Robyn Gallagher

The old fellas

Robyn — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 06:43:26 +0000

In April 2006, the Cribs were my new favourite band. I’d stumbled across the Jarman brothers’ Yorkshirian blend of pop, rock and punk and decided I rather liked it. I became completely obsessed with the band and went on a mission to obtain as many of their recordings as I could.

I kept it a secret because I was a little embarassed with just how obsessed I had become, but also because they were my secret band and I didn’t want anyone to share in the love.

It even violated my Last.FM music play statistics. Most played artist – 435 plays. Most played song “You’re Gonna Lose Us” – 29 plays (that’s the Bernard-Butler-produced single version, not the Edwyn-Collins-produced “The New Fellas” album version).

But eventually, whatever, I came down from the Cribs-induced state of euphoria. They stayed on high-rotate on my iPod, but the fanatacism faded, leaving a nice sense of liked-up-ness.

Then, oh hello, Johnny Marr joined the Cribs. This is another one of those incidents that makes me think the universe is conspiring to make all my dreams come true. The guitarist of one of my favourite bands joining another of my favourite bands.

So with their first album as a foursome to promote, the Cribs rolled into town to play a gig at Bodega. Of course I went along.

After the band entered to the theme from Twin Peaks, they kicked into their first song and suddenly all the oldies in the audience started taking photos. (When I say “oldies”, I mean people my age.)

In front of Mr Marr, a small group of dads appeared, smart phones in hand, trying to taking photo of their guitar hero. It was as if the other lads on stage didn’t matter (just his backing band, right?).

Who cares that Ryan sings hunched over his microphone, attacking his guitar like a northern Richard III, or that Gary stretches out long and tall and lean with his bass, or that Ross powers away on drums at the back? Who even cares that music was being played, that dancing and jumping was happening? All these blokes seemed to care about was getting a digital likeness of a black blur on a red smudge that they can upload to their Facebooks and label “Johnny Marr”.

I managed to jump over to the other side. The audience was treated to many sonic delights, including the lovely vocal harmonies on “Save Your Secrets”, the chorus of “Direction” revved up like a chainsaw of love, and the disembodied head of Lee Renaldo flickering on the wall to join in on the epic, soaring “Be Safe”.

And then with a quickness it was over. They ended and did not come back for an encore. The no-encore move pleased me. For too many years bands have been going through the charade of the “Oh, we’ve finished! Good night!” move, only to be wooed back on stage (“Oh, if you insist…”) to play those other songs that just happen to be written at the bottom of their set list.

The Cribs just ended and walked off. And that was all that was needed. Would the night have been any better if they’d thrown in “Martell” or “What About Me”? (Actually, yeah…)

But perhaps this upset the natural order of the universe. Because on my way home I stopped by the San Fran, sneaking in to see the remainder of The 3Ds’ reunion show. I was just in time for the final song of their encore – the perfect after-dinner munt of “Hellzapoppin”.

Gisborne part 2: The lady and the lake

Robyn — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 08:10:24 +0000

“A Christmas carnival and the Poverty Bay rodeo on New Year’s Day are not to be missed,” urges Maurice Shadbolt, as I again consult the Shell Guide to New Zealand for something to do. As brilliant as his suggestion sounds, I was a couple of weeks too late. Maurice didn’t have any further recommended sightseeing for Gisborne, so I hired a car to travel deep into the Ureweras.

Urewera, Maurice tells me, means “burnt male organ”. I believe this comes from the tale of a Tuhoe chief who was relaxing the night before a battle by jamming on his Casiotone. He accidentally dropped a toasted marshmallow on the preset selector button, which melted so it was permanently set on samba, much to the annoyance of his neighbours. Well, unless there’s some other meaning of “burnt male organ” I don’t know of!

I’d checked out the road to Lake Waikaremoana on Google Streetview to see what driving would be like. It appeared to be a nice two-lane blacktop going through pleasant countryside, but strangely Streetview only went about halfway along the road to the lake. Oh well.

I wasn’t until I got to that halfway point along Lake Road that I realised why the Streetview car had given up and turned around: it was unsealed. And I don’t like unsealed road. I like to not have to pay too much attention to driving. I don’t like the mere act of turning a corner to become a challenge.

But I stuck it out and finally made it to the visitor’s centre at Aniwaniwa. The centre was designed by architect John Scott in 1974, but sadly it hasn’t aged well. It succumbed to leaks that have resulted in the top three floors being condemned, the museum closed, the McCahon mural relocated to the Auckland Art Gallery for safety, and the basement turned into a camping supplies store with a few historic items on display to keep the non-campers happy.

Heading back, I stopped by the Lake Waikaremoana Motorcamp for an ice cream and admired the lake – the giant blue lake, cleverly disappearing around a corner, not revealing its whole self. It was a sticky hot day, and the sun was blazing down, making every colour look bright and rich. Dealing with all that dusty, unsealed road was worth it.

Back in Gisborne, I was being stalked by the hotel restaurant. It started off harmlessly enough – a phone call in the late afternoon asking me if I’d like to make a reservation for dinner that night. No thanks.

But then a couple of hours later, I received another call, this time asking if I’d like to order in some room service. No thanks, again.

The next day, however, not only did I get another phone call (which, thanks to caller ID, I happily ignored), but I was also amused to see a piece of paper pushed under my bedroom door. There was a tight gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet, so the person on the other side was having to really work the paper from side to side to get it through. It turned out to be a flyer advertising the restaurant.

Now, if this were a computer game, it would obviously be a clue that I was suppose to WALK TO RESTAURANT and probably ORDER SPECIAL OF THE DAY to collect the next piece of inventory to help me win Gisborne Quest IV. But as this was real life, I just ignored it all and instead had fish and chips from the local.

(And anyway, it turned out that one of the bits of fish had a key in it that let me open the secret panel on the Cook Memorial and free the dwarf, who then gave me a map to find the secret marae on Kaiti Hill!!!!)

Gisborne has a curious selection of quite fancy things. There’s the PAULNACHE gallery (in ALL CAPITALS with nospace), which has a Damian Hurst piece in their collection; The Winemakers Daughters cafe and bar, where I enjoyed some good scrambled eggs; Rain Dogs Books with its fine collection of second-hand books; and Muirs Bookshop, which is just a good bookshop with a good cafe.

There are cities bigger than Gisborne (and Gisborne is technically a city) that don’t have places like this. But if you live in, say, Hamilton and there’s no awesome bookshop around, you can drive to Auckland easily enough.

But Gisborne is really remote – it’s about three or four hours’ drive to get to a larger city, and even further to a metropolis. Could it be that a fancy dealer gallery manages to survive in Gisborne because, well, there’s really nowhere else around for people to go?

On the less fancy side was the Odeon cinema, which has a no-hoodies policy. I believe this is the only cinema I’ve been to in Aotearoa New Zealand with a no-hoodies policy.

I can understand why a shopping mall would ban hoodies, as they could help obscure the face of the shoplifter, but it seems a curious rule for a movie theatre to have.

Standing in front of me in line was a young mother and her kids who’d come in from the rain to see “Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel”. The mum was wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

“I hope you’re going to put your hood down before you go in,” the box office lady sternly said. The mother apologised, saying she’d been wearing up to protect herself from the rain.

Then the lady sighed, “If only people knew how much more attractive they look with the hoods down.”

Wait. If there’s no risk of shoplifting in a movie theatre, could it be that the Odeon’s anti-hoodie policy is purely for aesthetic purposes? Do they want their cinemas full of good looking people who don’t hide their prettiness under casualwear?

Well, If I’d known I would have brought my hair straighteners and worn a pretty frock.

Gisborne had surprised and delighted me. I’m happy to think of it as a cheerful fishing village, with bursts of city sophistication and laidback island style.

I still don’t know Gisborne well enough to call it Gizzy, but I reckon I might just call it Gisbo.

Gisborne part 1: Mystery and history

Robyn — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:17:15 +0000

Had I been naive to think there would be an overhead locker in which to store my laptop bag on the 19-seater Beechcraft 1900D aeroplane that was clanging its way to Gisborne? I can happily do without inadequate airline coffee or those weird “veggie crisps” things that Air New Zealand serves in flight. But I guess I do have an expectation that, should I wish to take all my stuff on holiday with me, there will be space for it on the plane.

But there wasn’t, leaving me having to cram both my bags under the seat in front of me, taking up most of my leg room. Not that there was a flight attendant to check – the plane can’t fit one of those either.

Flying to Gisborne on such a small plane made it feel kind of exotic, like rather than just flying to another part of the North Island, I was journeying to a remote Pacific Island. But perhaps I was.

Having arrived, I went for a wander along Gisborne’s main street, Gladstone Road. It felt like a cross between an ordinary New Zealand town and a capital city of a Pacific Island. There were shops selling leis, people slouching down the road in bare feet, cars driving erratically; and then there was a deli, a Farmers department store, a fancy bookshop. What a curious blend.

I know that many locals call Gisborne “Gizzy”, but I didn’t feel like I knew it well enough to call it that yet. To call it Gizzy would make me feel like someone’s gran saying, “Oh, lovely to meet you Mr Boofhead.” Nicknames develop over time, and Gisborne and I weren’t there yet.

I consulted my travel guide, the 1969 edition of The Shell Guide to New Zealand (ed. Maurice Shadbolt). Located at the foot of Kaiti Hill, Maurice advises, “is the point where the first known Europeans set foot in New Zealand: beside [the] monument to Captain Cook which stands there is [a] ship’s cannon reputedly from Endeavour.”

But there was no sign of the ship’s cannon. It turns out it was later discovered to not actually be from the Endeavour, and now lives in the local museum, accurately labelled “Not Cook’s cannon”.

The Historic Cook Landing Site was, at one point, right by the sea shore, gazing out to the vast Pacific Ocean. But subsequent reclamation of the waterfront means it’s now located in a little park wedged between the road and a logging depot. I was a little shocked by this – this site of national significance has essentially been destroyed just to make room for logs to be stored.

But the Department of Conservation have thoughtfully displayed a photo showing the opening of the monument in 1906. As I looked at the photo, I noticed a curious thing – while the monument currently only has text on one of its four sides, at the 1906 unveiling there was obviously text on at least two other sides. Something had been removed from the memorial at some point in history? But what? And why?

After some googling, I found a series of of letters to the editor of the Poverty Bay Herald from 1906. It appears that while funds were being raised to build the memorial, a group called the Patriotic Committee donated £150 on the condition that the monument also contain the names of the New Zealand troopers who fought in the Boer War.

This was met with fierce opposition from many people, including troopers themselves (like this letter from Colonel TW Porter). It was offensive to Cook’s memory having to share his monument with another cause, and it was offensive to the troopers to not be worthy of their own memorial.

So it seems that indeed the off-topic words were scrubbed from the memorial, leaving three blank sides and the feeling of a story not fully told.

Maurice also recommended the “interesting museum”, which is otherwise known as Tairawhiti Museum. Though wouldn’t it be cool if there actually was a museum called The Interesting Museum? I would go there.

And indeed Tairawhiti Museum is interesting. It tells the tale of Gisborne from the first Maori, to Cook’s landing, right through to modern times, including all the craziness around the year 2000, what with Gisborne being THE FIRST PLACE IN THE WORLD TO SEE THE SUNRISE OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM. Here, have a plastic cup with “Gisborne 2000″ printed on it.

The museum building has been expanded over the years, giving it a fun, eclectic feel, moving from room to room. Past the gift shop; through a gallery showcasing both traditional and modern Maori art; into another room with a stellar collection of work from contemporary New Zealand artists; down a stairway (which was also showing a selection of photos of Gisborne in the 1930s and ’40s by local photographer Jack Hollamby); into the maritime collection, including many fine surfboards; along a short corridor; through a door and suddenly there’s the captain’s cabin of the Star of Canada, an Edwardian boat.

It’s like visiting your friend’s uncle, who was made redundant in the ’80s and took his severance and built himself a house out of whatever bits and pieces he could talk people into giving him.

And more regional museums could learn from the ‘weird uncle’ approach. Tairawhiti Museum is almost a perfect museum and shows that you don’t need an animatronic blacksmith telling stories about ye olden days to have a good museum.

The awfulness of the previous period of time

Robyn — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 02:53:35 +0000

In my iTunes library, I have songs that mention the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, either looking back in anger or forward in excitement. “Goodbye, ’70s!” sneers Alison Moyet; “Heading for the ’90s, living in the ’80s,” notes one-hit wonders the Escape Club.

But what happened to the ’00s? Where were the songs from the late ’90s that looked forward to the new decade. Oh yeah – the millennium is what happened.

Instead sights were set beyond the next 10 years; pop music extended itself 1000 years into the future. The Backstreet Boys and Robbie Williams and Will bloody Smith all got visionary and futuristic about Y2K and beyond.

Then, suddenly, along comes 2010 with barely a dent made in the millennium, and the sudden realisation that a whole decade has past and it probably wasn’t as magical as it seemed like it was going to be.

Though, it would have been a major downer if someone had released a song in 1999 that imagined a new millenium of terrorism, financial crises and Susan Boyle. Yeah, imagine this in an R&B lite style, perhaps with a Fred Durst rap later on:

Aeroplanes flying into buildings.
Poor Wall Street tumbles to the ground.
Frumpy spinster becomes a pop star.
These are the things that will define the next decade.

Well, there were actually some good things that happened in the ’00s. It’s just a lot more fun to dramatically declare that the whole decade was awful and therefore bring on the ’10s because shit cannot possibly be worse.

Ditto with the 2009, which was also awful and 2010 will be better. But I seem to recall that 2008 was awful and 2009 would be better. Et cetera.

Somehow when I look back at the 2000s, the thing that sticks out the most for me is the three months I lived at my parents’ place in Hamilton (late ‘01, early ‘02), where I spent most of the time sitting on the couch, watching the strange choices of music videos on Juice TV (Heather Nova, wtf).

Perhaps this period sticks out because I was unenjoyably living in Hamilton and watching dull music videos all day. Or perhaps I remember it because I was fresh from the National Young Writer’s Festival in Australia, feeling confident and inspired about my writing talents, and being very productive.

I hope that when people look back at the 2000s and declare it to be awful that it’s really just about a couple of specific events, and that they didn’t actually live through 10 whole years of awfulness without any effort to make things better. Because that really would be awful.

Good August and other months

Robyn — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 00:06:48 +0000

I started the year by recreating the Cover Girl lipgloss ad task from “America’s Next Top Model”, thanks to Jo of Pretty Pretty Pretty. It is important for a modern girl to know how to work the camera.

I was lucky enough to go to Webstock, but due to the Current Economic Climate I had go there as a door-holding, clock-watching volunteer, but I possibly had more fun than I would have if I’d gone as a regular attendee. I got to see my long-time interweb heroes Derek Powazek and Heather Champ’s talk on online communities, which was inspiring.

Oh God – Sevens weekend, possibly the most miserable weekend of the year. Lots of my friends left town, leaving me to face a city full of drunken munters. This has left me determined to avoid the broken glass and vomit in 2010 by leaving town for the weekend.

But on the good side of sports, I made a vow to see live sports games. I went to a test cricket match, a Phoenix game, and the mighty All Whites World Cup qualifier. I’m still not ready to sell my soul to any particular sport, but at least I think I get football.

I went to Auckland for a few days for business and pleasure. I unexpectedly saw legendary Auckland punk band The Spelling Mistakes play “Feels So Good”, which was something I had never expected to see. I also realised that the Auckland of now is no longer the Auckland I left. At the time, I felt quite melancholic about it, but a later visit revealed Auckland to be all right, still.

Much fun was had on a panel at the Young Labour Conference, talking about blogs, online communities and politics along with Keith Ng and David Farrar. This is where I got to share my wisdom with the younger generation.

I saw De La Soul perform at the Opera House. The last time I saw them live was in 1991, was I was a huge De La fan. They were touring to celebrate the 20th anniversary of their debut album, “Three Feet High and Rising”. And that made me wonder what it would be like for me to revisit stuff I’d created when I was 19. No wonder De La were chopping up their old stuff, mixing it up to make something new.

I watched Too Many Films this year. Too Many Films going being entertainment and into a state of being. I initially watched Too Many Films from around 1993 to 2004, but somehow managed to get sober in the mid 2000s. I thought I was over it, but a combination of the 48Hours film competition, the Film Festival and seeing many new releases as Slevin’s plus-one dragged me right back into it. Therefore, I have no life; I watch films instead.

Speaking of 48Hours, one is still haunted by the splendid Wellington regional winner, “Otack Otack Otack Fall “.

I also went to many theatrical shows this year, and (re)learned the ancient art of writing reviews. It turns out there’s more to say than “It was nice. I liked it.” I especially enjoyed “Biography of my Skin” a collaboration between actress Miranda Harcourt and her husband Stuart McKenzie, all about marriage and being complicated. It gave me hope.

Heh, remember earlier in the year when everyone was freaking right out about swine flu and how everyone was going to die, etc? Those were fun times.

I ended up with a swine cold, the downside of which was not being able to go to Napier for a holiday (but there would have been awful weather had I gone), and the upside of which was getting prescribed coff-b-gone, a cough syrup containing morphine. Aw yeah, I said morphine. Though in the middle of that wobbly, blissed-out week, I saw “Bruno” and laughed even though I knew it wasn’t funny, so I was glad to eventually get well.

After being thrown around by June and July, I decided that August would be good. In fact, I gave August its own hashtag (#goodaugust) and indeed it was a good month. You should try this. It works.

I went to WordCamp, which was not about words nor a camp. Instead it was a two-day un-conference about WordPress (the thing my blog runs on). It was most interesting, but I ended up leaving early on the second day because the sun was shining and I needed to be outside and not be in a suburban bowling club.

The power supply for my laptop broke, and I had to wait over a week for the new one to come. I turned to “books”, with their “pages” and “ink”, reading Dan Brown’s thrilling piece of shit “The Lost Symbol” and my DCM Book Fair acquisition, “True Colours” – Dave Armstrong’s funny and insightful account of the lead up to the 1996 election campaign.

I finally got to have some holiday and travel, with an excursion to the South Island. I was based in Christchurch and then Dunedin, but also explored some surrounding parts of Canterbury, Otago and Southland. I also fulfilled my lifelong dream of going to Gore.

I also took many notes and wrote an epic 10-part account of my travels. “You should write a book,” the people said. “But I haven’t even got out of bed yet,” Robyn replied.

The year nicely ended(-ish) with the Fourth Annual Wellingtonista Awards, celebrating the best of Wellington. I presented a few awards, joined in the festivities, and ended up performing “Buffalo Stance” in the hipster karaoke that followed.

And I turned 35, which took ages to happen. I was somehow expecting a dull day, but it actually turned out to be splendid with sunshine and delicious food and spending time with lovely friends.

So, quite a good year. And while Twitter ate my 2008, I had more a harmonious relationship with it this year:

I just completed an awesome 100 piece jigsaw puzzle of some Barbies riding horses on a California beach.
4:30 PM Dec 18th from Tweetie

Epilogue: Oh, that’ll do

Robyn — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 07:20:12 +0000

Things from my notebook that I couldn’t wrangle into any sort of narrative

After I’d checked in at the hotel in Christchurch, I went up to my room, swiped my room card and opened what I thought was my hotel room. Instead I found myself in a small space, faced with three doors. I felt like a character in an adventure video game.
You are in a corridor. In front of you are three doors.
> Turn RIGHT.
> Use CARD on DOOR.
> Open DOOR.
> Walk into ROOM.
You are standing in your hotel room. It is quite nice.

Christchurch smells like cigarettes, like the late ’70s, like an small European city that’s on a budget airline route.

All the nighties in Ballantyne’s seemed to be those neck-to-ankle jobs. Not many people know this, but these nighties are actually classed as a contraceptive device under the Medicines Act (1981).

I was on the free bus, sitting on a seat that faced into the bus. A man across the aisle kept giving me the finger. I was about to flip him off back, when I realised he was doing it to his friend who was jogging alongside the bus, giving bus guy the finger. That’s true friendship.

At the museum, a group of schoolboys observed a mannequin representing a forefather of Christchurch with a hearty beard. “There’s George Bush,” one of them remarked.

I had a really good latte at C1 Espresso. It tasted like honey – not sweet but mellifluous.

The central Christchurch bus exchange is right fancy. It’s like a domestic airport terminal, with waiting areas, seats, screens full of departure times, and sliding doors that open when a bus is ready to be boarded.

I went to the local Regent cinema and was greeted with, “Hi! Are you here for the Taste of Italy evening?!” No. “Oh. That’s all right.” The cinema I ended up in had its main entrance below the screen. Whoever designed it like that obviously hates movies.

Q. What would you do if you suddenly found $20,000 in your bank account?
A. Big OE! You can get to Sydney for, like, $100 and I’d go there and stay with my sister and have girls over all the time and heaps of parties and stuff.

“He owes me. He owes me $25.”

A half-arsed idea about the cone being a recurring shape in Canterbury – the Chalice sculpture, the airport control tower, souvlaki. And what is a cone but a rollled up plain?

Discussed with Pauline the concept of a “bad coffee town”.

I thought I saw a light on in an upstairs window at the old Post Office, but it turns out to be a window boarded up with plywood.

The old Post Office looks like it would have been the envy of New Zealand back in the day. At the annual Postmaster’s conference, did the Dunedin Postmaster General say, “Gosh, it’s so hard getting the windows cleaned all the way up on the sixth floor of the GPO.” And the Tauranga Postmaster would be like “Yeah, woteva.”

A lot of women in Southland have the same haircut. It’s short and very functional. Possibly a bit spiky on top, with some lady-burns down by the ears. Maybe gelled out the back like a gunshot exit wound. And usually with some sort of concession to femininity, like stripy ’90s-style DIY highlights.

The Otago Settlers Museum has a video reenacting what seasickness would have been like for the first European migrants. This was a popular viewing choice among the museum visitors. Yarrr! Oi be sick!

Three pears were arranged on a windowsill at the Dunedin Airport. Oh, sorry – the still-life fruit models convention was last week, etc.

Part 10: The case of the exploding bear

Robyn — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 07:20:18 +0000

There comes a time in the life of any New Zealander from the generation known as “X”, when one must look back and wonder what happened to the Play School toys.

Big Ted, Manu and Humpty now live at Te Papa, the sign at the Otago Settlers Museum says. The bear, the wahine and the curious round gent are most likely enjoying life in the lush, climate-controlled national museum. “Aw yee-yah,” Big Ted no doubt exclaims to Buzzy Bee. “We had a TV show. We were all famous ‘n’ shit. It was platinum, baby. VIP.”

Jemima, the sign also notes, is awol. Is it true that she went to Sydney in the late-80s in order to further her career in television, only to find life in a new country harder than she expected? And is it true there’s crazy old junkie lady staggering around Kings Cross, with dyed ginger hair, muttering to herself about something called “the round window”?

Little Ted, however, can be found at the Otago Settlers Museum. But paying a visit to him will not result in a warm fuzzy wash of Generation X nostalgia, suitable for turning into a Mr Vintage T-shirt design.

This is because Little Ted ain’t got no head. He was ritually decapitated on the last day of filming in Dunedin. “Nya ha ha!” the production crew no doubt evilly cackled as the explosives were detonated, resulting in a cascade of yellow fur and kapok. “Who’s the pretty boy TV star now, eh?”

While the headless corpse of Little Ted is on display at the Otago Settlers Museum, it’s certainly not in a prominent spot. Ted lurks down a dark alcove, well away from the more glamorous parts of the museum. If you want to visit him, you have to seek him out, past the exhibited bucket of KFC, through the eerie hall of portraits of Dunedin’s settlers, and down a narrow corridor that was possibly a route to a fire exit in a former life. Or perhaps you’ll just stumble across him and find yourself a little shocked to see his remains.

Little Ted is a reminder of what can happen to those who are drawn into the appealing world of showbiz. One day you can be starring in a daily television programme; the next you’ve had your head blown up (for a laugh!) by your (former) colleagues.

It’s a cruel world.

Part 9: Pleasantly weary

Robyn — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 08:16:42 +0000

I didn’t meant to go to the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame. It was an accident, I swear.

See, I’d been basing my travels on my 1969 edition of the Shell Guide to New Zealand (edited by Maurice Shadbolt, cover by Colin McCahon), so anything opened in the last 40 years was off my radar.

But the Dunedin Railway Station came highly recommended. “Its opulence recalls great days of rail travel,” extolled Mau-Mau. I explored the magnificence of the Flemmish Renaissance style station buildings and the lonely platform.

Continuing my appreciation, I wandered upstairs, and there I found the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame. I didn’t even know it existed, and yet there it was. Lured in by sheet of A4 paper promising “163 athletes” and “35 sports”, I paid my $5 admission and entered, not really sure what to expect other than something involving sports, fame and… a hall.

Straight away I was in the rugby section. A small box tempted me: “Press the white button for a whiff of the odour of New Zealand rugby.” Feeling like Alice in Rugbyland, I pressed the button and the faint whirr of an electric motor started. What olfactory awfulness was this strange box unleashing? Soon an odor reached my nostrils. Deep Heat.

The box kept whirring and the Deep Heat odour kept spreading. I was trying to appreciate the impact that Wilson Whineray had on the game of rugby union, but the Deep Heat kept getting all up in my nose. I had to get out of the rugby area.

Most of the people or teams being honoured by the Hall of Fame had a glass case dedicated to them. Cases would usually include such items as trophies, certificates, books, uniforms, photos and yellowing newspaper clippings. Lots of yellowing newspaper clippings.

Strangest of all was a 1983 Auckland Star front page celebrating the New Zealand rowing team’s gold medal victory at the World Champs in Duisberg. But just under the glorious headline is the latest story on the disapperance of schoolgirl Kirsa Jensen: “Police believe girl kidnapped or killed”.

The most interesting item the Hall had to offer was Richard Hadlee’s list of “motivation” taped inside his case. It had short phrases such as “Visualise – dream and know you can do it”, “Robot – record and replay the good times”, “Enjoyment” and “Never get tired – just pleasantly weary”.

And that says more about the greatest New Zealand cricketers ever than an old cricket bat or photo ever could.

I realised there was something missing from the New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame – video footage of sports. Glass boxes full of memorabilia don’t quite capture the appeal of sport. A signed photo of a yacht is not the same as commentator Peter Montgomery annoyingly shrieking “The America’s Cup is now New Zealand’s cup!”

Television has brought sporting events to so many people, and yet there was no ability to view these monumental sporting moments that athletes were being honoured for. The only video footage I can remember seeing was what appeared to be a real-time film of a man swimming the Cook Strait.

The Hall of Fame should have a think about selling some of the crappier items of memorabilia on Trade Me (Chris Lewis’ biography will get you $10 on Buy Now), and work with NZ On Screen to get a really good website with more information on the inductees than just a brief bio. Get some video clips of significant sporting events, some interviews and make it more interesting than a box of yellowing newspaper clippings.

Although, you can’t quite convey the odour of New Zealand rugby on the web.

…

On my way out, two British tourists were dithering as to whether they should go in. “It’ll mostly be rugby, cricket and athletics,” one said.

But wait, chaps, there’s also Ned Shewry, the 1912 wood chopping champion.

Part 8: Everyone’s talking about it

Robyn — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 08:08:08 +0000

The road to Bluff is desolate and beautiful. But it’s also so isolated. It seems like the sort of place where people would only willingly live if they had a really good reason, like running away from extreme levels of parking fines.

The sky was grey, but the landscape had a strange brightness to it. It was like someone who was trying to be a goth, but had a naturally cheery disposition.

So what do you do when you’re in Bluff? You drive down to the end of Marine Parade and you pretend you’re at the actual bottom of New Zealand take a photo of the signs. New York 15008km! London 18958km! Dog Island 6km! It’s a helpful sign. I mean, once you get to Bluff, the only thing you can really do is leave.

A tourist family took turns at glumly having their photo taken by a sign for a B&B called Lands End, as if they needed some sort of written proof that they were at the end of the land in New Zealand. Scenic Foveau Strait was not enough.

Also along Marine Parade is the former paua house. After Fred and Myrtle were mortally disestablished, the house was sold to private owners who appear to be in the process of painting the previously aqua green house a sedate grey-blue. It was a eerie seeing the exterior of the lounge that I had previously visited in its Canterbury replica form.

But maybe that’s for the best. When we’re in Bluff, we can pretend the paua house never existed. We can pretend there’s always been an ordinary bungalow at that address.

And when we’re not in Bluff, we can pretend it’s 1995 and the paua house is open for visitors, and you can come in and have a cup of tea with Myrtle and admire Fred’s shell collection. And we can smile and be glad that New Zealand still has such wonderful people.

…

Heading back through Invercargill, I found my escape route was blocked. State Highway 1 had been cordoned off for some sort of celebration. Strangely, there didn’t seem to be a detour route marked out. Well, why would you want to leave Invercargill? What, do you not like it or something?

I decided to investigate on foot, and discovered there was going to be a parade in honour of the Southland Stags rugby team having won the Ranfurly Shield. The last time Southland had won the hallowed Log o’ Wood was 1959, so this was a pretty big deal for the area.

Soon the parade started, including the Stags and some special VIP guests: Mayor Tim, local MP Bill and the head of the Invercargill Licensing Trust. The crowd was ecstatic.

The Southland R was all around me, but sadly no one thought of emphasising this in the name of southern pride and yelling “The Stags reveRsed the cuRse!”

Mayor Tim gave a speech. “Isn’t it a great day to be a Southlander?” The crowd roared in agreement. Yes, it was a great day. Now, today, Southland was the absolute centre of the universe.

Mayor Tim said the whole country was talking about Southland. They were even talking about Southland in Mongolia, such was the awesome achievement of the Stags. The reaction from the crowd suggested that everyone believed this.

One of the Stags got the crowd to do the Southland rugby chant. It goes like this: “South-land. South-land.” It’s shouted in a slow monotone, like you were searching the park for your lost dog and had got a bit tired of calling his name.

I began to wonder what would have happened if someone had engaged me in conversation and made a comment to me about the Wellington Lions. Would I say, “Oh, well, you’d just better watch out because the next time you play the Lions, they will smash you!!!!!”? Or would my response be more like, “Uh, yes, good old rugby football game. With the ball on the field and through the hoop, I mean, over the net? Wait, what?”

Of course, by the time there’s a fired-up crowd lining the streets, it’s not really about rugby. It’s about a fruity little town at the bottom of the country enjoying a bit of fun and attention, and feeling like they still do properly matter.

Part 7: Provincially expensive

Robyn — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 08:23:43 +0000

I had another day with a rental car. My mission this time was to explore historic Southland. The goal was to go as far south as Bluff, just so I could stand at most southern part of New Zealand (even though technically it’s not) just so I could say I’d done it.

My first stop was Balclutha, which I wanted to visit for one specific reason. I was in search of weird coffee.

In the book “True Colours” – writer Dave Armstrong’s account of the 1996 general election campaign – he and his wife visit a coffee bar in Balclutha, and, he writes, “My wife orders an espresso coffee which looks like a tepid banana smoothie and has a marshmallow floating in it. Weird.”

And the week before Dan had tweeted from the road, with a tale of ordering a trim latte in Cromwell and receiving something with chocolate sauce decoratively drizzled on top of it.

I was envious of such caffeinated abominations and was hoping that Balclutha would deliver.

Well, it didn’t. I went to a cafe on the main street and ordered a latte and received a pretty good latte.

Feeling like a caffenated Schrödinger’s cat entangled in states of contentment and disappointment, I stopped by the South Otago Museum soon after it had opened for the day. It’s one of those museums that has a collection of items of bona fide significance to the region but also lots of old stuff that people donated in the days before Trade Me.

Like, what do you do with all those old baking powder tins that get donated? You build a faux grocer and stock the shelves with the tins and fading Weet-Bix packets. And then you construct a grocer out of a 1950s era shop dummy, but he has one arm missing, so you make him an amputee. Yeah, he probably lost it in WWII. That would explain the look of eternal sadness deep within his plastic eyes.

The museum also had a fearsome bottle collection, whose genesis can be traced to a yellowing flyer asking for old bottles, complete with a three-digit phone number to call to arrange collection.

So there it was – a room full of lots of bottles. Clear ones, green ones, brown ones. And also soda syphons, clay jars and a special 1970 collector’s edition bottle of Steinlager. You could probably sell that all as a box lot on Trade Me and buy the poor grocer a prosthetic arm.

My next destination was Gore. Motto: “Brown trout and/or country music capital of New Zealand”

It was lunchtime by the time I arrived, so I stopped by a pleasant looking cafe and ordered something called “Nachos – chilli beans + mince w sour cream & cheese” and another hopeful coffee. What they forgot to add to the description of the nachos was “+ carrots”. This attempt at nachos was the sort of thing you’d find in a children’s cooking book with a name like “The Kool Kiwi Kidz Kookbook!” It was bland and delicate. And nachos shouldn’t be delicate.

But it was provincially expensive so I just shut up and ate it.

I was hoping the coffee might cheer me up, but it was neither good nor weird. It tasted like a damp kitchen sponge. I couldn’t even enjoy it on bad terms and abandoned it only halfway through.

But happiness could be found in the Eastern Southland Gallery. As well as the collection of Dr John Money (almost too appropriate for the art collection of a sexologist) and of Ralph Hotere’s work, the gallery was also finishing up an exhibition of surrealist Edward Bullmore. He was a painter who suffered the curse of being really good but largely unknown in New Zealand, when when he died in his mid 40s, he was largely forgotten. But slowly people are remembering him. And if they can remember him in Gore, then all is not lost.

But my visit to Gore would have to be brief. The road beckoned. I had more of Southland to see.