Public Address - Club Politique (Home)

CRAAAAAPPP | Apr 25, 2005 07:34

Overslept

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Grumpy Old Men | Apr 22, 2005 16:29

Back in Auckland I used to diligently attend the dawn service at the War Museum, even though I had little trouble hauling my sorry backside out of the sack to do so. Just like thousands of other young people I'd find a park a km away and trudge through the all-too-often crappy weather and wait for the ceremony to start.

I remember one year a letter from a war bride was read, one of those letters that never made it to the bloke because he'd had a unfortunate run in with that inevitable side effect of war, people shooting various sized chunks of metal at you. Cheek aside, the letter was touching, I could see the tears welling up in the eyes of people around me, and it made it even more important when the old geezers shuffled past towards the beer that was waiting for them. Important because you knew they could have been the guys who almost never made it home, or were mates with the ones who were left behind.

Feeling the need to pay due respect to other veterans, in 2000 I repeated this same process in Melbourne at the Shrine of Remembrance. I shouldn't have bothered. For some reason the service just didn't carry the same kind of emotive content as my New Zealand experience. Now, once again I'm opening myself up to cross-Tasman slanging, but when you attend one of these things and they decide to make announcement like, "and now, the haunting and poignant tones of the Last Post", you decide it may not be worth the effort.

Christ Almighty... Thanks for telling me that. As it was I thought the Last Post was the playlunch siren.

Essentially, the whole ceremony had that same contrived feel about it, like we were there to glorify the acts of these guys, instead of being there to remember that they had to go to a kind of place my generation has never had to experience.

And that's always been the key thing to me. Say whatever you want about the Cold War, there was oppression and anti-Commie hysteria, the USA still tried to kick a few arses with folly like the Vietnam War, they spent trillions of dollars on crap designed to kill us all in fiery inferno, blah blah blah.

But I never had to hide behind a rock because some fucker was firing a gun at me, and anyone else dressed like me.

One of the things ANZAC Day is not about is glorifying death, nor is it about affirming what these guys had to do. Just in case you're wondering, or just in case you choose to overlook it, these guys went somewhere and butchered people. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, glorious about war. Men kill one another in the most disgusting, bloody ways, be it with the bayonet or the bullet.

But what makes things different today is that we were never asked to stand up and commit sanctioned murder. Because these old blokes went somewhere and suffered untold and unspoken horrors, you and I didn't have to. And that's why I go to the Dawn Ceremony.

And that's why I can't stand the Victorian Returned Services League (RSL). That place was populated by old bastards like Bruce Ruxton, the guy who vilified Cathy Freeman when she ran with the Aboriginal Flag, and the Australian Flag, after her win at the Commonwealth Games. To his credit, I did see an interview where he was ranting about how we should only get 'good British immigrants', and not these wog-types. I say to his credit because when the interviewer pointed out that the poms just come to Aussie and go on the dole, Bruce laughed. So at least he has a sense of humour.

You can understand my dismay then at reading today the the current state Secretary of the Victorian RSL is opposing Turks and Italians marching in the ANZAC parades in Melbourne. The phrase that springs to mind is 'close-minded git'. Again, the parade is not about the glorification of the ANZACs, it is about solidarity with what they experienced, and making an affirmation of their loss.

Loss of things like youth.

One of my complaints about Australia is that they seem to have a jingoistic streak that sees Howard trotting out every five minutes to see the troops go off. Maybe it's the uniforms that do it for him. Anyhow, what mystifies me is that should anyone die, there's this national out-pouring of grief.

I find this bizarre in the extreme. People, being in the military is about pointing guns and having guns pointed at you. Why is everyone shocked when someone actually dies?

But, thankfully I'm back in Aotearoa, where our warriors are remembered, and trumpeted by people who know what it means to see loss in the lines of an old mans face, and not tied to a inglorious future repeated by fools who forget the past.

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Army of Helengrad | Apr 20, 2005 16:43

Little to report this week, mostly just a series of events culminating in me getting on the rock and roll, but of course just to hold me over till real work comes around. Consequently I am now a registered member of Helen's Army. I tell you what though, it ain't easy. At one point I almost seriously considered laying a wee complaint against the perfectly nice bloke who took us for the bludgers orientation seminar last week.

Thing is, much like Australia, New Zealand social services have these little courses that remind you that getting free money imposes a social obligation on you. Not only do you have to get your act together to file all kinds of bits of paper every five minutes, but you also have to actually look for work. Well bugger me! Things have changed since the last time the middle class put food on my table.

And frankly, I'm not happy about it. What ever happened to the day when a bloke could get out of bed at noon, pull cones all day, listen to slightly angsty but definitely blokey music, get to bed again after midnight and sleep the sleep of the truly wasted? Hmmm?

I'll tell you where, it's parked out back with under the 'obsolete' pile, with New Zealand's most common job being wife-beaters who do nothing but grow sheep for a living, the rich people who (un)happily give up about three quarters of their readies to the state, and the women who think men are walking ATMs/sperm banks.

What happened to New Zealand while was away, ay?

But, it's good to see you can still lodge a get away with slightly risky behaviour when you need to. For instance, the aforementioned seminar involved a suggestion about how hard we have to look for work. In brief, I considered lodging a complaint but was discouraged by the thought of the reply letter, which would read:

Dear Mr. Tibby,

You are a dick. Please do not bother the Department again.

Best Regards,

Grey-Suited Person.

What was the complaint? In short, the seminar-leader-guy used a vignette about a guy who stood on the Hutt Freeway with a big sign that said "Will do anything for work" and his phone number. Apparently he was off the dole and hard at work that very day, and bloody good on him.

But.

Besides the obvious danger of being struck by a distracted motorist, where in the hell does he get off advocating rough trade? And how badly would you need the $$?

Anyhow, lame attempts to cause mayhem at the Department aside, Wellington has been just peachy. It's been suggested to me that I should maybe write a few café reviews, but my experience of Wellington cafés has so far been a little mixed. Plenty of bad coffee, but plenty of good food. Always tricky to know which to turn on. And, do I really want to be that kind of wanker?

But, lack of direction aside, I do have a little comment for anyone working in Hospitality, even though most already know this.

We went to a well-patronised Wellington breakfast place on Willis Street this past Sunday. Now, I've been in and out of kitchens, bars, restaurants and cafés since I was eleven. You read that right, eleven, my first job being washing dishes till two in the morning on Fridays and Saturdays. So, I know a little about the trade.

My gripe is this. If a customer asks you , "Um, hi, we were wondering where our food is?", the answer is not, "It always takes half hour" and look at the customer like an idiot. Thing is, the waiter knows what the hell is going on (or should), and etiquette demands that they look concerned, ask how long you've been waiting, and promise to check into it.

Now, I know that a waiter can't magically pull a breakfast out of their apron. What I'm really asking is, "it's been an awfully long time, nothing is wrong is it?" It had been three quarters of an hour after all. I could have learned the procedures in the kitchen and cooked that damn things myself in that time. At Luna we used to do 400 covers in four hours and the food was spot on and out in under twenty five minutes every, single, morning (almost, sometimes the Chef would self-destruct in a blaze of blasphemy and foul language).

So in the trade there are little games the waiter is expected to play to reassure the customer that they're being looked after, and one of those is the "I'll see what the kitchen is up to" game, or the "Let me find those coffees for you" game. And a waiter who doesn't know these can't get by on being ridiculously good looking.

Maybe I will write a review or two... I'll have to use beret with the star on as markers.

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