Crime of its Time: Vintage Murder

Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh

Fontana

Pp.223

Inspector Roderick Alleyn is on holiday in New Zealand when he gets caught up with a theatre group and a murder, involving a mistimed opening of a jeroboam of champagne. This combines Ngaio Marsh’s interests perfectly, allowing her to give her chapters such titles as Prologue in a Train, Intermezzo, Duologue, and Business with Props. Written in 1937, it is dated in language and attitude, although it was doubtless considered progressive at the time.

Detectives, witnesses and suspects have a lot in common with actors as they rehearse stories, play parts and deliver lines, whereas Alleyn is straightforward and direct with a self-deprecating sense of humour. When he lists the suspects, their possible motives and alibis, he draws up a chart which is included in the chapter Entr’acte to assist the reader as much as himself – naturally, everybody has one.

There is snobbery towards people’s age, size, class and accent, although most prejudice, however, occurs towards the Maori people, as exemplified through the character of Dr Rangi Te Pokiha. A considerably hateful comedian describes Te Pokiha as “the black quack” and “the light-brown medico”, and when Te Pokiha retaliates (he has also been called silly, obviously wrong, and a liar), we are told, “The whites of his eyes seemed to become more noticeable and his heavy brows came together… [His] warm voice thickened. His lips coarsened into a sort of snarl. He showed his teeth like a dog… the odd twenty per cent of pure savage.” One suspect asserts, “There is no colour bar in this country,” but people still use the expression ‘a white man’ to denote a person of good character. Alleyn describes the country and the people with an anthropological aspect that is offensive to modern readers.

The plot is well-crafted, some of the characterisation and theatrical tropes are fun, and the Kiwi setting is original, but the inherent racism, sexism and body-shaming are problematic. Crime novels may remain popular, but fortunately times have changed.

And Why Not?

Mustn't Grumble by Joe Bennett

(Simon & Schuster), Pp. 280

Joe Bennett lives in Christchurch, New Zealand where he writes columns for syndicated newspapers and books of witticisms and comment. In the introduction to this book he writes, “I am English, but I have spent most of my adult life abroad. When a publisher asked me if I would like to come back, travel around England for a bit and write a book about it, I said yes.” Well, who wouldn’t? Inspired by the 1927 work of H.V. Morton, In Search of England, he decides to follow his footsteps, but by hitch-hiking his away around the country. He soon falls out of love with both Morton and the attempt to hitch-hike as he finds no one stops.

Although he has lived abroad for nearly 25 years, Joe Bennett still identifies with his home country. “I remain English and will die English. And I am happy with that. In a primal way over which I have no control, I still love the place.” He relishes peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, from the way accents indicate class as much as regions, to the courtesy of motorway driving (he borrows a friend’s Audi to tour the country) or “the remarkable ability of the English to eat ice cream in chilly weather.” He even enjoys the climate, the delight in bemoaning which lends his book its self-deprecating title.

Most of his daily excursions finish at the pub. “I am often asked if there is anything I miss about England. There isn’t. I have lived so long abroad that I don’t yearn. If I did, I’d come back. But there are some things that I relish when I do come back and one of those is pubs.” He is definitive about what constitutes a good pub. “People come in to talk to whoever happens to be there… They laugh a lot. There is nothing that cannot be discussed... It’s a coincidence of paths, a random intersection of lives that will never come again. We meet, we laugh, we go away again. I like that.” As anyone who has left England and returned, he notices the lack of space and the sense of history and culture, “There are few parts of this cramped country that have not been written about. It’s going to be hard to escape literature on this trip. I don’t think I’ll bother to try.”

His attitude is generally affectionate, but he doesn’t love everything. He dislikes the council buildings of the 1950s, thrown up in haste and unfortunately permanent. Like many before him, he bemoans the utilitarian modernity and there is a hint of axe grinding in his scathing assessment, “Cathedrals strive so hard to deny that they’ve become theme parks.”

He is a good writer, able to make the commonplace interesting. Squirrels “ripple across the grass, their spines undulating like waves along a skipping rope…” While mainly direct, he occasionally becomes verbose when he warms to a theme, such as when he writes of the lack of response received at the breakfast table.

Joe Bennett has asked many people (usually in his pub conversations) what it means to them to be English. While many are proud to be so, they have struggled to define it. Some can only express their identity by knowing what it is not, and what it is not is European. (This book was published in 2006; ten years before Brexit). The image of Englishness perplexes him, as he notes that Morton was harking back to an England he expected his readers to want and so he delivered it to them. 

Bennett is frequently told that the old way of life has changed due to progress and immigration. He concedes he is in no position to judge whether England is overrun by migrants, as he has mostly seen the England of the shires. “Yet I have heard any number of middle-class, middle-aged whites, most of them living in towns that are ninety-eight per cent white, telling me that immigration is ruining the country.”

He soon grows weary of H.V. Morton and his elegiac prose, which he feels is calculating and was propagandist even when written. Bennett begins to deliberately stray from Morton and his beaten track because he feels he is being manipulated. “I don’t want stuff packaged. I don’t want my way to be eased...” He would rather drop in unexpectedly on places and take them as they are. 

He is a curmudgeon who won’t be patronised. He thinks of himself as a free spirit, wandering the countryside at will, while most at home propping up the bar and chatting to strangers without commitments or consequences. He finds humour in adversity and fascination in mundanity. If H.V. Morton went in search of England, then Joe Bennett probably found it.

A World Away: Child Migration

On Their Own: Britain's Child Migrants
National Archives of Australia
December 2012 - March 2013

From the 1860s more than 100,000 British children were sent to Canada, 7,000 to Australia, and several hundred to Southern Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe) and New Zealand through child migration schemes. Some were as young as three, but the average age was eight years old, and most of them never returned home.

Their lives changed dramatically and fortunes varied. Some succeeded in creating new futures. Others suffered lonely, brutal childhoods. All experienced disruption and separation from family and homeland. This exhibition, a collaboration between the Australian National Maritime Museum and National Museums Liverpool UK, tells their emotional stories.

In the late nineteenth century, emigration was viewed as a solution to Britain’s economic and social problems. Between 1801 and 1911 the population of Britain increased from 9million to 36million and the rapid rise of industrialism led to overcrowded cities, disease, long hours and poor working conditions. It cost ₤15 to migrate a child and ₤12 a year to look after them on the Poor Law in Britain.

Charities were set up to support emigration including the Child Migration Scheme established by Kingsley Fairbridge in 1909. In 1900 many of the emigrating children came from workhouses, later they came from children’s homes and orphanages. Some parents chose the scheme for their children – orphans were not necessarily without parents – many children were taken into care when their parents couldn’t afford to look after them. They were told they were orphans to ensure they severed all ties with allegedly unworthy relations and made a fresh start.

Children were sent for the prospects of better living conditions and steady employment – a way to improve life away from the perceived evils of city life. It was not all totally altruistic, obviously, as there were growing labour needs in Britain’s dominions. The children were to be the bricks upon which the Empire would continue to be built. Australia in particular ran a ‘Populate or Perish’ campaign. The country was booming and there were demands for more children.

Before leaving Britain, children were given a wooden trunk containing winter and summer clothes (the first time many of them had ever had new clothes), a copy of the Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress. Fairbridge boys were outfitted in smart blazers, shorts, leather shoes and brown and gold striped ties. This fine wardrobe was taken from the children on arrival and replaced with khaki work clothes and bare feet. Barnardos gave children travel bags with new clothes, shoes and personal items (such as toothbrushes and combs) which were taken off them when they arrived in Australia and sent back to Britain to be used again by the next party of migrants.

The voyage was both frightening and exciting. The children they left behind home and family, but also poverty and hardship: they had new clothes and made new friends. Depending on their destination, they saw and experienced many strange sights, boats, islands and harbours – Suez Canal; Arab traders and camels; whales, dolphins and icebergs (off Labrador Coast); Quebec; Montreal; Dar es Salaam; Tanzania; Tenerife; Rock of Gibraltar; Naples; Mt Vesuvius; Port Said; Tropical Colombo; Sri Lanka.

Steamship travel afforded exotic delights and plenty to eat; many children put on weight. They played games of leapfrog and quoits and learned to swim in the pool. One interviewee remembers, “The ship had a swimming pool in the middle and I was terrified to jump in because I thought it would have no bottom and I would end up out in the sea and drown.” I can’t help but be reminded of the Land of Toys in Pinocchio where children are lured with leisure before being turned into beasts of burden. A quote at the exhibition confirms,

“The visual record of child migration is dominated by photographs of cheering children departing the UK and arriving in new lands. These photographs were taken to promote the work of sending organisations and ensure they continued to attract financial support from governments and wealthy patrons. They provide a remarkable contrast to the often damning written and oral testimonies of former child migrants, which form the basis of many case studies in the exhibition.”

Land of Toys by Bakke

Some children were given the choice of emigrating to Canada or Australia and the reasons for their choices are heartbreakingly innocent – they chose Canada because they wanted to be lumberjacks; Australia because they liked cricket or didn’t like the cold. In New Zealand many were fostered; in Canada and Australia they were put to work on the land; in Rhodesia they were educated (at the time they were told that ‘the blacks worked the land’). Some were happy with the skills they learned and later went into the farming trade, wool industry and defence forces.

For some the experience of Canada was that they were stationed in bleak, remote farms, where their accent was ridiculed and they were not allowed to eat with the family. In Australia many were shocked by the heat and the landscape, and sent to remote farm training schools or religious institutions. Pinjarra (80km south of Perth) was the first school of the Kingsley Fairbridge’s Child Emigration Society in 1912. The cottages in which the children were accommodated were called Clive, Raleigh etc – named after British navigators and war heroes to reinforce his imperial vision.

The Fairbridge Society and Barnardos sought ‘good British stock’ to populate, settle and defend the continent, but the boys were destined to be farmers, and the girls domestics and farmers’ wives. One woman recalls, “You finish school at 15 and became a cook in the Fairbridge dining room. Later you meet your future husband, an old Fairbridgian at the Fairbridge holiday camp.” The children were often put to hard labour; tilling soil, churning butter, milking cows, and hauling heavy bricks to build their own dormitories. The correspondent continues, “They asked for the best British stock – children of good health, high IQ and sound moral character – then put them to work as labourers. What a breach of faith that was.”

For some children, things were not so bad. The exhibition collects anecdotal evidence from many who underwent the schemes. One lad earned ₤10 a week and sent ₤1 to Barnardos for banking, for the savings to be released when he was 21. Others, however, tell tales of physical, sexual and verbal abuse, producing scars that remained with them for life. Some societies stole the children’s wages, belongings and letters from ‘home’ and told the children their parents were dead and that they had no siblings; that they were unloved and unwanted. When some of these children found out the truth the betrayal sent them mad. Things improved slightly with the Big Brother Movement (BBM) where Big Brothers helped Little Brothers to settle, but an interpretation panel baldly states,

“For former child migrants the legacy of their experience remains. Many have struggled, not only due to the hardships and abuse they endured, but also because they were torn from their homeland and lost their identities. Others were lucky enough to find fulfilment in their lives.”

In 1914, the First World War put a stop to child migration, although many former child migrants fought in the Canadian army as they still felt strong connections with their British roots. It recommenced after the war, but the interwar years were marked by poverty and austerity in formerly receptive colonies and child migration to Canada was formally ended by 1939. Australia became the main destination after Canada ended the scheme. One third of war evacuees to Australia later emigrated there for good. Indeed, some former child migrants also fought in the Australian army, only to later discover that they had never been granted citizenship.

In 1945 the introduction of the Welfare State reduced the need for child migration schemes, and they were officially ended in 1967. The Australian and British governments apologised for their roles in schemes “that were once considered generous philanthropy, but are now widely condemned as being fundamentally flawed.” The exhibition contains a number of oral histories, which are very moving. Videos and recordings reveal adults who still have a love for Britain even though they have lived in Australia since the age of 12, rationalising that they would have had to endure another war if they had remained in Britain.

Since the 1990s the Child Migrants’ Trust helps to reunite families. The hardest hearted cynic cannot fail to be moved by the collection of tales of reconciliations with parents thought dead and the difficulties of tracing families. Children were often given the wrong birth date and wrong name, and told they were told they had no relations, making it almost impossible to find their missing identity. One interviewee finally found his mother through her name on his birth certificate which had been concealed from him for many years. By the time he found it, she had been dead for two years.

Former child migrants gather in London for the apology from British Prime Minister Gordon Brown in February 2010.

The exhibition is sensitively handled; a well-balanced and thought-provoking treatment of an incredibly emotional issue. We can’t change history, but hopefully we can learn from it. We have done some terrible things in the past with the best of misguided intentions. In the words of the exhibition itself:

“The history of child migration is complex and contested. Issues of redress and compensation remain unresolved. Many former child migrants are still coming to terms with their deportation and dislocation and find it painful to reflect on their past.”

Big Foot Strikes Again!

Recently the New Zealand media has been awash with hysteria over The Hobbit. Because some actors who were part of the union dared to ask for comparable wages with their American counterparts for doing the same job in the same conditions on the same film, the executives at Warner Brothers threatened to take the film off-shore. Suggestions were Poland or Czechoslovakia, because it’s cheaper. There was outcry.

This did lead to some interesting asides as an article in The Guardian speculated where certain scenes might be located if set in Britain (let’s not forget; where the book was originally written). The Shire is described thus; ‘Tranquil and pastoral, the Shire is home to the Hobbits, a bizarre race of tiny, shoeless, greedy, pipe-smoking, badly dressed little men and matronly wives.’ The suggested location was therefore Luton town centre. The forum was opened up to the public to propose where they would shoot The Hobbit – the first answer was, ‘I would shoot the hobbit in the face’. My, how I laughed.

According to some sections of the population The Hobbit can be set nowhere but New Zealand, never mind the fact that JRR Tolkien never even visited here. For a nation that has been proudly churning out ‘New Zealand-made’ garments from sweat-shops in China for years because it’s cheaper, the righteous indignation feels a little hollow. These are probably the same people who illegally download films and music, thereby killing the performance industry to save themselves a few dollars.

Many extras and people who don’t actually make a living through acting are claiming, ‘I’d do it free’. How helpful is that really? For some reason many sections of society seem to think that because actors love their job, they should be paid a starvation existence, if at all. I’m not sure I follow this argument – are we saying that lawyers and surgeons hate their work? After all, no one expects them to work for free.

It seems that the nation has finally woke up to the fact that people don’t adore them the way they think – they just use them because their labour is often cheaper than in other (generally unionised – i.e. fairly paid) countries. So I woke up one morning last week to find that John ‘I made fifty million pounds out of screwing people like you’ Key has changed the labour laws overnight, and denied one of the workers’ primary rights – that of collective bargaining. Yes, you read that right: 300 years of workers’ rights sold to Warner Brothers. It may not be Mickey Mouse, but it’s certainly goofy.

Corporate greed triumphs once again, as you would expect from the despicable I’m Alright Jack politics that epitomised the Thatcher era (during which this particular Jack made his millions), but the fact that a Prime Minister can directly intervene in a commercial venture and bribe a company to come to his country (Warner Brothers will receive $25 million in tax breaks) so it receives worldwide exposure is disgraceful. New Zealand scenery will once again be on the big screen and it will do wonders for the tourism industry (the same Guardian article points out that, ‘prior to those films it was just bungee jumping and binge drinking, but now the spectacular scenery is its own selling point’), but the actors will leave. He has made sure of that.

When all that is left are right-wing propaganda mainstream X-box American remakes in ten years time, people who voted for this slippery snake will have only themselves to blame. I will be boycotting the film of The Hobbit when it finally comes out, even if it does star Richard Armitage. Admittedly, I am only one person and will not make much of an impact on the American/oops, I mean New Zealand (there appears to be little difference) dollar, but like the actors who fought for their rights I am prepared to stand by my beliefs. (Plus The Hobbit is one of only two books I have ever started and not finished out of sheer boredom.)

Meanwhile in France, such things would not pass without a ripple. President Sarkozy’s attempt to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62 drew mass protests and strike action from the workers. It was said to cost the national economy €400 million a day and yet 70% of people supported the unions who called for these strikes. Jean-Luc Hacquart, a representative of the CGT union in Paris (Confédération générale du travail) – the strongest union in France – said (albeit doubtless in French),

"Democracy is not a carte blanche given to people to do what they want between elections. It doesn’t work like that."

George Orwell wrote in Nineteen Eighty-Four, “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face— forever.” If only people were less apathetic and more socially minded in this country, the hard-fought rights of the workers would be safeguarded rather than tossed aside for the benefit of a group of hairy-footed cellar dwellers. I mean the fictional hobbits – what were you thinking?

End of the World (Cup) as we know it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Cup Match-ups

Well, the first round of group games is over and we’re into round two. England play Algeria tomorrow morning (NZ time), so I thought I better post this now just in case I’m slumped in the corner with depression tomorrow. I don’t expect to be – but you never can tell with England, or France, or Spain…

I don’t know what the French press are saying about their draw with Uruguay and their loss to Mexico, or what flack Spain are copping for their loss to Switzerland, but I know that certain sections of the British press have slated England for not beating USA. I find this a little odd because USA are a very good and competent side with some solid defence and inspirational moves up front; they didn’t get to 14th in the FIFA World Cup rankings by fluke (we are 8th incidentally).

This is the beauty of football, or one of them anyway. It is not by nature a highly scoring game, especially when the teams are evenly matched and they have a strong defence that the attackers struggle to penetrate. A single goal may be lucky (USA) or well-worked (Chile) or both (New Zealand) but it can dramatically change the outcome. I’ve heard a lot of grumbling (mainly from fans of rugby, basketball and ice-hockey) that the games have been boring because there are few goals. 

Clearly these people don’t understand subtlety or tactics (they probably hate test cricket too) or they would be able to appreciate that the Côte d’Ivoire vs. Portugal was a classic World Cup game of flare and dogged determination. There were two different styles of football of show: Portugal demonstrated flowing passes, silky skills and great team play; the Côte d’Ivoire fielded a side of big strong athletes with excellent individual prowess but not such superior solidarity. It was 0-0.

Another exciting aspect of this sport is that the ‘best’ team doesn’t always win. Portugal are ranked third in the Fifa World Cup rankings; Côte d’Ivoire are ranked 27th. The big thrill over here is New Zealand (78th) snatching a draw with Slovakia (34th). So far, the biggest difference in rankings has been Brazil (first) against Korea DPR (105th), and the lesser fancied side still managed to score a goal in the 2-1 game. You don’t often get that in other sports. We call it giant-killing and it makes every football competition electrifying. Anything can happen.

Let’s just hope that tomorrow the ‘best’ team – England (8th) – really does come out on top.

Shout it from the rooftops!

Until last week, I didn’t know the name of that extremely annoying horn. You know the one at this year’s World Cup. People blast its monotonous note (the term ‘musical instrument’ is somewhat far-fetched) at rugby matches over here. I assumed it was for folk who hadn’t the wit or the intelligence to think up a chant or remember words. You know, like those mind-numbingly banal ‘thunder-sticks’ that are also all the rage in this country.

Apparently they are called vuvuzelas. And outside South Africa (and tedious provincial rugby matches in New Zealand) they are extremely unpopular. There is a website you can visit and vote as to whether you want to see them banned or not. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they are ruining my enjoyment of the World Cup (Ronaldo is doing that) and it is up to South Africa to have them if they choose (indeed, there is even an argument that the vuvuzela is a symbol of racial and financial unification), but they certainly are excruciatingly loud and mind-numbingly unoriginal.

The BBC is considering filtering out the noise – if they could do this and keep the rest of the crowd noise – the singing; the chanting; the oohs and ahs; the cheers and groans – plus the commentator, then it would be worth it. You can just mute your TV, but then you won’t hear the commentators quips and questions – my favourite so far: “Will this be France’s chance to score? No.” So, I guess I’ll just have to suffer through it. The only game so far where I could actually hear the crowd singing through the wet blanket of whining was England v USA – funny that.

The vuvuzela cacophony sounds like a swarm of irritated (and irritating) mosquitoes – how could that possibly be desirable? I hate high-pitched noises (whistles; squeaky shoes on indoor courts; smoke alarms; children…) so these things give me a headache and set my teeth on edge. I am not alone. 83,951 people had voted to ban them on the previously-mentioned website at last look. Apparently this is ‘cultural snobbery’ and ‘patronising’. Fair enough; when in Rome and all that. Mexico gave us the wave (which, incidnetally, many organisations tried to ban); South Africa the vuvuzela. My, how we’ve suffered. It’s in Brazil in 2014 – we should have drums and sambas; that will be something to be celebrated.

Speaking of something to be celebrated – New Zealand gained their first point ever at the World Cup last night. It came in the 93rd minute, but it was the first decent cross they put in all game – congratulations Shane Smeltz. Never mind the fact that no one had previously heard of the under-19 and under-21 Danish goal-scorer; he is now a national hero. And rightly so. His precision header and Smeltz’s flash of inspiration elevated the lacklustre match into a public celebration of the beautiful game. And yes, my Arsenal-supporting-but-otherwise-likeable friend, you’re right; it does look magnificent, no matter how you look at it!

Naturally the media are jumping for joy despite normally ignoring the one true sport in favour of that ridiculous variety of hand-oval. The Guardian has a pretty fair report of the match. Okay, so they may be a little unfair in describing it as ‘asbestos-clad’, but they can’t take that point away from New Zealand. They deserve to party long and hard – after they’ve concentrated in the rest of their campaign, of course. (One thing I would say; not only is your team's nickname not particularly approariate in South Africa - think about it - but you should stop waving those white flags. There's no point admitting you've surrended before you've even started!)
 
I must admit, I wasn’t expecting the NZ goal – nothing in the previous 92 minutes had led me to suspect that they even knew where the net was, but I was very happy to be proved wrong. I will be even happier if I am proved even wronger and they manage to take points from either Paraguay (unlikely) or Italy (practically impossible). If they get through the group stage I stand to win the grand total of $45. If you’re out with me that weekend, I’ll buy you a pint.

Hedging my bets

Well, the World Cup kicks off tomorrow and I am so excited! I'm not usually the gambling type but I got my friend, Heart of the District, to take me to the betting shop where I placed my bets. They were a mixture of split loyalties, desperate wishes and a soupcon of common sense. They went like this:

England to win the World Cup (7:1)
Spain v Argentina final (20:1)
New Zealand to make it through the group (9:1)
Fernando Torres to collect the golden boot (13:1)
Peter Crouch to collect the golden boot (50:1)

The girl at the shop laughed at me (well, she's Welsh so her team didn't even make it!) when I told her that I had to support England, New Zealand and Liverpool. She reckons that's actually a pretty common combination in this town. And I know Peter Crouch isn't Liverpool any more - but he should be. Actually I think Germany and Argentina are both in with a chance, and I wouldn't count out Italy either - and of course, you can never ignore Brazil - but I didn't want to bet on them.

So, we shall see. Whatever the outcome, I shall be glued to the screen for the next month. Bring on the beautiful game!

International cricket

Last week I went to a One Day International cricket match between Australia and New Zealand. It was free to attend so I went along and sat in the sun and enjoyed myself watching the game and taking photos. It was very exciting and it all came down to the final ball where it proved that Australia had the mental strength to snatch victory from a game New Zealand had been sure to win.

There were only about twenty spectators at the ground. Why? Because it was women's cricket. Their loss; I had a great day, and here are some pictures to prove it. You can play along with your own version of 'spot the ball' if you like!

National dilemma

Tonight England play the Ukraine and New Zealand play Bahrain. Both games are televised live on SKY in the middle of the night, our time (unlike in England itself, where the game is not going to be shown on television at all). They are on at the same time. The New Zealand one is repeated later on a different channel.

The match between the Oceania champions and the Arabic island nation that finished fifth in Asian World Cup qualifying is the first leg of a home and away playoff – the return leg is Westpac Stadium in Wellington on November 14 – with the winner progressing to the 2010 FIFA World Cup in South Africa.

England have eight wins from eight matches and they will top the group no matter what the result of their match. New Zealand need to win against Bahrain to go through to the World Cup. It will be the first time they have reached this stage since 1982. It’s a pretty big deal.

We watch our television through the SKY network which gives us a much clearer picture. We have a hard drive which can cope with recording eleventy billion hours of TV (I’m good with this technical stuff as you can tell). We bought it for the 2006 World Cup.

I’m spending tonight at a (SKY-less) friend’s house. Although I can set the recorder for one of the games, I can’t change channel so I won’t be able to record both of them. So the question is which do I record? Who do I want to watch more? Do I want to see my heroes – Gerrard; Crouch; Terry; Lampard; etc. – or do I want to see New Zealand try and make their sporting history with the likes of Ryan Nelson and Shane Smeltz, not to mention half of the Wellington Phoenix team for whom I have a sort of mocking affection?

Alistair Cooke once remarked the dichotomy about dual nationality was that “on a good day that you belong to two countries, and on a bad that you don't belong anywhere at all”. For me it boils down more to which football match to watch. Note I didn’t say which football team to support – there is no question there.