The Ballad of Leslie the Good....
Written for a Scottish Celebration....
(reworked from the famous old ballad which has long since disappeared - another dig at the English, a favourite pastime of the writer who has never quite got over the Highland Clearances)
.. ..
'Tis a tale told in many lands,
And one that no doubt should
Be told for many a year to come;
‘Tis the ballad of Leslie the Good
.. ..
From her southern land she ranged afar
Determined that she should
Search far and wide and high and low
To find the famed black pud.
.. ..
For 'twas a noble quest indeed
And like Sir Lancelot
She'd brave all dangers dire and dread
Til the perfect pud she got.
.. ..
Then ....England.... - 'twas a savage place....
Of moor and wild wood....
And not a living soul knew how....
To make the famed black pud....
.. ..
They’d rule the world, invented games....
At which they were no good;....
But soggy chips and mushy peas....
Were all they understood....
.. ..
So the good folk prayed for a champion....
For a gallant, brave who would....
Undertake the quest, to find the best ;....
That legendary pud....
.. ..
The ..Queens.. men searched across the land....
And asked if any would....
Undertake this most important quest....
And stepped forth Leslie the Good....
Oh the townsfolk cheered and bashed the heads....
(Of) rival football fans they found....
Quaffed many a beer with a mighty cheer....
For their hero northward bound....
.. ..
She roamed far forth through highland glen....
In the land of the purple heather....
Found shelter there with those rugged men....
In their crofts out of the weather....
.. ..
From John O’Graoats to ..Gretna Green......
Her reputation spread....
For she’d warm the cockle o’many a heart....
And many a highland bed....
.. ..
Oh the laddies and the lassies....
Were fond of Leslie the Good....
For she’d quaff the odd wee dram or two....
And sample their famed black pud....
.. ..
She’d often ask for the recipe....
Of that legendary dish....
But the Scots wer e awfy canny folk....
And wouldny gie her wish....
.. ..
Oh how she missd her native land....
In her heart she heard it call....
She missed its trees and its mushy peas....
And the weekly weekend brawl....
.. ..
With heavy heart she bid adieu....
her many highland friends....
And with a final swig of the local brew....
Farewelled those highland glens....
.. ..
The yeomen and the yeoladies....
They lined the steets to cheer....
And now upon the podium....
Told them what they would hear....
.. ..
“I’ve watched them make their prized black pud....
And if mem’ry serves me well....
‘Twould be easy to do just the same”....
Twas this that she did tell.....
The rest is history and she,....
With her partner Godfrey Gooding....
Found fame and fortune when she did....
Invent the Yorkshire Pudding.....
Monday, June 22, 2009
Rembembering Roger (Poem)
Remembering Roger
There once came a great prophet of a type messianic,
Who did preach the extinction of woes economical.
Yea he seized his great moment ‘mid political panic,
And did institute change of a type Rogernomical
This prophet of change and other protagonists,
Harked back to ideas of a previous time.
We thought not to question for all were good socialists,
And promised utopian pleasures sublime.
This knowledge that seemed at times quite esoterical,
Was followed by followers with fervour religious,
And preached by disciples in tones quite hysterical,
Who forertold this new age would bring wealth quite prodigious
For theory ‘twas not, ‘twas profound revelation,
And thus with such certainty boldly propounded.
We asked not for proof, nor for verification,
For on eternal truths it was thought to be founded.
And when with a faith that did seem somewhat mystical,
‘Twas claimed that ‘twould spread such great wealth through the land,
New converts ‘twould say, eyes aglow, “Its simplistical,
We merely employ an invisible hand”.
Thus great wealth would accrue by this means automatic,
There’d be no need at all for concerns altruistic.
‘Twas all said with a faith, ‘twas a faith so dogmatic,
And sweet music for those with plans opportunistic.
We’d give those poorly paid much less remuneration,
And sell all public chattels which progress impair,
Thus appeasing that demon whose name is inflation,
And finding salvation by means laissez-faire.
And when any questioned their claims hyperbolic,
And dared to suggest ‘twas all quite hypothetical,
From their lofty advantage they became vitriolic,
And called such unseemly behaviour heretical.
And when we had come to the land prophesied,
And savoured the fruits of profound revolution,
No rivers of milk or of honey we espied,
Though the fruits had been subject to redistribution.
There once came a great prophet of a type messianic,
Who did preach the extinction of woes economical.
Yea he seized his great moment ‘mid political panic,
And did institute change of a type Rogernomical
This prophet of change and other protagonists,
Harked back to ideas of a previous time.
We thought not to question for all were good socialists,
And promised utopian pleasures sublime.
This knowledge that seemed at times quite esoterical,
Was followed by followers with fervour religious,
And preached by disciples in tones quite hysterical,
Who forertold this new age would bring wealth quite prodigious
For theory ‘twas not, ‘twas profound revelation,
And thus with such certainty boldly propounded.
We asked not for proof, nor for verification,
For on eternal truths it was thought to be founded.
And when with a faith that did seem somewhat mystical,
‘Twas claimed that ‘twould spread such great wealth through the land,
New converts ‘twould say, eyes aglow, “Its simplistical,
We merely employ an invisible hand”.
Thus great wealth would accrue by this means automatic,
There’d be no need at all for concerns altruistic.
‘Twas all said with a faith, ‘twas a faith so dogmatic,
And sweet music for those with plans opportunistic.
We’d give those poorly paid much less remuneration,
And sell all public chattels which progress impair,
Thus appeasing that demon whose name is inflation,
And finding salvation by means laissez-faire.
And when any questioned their claims hyperbolic,
And dared to suggest ‘twas all quite hypothetical,
From their lofty advantage they became vitriolic,
And called such unseemly behaviour heretical.
And when we had come to the land prophesied,
And savoured the fruits of profound revolution,
No rivers of milk or of honey we espied,
Though the fruits had been subject to redistribution.
Cousin Bob and the Meaning of Art
Cousin Bob and the Meaning of Art
Chapter 1 Plans Go Awry
Looking towards the north, I breathed in the cool evening air, a faint mist cloaking Mt Cargill, lending a mysterious, almost mythical quality to the early evening. A feeling of serenity - that, in some deep and meaningful sense, all was well with the world, had settled upon me . I felt somehow blessed, at the same time, congratulating myself on possessing this aesthetic sensibility which bestowed such quiet enjoyment of simple beauty.
I paused in these self-congratulatory contemplations to take another sip of my green tea, and was once again about to turn to thoughts of universal oneness and such like, when the loud slam of a car door rudely broke my reverie. This was immediately followed by loud cursing “-You fucking bastard – you fucking bastard.”
A sudden panic seized me as the realization struck. I recognized that voice. It was my cousin Bob. God help me. Much as I loved my cousin, his affectionate but rather forceful personality – he possessed all the subtlety of a fully-laden logging truck – did not sit well with my plans for the evening ahead.
As assistant manager of a local gallery, I was responsible for the opening of a new exhibition, this very evening by the now well-known local artist Fandon Farnsworth, a contemporary of mine and Bob’s at University. Fandon had won a reputation for himself with some innovative and bold works which put him on the cutting edge so to speak.
A talented self-promoter, he had stirred considerable controversy when he had produced a work that was interpreted by some to portray a well-respected local politician and the Prime Minister in a, shall we say, compromising position. Fortunately for Fandon, there were various competing interpretations . One respected critic called it “a vigorous study of post-modern attitudes to sexuality”, whilst another was of the opinion that it was “a vociferous condemnation of bourgeois attitudes”. Fandon maintained a mysterious silence which only added to the speculation.
I was suddenly reminded of the title of a book I had once read – “ Worlds in Collision” – as various scenarios, involving some of my more sophisticated, ( or should that be, sheltered), acquaintances in the art community and- oh God – yes Bob, flashed upon that inner eye, which only moments before had dwelt on more elevated matters.
I may have been mistaken, but, the last time Bob and Fandon had met was shortly before a full jug of beer had hit Fandon in the forehead at the local student pub. Bob always swore , and most sincerely I felt, that he had not intended to hit Fandon – he had, he said, been aiming for the rival in his affections for a young lady – but I always suspected that Fandon, rather ungenerously, failed to see this as a mitigating factor.
I had managed to get Bob, rather the worse for wear I should add, out of the Cook before the muscle-bound and rather menacing bouncer, known affectionately as Trog, had come to grips with what had just transpired . Therafter, I contrived to keep Bob and Fandon apart for the remainder of that term, after which Bob left to join his father’s firm down south.
“How the fuck are you - you four-eyed bastard?. You’re as ugly as ever you arty-farty prick” A few carefully chosen complements of this ilk was the usual way in which Bob demonstrated genuine affection and he gave me a spine-crushing bear-hug for good measure.
“B B Bob – great to see you”
“What the fuck do you mean B B Bob – what the fucks wrong with you?”
Although, this was not always apparent, Bob could be quite sensitive to insincerity. In my confusion, I knew I must not offend my only cousin and I struggled to rally my mental forces.
“N n n – nothing Bob – you know I’m always pleased to see my favourite cousin”, I said, hoping to out-flank him with flattery.
“I should bloody-well think so, you ingratiating bastard.”
This took me aback. I had no idea Bob had this word in his vocabulary.
Before I could think of a witty riposte, Bob had added,” Its about time you and I got out on the piss again cuz”
“I- I- I’d like to Bob b but, actually, tonight , I’ve got an exhibition on at the gallery. Tomorrow would be good”
“ It’s the rugby tomorrow you sad bastard. Don’t worry – I got you a ticket – some of me mates are coming up as well. Nope – its got to be tonight. Cuzzy-boy”
Bob, as all who knew him would testify, was not one to be denied, especially in matters close to his heart. I was poised on the edge of an abyss but I could do nothing other than leap, with a quick prayer for divine intervention. I gave a sick grin and, in my usual heroic form, capitulated shamelessly. Not quite unconditionally however.
“Fine Bob “ I said, “ but we’ll have to do the opening.” This qualification allowed me the illusion that I was back in the driver’s seat.
“ Ok you sorry bastard, but we’ll crack open a couple” and he ripped open a six-pack, tossing me a beer, which I caught with some style I fancied .Bob guzzled one down while I wrestled with my twist-top.
In fairness to Bob, he would have had no inkling of the predicament I found myself in. He may even have felt some sympathy , had he understood my situation ,but certain of the subtleties of social relations had never quite permeated Bob’s more straight-forward world view. You were either a good bloke or you weren’t. This may have been, to a large extent, determined by whether you went to the rugby and drank respectable quantities of beer, but I have to say, that Bob was always generous in allowing anyone into his circle, so long as, like Barkus, they were sincere and willing .
Bob was a natural democrat with an in-built egalitarian streak. I had always been admitted into his happy brotherhood, partly, I suppose because I was his cousin, but also, because Bob lacked any exclusive bone in his body.
This innate generosity did not prevent Bob from feeling he had to educate me in the finer points of that behaviour demanded in his social circle. As my older cousin, he would advise me – “ For fuck’s sake, don’t mention you’re studying art history and English literature you useless bastard” - or “ If you order a red wine, I’ll deck you – you namby-pamby prick!”.Ofcouse, this was said with the hearty affection of the older cousin and I never took offense.
I always felt that this warm inclusiveness was sometimes lacking among some of the other friends I knew, and occasionally sensed that Bob and his antics were not always well received. A friend of mine from drama club once remarked , “If you tell that barbarian Bob and those beer-guzzling cavemen friends of his about our party, I’ll have you thrown out of the Drama Society”. He said this with the seriousness that only a student of Shakespeare could possibly muster. The incident with the flying jug of beer was but one in a string of examples of Bob’s behaviour.. His reputation meant that, in some of the more refined circles I moved in, his presence was not greatly appreciated. It was this tension between the need to keep diverse groups of friends happy that lay at the heart of my present distress.
Chapter 2
Foreign Fields
However, there was nothing for it. Bob was coming like it or not. We walked to the gallery past some of the haunts of our Varsity days. Bob remarked approvingly on the new cafes and restaurants and recalled that, yes, that was where he and two of his friends had ran naked for two blocks along George Street.
Bob was not one to shy away from a dare, as those of us who had dared him to climb eight stories up the outside of the girls’ wing of a student hostel would affirm . This memorable stunt had gone a long way towards redeeming Bob in the eyes of his rugby mates, after two of his best friends had discovered Bob naked in bed with his flat-mate. Normally, this wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow but the flat-mate happened to be of the male persuasion. Bob had arrived home in a state of advanced drunkenness, taken off all his clothes, and climbed into the wrong bed. What he was thinking of we will never know, but he swore his innocence. The aggrieved flat-mate was quick to back up Bob’s claim that nothing had happened and, fortunately for Bob, the flat-mates exemplary record in the heterosexual community convinced all but the more skeptical of his innocence in the rather unfortunate affair.
Fortification in the form of another beer, together with these fond remembrances of our misspent youth, ( although, I always suspected I hadn’t really misspent mine as much as I should have ),had put me in a more confident frame of mind. Bob seemed to have few qualms about this foray into the art world. We entered and I introduced Bob to a small group of friends which included Jenny , a lady I have to confess, I was rather attracted to.
I felt that Jenny would chaperone Bob to some degree, and help keep him out of danger.
I made my way towards a small group that included the man of the moment, Fandon Farnsworth. They stood near a table on which there were bottles of New Zealand wines and various cheeses and hors d’oeuvres.
Fandon’s parents, determined that their son would make his mark had, and in an era when All Blacks had respectable names like Gary and Colin, given their son a name which would, they confidently expected, set him apart. Named after a minor character in one of those books that nobody ever finishes but, like the critics, is in no doubt as to its literary importance, Fandon had weathered the slings and arrows of life at a boys school. There, he had been the butt of many a school-boy witticism, enduring endless sniggering references to his fanny and became widely known as “Fandon of the Fan Dance” To his credit, none of this had held Fandon back and he possessed that self-confident look of one who entertained no doubts as to his importance , giving me, ( perhaps I’m being over-sensitive here), a somewhat sardonic smile as we shook hands.
“Everything well in hand, I see - and I notice you’ve brought along that well-known patron of the arts, your cousin Bob - sssoooo nice to see him again”, he said in rather sibilant fashion.
For the benefit of the others present, and also, partly to regain the initiative, I explained:- ” Yes Bob and I were both at Varsity with Fandon – you might remember him Miranda.” Was there just the hint of an awkward silence?
“Used to paint the town red”, I added with an insipid laugh and immediately felt like a complete idiot.
Miranda had, until recently, been in a relationship with Giles, a lecturer at the local University. She would introduce him as her “wonderful Giles” and was constantly saying to her friends:” Don’t you just love Giles darling?”The answer to this question was obviously in the affirmative and then she would say” I don’t know what I’d do without him - isn’t he just prefect?” Once again, one was obliged to provide positive reassurance. Unfortunately, Giles had some separation issues, and when he found all sorts of excuses as to why he had to stay with his Mother and could not move in with Miranda, she discarded him without a backward glance.This was only a matter of days ago, but she seemed in fine fettle, given that she had just lost the love of her life.
On the other hand, I observed Giles holding forth to a small group on my left. Bow-tied, ram-rod straight and with the look of an undersized impresario, he was delivering a lecture to his little audience with all his usual aplomb.
Miranda was a person of considerable reputation in the arts community She could be a generous person but, unfortunately, had a tendency to be somewhat sycophantic in the company of those she admired. She no doubt observed my unease, and a desire to please Fandon, combined with her natural sense of her own superior refinement impelled her to say:
“Oh Fandon – to think you were ever a scruffy student – it doesn’t’ bear thinking about.”, and with that she gave a horrendously affected laugh, as if to say – “ isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“I don’t think I could ever have been described as scruffy Miranda, unlike our good friend Bob over there, who, I believe, only ever wore one shirt throughout his entire University career, and was of the belief that a hair brush was some type of agricultural instrument”
Fandon and other assorted hangers-on were in no doubt that this was intensely witty and laughed accordingly. I, of course, smiled in my usual weak-kneed way, and just about dropped my newly-acquired glass of wine as I espied Bob making his way towards us, with Jenny on his arm.
A sharp twinge of jealousy and pure naked fear were the competing emotions I simultaneously felt in that dreadful moment. Bob, unaware that he was the object of this mirth, and in his usual fashion, innocent of all artifice and full of genuine bonhomie, bowled right up to Fandon, held out his hand, and said, “Bloody Fandon – how the hell are ya mate?”
This was definitely Bob at his polite best, I thought, demonstrating an acute sense of occasion, by his own standards at least.
“Hope you’ve forgiven me for that sore head by the way”
I suppose there was no way to ignore the infamous incident at the Cook, but even Fandon was taken by surprise and, for once, failed with the obligatory witty retort.
“Ah yes Bob – good to see you again”
I may have been mistaken, but I felt his eyes were not smiling. Whatever worthy qualities Fandon Farnsworth might possess, I somehow did not see forgiveness as one of them.
“ Ssssoo – you’re the infamous Bob – scourge of the cook, “ chimed in Miranda, surveying Bob form her lofty position, ( figuratively speaking of course – she was barely above 5 foot).
Bob smiled politely – I wondered if my fearless cousin was a little intimidated by Miranda – I know I was - she had been a few years ahead of us at Varsity and I always suspected Bob had, to some extent, worshipped her from afar . Miranda, had been much-admired and much sought after and certainly would never have deigned to look in Bob’s or my direction in those days. She had had that aura of unattainability, at least for Bob, myself and others of our year who would no more have approached Miranda than attended an aerobics class in a leopard-skin leotard.
Fortunately, Bob had matured and replied pleasantly – “Hi -nice to meet you – yep one and the same I’m afraid “
I breathed an inward sigh of relief as my cousin seemed to be observing the social niceties. Then he added “ but I’ve quietened down now – I only get pissed on the weekends” The sigh was replaced with an inward scream of horror.
Oh God - what now?
Certain deities must have been smiling on me I thought, as Miranda merely laughed indulgently. Fandon ‘s look was something between a smirk and a scowl., so I seized the opportunity to get proceedings under way. I clinked my glass. “ Ladies and Gentlemen , it is with great pleasure and no small measure of parochial pride that we open today this , the latest exhibition of the noted local artist…”
Chapter 3
The Gathering Storm
A little later, voices were raised as people made their way through the generous supply of wine. I managed to get Bob aside and said through the side of my mouth “ Look - be nice to Jenny, but lay off a bit, if you know what I mean”
“Ah – so you’re shaggin ‘er”
“No no no not yet – I mean – you know what I mean”
“Yeah - got it mate—you’re hoping to shag ‘er”
“No Bob – that’s not what I’m saying – I mean – there may be something there, if you know what I mean”
“ I’m onto it – yep - not a problem – she’s more your type anyway” concluded Bob magnanimously.
Soon after, Jenny rejoined us, and ,a moment later, Fandon and his entourage made their way towards us. So far, Bob had behaved with remarkable restraint and decorum, but there was something in Fandon’s demeanour that rang a warning bell. He was not one to miss an opportunity to assert his superiority and, somehow, earlier, he had failed to adequately subjugate my cousin.
“Ah Bob” , he said with great flourish. Recent praise from his admirers had renewed his confidence. The warning bells were, I felt, clanging rather noisily as he enquired “ And how have you enjoyed our little soiree Bob?”
If Bob detected any note of condescension, he gave no sign of it.
“ Bloody excellent Fandon , though I’m dying for a beer”
“Our New Zealand wines not good enough for you then?”. asked Fandon, detecting a chink in his opponent’s armour.
“Na mate – its just that I’m more of a beer man – you know”
Miranda , and I’m sure it was just to be conversational , asked “And what do you think of our local man’s works Bob - provocative don’t’ you think?”
“Ah yeah – you could definitely say that “ said Bob diplomatically
“And how would you interpret my “Southland Farm”canvas?”, asked Fandon. There was something triumphant in the way he posed this question.
“Very nice “ said Bob , determined to be amenable. I had never felt so grateful to my cousin.
“Just nice?” prodded Fandon, with, and I may be mistaken, a gleam in his eye.
“Bloody nice indeed” retorted Bob , sticking to his point admirably.
“Its for sale Bob - you could buy it for old times sake, if you’ve got a spare few grand”
Bob was a man of simple tastes but not stupid and at some point , he’d sensed that Fandon was not merely indulging in idle chit-chat.
“To be honest Fandon, this modern stuff isn’t quite my cup of tea – hope you don’t mind my saying so.” “And just what is your cup of tea then Bob?”
“Well , a beautifully executed Jeff Wilson try in the corner—is definitely something to be admired”, Bob said.
“Ah “said Fandon, closing in for the kill, “But is it art Bob?”
At some point, the atmosphere had lost something of its frivolity, but Bob, if anything ,seemed more relaxed than ever, now he knew where he stood”
“I definitely think it is Fandon – I suppose you’d call it performance art”, and he smiled, pleased with his wit and cleverness.
Miranda once again gave an indulgent chuckle.
“Oh quite the iconoclast aren’t you Bob? Perhaps he has a point Fandon?”..
Giles gave his loyal aide-de-camp a withering look. ”What, then, is your definition of art Bob?”
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”, This was delivered in Bob’s best BBC tones and received many appreciative laughs from the small audience”
Fandon sensed he was losing the initiative. Bob, who knew no more about art than he did about ancient Persian poetry was, if anything, gaining the upper hand in this battle of intellects and wasn’t even on his home-ground so to speak.
“Surely, its about opening new doors of understanding, striving for original insight, don’t you think?”
“You’re the expert Fandon old boy” This was once again said in best BBC.
Fandon was getting a bit desperate now. Still trying to remain jocular he said :”Lets face it Bob – you wouln’t recognize beauty, if it hit you over the head old man.”
“Ah – well how about a view down the harbour on a frosty morning, with a light mist dancing on the water”, said Bob poetically.
There was stunned silence. Such lyricism was surely not meant to found in one such as Bob. My cousin had surpised me and , I must say, Miranda seemed to be looking almost admiringly at him.
“But that’s not art, you idiot,” fired back Fandon, having given up all pretense of friendliness.
“Says who Fanny? – just because the great Fanny Farnsworth didn’t paint it. Actually, now we’re being frank old boy, that work of yours,( he said, pointing to an abstract-expressionist work on the wall behind him),is about as meaningful as a dog’s dinner. In fact, it reminds me of that time you chundered at the Cook.”
Sensing there was no victory here, Fandon fired one last parting shot.
“I might have known it was useless to engage in meaningful debate with a complete troglodyte – Bob - you are, and always were, a complete moron!”
Bob hesitated, unsure of the meaning of troglodyte, and this momentary hesitation allowed me to step between the two adversaries, but, in that split second, various neurons had fired over assorted synapses within Bob’s brain and, somewhere,deep within his very core, honour demanded that he must act.
Chapter 4
The Spoils of War
Jenny, along with Bob and a couple of other friends had taken me to Accident and Emergency, but I was assured by the doctor who saw me that there was no permanent damage. Concussion, but I would recover. I reassured Bob that I had quite forgiven him and told him to go out and enjoy himself. Bob was not the touchy-feely type - unless under the influence of course, but he was truly full of remorse, touching my shoulder occasionally and asking solicitously
"Yorright mate?"
I could never hold anything against Bob despite the number of times he'd involved me in some scrape or other of his concoction. In some ways, it was better that I'd stepped into the punch, as this saved me alot of damage control, although , under different circustances, I might have been quite happy for Fandon to be on the receiving end of one of Bob's left hooks.
I insisted that Bob go off and enjoy himself. I knew he'd been hoping to catch up with some of his friends who were up for the rugby. The success of Bob's evening was not, I must confess , uppermost in my mind. I was hoping to be left alone with Jenny. I was enjoying all the fuss and attention and the fact that I had been knocked out cold could only enhance my reputation as the tough guy of the local art scene, non-extistent as it had been prior to this.
The art community of Dunedin would recover from this unfortunate incident. I would have to explain to my boss, who was away on his European holiday, what had transpired, but the fact was, that he was less than fond of Fandon, whom he had never really forgiven for once calling him a “reactionary old bourgeois fart” in the days when he was less well known.
I spent a lovely remainder of the evening with Jenny at her place and she dropped me home just after 11 o'clock. I went straight to bed and must have fallen asleep right away, as I knew nothing else until the morning.
I awoke at about 8.30 and was just going past the spare bedroom when I heard voices coming from inside. Someone was opening the bedroom door and I heard an unmistakable feminine voice. " I'll be right back" it said , somewhat coquettishly I thought.
I froze to the spot. I had never been one to handle these delicate situations with coolness and calm. The door opened, and I stood there like some sort of pathetic Peeping Tom, caught in flagrante delicto, and with a most stupidly guilty expression glued to my face.
To add to my horror, out marched Miranda. She discovered me standing there, looking like the guilty schoolboy whose mother discovered a naughty magazine under his bed, gave me a look of disgust, and swept past me like the proverbial Queen of Sheba.I had attempted to stammer a " good morning", but was allowed no opportunity.
I tried to look busy filling the kettle ,as she returned from the bathroom, and made another attempt to give a polite greeting .
"Hello Miranda - an evening to remember? ", I ventured.
"Quite " she uttered with that tone that leaves the recipient in no doubt as to his complete inferiority.
She gave me not a second glance as she opened the door. "Get back in here wench " came the unmistakable voice of my cousin.
I once again heard that coquettish giggle, so hard to reconcile with the imperious personage who had just swept by.
I realised that, with barely a look, Miranda had caused me - a respectable citizen, guilty only of getting in the way of a punch intended for another - ,the unmistakable feeling that I had, in some sense, been involved in some sort of sordid episode.
So hard to shake off this good protestant upbringing I thought, and took my green tea out onto the balcony.
.
A light morning mist rose above the green hills. A red glow filled the sky towards the east as dawn broke with the hopeful and comforting sound of the early morning birdsong..
I heard Bob snoring loudly sometime later and, having recovered from the trauma of running into Miranda, chuckled quietly as I reviewed events of the night before. The previous night had not gone as planned. I wondered how Bob had met up with Miranda again, but perhaps that would be revealed in the fullness of time.
In some way, the rhythm of Bob’s snoring seemed to harmonise with the rhythms of the early morning.and the wakening city. I took a sip of green tea and sighed contentedly.Yes, I thought, feeling once again that generous and expansive feeling of the previous evening, God is in his heaven and all’s right with the world. I couldn’t remember who said it, but I made a mental note to check my Dictionary of Quotations.
THE END ( At Last)
Chapter 1 Plans Go Awry
Looking towards the north, I breathed in the cool evening air, a faint mist cloaking Mt Cargill, lending a mysterious, almost mythical quality to the early evening. A feeling of serenity - that, in some deep and meaningful sense, all was well with the world, had settled upon me . I felt somehow blessed, at the same time, congratulating myself on possessing this aesthetic sensibility which bestowed such quiet enjoyment of simple beauty.
I paused in these self-congratulatory contemplations to take another sip of my green tea, and was once again about to turn to thoughts of universal oneness and such like, when the loud slam of a car door rudely broke my reverie. This was immediately followed by loud cursing “-You fucking bastard – you fucking bastard.”
A sudden panic seized me as the realization struck. I recognized that voice. It was my cousin Bob. God help me. Much as I loved my cousin, his affectionate but rather forceful personality – he possessed all the subtlety of a fully-laden logging truck – did not sit well with my plans for the evening ahead.
As assistant manager of a local gallery, I was responsible for the opening of a new exhibition, this very evening by the now well-known local artist Fandon Farnsworth, a contemporary of mine and Bob’s at University. Fandon had won a reputation for himself with some innovative and bold works which put him on the cutting edge so to speak.
A talented self-promoter, he had stirred considerable controversy when he had produced a work that was interpreted by some to portray a well-respected local politician and the Prime Minister in a, shall we say, compromising position. Fortunately for Fandon, there were various competing interpretations . One respected critic called it “a vigorous study of post-modern attitudes to sexuality”, whilst another was of the opinion that it was “a vociferous condemnation of bourgeois attitudes”. Fandon maintained a mysterious silence which only added to the speculation.
I was suddenly reminded of the title of a book I had once read – “ Worlds in Collision” – as various scenarios, involving some of my more sophisticated, ( or should that be, sheltered), acquaintances in the art community and- oh God – yes Bob, flashed upon that inner eye, which only moments before had dwelt on more elevated matters.
I may have been mistaken, but, the last time Bob and Fandon had met was shortly before a full jug of beer had hit Fandon in the forehead at the local student pub. Bob always swore , and most sincerely I felt, that he had not intended to hit Fandon – he had, he said, been aiming for the rival in his affections for a young lady – but I always suspected that Fandon, rather ungenerously, failed to see this as a mitigating factor.
I had managed to get Bob, rather the worse for wear I should add, out of the Cook before the muscle-bound and rather menacing bouncer, known affectionately as Trog, had come to grips with what had just transpired . Therafter, I contrived to keep Bob and Fandon apart for the remainder of that term, after which Bob left to join his father’s firm down south.
“How the fuck are you - you four-eyed bastard?. You’re as ugly as ever you arty-farty prick” A few carefully chosen complements of this ilk was the usual way in which Bob demonstrated genuine affection and he gave me a spine-crushing bear-hug for good measure.
“B B Bob – great to see you”
“What the fuck do you mean B B Bob – what the fucks wrong with you?”
Although, this was not always apparent, Bob could be quite sensitive to insincerity. In my confusion, I knew I must not offend my only cousin and I struggled to rally my mental forces.
“N n n – nothing Bob – you know I’m always pleased to see my favourite cousin”, I said, hoping to out-flank him with flattery.
“I should bloody-well think so, you ingratiating bastard.”
This took me aback. I had no idea Bob had this word in his vocabulary.
Before I could think of a witty riposte, Bob had added,” Its about time you and I got out on the piss again cuz”
“I- I- I’d like to Bob b but, actually, tonight , I’ve got an exhibition on at the gallery. Tomorrow would be good”
“ It’s the rugby tomorrow you sad bastard. Don’t worry – I got you a ticket – some of me mates are coming up as well. Nope – its got to be tonight. Cuzzy-boy”
Bob, as all who knew him would testify, was not one to be denied, especially in matters close to his heart. I was poised on the edge of an abyss but I could do nothing other than leap, with a quick prayer for divine intervention. I gave a sick grin and, in my usual heroic form, capitulated shamelessly. Not quite unconditionally however.
“Fine Bob “ I said, “ but we’ll have to do the opening.” This qualification allowed me the illusion that I was back in the driver’s seat.
“ Ok you sorry bastard, but we’ll crack open a couple” and he ripped open a six-pack, tossing me a beer, which I caught with some style I fancied .Bob guzzled one down while I wrestled with my twist-top.
In fairness to Bob, he would have had no inkling of the predicament I found myself in. He may even have felt some sympathy , had he understood my situation ,but certain of the subtleties of social relations had never quite permeated Bob’s more straight-forward world view. You were either a good bloke or you weren’t. This may have been, to a large extent, determined by whether you went to the rugby and drank respectable quantities of beer, but I have to say, that Bob was always generous in allowing anyone into his circle, so long as, like Barkus, they were sincere and willing .
Bob was a natural democrat with an in-built egalitarian streak. I had always been admitted into his happy brotherhood, partly, I suppose because I was his cousin, but also, because Bob lacked any exclusive bone in his body.
This innate generosity did not prevent Bob from feeling he had to educate me in the finer points of that behaviour demanded in his social circle. As my older cousin, he would advise me – “ For fuck’s sake, don’t mention you’re studying art history and English literature you useless bastard” - or “ If you order a red wine, I’ll deck you – you namby-pamby prick!”.Ofcouse, this was said with the hearty affection of the older cousin and I never took offense.
I always felt that this warm inclusiveness was sometimes lacking among some of the other friends I knew, and occasionally sensed that Bob and his antics were not always well received. A friend of mine from drama club once remarked , “If you tell that barbarian Bob and those beer-guzzling cavemen friends of his about our party, I’ll have you thrown out of the Drama Society”. He said this with the seriousness that only a student of Shakespeare could possibly muster. The incident with the flying jug of beer was but one in a string of examples of Bob’s behaviour.. His reputation meant that, in some of the more refined circles I moved in, his presence was not greatly appreciated. It was this tension between the need to keep diverse groups of friends happy that lay at the heart of my present distress.
Chapter 2
Foreign Fields
However, there was nothing for it. Bob was coming like it or not. We walked to the gallery past some of the haunts of our Varsity days. Bob remarked approvingly on the new cafes and restaurants and recalled that, yes, that was where he and two of his friends had ran naked for two blocks along George Street.
Bob was not one to shy away from a dare, as those of us who had dared him to climb eight stories up the outside of the girls’ wing of a student hostel would affirm . This memorable stunt had gone a long way towards redeeming Bob in the eyes of his rugby mates, after two of his best friends had discovered Bob naked in bed with his flat-mate. Normally, this wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow but the flat-mate happened to be of the male persuasion. Bob had arrived home in a state of advanced drunkenness, taken off all his clothes, and climbed into the wrong bed. What he was thinking of we will never know, but he swore his innocence. The aggrieved flat-mate was quick to back up Bob’s claim that nothing had happened and, fortunately for Bob, the flat-mates exemplary record in the heterosexual community convinced all but the more skeptical of his innocence in the rather unfortunate affair.
Fortification in the form of another beer, together with these fond remembrances of our misspent youth, ( although, I always suspected I hadn’t really misspent mine as much as I should have ),had put me in a more confident frame of mind. Bob seemed to have few qualms about this foray into the art world. We entered and I introduced Bob to a small group of friends which included Jenny , a lady I have to confess, I was rather attracted to.
I felt that Jenny would chaperone Bob to some degree, and help keep him out of danger.
I made my way towards a small group that included the man of the moment, Fandon Farnsworth. They stood near a table on which there were bottles of New Zealand wines and various cheeses and hors d’oeuvres.
Fandon’s parents, determined that their son would make his mark had, and in an era when All Blacks had respectable names like Gary and Colin, given their son a name which would, they confidently expected, set him apart. Named after a minor character in one of those books that nobody ever finishes but, like the critics, is in no doubt as to its literary importance, Fandon had weathered the slings and arrows of life at a boys school. There, he had been the butt of many a school-boy witticism, enduring endless sniggering references to his fanny and became widely known as “Fandon of the Fan Dance” To his credit, none of this had held Fandon back and he possessed that self-confident look of one who entertained no doubts as to his importance , giving me, ( perhaps I’m being over-sensitive here), a somewhat sardonic smile as we shook hands.
“Everything well in hand, I see - and I notice you’ve brought along that well-known patron of the arts, your cousin Bob - sssoooo nice to see him again”, he said in rather sibilant fashion.
For the benefit of the others present, and also, partly to regain the initiative, I explained:- ” Yes Bob and I were both at Varsity with Fandon – you might remember him Miranda.” Was there just the hint of an awkward silence?
“Used to paint the town red”, I added with an insipid laugh and immediately felt like a complete idiot.
Miranda had, until recently, been in a relationship with Giles, a lecturer at the local University. She would introduce him as her “wonderful Giles” and was constantly saying to her friends:” Don’t you just love Giles darling?”The answer to this question was obviously in the affirmative and then she would say” I don’t know what I’d do without him - isn’t he just prefect?” Once again, one was obliged to provide positive reassurance. Unfortunately, Giles had some separation issues, and when he found all sorts of excuses as to why he had to stay with his Mother and could not move in with Miranda, she discarded him without a backward glance.This was only a matter of days ago, but she seemed in fine fettle, given that she had just lost the love of her life.
On the other hand, I observed Giles holding forth to a small group on my left. Bow-tied, ram-rod straight and with the look of an undersized impresario, he was delivering a lecture to his little audience with all his usual aplomb.
Miranda was a person of considerable reputation in the arts community She could be a generous person but, unfortunately, had a tendency to be somewhat sycophantic in the company of those she admired. She no doubt observed my unease, and a desire to please Fandon, combined with her natural sense of her own superior refinement impelled her to say:
“Oh Fandon – to think you were ever a scruffy student – it doesn’t’ bear thinking about.”, and with that she gave a horrendously affected laugh, as if to say – “ isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“I don’t think I could ever have been described as scruffy Miranda, unlike our good friend Bob over there, who, I believe, only ever wore one shirt throughout his entire University career, and was of the belief that a hair brush was some type of agricultural instrument”
Fandon and other assorted hangers-on were in no doubt that this was intensely witty and laughed accordingly. I, of course, smiled in my usual weak-kneed way, and just about dropped my newly-acquired glass of wine as I espied Bob making his way towards us, with Jenny on his arm.
A sharp twinge of jealousy and pure naked fear were the competing emotions I simultaneously felt in that dreadful moment. Bob, unaware that he was the object of this mirth, and in his usual fashion, innocent of all artifice and full of genuine bonhomie, bowled right up to Fandon, held out his hand, and said, “Bloody Fandon – how the hell are ya mate?”
This was definitely Bob at his polite best, I thought, demonstrating an acute sense of occasion, by his own standards at least.
“Hope you’ve forgiven me for that sore head by the way”
I suppose there was no way to ignore the infamous incident at the Cook, but even Fandon was taken by surprise and, for once, failed with the obligatory witty retort.
“Ah yes Bob – good to see you again”
I may have been mistaken, but I felt his eyes were not smiling. Whatever worthy qualities Fandon Farnsworth might possess, I somehow did not see forgiveness as one of them.
“ Ssssoo – you’re the infamous Bob – scourge of the cook, “ chimed in Miranda, surveying Bob form her lofty position, ( figuratively speaking of course – she was barely above 5 foot).
Bob smiled politely – I wondered if my fearless cousin was a little intimidated by Miranda – I know I was - she had been a few years ahead of us at Varsity and I always suspected Bob had, to some extent, worshipped her from afar . Miranda, had been much-admired and much sought after and certainly would never have deigned to look in Bob’s or my direction in those days. She had had that aura of unattainability, at least for Bob, myself and others of our year who would no more have approached Miranda than attended an aerobics class in a leopard-skin leotard.
Fortunately, Bob had matured and replied pleasantly – “Hi -nice to meet you – yep one and the same I’m afraid “
I breathed an inward sigh of relief as my cousin seemed to be observing the social niceties. Then he added “ but I’ve quietened down now – I only get pissed on the weekends” The sigh was replaced with an inward scream of horror.
Oh God - what now?
Certain deities must have been smiling on me I thought, as Miranda merely laughed indulgently. Fandon ‘s look was something between a smirk and a scowl., so I seized the opportunity to get proceedings under way. I clinked my glass. “ Ladies and Gentlemen , it is with great pleasure and no small measure of parochial pride that we open today this , the latest exhibition of the noted local artist…”
Chapter 3
The Gathering Storm
A little later, voices were raised as people made their way through the generous supply of wine. I managed to get Bob aside and said through the side of my mouth “ Look - be nice to Jenny, but lay off a bit, if you know what I mean”
“Ah – so you’re shaggin ‘er”
“No no no not yet – I mean – you know what I mean”
“Yeah - got it mate—you’re hoping to shag ‘er”
“No Bob – that’s not what I’m saying – I mean – there may be something there, if you know what I mean”
“ I’m onto it – yep - not a problem – she’s more your type anyway” concluded Bob magnanimously.
Soon after, Jenny rejoined us, and ,a moment later, Fandon and his entourage made their way towards us. So far, Bob had behaved with remarkable restraint and decorum, but there was something in Fandon’s demeanour that rang a warning bell. He was not one to miss an opportunity to assert his superiority and, somehow, earlier, he had failed to adequately subjugate my cousin.
“Ah Bob” , he said with great flourish. Recent praise from his admirers had renewed his confidence. The warning bells were, I felt, clanging rather noisily as he enquired “ And how have you enjoyed our little soiree Bob?”
If Bob detected any note of condescension, he gave no sign of it.
“ Bloody excellent Fandon , though I’m dying for a beer”
“Our New Zealand wines not good enough for you then?”. asked Fandon, detecting a chink in his opponent’s armour.
“Na mate – its just that I’m more of a beer man – you know”
Miranda , and I’m sure it was just to be conversational , asked “And what do you think of our local man’s works Bob - provocative don’t’ you think?”
“Ah yeah – you could definitely say that “ said Bob diplomatically
“And how would you interpret my “Southland Farm”canvas?”, asked Fandon. There was something triumphant in the way he posed this question.
“Very nice “ said Bob , determined to be amenable. I had never felt so grateful to my cousin.
“Just nice?” prodded Fandon, with, and I may be mistaken, a gleam in his eye.
“Bloody nice indeed” retorted Bob , sticking to his point admirably.
“Its for sale Bob - you could buy it for old times sake, if you’ve got a spare few grand”
Bob was a man of simple tastes but not stupid and at some point , he’d sensed that Fandon was not merely indulging in idle chit-chat.
“To be honest Fandon, this modern stuff isn’t quite my cup of tea – hope you don’t mind my saying so.” “And just what is your cup of tea then Bob?”
“Well , a beautifully executed Jeff Wilson try in the corner—is definitely something to be admired”, Bob said.
“Ah “said Fandon, closing in for the kill, “But is it art Bob?”
At some point, the atmosphere had lost something of its frivolity, but Bob, if anything ,seemed more relaxed than ever, now he knew where he stood”
“I definitely think it is Fandon – I suppose you’d call it performance art”, and he smiled, pleased with his wit and cleverness.
Miranda once again gave an indulgent chuckle.
“Oh quite the iconoclast aren’t you Bob? Perhaps he has a point Fandon?”..
Giles gave his loyal aide-de-camp a withering look. ”What, then, is your definition of art Bob?”
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”, This was delivered in Bob’s best BBC tones and received many appreciative laughs from the small audience”
Fandon sensed he was losing the initiative. Bob, who knew no more about art than he did about ancient Persian poetry was, if anything, gaining the upper hand in this battle of intellects and wasn’t even on his home-ground so to speak.
“Surely, its about opening new doors of understanding, striving for original insight, don’t you think?”
“You’re the expert Fandon old boy” This was once again said in best BBC.
Fandon was getting a bit desperate now. Still trying to remain jocular he said :”Lets face it Bob – you wouln’t recognize beauty, if it hit you over the head old man.”
“Ah – well how about a view down the harbour on a frosty morning, with a light mist dancing on the water”, said Bob poetically.
There was stunned silence. Such lyricism was surely not meant to found in one such as Bob. My cousin had surpised me and , I must say, Miranda seemed to be looking almost admiringly at him.
“But that’s not art, you idiot,” fired back Fandon, having given up all pretense of friendliness.
“Says who Fanny? – just because the great Fanny Farnsworth didn’t paint it. Actually, now we’re being frank old boy, that work of yours,( he said, pointing to an abstract-expressionist work on the wall behind him),is about as meaningful as a dog’s dinner. In fact, it reminds me of that time you chundered at the Cook.”
Sensing there was no victory here, Fandon fired one last parting shot.
“I might have known it was useless to engage in meaningful debate with a complete troglodyte – Bob - you are, and always were, a complete moron!”
Bob hesitated, unsure of the meaning of troglodyte, and this momentary hesitation allowed me to step between the two adversaries, but, in that split second, various neurons had fired over assorted synapses within Bob’s brain and, somewhere,deep within his very core, honour demanded that he must act.
Chapter 4
The Spoils of War
Jenny, along with Bob and a couple of other friends had taken me to Accident and Emergency, but I was assured by the doctor who saw me that there was no permanent damage. Concussion, but I would recover. I reassured Bob that I had quite forgiven him and told him to go out and enjoy himself. Bob was not the touchy-feely type - unless under the influence of course, but he was truly full of remorse, touching my shoulder occasionally and asking solicitously
"Yorright mate?"
I could never hold anything against Bob despite the number of times he'd involved me in some scrape or other of his concoction. In some ways, it was better that I'd stepped into the punch, as this saved me alot of damage control, although , under different circustances, I might have been quite happy for Fandon to be on the receiving end of one of Bob's left hooks.
I insisted that Bob go off and enjoy himself. I knew he'd been hoping to catch up with some of his friends who were up for the rugby. The success of Bob's evening was not, I must confess , uppermost in my mind. I was hoping to be left alone with Jenny. I was enjoying all the fuss and attention and the fact that I had been knocked out cold could only enhance my reputation as the tough guy of the local art scene, non-extistent as it had been prior to this.
The art community of Dunedin would recover from this unfortunate incident. I would have to explain to my boss, who was away on his European holiday, what had transpired, but the fact was, that he was less than fond of Fandon, whom he had never really forgiven for once calling him a “reactionary old bourgeois fart” in the days when he was less well known.
I spent a lovely remainder of the evening with Jenny at her place and she dropped me home just after 11 o'clock. I went straight to bed and must have fallen asleep right away, as I knew nothing else until the morning.
I awoke at about 8.30 and was just going past the spare bedroom when I heard voices coming from inside. Someone was opening the bedroom door and I heard an unmistakable feminine voice. " I'll be right back" it said , somewhat coquettishly I thought.
I froze to the spot. I had never been one to handle these delicate situations with coolness and calm. The door opened, and I stood there like some sort of pathetic Peeping Tom, caught in flagrante delicto, and with a most stupidly guilty expression glued to my face.
To add to my horror, out marched Miranda. She discovered me standing there, looking like the guilty schoolboy whose mother discovered a naughty magazine under his bed, gave me a look of disgust, and swept past me like the proverbial Queen of Sheba.I had attempted to stammer a " good morning", but was allowed no opportunity.
I tried to look busy filling the kettle ,as she returned from the bathroom, and made another attempt to give a polite greeting .
"Hello Miranda - an evening to remember? ", I ventured.
"Quite " she uttered with that tone that leaves the recipient in no doubt as to his complete inferiority.
She gave me not a second glance as she opened the door. "Get back in here wench " came the unmistakable voice of my cousin.
I once again heard that coquettish giggle, so hard to reconcile with the imperious personage who had just swept by.
I realised that, with barely a look, Miranda had caused me - a respectable citizen, guilty only of getting in the way of a punch intended for another - ,the unmistakable feeling that I had, in some sense, been involved in some sort of sordid episode.
So hard to shake off this good protestant upbringing I thought, and took my green tea out onto the balcony.
.
A light morning mist rose above the green hills. A red glow filled the sky towards the east as dawn broke with the hopeful and comforting sound of the early morning birdsong..
I heard Bob snoring loudly sometime later and, having recovered from the trauma of running into Miranda, chuckled quietly as I reviewed events of the night before. The previous night had not gone as planned. I wondered how Bob had met up with Miranda again, but perhaps that would be revealed in the fullness of time.
In some way, the rhythm of Bob’s snoring seemed to harmonise with the rhythms of the early morning.and the wakening city. I took a sip of green tea and sighed contentedly.Yes, I thought, feeling once again that generous and expansive feeling of the previous evening, God is in his heaven and all’s right with the world. I couldn’t remember who said it, but I made a mental note to check my Dictionary of Quotations.
THE END ( At Last)
Older Random Rants
Short Article on Political Tom-Foolery
Is It Ever Acceptable To Make a Spectacle of One’s Self In Public over Politics?
(This piece is a reaction to the unconscionable recent attack on Mr Peters by some unknown larrikin.)
This is an interesting question and obviously has many possible answers depending on, among other things, one 's political convictions, the depth of one passion about certain issues and, of course, the degree to which one may or may not be unhinged. People like the Right Dishounourable Winsome Peters do so regularly – misbehave in public that is - but carry it off with such aplomb, that the average punter, can often be oblivious to the substance of what he says, seduced, as it were, by the style.
I would be the first, however, to agree that there is a kind of substance to what Winsome is saying - I refer here of course to his many utterances on immigration/race issues - and this substance is something that a democracy that values human rights, particularly the rights of minorities, must pay some attention to.
A few choice examples:
They ( immigrants) can " enjoy another one of our great freedoms - the freedom to go back home" We can, I’m sure imagine how welcoming this would make a recent immigrant in the audience feel.
" We cannot take our tradition of tolerance for granted when we are importing fanatics for whom that tradition is alien". I'm sure the vast majority of our Muslim community would agree that we must safegauard a tradition,but how might one feel, knowing these comments are directed at your entire community in a way that brands you all as , in some way, linked to a “militant Islamic underbelly” THey may indeed ponder just what kind of tolerance it is that Mr Peters represents.
" I believe the numbers of Muslim immigrants make it almost impossible to avoid conflict" . I can only say that I’m glad they werent' saying this about those nterrible whisky-swilling Scots when my dear old Mum and Dad immigrated here .
" The inevitable consequence of the situation we're breeding with ethinic ghettos is that people won't be able to walk out of their own area for fear of violence" How’s this for a reasoned, measured and balanced analysis of the current situation?
I could go on ad nauseum and I mean this literally of course. The ultimate irony is that Peters has called on our long Western tradition of tolerance and respect for human rights, invoking Voltaire and even William Shakespeare would you believe? - did the bard not also say " Get thee gone thou racist bleaters - I have no time for such like Peters"
I believe Voltaire may have said something along the lines of - " I may not like what you say
( the subtext here is that he doesn't actually like nasty bigots), but I will defend to the death your right to say it" Apparently not all that physically robust, Peters might not actually want Voltaire in his corner, but there is little doubt the likes of someone like Peters appealing to the philosophy of this leading light of the Enlightenment, would have the poor little man spinning in his lovely French grave.
Unfortunately, Mr Peters is on safe ground in one respect; as a free, democratic society that respects the right of all its members to express their views, there is little chance of shutting the great man up. Only the exhaustion of his insatiable desire for personal publicity is likely to do that and it seems ill-advised to hold ones breath on that score.
Returning to the original question of whether it is acceptable for a grown man to behave improperly in public to protest the likes of Winsome and his odious views, how should one answer? If people are not enraged at the use of the race card to win a few grubby votes; at the denigration of an entire minority in our fair country; at the inflaming of unfounded fears and petty racial bigotry to serve some grimy political end; well perhaps they should be. We may allow Peters and his brigade to say what they think, but there is a greater majority ,thankfully, opposed to the politics of race. We must fervently hope that only a misguided few will ever be attracted to that grand tradition that includes Pauline Hanson, Enoch Powell adn Monsieur Le Pen, ( ironically from the country that gave us Voltaire himself) , to name a few of the more innocuous proponents of this brand of politiking . There is definitely an argument that the rest of us have a responsibility to stand up and say what they believe, perhaps even at the cost of coming across as some kind of deranged larrikin. I see that I haven’t adequately answered the question posed at the beginning. Perhaps its up to each individual and his or her conscience, or, perhaps God forbid, I’m learning from the great man himself how to never give a straight answer.
R.T.Fat
Spiced Coffee and Cake With Mr Zaoui
Recently, I was fortunate to spend a little time with Ahmed Zaoui. We spent a pleasant time, taking Mr Zaoui's Algerian spiced coffee and discussing the upcoming election ,and human rights, a subject close to Mr Zaoui's heart.
As you might imagine, I was very much on my guard, having been led to believe by our, surely ironically named, Intelligence Services, and the great majority of those noble parliamentary representatives of ours, that this kindly and avuncular individual was a threat to our good country's security. There were a few dodgy looking types around, I must confess; the deceptively gentle Catholic Father and Mr Zaoui's assistant, Sarah, seemed just too nice to be true. My suspicions were well and truly aroused; avowed supporters of a dangerous threat to our national security could surely not be so warm and welcoming, but, yes, there was a certain something in the determined manner in which they kept plying me with cake and coffee.
One minor matter, however, puzzled me. Where were all those intelligent Security Intelligence people who must be surely be keeping a close eye on the dangerous Mr Zaoui. Without giving away my suspicions, I stayed constantly alert, but was unable to detect any likely suspects. Yep, I had to hand it to them; they were good, these guys. And then, it finally dawned on me. Father Chris, who so consummately played the role of kindly scholarly priest, was, in fact, a double-agent. Brilliant. Thank God, I thought, our country's fate is in the steady hand of these masters of deception.
One further minor point still troubled me, however. I kept wondering; if Mr Zaoui is not a genuine refugee claiming sanctuary from a vicious and murderous regime, just what the heck is he playing at? Why would he otherwise give up years of his life, two of them in one of our prisons, much of that time in solitary confinement, the preserve of our worst criminals and denying himself his family and the chance of seeing his youngest son Yusef growing up. If Mr Zaoui is something other than, the quiet scholarly man of peace, then what could that possibly be?
These doubts are obviously not shared by the powers that be; in fairness to them, they're rather preoccupied slagging each other off and bribing us with petty and superficial election promises. Meanwhile Mr Zaoui continues to live life in limbo. As I left the priory where Mr Zaoui stays, I wondered whether I had met a man who is not actually a security threat, but a victim , firstly of his own country's terrible history, and then, more seriously from our point of view, the cold and inhuman treatment of a country supposedly renowned for its enlightened stance on human rights issues,
Bring Back Saddam - (article on Scoop)
This title is meant only as an attention-grabber; no one in his right mind would seriously want the infamous mass-murderer back. But it serves to make the point that , after three years and in spite of all the lofty sounding platitudes about freedom and democracy, the invasion of Iraq has brought only death and destruction.Yes, there have been elections, but no viable government has been formed after more than three months.
The infrastructure of Iraq has taken a terrible pummeling with lower than pre-war oil output, long queues for petrol in one of the most oil-rich countries in the world, less hours of electricity and severe shortages of essential medical supplies.
Sectarian violence is at such levels that there is a debate now as to whether or not this constitutes civil war; there are more than 30 killings per day and Shiites and Sunnis are being forced to flee their respective areas, with daily bombings, kidnappings, abductions and murders by militias, some of which are linked to the government.
. The seasoned BBC Journalist John Simpson recently wrote that he has made eight visits to Baghdad in the last year and each time he found the situation worse. Do we trust his judgment or that of the US military spokesmen who assure us all is going swimmingly in Iraq.?
These indicators are, ofcourse, disappointing, but are as nothing compared to the loss of tens of thousands of innocent Iraqi lives, and the climate of terror in which ordinary Iraqis now live .
The actual numbers killed is an interesting issue in itself. Estimates vary from less than 20,000(Iraqi Body Count) to over 100,000 in Les Roberts study published in The Lancet. The Bush government naturally likes to quote the former figure.
Its easy to forget that the stated reason for the invasion was the fear of Saddams weapons of mass destruction. We now know from the leaked memos from Downing Street and Washington,( the latter one was recently publicised by that bastion of radicalism , the New York Times), that Bush and Blair had decided on invasion well before the diplomatic processes were exhausted. The head of MI5, Sir Richard Dearlove stated that, in his opinion, “the intelligence and facts were being fixed around policy” by the Bush regime. A later leaked memo, ( mentioned in Phillipe Sands recent book),merely confirms what we already knew: Bush and Blair deliberately lied about their intentions and bypassed the Security Council. ( This information is available on the not very radical BBC site – search under memo and Iraq)
. If the information revealed in the leaked memos demonstrate that Bush and Blair lied in order to prosecute an illegal invasion in which many thousands of innocent people have been killed, western democracy has come to something of a pretty pass when it can countenance such action by the countries that gave us constitutional government and the democratic republicanism.
Ofcourse, when the weapons of mass destruction were not found, as had been predicted, the script did a U-turn and changed to a more noble cause; that of bringing freedom and democracy to the poor suffering Iraqis. When we look at the many vicious regimes that the US is happy to support , only the extremely naïve could possibly accept this thesis. The US has a proven record of undermining democracy when it doesn’t’ suit their grand plan and of supporting vicious dictators when it does. William Blum in his recent book gives a quick overview of the lengths the US will go to in order to protect its interests. Note that the US’s chief backers in the region, Uzbekistan, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan are very far from being models of democracy.
The Neo Cons who now dominate the Bush government have always openly stated that they aspire to project US power throughout the world, countenancing no other rival and with a willingness to use force in the interests of the expansion of US Power.(look for Project for the New American Century in Google) I’m probably understating their intentions, but there is no doubt that US foreign policy has moved dramatically in this direction and, tragically, the most obvious victim of this new philosophy of American dominance is Iraq.
As was stated at the Nuremberg trials, initiating a war of aggression is “the supreme international crime, differing only from other war crimes in that it contains writing itself the accumulated evil of the whole” I believe this was an illegal war of aggression prosecuted in the pursuit of the interests of the US and its allies; no doubt the international lawyer might argue this point, but what is unarguable is the terrible cost inflicted on the Iraqi people.
Newsletter of the Duffiton Labour Ladies’ League
Aunt Gertie’s Post-Election Analysis
Open Letter to Helen Clark from Aunty Gertie
( President Duffiton Labour Ladies League)
Dear Helen
Irene and I were just saying, my dear, that you’re looking a little peeky these days. I do hope you’ve been taking care of yourself in this time of elections and that you or David have been making my delicious soup recipe e that I sent you. You look so much better in all those billboards dear which just goes to show that this election must have taken its toll.
No wonder. I’m afraid that horrible Mr Peters won over a few of our ladies. I think its really the way he always looks so neat and tidy - dapper is the word we used to use dear, and I must admit, he does have a lovely smile and I do so admire the way he can be smiley and friendly, even when he’s being nasty to those immigrant people.. I’m never sure if that’ a wig he’s wearing - are you Helen?
As for that Mr Brash – I don’t like the way he was nasty to you dear. I can’t understand why so many people voted for a man who looks just like a banker – it just shows what some people will do for a few crumbs - and he did say he’d stop the Maori getting any more of that special treatment - I must say, you’d think they would have had enough after 150 years of years of it. My brother Bob – you know him dear - the one from Remuera, who has that lovely BMW - always says its about time we were all treated equally - Anyway, Helen, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him – not Bob dear – he may vote for ACT but he is my brother after all - that brash man – which wouldn’t be very far since my arthiritis has got worse this winter. I’m sorry Helen – I’m wandering again – I’m sure you don’t want to know about my aches and pains.
I’m sorry to say that Elsie Gormliss voted for him - because, even though there aren’t any Maoris in Duffiton, on principle ,she refuses to let any Maori stop her from walking Brutus on the beach. I know that nice American who bought up the local headlands has put up a sign saying “Tresspassers will be Shot”, but , the thing is, he’s such a nice gentleman and, would you believe it, he dontated $200 to our annual Gala Day Fund Raiser.
I’m sorry to bring all this bad news dear, but we lost another vote.to those silly Greens – they always look so scruffy – not like that horrible Mr Peters. Maisie Owdavit has switched to them because she says that Marijuana helps her arthritis.I don’t know what the wolrd’s coming to Helen.We’re thinking of not inviting her to our sherry evenings after this. Uncle Bob sends his regards – he’s just nodding of in front of the telly after his fourth or fifth wee dram
We all wish you well in the next few weeks Helen. If you must have the Greens in government dear, our ladies here would like you to insist that they dress properly and that that young chappie with the funny hair gets a hair-cut. Perhaps you could make Winstone Peters your minister of immigration – at least he knows how to deal with all those Albanians who keep coming here – I’ve got nothing against them, but how many Albanians should any country have to have?
The ladies of the local Labour Ladies League are always right behind you dear – apart form Maisie Oudavit and Elsie Gormliss that is.Take care and don’t forget to try my lovely soup.
Love
Auntie Gertie
Installment of the Leaked George and Tony Tapes
Hi Tony - how's it going in your neck of the woods?
Just fine George, Things are humming along. No doubt you're aware I was on TV with Bob Geldof. The public relations people were ecstatic. They couldn't get me Nelson Mandela even though they told him it was for a good cause
I thought you'd already got reelected Tony..
No - I meant for the Live 8 thingamy. Your advisers would have mentioned it George. Its coinciding with the G8 conference
Oh yeah - that’s right Tony - I've got a real doozie of a speech for that one
Good George - its important to be seen to be making the right noises. Just what will you be saying George? Will you be mentioning debt relief?
Who?
No George - its not a who - it’s a what - you know- letting the poor countries off their debt.
Look Tony - like my Daddy says - " There 'll always be poor people"
Quite right George, but, as I say, its important to be making the right noises so to speak.
What noises Tony?
Don't worry now George - just read your speech a few times and you'll get the picture.
Sure buddy. You know I always admire the way you understand all these things and how the hell do you manage to look like a Goddamed choir boy all the time?
Well - I think it started when I was the class monitor in my first year at Fetty's and I've worked on it ever since George.
Can't you give me any tips Tony?
Well George the secret is to look concerned, sincere and thoughtful all at the same time - you can practise in front of the mirror.
I try to look thoughtful Tony but Barbara? Says that it doesn't look right on me on account of my sloping forehead and deepset eyes.
Yes I think she may be right George. What does Donald say.
He says just to concentrate on looking like some friendly guy you meet at the bar and that I shoulnd't try to look intelligent because that makes me look confused - oh yeah, and leave the talking to him and Condoleeza. Oh yeah - And I can mention feedom and democracy as often as I like.
Quite right George - you'll be just fine with that - I say - what was that noise?
Yikes I was just practicing my golf swing, one-handed, while we were shootin' the breeze and I hit that priceless Ming vase Herbert Hoover was given back in the 60's.
OH dear what a shame George
Excuse me Tony old buddy. I'll have to ring you back. There's something going on here. Security guys everywhere, If this is a false alarm, I'm goin' to be real pissed partner.
See ya Tony.
Ah - yes bye for now Geroge
Is It Ever Acceptable To Make a Spectacle of One’s Self In Public over Politics?
(This piece is a reaction to the unconscionable recent attack on Mr Peters by some unknown larrikin.)
This is an interesting question and obviously has many possible answers depending on, among other things, one 's political convictions, the depth of one passion about certain issues and, of course, the degree to which one may or may not be unhinged. People like the Right Dishounourable Winsome Peters do so regularly – misbehave in public that is - but carry it off with such aplomb, that the average punter, can often be oblivious to the substance of what he says, seduced, as it were, by the style.
I would be the first, however, to agree that there is a kind of substance to what Winsome is saying - I refer here of course to his many utterances on immigration/race issues - and this substance is something that a democracy that values human rights, particularly the rights of minorities, must pay some attention to.
A few choice examples:
They ( immigrants) can " enjoy another one of our great freedoms - the freedom to go back home" We can, I’m sure imagine how welcoming this would make a recent immigrant in the audience feel.
" We cannot take our tradition of tolerance for granted when we are importing fanatics for whom that tradition is alien". I'm sure the vast majority of our Muslim community would agree that we must safegauard a tradition,but how might one feel, knowing these comments are directed at your entire community in a way that brands you all as , in some way, linked to a “militant Islamic underbelly” THey may indeed ponder just what kind of tolerance it is that Mr Peters represents.
" I believe the numbers of Muslim immigrants make it almost impossible to avoid conflict" . I can only say that I’m glad they werent' saying this about those nterrible whisky-swilling Scots when my dear old Mum and Dad immigrated here .
" The inevitable consequence of the situation we're breeding with ethinic ghettos is that people won't be able to walk out of their own area for fear of violence" How’s this for a reasoned, measured and balanced analysis of the current situation?
I could go on ad nauseum and I mean this literally of course. The ultimate irony is that Peters has called on our long Western tradition of tolerance and respect for human rights, invoking Voltaire and even William Shakespeare would you believe? - did the bard not also say " Get thee gone thou racist bleaters - I have no time for such like Peters"
I believe Voltaire may have said something along the lines of - " I may not like what you say
( the subtext here is that he doesn't actually like nasty bigots), but I will defend to the death your right to say it" Apparently not all that physically robust, Peters might not actually want Voltaire in his corner, but there is little doubt the likes of someone like Peters appealing to the philosophy of this leading light of the Enlightenment, would have the poor little man spinning in his lovely French grave.
Unfortunately, Mr Peters is on safe ground in one respect; as a free, democratic society that respects the right of all its members to express their views, there is little chance of shutting the great man up. Only the exhaustion of his insatiable desire for personal publicity is likely to do that and it seems ill-advised to hold ones breath on that score.
Returning to the original question of whether it is acceptable for a grown man to behave improperly in public to protest the likes of Winsome and his odious views, how should one answer? If people are not enraged at the use of the race card to win a few grubby votes; at the denigration of an entire minority in our fair country; at the inflaming of unfounded fears and petty racial bigotry to serve some grimy political end; well perhaps they should be. We may allow Peters and his brigade to say what they think, but there is a greater majority ,thankfully, opposed to the politics of race. We must fervently hope that only a misguided few will ever be attracted to that grand tradition that includes Pauline Hanson, Enoch Powell adn Monsieur Le Pen, ( ironically from the country that gave us Voltaire himself) , to name a few of the more innocuous proponents of this brand of politiking . There is definitely an argument that the rest of us have a responsibility to stand up and say what they believe, perhaps even at the cost of coming across as some kind of deranged larrikin. I see that I haven’t adequately answered the question posed at the beginning. Perhaps its up to each individual and his or her conscience, or, perhaps God forbid, I’m learning from the great man himself how to never give a straight answer.
R.T.Fat
Spiced Coffee and Cake With Mr Zaoui
Recently, I was fortunate to spend a little time with Ahmed Zaoui. We spent a pleasant time, taking Mr Zaoui's Algerian spiced coffee and discussing the upcoming election ,and human rights, a subject close to Mr Zaoui's heart.
As you might imagine, I was very much on my guard, having been led to believe by our, surely ironically named, Intelligence Services, and the great majority of those noble parliamentary representatives of ours, that this kindly and avuncular individual was a threat to our good country's security. There were a few dodgy looking types around, I must confess; the deceptively gentle Catholic Father and Mr Zaoui's assistant, Sarah, seemed just too nice to be true. My suspicions were well and truly aroused; avowed supporters of a dangerous threat to our national security could surely not be so warm and welcoming, but, yes, there was a certain something in the determined manner in which they kept plying me with cake and coffee.
One minor matter, however, puzzled me. Where were all those intelligent Security Intelligence people who must be surely be keeping a close eye on the dangerous Mr Zaoui. Without giving away my suspicions, I stayed constantly alert, but was unable to detect any likely suspects. Yep, I had to hand it to them; they were good, these guys. And then, it finally dawned on me. Father Chris, who so consummately played the role of kindly scholarly priest, was, in fact, a double-agent. Brilliant. Thank God, I thought, our country's fate is in the steady hand of these masters of deception.
One further minor point still troubled me, however. I kept wondering; if Mr Zaoui is not a genuine refugee claiming sanctuary from a vicious and murderous regime, just what the heck is he playing at? Why would he otherwise give up years of his life, two of them in one of our prisons, much of that time in solitary confinement, the preserve of our worst criminals and denying himself his family and the chance of seeing his youngest son Yusef growing up. If Mr Zaoui is something other than, the quiet scholarly man of peace, then what could that possibly be?
These doubts are obviously not shared by the powers that be; in fairness to them, they're rather preoccupied slagging each other off and bribing us with petty and superficial election promises. Meanwhile Mr Zaoui continues to live life in limbo. As I left the priory where Mr Zaoui stays, I wondered whether I had met a man who is not actually a security threat, but a victim , firstly of his own country's terrible history, and then, more seriously from our point of view, the cold and inhuman treatment of a country supposedly renowned for its enlightened stance on human rights issues,
Bring Back Saddam - (article on Scoop)
This title is meant only as an attention-grabber; no one in his right mind would seriously want the infamous mass-murderer back. But it serves to make the point that , after three years and in spite of all the lofty sounding platitudes about freedom and democracy, the invasion of Iraq has brought only death and destruction.Yes, there have been elections, but no viable government has been formed after more than three months.
The infrastructure of Iraq has taken a terrible pummeling with lower than pre-war oil output, long queues for petrol in one of the most oil-rich countries in the world, less hours of electricity and severe shortages of essential medical supplies.
Sectarian violence is at such levels that there is a debate now as to whether or not this constitutes civil war; there are more than 30 killings per day and Shiites and Sunnis are being forced to flee their respective areas, with daily bombings, kidnappings, abductions and murders by militias, some of which are linked to the government.
. The seasoned BBC Journalist John Simpson recently wrote that he has made eight visits to Baghdad in the last year and each time he found the situation worse. Do we trust his judgment or that of the US military spokesmen who assure us all is going swimmingly in Iraq.?
These indicators are, ofcourse, disappointing, but are as nothing compared to the loss of tens of thousands of innocent Iraqi lives, and the climate of terror in which ordinary Iraqis now live .
The actual numbers killed is an interesting issue in itself. Estimates vary from less than 20,000(Iraqi Body Count) to over 100,000 in Les Roberts study published in The Lancet. The Bush government naturally likes to quote the former figure.
Its easy to forget that the stated reason for the invasion was the fear of Saddams weapons of mass destruction. We now know from the leaked memos from Downing Street and Washington,( the latter one was recently publicised by that bastion of radicalism , the New York Times), that Bush and Blair had decided on invasion well before the diplomatic processes were exhausted. The head of MI5, Sir Richard Dearlove stated that, in his opinion, “the intelligence and facts were being fixed around policy” by the Bush regime. A later leaked memo, ( mentioned in Phillipe Sands recent book),merely confirms what we already knew: Bush and Blair deliberately lied about their intentions and bypassed the Security Council. ( This information is available on the not very radical BBC site – search under memo and Iraq)
. If the information revealed in the leaked memos demonstrate that Bush and Blair lied in order to prosecute an illegal invasion in which many thousands of innocent people have been killed, western democracy has come to something of a pretty pass when it can countenance such action by the countries that gave us constitutional government and the democratic republicanism.
Ofcourse, when the weapons of mass destruction were not found, as had been predicted, the script did a U-turn and changed to a more noble cause; that of bringing freedom and democracy to the poor suffering Iraqis. When we look at the many vicious regimes that the US is happy to support , only the extremely naïve could possibly accept this thesis. The US has a proven record of undermining democracy when it doesn’t’ suit their grand plan and of supporting vicious dictators when it does. William Blum in his recent book gives a quick overview of the lengths the US will go to in order to protect its interests. Note that the US’s chief backers in the region, Uzbekistan, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan are very far from being models of democracy.
The Neo Cons who now dominate the Bush government have always openly stated that they aspire to project US power throughout the world, countenancing no other rival and with a willingness to use force in the interests of the expansion of US Power.(look for Project for the New American Century in Google) I’m probably understating their intentions, but there is no doubt that US foreign policy has moved dramatically in this direction and, tragically, the most obvious victim of this new philosophy of American dominance is Iraq.
As was stated at the Nuremberg trials, initiating a war of aggression is “the supreme international crime, differing only from other war crimes in that it contains writing itself the accumulated evil of the whole” I believe this was an illegal war of aggression prosecuted in the pursuit of the interests of the US and its allies; no doubt the international lawyer might argue this point, but what is unarguable is the terrible cost inflicted on the Iraqi people.
Newsletter of the Duffiton Labour Ladies’ League
Aunt Gertie’s Post-Election Analysis
Open Letter to Helen Clark from Aunty Gertie
( President Duffiton Labour Ladies League)
Dear Helen
Irene and I were just saying, my dear, that you’re looking a little peeky these days. I do hope you’ve been taking care of yourself in this time of elections and that you or David have been making my delicious soup recipe e that I sent you. You look so much better in all those billboards dear which just goes to show that this election must have taken its toll.
No wonder. I’m afraid that horrible Mr Peters won over a few of our ladies. I think its really the way he always looks so neat and tidy - dapper is the word we used to use dear, and I must admit, he does have a lovely smile and I do so admire the way he can be smiley and friendly, even when he’s being nasty to those immigrant people.. I’m never sure if that’ a wig he’s wearing - are you Helen?
As for that Mr Brash – I don’t like the way he was nasty to you dear. I can’t understand why so many people voted for a man who looks just like a banker – it just shows what some people will do for a few crumbs - and he did say he’d stop the Maori getting any more of that special treatment - I must say, you’d think they would have had enough after 150 years of years of it. My brother Bob – you know him dear - the one from Remuera, who has that lovely BMW - always says its about time we were all treated equally - Anyway, Helen, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him – not Bob dear – he may vote for ACT but he is my brother after all - that brash man – which wouldn’t be very far since my arthiritis has got worse this winter. I’m sorry Helen – I’m wandering again – I’m sure you don’t want to know about my aches and pains.
I’m sorry to say that Elsie Gormliss voted for him - because, even though there aren’t any Maoris in Duffiton, on principle ,she refuses to let any Maori stop her from walking Brutus on the beach. I know that nice American who bought up the local headlands has put up a sign saying “Tresspassers will be Shot”, but , the thing is, he’s such a nice gentleman and, would you believe it, he dontated $200 to our annual Gala Day Fund Raiser.
I’m sorry to bring all this bad news dear, but we lost another vote.to those silly Greens – they always look so scruffy – not like that horrible Mr Peters. Maisie Owdavit has switched to them because she says that Marijuana helps her arthritis.I don’t know what the wolrd’s coming to Helen.We’re thinking of not inviting her to our sherry evenings after this. Uncle Bob sends his regards – he’s just nodding of in front of the telly after his fourth or fifth wee dram
We all wish you well in the next few weeks Helen. If you must have the Greens in government dear, our ladies here would like you to insist that they dress properly and that that young chappie with the funny hair gets a hair-cut. Perhaps you could make Winstone Peters your minister of immigration – at least he knows how to deal with all those Albanians who keep coming here – I’ve got nothing against them, but how many Albanians should any country have to have?
The ladies of the local Labour Ladies League are always right behind you dear – apart form Maisie Oudavit and Elsie Gormliss that is.Take care and don’t forget to try my lovely soup.
Love
Auntie Gertie
Installment of the Leaked George and Tony Tapes
Hi Tony - how's it going in your neck of the woods?
Just fine George, Things are humming along. No doubt you're aware I was on TV with Bob Geldof. The public relations people were ecstatic. They couldn't get me Nelson Mandela even though they told him it was for a good cause
I thought you'd already got reelected Tony..
No - I meant for the Live 8 thingamy. Your advisers would have mentioned it George. Its coinciding with the G8 conference
Oh yeah - that’s right Tony - I've got a real doozie of a speech for that one
Good George - its important to be seen to be making the right noises. Just what will you be saying George? Will you be mentioning debt relief?
Who?
No George - its not a who - it’s a what - you know- letting the poor countries off their debt.
Look Tony - like my Daddy says - " There 'll always be poor people"
Quite right George, but, as I say, its important to be making the right noises so to speak.
What noises Tony?
Don't worry now George - just read your speech a few times and you'll get the picture.
Sure buddy. You know I always admire the way you understand all these things and how the hell do you manage to look like a Goddamed choir boy all the time?
Well - I think it started when I was the class monitor in my first year at Fetty's and I've worked on it ever since George.
Can't you give me any tips Tony?
Well George the secret is to look concerned, sincere and thoughtful all at the same time - you can practise in front of the mirror.
I try to look thoughtful Tony but Barbara? Says that it doesn't look right on me on account of my sloping forehead and deepset eyes.
Yes I think she may be right George. What does Donald say.
He says just to concentrate on looking like some friendly guy you meet at the bar and that I shoulnd't try to look intelligent because that makes me look confused - oh yeah, and leave the talking to him and Condoleeza. Oh yeah - And I can mention feedom and democracy as often as I like.
Quite right George - you'll be just fine with that - I say - what was that noise?
Yikes I was just practicing my golf swing, one-handed, while we were shootin' the breeze and I hit that priceless Ming vase Herbert Hoover was given back in the 60's.
OH dear what a shame George
Excuse me Tony old buddy. I'll have to ring you back. There's something going on here. Security guys everywhere, If this is a false alarm, I'm goin' to be real pissed partner.
See ya Tony.
Ah - yes bye for now Geroge
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