Club Politique by Che Tibby

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.

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.

It seems that in my absence nothing has changed, and Howard continues to advocate 'reform' in relation to the woeful state of Aboriginal lives. And once again I see that what really marks Howard's coalition and its approach to difference is a complete unwillingness to adhere to abstract diversity. Oh, and a willingness to do complete backflips on election promises, time and time again. Why in the hell people vote for this bloke is beyond me.

The latest target for change is the issue of Aboriginal land rights and the current drive to find ways to for Aboriginal people out in the Styx to lease individual plots of land, and thereby participate in good old fashioned consumer society. At present, large parts of those lands returned to Aboriginal people since 1971 are managed by various Aboriginal land councils, which are characteristically conservative and traditional bodies. From my reading of the situation, Howard et al are planning to make legislative changes that will allow individuals to somehow override the Councils and acquire leases for residence and commerce. A laudable intention no doubt, but one that is all too obviously loaded towards mainstream norms and methods.

I'm sure you've heard me bleating about this one before, but I see this type of approach as extremely problematic. Strictly speaking, having indigenes conform to majority methods is good, because it's inherently inclusive, a big difference to the situation pre-1971 (when the very first instance of land being returned occurred, in Victoria). But, it's bad because it's a wholly white solution.

Since the 70s there's been two approaches to handling the Aboriginal issue. The first is pretty universal, you work to have Aboriginal people turn into 'black-skinned Aussies', racially distinct, but Ockers all the same. 'Australian' in this case is defined more by a procedural, citizenship-based model, and things like culture and ethnicity are pushed into the background or into private lives.

The second approach, advocated by doyens such as the late great Nugget Coombs, or in its latest avatar by Noel Pearson, says that the way to get socio-economic traction for Aboriginal people is to bring Aboriginal culture into focus in Canberra, thereby making government work for the minority, but with simultaneous participation by Aboriginal people in the majority. You might recognise this approach as New Zealand biculturalism.

While I'm suspicious that the reforms are really just the thin end of a wedge that will result in alienation of Aboriginal land, and therefore more easily obtainable mining licences, the Australian wealth really being the result minerals exports, let's give the incumbent government the benefit of the doubt, as has the venerable Michelle Grattan.

The problem is, once again, that remote and regional Aboriginal communities are in an entrenched crisis. All the statistics used to measure normality in the white community are off the Richter in for Aboriginal people, and seem to be firmly resistant to improvement. Now, you can't blame all these problems on entrenched racism and historical 'baggage'. But you also can't assume that home ownership and a healthy mortgage will fix them. For example, owning a white picket fence is all good and well, but does it make any difference to the guy at the corner dairy thinking you're a 'coon'? But then on the other hand, who cares what he thinks if you have the readies to buy his life's work and burn it to the ground to spite him?

My real gripe is that the Coalition has never actually attempted to bring mainstream Australia closer to Aboriginal people and bridge this type of divide, only vice versa, i.e. assimilate them. And my opinion is that this particular race is being run on rocking horses: lots of movement on squeaky hinges, not a lot of distance.

This view is aggravated by Howard having a history of trying to minimise or remove Native Title (the title Aboriginal land is communally held under), especially during the Wik crisis of 1996-99, when he promised 'buckets' of title extinguishment. The main image broadcast during that time was of Howard presenting a little map of Australia with a huge portion of it coloured in, the coloured bits being 'potentially' the subject of a native title claim. That most of this land would never actually be subject to a claim, and that the remainder was largely arid, was withheld from the public.

The aim to have 'every Australian' in their own home is largely a furphy designed to give the appearance of action towards remote communities. This article contains yet more statistics about ongoing under-funding of Aboriginal communities in health and education, the main markers used to indicate potential socio-economic success. Meanwhile, Howard recommends that Aboriginal people mire themselves in debt, and seemingly advocates the demise of the Land Councils, the last vestiges of traditional Aboriginal authority and the ones usually opposed to extensive mining.

As Grattan says in another article:

The Government is also frustrated at the clout of Aboriginal bodies, especially the land councils, which negotiate with mining companies.

Where possible, it wants to push more power down to communities or families. (In contrast, the NSW Government is considering recentralising decision-making because of corruption at the local level.)

Separate changes to the Land Rights Act will allow communities, where they are competent to do so, to negotiate directly on mining exploration and development. There will also be amendments to speed these negotiations, because exploration has been hampered by frustrating delays.

Like I say, it’s all about the needs of the mainstream.

So I just finished watching TV3 talk about TradeMe and thought it was the perfect opportunity to relate a wee story to you all about the hazards of trading online.

A while back a friend in Melbourne was thinking of trying to sell some stuff, old CDs from when he was a DJ on community radio, at least some of his too many books, etc. You know the junk, the type that seems to build up in the back of wardrobes, in the corner of garages, or hidden under beds to stop the legs giving way.

As I had recently had some great experiences selling some collectable items on Ebay, the now-famous American website (Aussies love using American things, no matter how much they deny it), I recommended he check it out. Soon the CDs and assorted junk was flying out the door like a dodgy first date.

In no time this little sales virus had spread to other friends, who also had the inevitable quota of crap blocking hallways and shed doorways, and the Ebay revolution was becoming something of a harmless addiction for all concerned.

And that's where it started to get weird.

The initial friends wife used to have a habit of buying all kinds of clothes from recycled clothing stores, you know, the Sallies, St. Vincent de Paul and the like, and she had also caught the bug. They used to joke that a Post Office should set up next store to save them the walk down to the corner.

Noting how the clothing was going, the initial friend decided to also get in on this action, and auctioned a part of his wardrobe. Excited by the success, he branched out into more and more items, until he was dedicating a significant part of his non-part-time-jobbing life to the interweb.

But, when you're making money, tax and GST free, who's complaining, right?

Some of initial friends' successes were noteworthy, an old volume of a very important book I can't remember the title of for $200+, collectable CDs and old vinyl routinely walking out the door for $40+, and the list goes on, with all the while that clothing range ticking over in the background.

I should note of course that Ebay has a uniquely Australian arm, before I left Aussie I sold an old Ikea shelf I nicked off an ex-housemate for $60, and the ugliest-damn-salmon-coloured-fake-walnut-veneer-chest-of-drawers-you've-ever-seen for $10. As I paid $50 for the walnut veneer, it was a win-win situation. Online auctions, saints be praised.

Of course, since Paul canonised almost every dead Catholic since Jesus' brother Doubting Thomas, that's a lot of saints.

Back to initial friend though. Initial friends' most memorable sale has to be a particularly sharp pair of trousers he bought who-knows-where and whacked up online for a quick sale. I believe they were grey, tight in the ass, plastic, and big in the ankles. Put them under a big moustache and a not quite cut stomach and you've got the picture.

The sale started slowly, but soon two guys were bidding for those elusive pants they'd always wanted. Apparently. Or it could just be they were two addicts up late and on too much red bull, but hey, any sales' a sale yeah?

Eventually, the pants, which had started at a dollar, closed at $40!! Initial friend couldn't believe his luck, his words were quote, what a couple of nuffins, unquote. But he dutifully prepared the package for the old Aussie post.

And then the special request from buyer came in.

Can you 'sweat' in them for awhile first?

Well, I've been here for about five minutes and I've already been sworn to secrecy on at least two separate occasions. And you people know who you are.

For instance, I had to bail out of a party last Friday night because the only copy of my thesis (with supervisory editing) was sitting on the front seat of a car in Mt. Cook, and the nerves were a little dulled by the beers, but not entirely.

It seems that no one else shared such anxiety though. So we all must do that again some time.

Anyhow, the trip to Wellington went off without a hitch, having inherited a car and saying a few quick hello/goodbyes to the rellies, the North Island fair whizzed by, and before I knew it I was watching people getting themselves hammered at the Beehive and around town. Ah yes, the sacred political art of sinking piss.

At least there weren't any stupid blurts happening.

Apart from being outed by a mate, who asked the drinking buddies if they read this page. I was then both embarrassed and surprised, especially when a few seemed shocked that I wasn't a short, bald, tubby man. Well, maybe gone a little tubby around the spare tyre region. It seems that my Australian anonymity is well and truly gone.

For those anxious about being written about in lurid detail, this week will instead be made up of rollicking discussions and attempts to corner people into explaining various enzed political occurrences, such as that fascinating case of the guy who's not allowed to be Maori, or what to rename possums to make them palatable, or why in the hell IHUG stops working the second the clock ticks over 9am, in Wellington Central.

And to jump yet another bandwagon I think the only comment I could possibly make about the Tamihere 'incident' is to point out that Frank Haden is officially the most out-of-touch columnist I've read in a long time. I'm no doubt preaching to the converted, but his pontificating about our John being the 'first Maori prime minister' was in all likelihood written before the weekends' revelations, but ascribing the leadership of a party to a man who had very recently entirely isolated himself, even if not by his own choice, is more than a little tenuous.

Even more, I reckon that the very phrase 'first Maori PM' is perhaps the ultimate jinx, the mega-jinx if you will, that is guaranteed to scuttle any Maori MP. It damn near sunk Winston after all, and I have a vague (and very sketchy) memory of it sinking Tau Henare.

Actually, speaking of Winston. I have a plan. A cunning plan. I have yet to run this one past MS Reality Checker, but there may be a great way to dislodge him from Tauranga once and for all. Heh heh heh. Or maybe "Mu-ah, ha, ha".

The go is this, Stage One I phone up a few guys I know from my old hometown, Mount Maunganui, who poise themselves until the few days before the next election.

Stage Two. These guys get a bunch of other people to come with them, and they try to completely block off the main beach at the Mount. Big banners, lots of yelling and the waving of the arms, great photo ops of surfers being sent packing etc.

Stage Three. They then make a claytons demand for ownership of the beach, under the contents of the new Foreshore legislation.

Stage Four. We tell the blue-rinse set in Tauranga that the only reason they're able to do this is that "WINSTON MADE IT POSSIBLE WITH THAT DODGY LEGISLATION!"

Stage Five. We all produce evil laughs when he is deposed for what will in all likelihood be an ACT MP. But, the lesser of two evils. Mu-a, ha, ha.

I think there's probably holes in that plan you could drive an articulated through, but hey. Up here's for thinking people, up here's for thinking.

And speaking of thinking, suggestions about what to do with Club Politique that will stop it from being taken off screen due to conflicts of interests (work) will be warmly appreciated. I'm thinking a run-down of happenings here in the Windy City, but input from expats who are still attached to the place will be given due consideration.