While I don't doubt Shadbolt's expertise re. NZ history, I'm perfectly capable of recognising overwrought and portentous for its own sake. It was everywhere when I was growing up, and much of it was Shadbolt's 'official' wordsmithery. Good on him, it was the state-sanctioned style of the day, there wasn't a lot of such work about, and he had to turn a buck.
That's why Trotter's such a goddam dinosaur, still puffing on in the overpadded manner that was all the go four decades ago.
Maurice Shadbolt, The Shell Guide to New Zealand, 1968.
If I'd been asked to take a blind guess who wrote that I'd have gone for Chris Trotter.
My Mother always told me to never put all my eggs in one basket. Sound advice without a financial advisor in sight.
Shares in a wickerwork enterprise then? If extra baskets are to be a growth industry...
...I wonder if Dave Henderson met the deadline to buy back some of his now Chch City owned properties this week?
Grab your sacks and head back up to the top of the ride... Helter Skelter!
As a former roadie for the Basket Cases you probably know a thing or two about the economic variety.
My Mother always told me to never put all my eggs in one basket.
"It's the eggs -- they're releasing chemicals to tranquillize you. It's a mechanism used by parasitic insects."
Let me assure you I really do love the middle class. Of all the classes, it's one of my very favourites.
Are they the ones with the tattoos, or do only the ruling classes tend to not have those these days?
in Canterbury before deforestation
and dairying took over
it used to be I lamb...
...therefore I am
Perhaps the view from Timaru is of Hubbard as a maligned saviour, carting our sins away in the unassuming managerial VW Beetle while delivering us from the cursed blood of the lamb with the gift of intensive dairying:
What's the greatest enemy of Christianity to-day? Frozen meat. In the past only members of the upper classes were thoroughly sceptical, despairing, negative. Why? Among other reasons, because they were the only people who could afford to eat too much meat. Now there's cheap Canterbury lamb and Argentine chilled beef. Even the poor can afford to poison themselves into complete scepticism and despair.
Aldous Huxley, Eyeless in Gaza, 1936.
Until the last line, Ian, I didn't get it. I read it as Oh-farter.
Last time I passed through Te Puke I felt my gorge rise. Funny how I'd never noticed before.
. . . the flint hard and honed politicians and union leaders of Australia.
Heh! Whatever rocks your boat, but waxing homoerotic over the likes of Richo is rather pushing the envelope on kinkiness.
. . . I had wander off and check my bookcase for a similar short story. Ah, there it is, Mimic by Donald A. Wollheim (not David).
Not to mention the kind of inspiration that drives Claude Veillot's magnificently horrible The First Days of May (insect world domination, human body as egg host), with a touch of Roald Dahl's creepy Royal Jelly, plus something of the loopy believability of John Wyndham's Consider Her Ways. More laughs than any of the aforementioned, but.
It's the Universal Mind, maaaaan. Would that more of us could tap into it with such entertaining results.
On occasion I've been somewhere in the bush where there is a political conversion going on and I've casually mentioned that I am a member of the Green Party in NZ and all conversation stops. After an embarassing silence something else like footy gets to be the topic of conversation.
Are you sure it's an anti-Green thing? Maybe they're just shocked that you'd show an interest in something as trivial as the environment, when there are such pressing matters to be resolved as those bloody refs not enforcing the line-out rule properly.