A matter of life and death...

It’s no surprise to know that I love sport, particularly football – it is indeed the beautiful game. And it’s equally expected that I’m fond of the arts, especially theatre. I think these two things – sport and culture – are what separate us from beasts and make our species a society.

I saw two things in today’s newspaper that gave me pause for thought. On the front page, Tony Veitch (a sports presenter here in New Zealand) was convicted of breaking his girlfriend’s back by kicking her as she lay on the ground during a fight. He was sentenced to nine months’ supervision, 300 hours of community work and fined $10,000.

His sports chums pitched in with testimonials to his character. Graham Henry, All Black coach, said he was fair and objective and he never ‘bagged’ individuals after the All Blacks didn’t win the Rugby World Cup in 2007. Well that’s okay then. So long as he’s nice about the rugby, it doesn’t matter that he was (and therefore probably still is) capable of ‘lashing out’ (his words) at a woman who ‘drove him to it’ (his words again).

How exactly, Tony, did she do that? Did she stand in front of the television while you were trying to watch the game? I should think that’s probably excusable grounds for assault in your mind.

Meanwhile, on the back page there was a report that Arsenal will meet Man Utd. in the semi-final of the Champions League. Of course, I am devastated by this news because Liverpool were knocked out by Chelsea – my nails suffered a vicious chewing during those 93 minutes (that would have been at least 95 if we were playing Fergie-time, but that’s beside the point).

The article beneath it was about the 20th anniversary memorial service for those who died at Hillsborough.

And there it is – what really makes us human; empathy and compassion for others. Bill Shankly knew the importance of football; he knew it can make us shout and cry and sing. But he knew we did it together.

It is this feeling which is more important than life and death, a feeling that seems to be lacking from some people in this macho-driven testosterone-fuelled culture.

Cruising at Castlepoint

Having been lulled by moreporks in the night, we awake to the sound of birdsong in the morning. I potter around the beautiful trees in the garden encircling the bach. They were planted by the owner’s wife. The leaves of the beeches, birches, oaks and sycamores rustle in the breeze and blaze with colour.

Him Outdoors goes to fetch some coffee from the Riversdale café. He says people are pouring in for their morning fix of caffeine before heading to the beach on their quad bikes. There is a fishing competition on this weekend with categories from boat or shore, and a prize of $2,000.

We drive over the hill to Castlepoint. It’s quite different; more touristy and gentrified, and dominated by the picture perfect lighthouse on a promontory of rock.

We walk across the broad sweep of sand and up the steps, wandering around the magnificent cast iron structure. The wind whips in from the ocean, spraying the crests of the waves as they tumble into shore.

People stand atop the sea cliffs, casting rods into the foam below. A sign warns to beware; these rocks are dangerous. We pick our way over the jagged rocks, comprised of shells and limestone formations.

At the local shop we buy sausage rolls and ice creams, and scribble postcards to our parents, expressing the same sentiments in slightly different semantics.

Another walk takes us around the headland. In the pine forest a bloke supervises his children as they hurtle down a pine-needle carpeted slope between the trunks. Him Outdoors asks whether he’s managed to send them careening into the trees. The bloke grins back, ‘Not yet!’

We carry on across a col covered in toi toi and up to a vantage point where in either direction we can see endless beaches thrashed by the Pacific Ocean. We snuggle into a peaceful alcove out of the wind and just sit and admire the view, then walk back bathing our ankles in the water – it’s soothing on strained Achilles tendons and insect bites.

Windswept and sunburned, we return to the bach, stopping to admire the countryside. It’s reminiscent of Central Otago with a confusion of colour, pristine churches and curious cows. Back ‘home’ after a pasta meal, a couple of glasses of red wine and a failed attempt at the Dominion Post crossword, it’s time for an early night.

Relaxing in Riversdale

For our Easter break we decide to head over the hills and far away – well, not that far away actually, just to Riversdale on the Wairarapa Coast. We had hoped to stay in a bach but we found out the day before that the owners are using it, so we thought we’d just turn up and see if there are any vacancy signs or if anything is available.

It isn’t, but we have a pleasant walk on the beach watching people motoring up and down the sand on quad-bikes and ATVs (I’m such a petrol head, I don’t even know if there’s a difference or not) and families fishing in the surf.

As we are leaving town we see a corrugated iron shack with Bayleys and rental written on it. We peer in the windows but it is all real estate to sell as rentals. A bloke pruning trees with a chainsaw and dressed in scruffy jeans introduces himself as the real estate agent and says we can use his bach for $80 a night.

We follow him down a dirt track 2.5km from the township to a little place surrounded by oak trees. We say we’ll take it for a night and decide later if we want it for all three, but apparently we can’t call him as there’s no Vodafone reception. It’s a bit damp, there’s no TV and you can’t stroll down to the beach, but it’s sufficient and Him Outdoors seems happy enough.

We have lunch back at the township at the dairy/café (a burger and wedges) then Him Outdoors goes running while I take a photographic walk along the beach. Apparently the waves are 2m plus and ‘messy’. We are told this is very unusual by a couple who describe the horizon as ‘bumpy’.

Our bach seems a little cosier once we put the lights and the heater on, and I stop worrying about our new temporary landlord being a chainsaw murderer – there’s a headstone for his brother in the garden although he assures us he’s not buried there. It’s the sort of thing that you imagine in horror films – well, I do anyway. Him Outdoors says I’m being daft – I know I am, but I’m still a bit jumpy.

We walk into town along the moonlit road. Once we emerge from the trees we can see incredibly clearly by the full moon. The local police officer cruises past, reversing to get a good look at us before turning off into a driveway where a party is in full swing.

We have been advised that the golf club is the best (i.e. only) place in town for meals so we head there. A stressed couple (she is called Pam; I don’t catch his name) bang about in the kitchen providing meals that consist of ‘fish’ or ‘steak’ and come with chips. There is no creativity in the descriptions – ‘nestling on a bed of’s and ‘drizzled with’s are noticeably absent. They aren’t taking orders at the moment as they are way too busy, but we can wait.

The beer on offer is Speights, Tui or Export – I go for a glass of wine. It’s $5.50 for an enormous vase full of cheap chardonnay. You’d not be able to drive after two of those glasses. Him Outdoors talks to strangers at the bar – within minutes he has met a bloke who usually drinks at the Malthouse, reconnected with a chap he’d talked to after his run, and received two offers of a lift home – one of them from the barmaid.

There are cluster of school-assembly-hard chairs around Formica tables, most of which are supporting quart bottles or jugs of beer. There’s rugby on the television (it’s the Hurricanes all the way in these parts) and drunken surfer dudes falling over themselves. One guy is celebrating his birthday – he’s been out at Castlepoint today because you can’t get out ‘through the corridor’. See what you can pick up?

Eventually we order and receive our meals. As well as chips, they come with an array of homemade salads. These are spread out on a table and I see one woman, who claims to be ‘starving’ help herself without ordering a meal. ‘Not with your fingers, please’ admonishes our friend Pam.

When we set off on our homeward walk, our way is once again lit by the night-time constellations and we get to sing about our moon shadows. There is no traffic on the road, although one car passes us and then backs up and offers to take us home. It’s the bloke from the pub. We hop in and he shoots straight past our bach until Him Outdoors points it out. The bloke thought we were somewhere else but he stops and lets us out.

Him Outdoors says, ‘I bet that scared you?’ Actually, not until you mentioned it, no, although now I think about it, it could be considered sinister enough to fuel my horror story phobia – Him Oudoors: ‘We’re just up here’; Axe-murderer: ‘Oh no, you’re a long way away yet, mwah-hah-hah.’

Books read in December

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

The Art of Murder – Jose Carlos Somoza (4)

Ostensibly, this is a murder mystery, but Jose Carlos Somoza has woven an intricate story of art imitating life imitating art that is deep and complex. In this dystopian world, not too far removed from our own, art has become live (hyperdramatic art); the canvases are people and art is more important than humanity. It takes a while to build up this intriguing sci-fi fantasy full of weird, obsessive but very convincing characters, with heavily satirical overtones, but the last fifty pages explode into life and this becomes a full-on thriller.

The concept is not all that far-fetched; the contemporary art world is always experimenting and seeking to shock with the next big thing. We already have body art in which paint is applied directly to skin, but the human canvases move. What is the natural progression of this? In Somoza’s model, the canvases remain in situ for hours at a time and don’t even blink or sneeze. They take pills to reduce their bodily needs so they don’t need to eat or go to the toilet.

The most highly prized works of art are girls and young women, who are usually naked, leading to that it is little more than pornography. Because youth is ephemeral it is highly prized and the short shelf-life leads to inflated demand. When some of the models are murdered in gruesome ways and Detective Bosch is called in to investigate, he is appalled by the pretence and the artifice of the business.

There are some fabulous insights in this novel, and the writing is excellent. Nothing seems to be lost in the translation, and there are some brilliant descriptions. It is superb satirical science fiction, in the vein of Perfume – captivating and weird; disturbing but memorable. As only a great novel can, it changes the way you think, and I will never be able to look at statues in an art gallery the same way again.

In the Name of Honour – Mukhtar Mai (4.4)

This potentially harrowing account of gang rape, oppression, poverty and injustice, is instead one of hope and promise. Mukhtar Mai’s younger brother, Shakur, is accused of raping a woman of a powerful family, the Mastois (although all he did was talk to her – he is 12). The traditional tribal council (the jirga) decide that his sister should beg for forgiveness to even things up. When she goes to their farm to humiliate herself, she is gang raped by four men of the Mastois clan. The idea is that she will be so ashamed that she will kill herself. This passes for justice in Pakistan, where most peasants cannot afford to hire a lawyer and women are regarded as collateral.

When she hears of similar horrific acts, she decides to fight for women like her, of whom there are many. Not everyone is happy with her crusade to tell the truth especially once she obtains the attention of the Western media, although her family’s support and protection is crucial and not to be taken for granted. She is persistent because she has to be – “Stubbornness [is] the only weapon we women have against men” – and her actions divide the village and the wider community.

Her quest takes her on a tortuous road demanding courage, patience and fortitude. She learns to read and to deal with the Lewis Carroll type rules which would be nonsense were they not so chilling – in Pakistan for a woman to prove she has been raped, she must provide four male eyewitnesses.

Mukhtar Mai discovers self-awareness and a social conscience, and almost unwittingly becomes an activist for women’s rights. With funds raised from her torment, she builds a school to educate girls so that they can break the tradition of silent submission to their husbands. “To me, the answer is simple: knowledge must be given to girls, and as soon as possible, before their mothers bring them up the same way they were raised themselves.”

Mukhtar Mai still lives in the village where she was attacked, which she admits is not always easy. Her house is surrounded by a police cordon and she is exhausted. But her positivism in the face of such brutality is uplifting, inspiring and humbling. “I believe in God, I love my village, the Punjab, and my country, and I would like to change things for this country, and all the victims of rape, and future generations of girls.” This may not be the best written book on the shelves, but it is one of the most powerful. It will take a day to read, and must not be forgotten in a lifetime.

How to be Idle – Tom Hodgkinson (4.4)

Tom Hodgkinson’s ruminations in praise of slow make for interesting reading. He strikes a good balance between the humorous and learned, disguising an anti-capitalist manifesto with wit and charm, unlike some other worthy but joyless polemics. He quotes poets, philosophers, authors and historians to support his points, including Dr Johnson, Jerome K. Jerome, Walt Whitmam, E. P. Thompson, Will Self, William Blake, G. K. Chesterton, Bertrand Russell, and, of course, Oscar Wilde.

The book is divided into chapters covering the hours of the day and the pen-and-ink line drawings scattered throughout lend it the air of a periodical. Hodgkinson decries jobs and activity, favouring sleep, drink and conversation. In pursuit of happiness he acknowledges that material wealth is not necessarily the pinnacle of pleasure, and claims the Industrial Revolution has a lot to answer for, as it manufactured the English working class and put a nation of idlers to work.

Hodgkinson bemoans the passing of an era but offers us ways to cling to our idleness and not succumb to the money-spinning consumer-focussed culture which increasingly prevails. I love this book; it is my new manifesto. Idle should no longer be a dirty word; it simply means ‘at leisure’, and who could possibly argue against that?

Happy Blog-day

I see it's been a year since I started this blog. I had no idea where it would take me when I began. I checked out the 'labels' which tell me the topics I have written about most. It may not surprise those that know me to learn that the top five are:

• Liverpool Football Club
• theatre and plays
• travel (Italy & America)
• beer
• sport in general

So those would appear to be my main interests. Should I put them on my CV?

Necessary Targets debrief

Well, Necessary Targets is over and what a great experience it was. At the end of every show there are conflicting emotions - sadness that it has finished mingled with relief that now you will be able to get some some sleep, concentrate on other projects, and finally address that giant pile of washing. The flowers received on opening night (thanks mum!) are removed from the dressing room and returned home.

There are phrases that continue to echo in your mind and someone's innocent remark can set you off on a cue line like Pavlov's dog. At 7 o'clock at night you feel restless as though you should be somewhere but you're not sure where. It takes a while to resume the routine and refocus your thoughts away from a Bosnian refuge camp where they have been settling for the past few months.

One of the strangest things is no longer seeing the same people who have been your constant companions. Unless you work with your fellow actors or have some other connection, the people with whom you have spent almost every evening abruptly disappear from your circle of contacts. It's a little like a bereavement.

Our director worked very hard on building up a community among the women on stage, and it spilled over to the dressing room where we became friends as well as cast. Sure, we took the piss out of each other and we learnt each other's little foibles - and of course we have them; we're theatrical types! - but we grew to care for each other and look out for each other's concerns.

I only managed to take a couple of photos in the dressing room, but these words, spoken about Azra (played by Christine pictured here running through her lines as she did before every performance) sum up my feelings about everyone.

'I could not forget you. Not your face, your kind, deep, welcoming face.'

Good work ladies.

Culture Kicks Back

On a bright, breezy day last weekend, I thought I'd take my camera for an outing. It just so happened that the Culture Kicks Football Festival (described as Wellington's own mini world cup) was on in Martin Luckie Park, Berhampore.

It features five-a-side teams representing countries from all over the world. There is also a women's tournament. I'm pretty sure you don't have to prove nationality by grandmother's birth certificate or anything like that, just register your team in advance, and turn up to play to the referee's whistle.

The lads were there as St George's something in a collection of red shirts - England; Manchester United and Nottingham Forest (you won't see them on the same pitch very often!). They were big on enthusiasm and vocal ability with lots of pointing and shouting going on.

It was pretty entertaining as I got to support the lads and take a few pictures at the same time. I thought I'd try out my telephoto lens and the continuous shooting setting. Unfortunatley the lads didn't have one of those. I was after action shots, but there wasn't much of that either.

That's not entirely fair. There was plenty of huffing and puffing and even a few goals scored. Apparently (according to Him Outdoors) running around is a lot easier when you're 24 that when you're 42. And imagined-silky skills that you can see in your head appear more like clodhopping carthorses when executed on the field. I saw them play Afghanistan and Syria. I missed them play Greece, and they got beaten by Ireland. They know half of the Irish team - they're drinking buddies. Ireland went on to win the coveted egg-cup or whatever it is they play for when they're not in the cup competition.

Several of the opposition were pretty good on the acting front and were pulling out some Hollywood moves, but the ref wasn't fooled. I'm not sure he even saw half of them. To be honest, there were one or two fouls from our lads, such as this fabulous 'spot the ball' moment.

The opposing teams had a whole line of subs and supporters aplenty who banged drums and shouted encouragement. They even had crates of half-time oranges!

The WAGS arrived with picnic-blankets to rival the other team's support, by finding the food and the nearest coffee cart.

There was some face painting, dancing, stilt-walking and a bouncy castle for the kids - one of the lads on our team regretted that you couldn't go on it in football boots - it seems studs are not allowed on inflateable erections, which is a slightly disturbing prospect and possibly just as well. They had enough to do to keep their eyes on the ball.