Christchurch Earthquake

Thank you everyone who has asked; I am fine. The earthquake that has devastated Christchurch was felt here in Queenstown but there was no damage. So far as I know, all my friends in Christchurch are okay, although obviously severly shaken and traumatised. Some have lost their homes and their belongings but none have lost their lives. My thoughts and love are with all those affected by the earthquake.

With reservations

Can someone please tell me when the word invite became a noun? I could have sworn it was a verb of which the nominal form is invitation. I realise that English is an ever-developing language, but this usage is just plain laziness or possibly ignorance; which is worse?

I have heard and read it a lot of late in the (Kiwi) media due to the forthcoming royal wedding between His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton. There is a perfectly good word for that thing in the buff envelope with the Queen's seal: it's an invitation. So why are people unable to use the correct word?

You can bet that the Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith did not command the Lord Chamberlain to send out 'invites' to her grandson's wedding.

Fifties Icons

My latest directing project is for a local community group, The Arrowtown Entertainers. One of their number, Dave Dustan, has written a play called Cribbies set in 1959 in Arrowtown. The swinging sixties had not yet arrived and folk arrived in Arrowtown from Invercargill, Dunedin and various places roundabout with the sole intention of relaxing.

They stayed in 'cribs' (baches in the North Island; holiday homes to the English) during their holidays. The kids played down by the river all day, the dads dreamed about building shacks without planning permission, and the mums just dreamed in the warm Central Otago sun. There was apparently no crime or stress, but plenty of socialising and rock 'n' roll (and binge drinking actually, but we'll overlook that for now).

To get myself in the mood for the era, I visited the excellent Lakes District Museum and spoke to the lovely Angela Verry (the exceptionally helpful education officer). She shared her research with me including some fantastic interviews with the original 'cribbies' and some artefacts. You'll recognise the furniture and the decor from your grandma's houses.

The flying ducks on the wall are something of which every collector seems to be proud. They remind me of Vera Duckworth on Coronation Street and were always shorthand for 'completely lacking in class'. A lot of the items such as formica tables, velvet pictures, chrome and vinyl chairs, plastic thermos flasks etc, are utterly ghastly.

Although I realise that everyone's taste is different (although less and less these days as we are all dictated to by the Internet arbitrator - controlled by petulant and precocious teenagers, apparently), I would like to know when does something stop being naff and ugly, and become retro and chic, if ever?

 

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?

Style Icons

Two of my favourite style icons are celebrating their golden jubilee this year: both the E-type Jag and Dr Marten’s Boots are 50.

When the E-type was first released in 1961, Enzo Ferrari called it ‘the most beautiful car ever made’ – praise indeed, especially when coming from your competition! In 2004 Sports Car International ranked it top sports car of the 1960s, and in 2008 the Daily Telegraph placed it at number one in the list of the ‘100 most beautiful cars of all time’.

It really is sex on wheels. Although it was the first production car designed on aircraft principles, apparently it’s far from perfect technically. It has all sorts of mechanical faults (the gear-box always caused problems), but it looks so good... Maybe it’s the thrusting bonnet – the thought of the power beneath that sleek, shiny body – or the aesthetically pleasing sculpted curves. Well named, it’s like taut muscle waiting to pounce and race away – alternatively growling and purring.

When I was younger it was the only car I recognised – if it wasn’t an e-type; it was just a car – and I used to add it to my father’s to-do list when he wasn’t looking. Unfortunately, he never took the hint and always neglected to tick that one off. My mum did buy me one for my sixteenth birthday (British racing green convertible and everything), but it was only four inches long.

I asked for an e-type on my wedding and I got one! That was ten inches long – I’m progressing. We had one booked to take us to the wedding and from the church to the reception (although I was warned that some brides found that disembarking from the vehicle could be slightly indecorous in their wedding dress) but it failed its MOT the day before – we ended up traversing the Thames in a launch, which was terribly romantic. I feel perhaps I am destined to admire and drool from a distance.

Dr Martens boots on the other hand, were very much more attainable. I wore them everywhere through the 80s and early 90s. I had a black pair, a brown pair and a cherry red pair. I wore them with polka-dot leggings and a baggy fisherman’s jumper; I wore them with short tartan skirts and thick black tights; I wore them with floral Laura Ashley dresses; I wore them with jeans and Pogues t-shirts... I walked around town in them; I walked down country lanes in them; I stomped at gigs and raves in them; I went on holiday in them; I slept through lectures in them; I worked my first jobs in them... I loved them.

Then I saw them with pretty patterns – hippy flowers and fake animal print. They had heels and Mary Jane straps. They were wrong. Doctor Martens were the footwear of rebellion – they were worn by postmen, factory workers, union reps, outcasts and protestors – they told their own story and it was one of tribes – punks; indies; rebels. They were ‘anti-fashion defined in eight holes’.

I know that times move on and youth is vapid and vacuous, leaping on fads and disposing of them (much as we used to do, but they do it much faster), but I feel their image has been diluted. The high-heeled shiny pink shoe is shocking in more ways than one – it is an abomination. It’s a far cry from Alexei Sayle on The Young Ones. We’ve come a long way, but I’m not sure it’s a good thing.

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.

Our Man in London: Twelfth Night

I would like to introduce a new blogger to my site. He reaches the parts that antipodean bloggers can't reach - i.e. he gets to go to theatre in London. As I get several irreverent text reviews from him that always make me laugh, I thought I would share them with you. So, without further ado...

Twelfth Night at the National Theatre, London

On a Tuesday morning in a non-Tory world I would be working, but thanks to cut backs I am just working part-time and can sneak off to the theatre. I might have to vote Tory from now on.

Twelfth Night has recently begun a stint on the small stage at the Royal National Theatre and sold out quicker than it takes Andy Gray to crack a sexist joke. But today there was a single returned ticket. Simon Callow and Rebecca Hall directed by Sir Peter Hall in a theatre which holds about 250 people sounded like a no brainer. My Plan B was to watch a live broadcast of it in the Anatomy Theatre and Museum at King’s College. This had two obvious bonuses: (1) if the production was as dull as some of the reviews claimed the venue might be a distraction; and (2) free booze was promised for half time.

I don’t recall attending a mid-week matinee play before. From my vantage point it was a sea of white hair and by halfway through the play gentle snoring. Strangely the bar was also closed.

From memory Twelfth Night is meant to be one of Shakey’s romcoms. I can’t be sure that all of the cast were aware of this. Orsino (Marton Csokas) certainly seemed to think he was performing in a tragedy. His delivery was flat throughout and he also seemed to be unaware until Scene V that he was meant to have the hots for Viola (Cesario when cross-dressing). Initially I thought I was being unfair on him because of his mullet (Chambers Dictionary mullet definition: short at the front and sides, long at the back, and ridiculous all over), but then I found out he is a Kiwi. I can of course draw no conclusions from the latter observation.

The rest of the cast…Simon Callow as I think would be expected was great and completely at home with the part. The moronic Andrew Aguecheek (Charles Edwards) was also a treat. And from all accounts Finty Williams’ Maria was not as good as this Blog’s host’s performance of that role last year.

I have noticed that Shakespeare and Blackadder have started to overlap in my mind. I was sure that the plot for Twelfth Night had similarities with another Shakespeare play. Initially I thought it was A Comedy of Errors, then I realised that Cesario/Viola is actually Bob/Kate from the second series of Blackadder.

Adieu…from Our Man in London