresses, dancers, boating parties, friends, wine, prostitutes and duels. He favours the low-brow and although he knows there is an underside to this style of life, he doesn’t dwell on depression. He champions the seductive life of Montmartre that we have come to recognise from romantic novels and films about this period.

Of course, part of his love of life is a love of women and he paints them as he would like to touch them, admitting that he can’t paint a woman he doesn’t love, which makes him sound like a dirty old man. He views them as objects and the sexual analogy is far from subtle as “With his brush loaded and juicy, he pushed the wet tip gently into the hidden folds of her skirt, and stroked again and again, pushing farther, gently, wet into the wet already there.” We get the picture.

Will & Me: How Shakespeare Took Over My Life – Dominic Dromgoole (4.3)
In this semi-autobiography about his relationship with the bard, Dromgoole (artistic director of the Globe Theatre) contends that Shakespeare wields a massive influence over the English in both language and culture. He writes a little about Shakespeare the man, mentioning his politics, his religion and his background, but these snippets of information about Shakespeare’s life and times probably tell us more about Dromgoole himself than his subject.

In fact, this is definitely not a book about Shakespeare but rather about Dromgoole’s experience of him. His private history mingles with generalities and concepts and he writes about himself as a social misfit with brutal candour. He is unaware that he doesn’t exactly have a stereotypical upbringing (his mother was an actress turned teacher and his father a theatre director and TV executive) and his upper middle-class genes practically scream out from the page.

He writes well about the plays themselves – their language and characters which give them their magic. The biggest threat to Shakespeare, as Dromgoole sees it, is the over-analysis of what he calls the ‘Shakespeare industry’ who give the plays an interpretation comprising modern constructs that simply had no place in his time. He scorns the concept production in which a director “who has only half or quarter understood a play” chooses a style and then “relentlessly forces everything to fit.” He argues that there is no consistent style in the world, so why should there be in the theatre?

Some of the most interesting aspects of the book are about stagecraft and the art of acting. He also has words of wisdom about the process of theatre including the stage itself, the wings and the rehearsal room.

On the whole it is Dromgoole’s eulogy to Shakespeare, the human not the god, tempered with realism and sounding a cautionary note to would-be scholars.


Valeria’s Last Stand – Marc Fitten (4.5)
In describing this novel, I want to use such words as whimsical, delightful and charming. Like a mediaeval morality tale, it proves that foolishness in love is not the sole prerogative of the young. In deepest Hungary, Valeria, a grumpy old battleaxe, is smitten by a potter who adopts her as his muse. This angers the proprietor of the local pub, Ibolya, who has designs on him herself. The village depends on her favours as she is the one who controls the alcohol, so everyone takes sides.

Meanwhile Ferenc is hopelessly in love with Ibolya, despite having a wife himself, and the potter’s assistant attempts to ignore the attentions of Zsofi who he thinks is just a good friend. The mayor has them all dancing to his tune as he parades his pretty young wife and promises development that never materialises, despite the frequent visits from Korean dignitaries.

When a chimney sweep arrives (most of the men are known only by their profession), the villagers take heart, as apparently chimney sweeps are lucky, according to rural superstition. He quickly seduces the women (many of whose flues haven’t had a thorough sweeping in ages) and antagonises the men, but he is unaware that the bicycle he rides into town is profoundly unlucky. With overtones of Annie Proulx’s Accordion Crimes we are treated to a quick history of how the contraption has passed through many tragic circumstances. The novel is earthy, rustic and ribald, almost like one of the Canterbury Tales, with a moral twist of mob mentality, manipulation and turning on the weak.

The writing is both magnificently evocative language and eminently readable. Fitten’s characters come to life through his rudimentary and ironic descriptions. It is light-hearted in the vein of The Number 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith or A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka. Like these novels, there is a cynical edge, and the seam of politics is never far from the surface. There is a conflict throughout between the pride of history and traditions, and the irritation that these are only preserved because no one cares enough to attack them.

Lake Hayes Mistake

A couple of weeks ago I had occasion to go to a newish housing development – Lake Hayes Estate – and it got me thinking about homes and communities.

This place was originally established as ‘affordable family housing’ although with an average sale price of $604,000, I’m not sure about their definition of the word ‘affordable’; a vile subjective term anyway.

Some of the houses are well-appointed and incorporate some intelligent examples of design. Others are simply hideous. And they are all lined up in neat little rows with double garages and tidy lawns.

They are surrounded by mountains and sunk down in a dip so you can’t see from the road, which means they can’t see the beautiful lake for which they are named. In fact, many of them can’t see anything except next-door’s fence.

So I suppose their occupants go to work all day in Queenstown, or possibly Arrowtown, while their children are at schools or kindergartens. They come home to their fortress, pull the curtains, and put their feet up, happy in their nuclear, suburban, Stepford Wives existence.

When I was there I didn’t see a soul, apart from the rubbish collector. There is a park where children can play, which is laid with Astroturf and fenced off from predators. There is no café, there are no shops and there is certainly no pub.

When we moved to our house, one of the reasons for choosing the location was so that we could walk to the local village and go to the pub. I realise this may not be everyone’s priority, but what happens when they run out of bread or milk? They have to get in a car and drive to the supermarket. It’s not the sort of place that encourages ‘thinking outside the box’ (another vile expression). Living in one? That’s another matter.

Neither does it encourage community. The propaganda calls it a township, which to me has sinister connotations of segregation and apartheid. There are walkways so you can pop round to your friend’s house, if they live in the same estate as you. As it is not on the way to anywhere, the roads are quiet so the kids could ride their bikes, if there were any in evidence. It is safe and secure and sterile. We used to call these sorts of places cul-de-sacs, or dead ends.

William Morris promoted the idea of community or fellowship – “Fellowship is heaven, and lack of fellowship is hell; fellowship is life, and lack of fellowship is death; and the deeds that ye do upon the earth, it is for fellowship’s sake ye do them.”

But there is no evidence of fellowship here. No laughter or conversation. But wait, I saw one – a tree house in a walnut grove. It was a prime example of youthful enthusiasm and breaking the rules in a totally harmless way. It will probably be removed soon. This is not a place for fun, learning, or exploration.

Sadly these days people are forming ‘communities’ with virtual strangers on their electronic antisocial networking pages. They would rather stay in their house with the metaphorical drawbridge firmly raised rather than meet folk for a pint down the pub. The clean, barren impersonality of Lakes Hayes Estate may well be the way of the future. I hope not. I think it’s a big mistake.