Southerly by David Haywood

When you're in a supermarket, and you hear an irate mother chastise her children with the words "Padmé, stop hitting Anakin!", you know that it proves something.

Maybe it proves the non-existence of God. After all, if God existed he would surely strike dead a woman who names her offspring after the main characters in three of the worst pieces of cinematic drivel ever produced. On the other hand, perhaps it proves that creationists are correct about the theory of evolution. It seems to me that -- long before she had a chance to breed -- natural selection should have eliminated anyone so stupendously cretinous.

Still, I suppose it's a consolation that there isn't a more idiotic way to spell Padmé or Anakin. Of course, there's Pahd-may and Annakkyn, but that's only equally as daft. It doesn't even begin to plumb the depths of illiteracy required to produce Krystyl, Britnee, Jeyzikuh, or Deztini.

What goes wrong with people's brains when they have a baby? I knew a perfectly normal couple who announced that they were planning to call their son Mungo. Even prison isn't sufficient punishment for people like that.

Then there's the middle-class fashion for unspellable Celtic names. The parents who discover a thimbleful of Welsh ancestry, and then promptly decide to call their son 'John'. At least, it's pronounced "John", but it's spelt Ysgrifennydd. Or the couple who find out that her grandfather was 1/2048th Manx, and so bestow upon their daughter a Manx name that's pronounced "Katherine", but is spelt Myparentswereapairofovereducatedwankers.

Some people, of course, have almost a genius for names that will get their children beaten up at school. This is best illustrated by the so-called 'double handicap', where both forename and surname manage to achieve a kind of horrific synergy. My mother worked at a high school for many years, and compiled a special catalogue of such victims of parental insanity. This is her top five list (all genuine names of real people):

• Dugmore Mango (male)
• Titty Maxi (female)
• Cary Mellow (male)
• Delbert Spangler (male)
• Bland Woofter (male)

Despite the potential for lifelong psychological damage, the really worrying thing is that coming up with a name is the easy bit of having a child. In fact, the whole issue of human babies leads to further questions about the validity of religion and/or natural science. It seems to me that a loving God, or a believable evolutionary process, would surely produce a newborn that's more appealing than your standard infant.

Take kittens and puppies. Who doesn't want a kitten? What sort of monster doesn't find puppies adorable? If human babies were as appealing as kittens or puppies then I'd want dozens. I'd even look forward to parenthood if my offspring were merely as winsome as foals or lambs. But frankly, the cutest human baby that I've ever seen is no more endearing than, say, an average-looking rat.

Don't get me wrong, I think children are great. I can talk for hours about the charms of my nieces and nephew (very clever, very handsome, and extremely well-behaved and polite). It's just the baby years that worry me. My concerns about early infanthood could perhaps be summarized as follows:

1. Frighteningly hideous (see above)
2. Makes an appalling noise
3. Boring
4. Goes wrong too easily

The thought of being responsible for one scares the bejesus out of me. Even visiting friends with babies is like going to see someone in prison: they're unable to leave; there's no privacy; and, given half a chance, the inmates attempt to suck your nipples. You come away thanking God that it's your friends instead of you.

But it's not that I don't want children -- far from it. It's just that I'd rather they didn't go through the baby stage. Or, at the very least, that they started off as something more acceptable, such as a meerkat, or perhaps an echidna. Of course, it's said that everyone finds their own babies appealing, although somehow I doubt that I would be so easily fooled. Babies have always struck me as a failed experiment.

At any rate, my fear of babies has become somewhat irrelevant. A few months back, Jennifer came home and -- as I suppose millions of women have done throughout history -- plonked herself down on the settee, and announced: "Hey, dude, guess what? I'm late."

And I, as I suppose millions of men have done before, replied: "Late for what?"

The most vivid memories of my childhood are associated with visits to my grandparents. And none more so than the blissful sojourn that resulted from the unexpected birth of my sister on my fourth birthday.

I already had a brother. He was a sturdy two-year-old with a sunny disposition, invariably described by my Scottish relatives as "unko bonny". This verdict was issued with a certain note of relief in their voices. By contrast, I had been a memorably gloomy baby, whose incipient frown lines had reduced my mother to tears of anxiety on several occasions. Everyone was glad to see her blessed with a less Leonard-Cohen-like infant.

At night, tucked away in his cot, my cheerful little brother would laugh in his sleep. Genuine toddler belly laughs: "Ho ho ho... ha ha ha... ho ho ho". He was a likeable chap. It was strange to waken alone at my grandparents' house, with only the empty ticking of the cuckoo clock to keep me company.

In contravention of every known rule of child-rearing, my Glaswegian grandfather declared a daily competition to see which of us could get up earliest in the morning. The prize was a bar of chocolate, and I would generally eat my winnings for breakfast. My grandparents would have bacon and eggs -- followed by toast and red jam. Both courses were washed down with several pints of tea.

All three of us preferred our hot beverages on the sweet side, with two lumps of sugar and two spoonfuls of condensed milk. If the tea was too hot my grandfather would pour it into a saucer and then back into my cup -- a practice severely frowned upon by my grandmother.

After breakfast, the first job for the men of the house was burning the rubbish. The concrete incinerator at the bottom of the garden had been purpose-built by my grandfather, and he was proud of the fact that it had once cremated a cat. I was appointed deputy fire-lighter. The incinerator produced a deafening roar when it got going, and a plume of embers and thick smoke would waft cinematically over the neighbours' rooftops. This always seemed to please my grandfather. "Ach, I like a good fire," he would say contentedly.

Our next activity involved traffic practice. My grandfather would chalk a network of roads on the terrace at the back of the house, and I would glide solemnly around on my Edwardian-style tricycle. It was an occupation that we both viewed seriously. My grandfather would sit on his deckchair, smoking in a contemplative manner, until such time that he felt road works had become necessary. He would then rise, and signalling gravely with a red table-tennis bat, would bring the traffic to a halt.

A duster and chalk would be employed to redesign the traffic flow. Sometimes an upturned bucket would be requisitioned to act as a roundabout. A green table-tennis bat would be raised to indicate that I could now resume pedalling.

And so the morning passed in calm and dignified activity. Lunch took place in the cool of the front room: salmon-paste sandwiches and lemon cake. Another pint or two of tea. My grandmother was a good plain cook, and her cake deserved thorough and concentrated attention. At the end of the meal we would listen to the one o'clock news bulletin on the wireless.

Afterwards I would accompany my grandfather to the grocer's to collect the messages. A tin of condensed milk, some potatoes, a loaf of bread, a packet of cigarettes (Pall Mall plain). Having reached the age of four I regarded myself as practically an adult, and would insist on carrying the shopping. The lumpy string bag knocked awkwardly against my short legs as I stumbled along the footpath beside him.

The swing-settee was a good place for singing on a sunny afternoon. My grandfather had attached a rope to a peg in the ground, so that he could pull the pendulum-chair back and forth. I can effortlessly recall the words and music of the songs we used to sing together: Horsie Keep Your Tail Up, Save your Sorrow For Tomorrow, Me and Jane in a Plane, If I could Plant a Tiny Tree of Love, Mary Ellen at the Church Turned Up.

The last was a musical piece slightly unsuitable for children, which described a bridegroom who committed suicide rather than marry his fiancée. I used to enjoy bellowing lustily along to the lines about his eventual demise:

He didn't want to wed,
And you'll find him in the river
with his toes turned up.

We had our evening meal at six o'clock sharp. Dinner could be slightly problematic for me if it involved 'greens'. Neither my grandfather nor I were enthusiastic consumers of anything healthy; but he was supremely self-sacrificing, and would scrape my vegetables onto his plate when my grandmother left the room. "You can get your vitamins from pudding," he would whisper conspiratorially.

After pudding -- two helpings for me -- it was a fair bet that the Reids would pay us a visit. Mr Reid was the only person I've ever heard use the expression 'Hoot toot' in a real sentence. As in: "Hoot toot, it's a braw het nicht!". He was apt to sing songs in Gaelic with sufficient volume, as my grandmother put it, to address the Albert Hall. I was warned not to encourage him. Memory fails when it comes to Mrs Reid; I remember only a blurred shape and a rather posh Scottish accent.

The grown-ups would sit and drink tea, and perhaps play cards. Their conversation seemed excessively dull, and I would occasionally attempt to enliven the proceedings. I recall offering to entertain everyone by demonstrating my ability to count to one thousand. Astonishingly, my offer was declined. You can't help some people.

The promise of a story from my grandfather was practically the only thing that would get me to bed. My preference was true-life tales of the bombing of Glasgow during World War II. I particularly enjoyed accounts of my grandfather's former workmates who had been "burnt alive by incendiaries" or "blown to smithereens" by the Luftwaffe. Air-raid sirens and mass-murder made bed seem more appealing.

Later, made drowsy by Hitler's attempts to annihilate Glasgow's industry (a task shortly to be completed by Mrs Thatcher), I would listen to my grandparents in the next room. The rustle of my grandfather's newspaper; the low murmur of the radiogram; the faint sound of my grandmother's knitting-needles, as she fashioned an outfit for her new grandchild. And the slow measured rhythm of the cuckoo clock.

A few years ago I worked with a woman called Stacey, who possessed the biggest wart that I've ever laid eyes on. It was so spectacularly large that it almost entirely covered the back of her hand.

One memorable afternoon, Stacey sidled up to my desk (her customary mode of approach), and with the air of someone announcing a special treat, whispered the following words into my ear: "Hey David, you know that wart on my hand? Well, it burst while I was having lunch. And inside there are millions and millions of little baby warts. Would you like to have a look?"

I wish I could report that I declined Stacey's repulsive and unnatural offer of entertainment. And, furthermore, that I told Stacey to go away and show her millions of baby warts to someone else.

But, alas, I can report no such thing. What I actually said was: "Okay, Stacey, giz a look."

Such is the dark and shameful side of human nature; the despicable beast that lurks within us all. The desire to see the worst of nature's horrors: no matter how vile, abhorrent, or deviant. To wallow in dreadfulness, and satiate every facet of our morbid curiosity.

Which is why I found myself watching the opening episode of Dancing with the Stars (Tuesday, 8.30 pm, TV ONE).

Not since Christians were turned into cat-food by the Roman Empire has there been a form of entertainment quite this brutal. Local celebrities are dressed up as either clowns or prostitutes, made to dance around a stage like performing monkeys, and then excoriated by a group of sadistic psychopaths. Public humiliation doesn't get any more public or humiliating than on Dancing with the Stars.

It's brilliant television. This year's line-up included three celebrities that I particularly wanted to watch getting 'done over': Suzanne Paul, Michael Laws, and the detestable Paul Holmes. I could hardly wait for the blood-letting to begin.

Suzanne Paul -- the termagant who first introduced infomercials to New Zealand -- was first in the firing line. In her pre-dance interview, Suzanne tearfully revealed that the past few years had been utterly miserable for her. "That's why I'm so happy to be on this programme," she explained.

"Ho, ho," I thought. "Something tells me that Dancing with the Stars won't help your emotional fragility." You could have knocked me down with a feather when Suzanne's cha-cha charmed the taffeta off the judges.

"Fantastic first effort!" cried Brendan. "You shouldn't be this good yet!" declared Carol-Ann. "Feisty and fearless!" gushed Craig Revel-Horwood, a dance expert who'd been specially imported from the UK on the basis of his Rottweiler-like savagery. It was all so disappointing.

But happily there was no such disappointment when Michael Laws took the stage. The mayor of Wanganui is a man utterly transformed from his former life as a New Zealand First political hack. Gone are the days when his inexpertly-applied eyeliner and moulting ginger moustache made him resemble a cross-breed between a panda and a weasel. Now Michael sports a fashionable 'bikini wax' goatee in the manner of deceased strip-club impresario Rainton Hastie. It looks like he's wearing a vagina on his face -- which, you must admit, is a major improvement.

Michael maintained a terrifying rictus for the duration of his dance routine. Only when Craig Revel-Horwood described his performance as "appalling" and awarded him "1 out of 10" did the grin begin to fade.

Laws told the Listener that he'd been pressured into appearing on Dancing with the Stars by the citizens of Wanganui, because it would "put [their city] on the map." I suppose that's a possible analysis of their motives. To me, a more likely interpretation is that the citizens of Wanganui hate their mayor's guts as much as the rest of New Zealand, and want to see him shamed and humiliated on live television.

It wasn't until the end of the night that Paul Holmes made his dancing debut. As he waddled onto the stage like an elderly dowager, something snapped within me. I've loathed Holmes since early 1989, but there is a point at which someone can be punished too excessively. I was uncomfortably reminded of George Orwell's essay Revenge is Sour where he describes witnessing a former SS general being mistreated by his jailers:

So the Nazi torturer of one's imagination, the monstrous figure against whom one had struggled for so many years, dwindled to this pitiful wretch, whose obvious need was not for punishment, but for some kind of psychological treatment.

I couldn't bear to watch any more.

Why anybody would appear on such a television programme is a mystery to me. Generally speaking, people are only motivated to perform in freak circuses because otherwise they will starve. What possible incentive can Michael Laws or Paul Holmes have to make such an exhibition of themselves?

Are they suicidal? Hypnotized? Has TV ONE taken their children as hostages?

Or is it possible that public attention -- no matter how degrading -- is better than being ignored?

Dear Mr Screwtape,

Thank you for your expression of interest in the position of Funding Co-ordinator at the Foundation for Research Science & Technology (FRST).

The primary responsibility for this role is the ongoing implementation of our strategy to minimize financial wastage on traditional 'research based' science. This will help to target our limited science funding into areas that can deliver maximum value for the New Zealand taxpayer -- for example, by supporting the production of glossy pamphlets about FRST and/or by hiring additional FRST Funding Co-ordinators.

I note the concerns that you express in terms of your unfamiliarity with science funding in New Zealand, or anywhere else in the "earthly realm". However I don't anticipate that this will be a problem. To be honest, our funding strategy changes so often that a lack of knowledge is actually an advantage. Nor do I think your professed disbelief in science would be a major hurdle to employment with us. Like you, many of my colleagues at FRST would also prefer to put their faith in the "inexorable forces of darkness".

The position would initially involve a six month contract. If this is completed in a mutually satisfactory manner then you will be offered a permanent job. We would also be happy to consider your preferred contract period for "a thousand of your human lifetimes".

I enclose a simple two-page application form, and also a helpful 140-page pamphlet entitled How To Fill In My Simple Two-Page Application Form. Our five volume instruction manual Understanding FRST Pamphlets: A Beginner's Guide will be shipped separately to your address.

Yours sincerely,
Karen Brown
Foundation for Research Science & Technology.

Dear Mr Screwtape,

Thank you for sending us your application form. I'm impressed! The skills that you have acquired as a Senior Devil in the employ of Satan may well be extremely useful to the funding team at FRST.

Unfortunately, however, I am unable to process your job application until all the questions have been answered in full. This is a departmental policy that helps to make the application process as easy as possible for you.

In particular, it is essential that you fully complete the sections on Page 1 of the application form. This requires a series of short statements explaining how you will approach the challenges of this demanding position.

Section 1.1 is a description of your vision strategy. You should give details of the strategization procedures that you intend to implement in order to achieve seamless multitasking and maximal operationalization of your role.

Section 1.2 is an explanation of your vision statement. This should not, of course, be confused with your vision plan, which outlines the philosophy behind your action strategy. This is completely different altogether. It should discuss the way in which your prioritization scheme will proactively achieve synergization. By 'it', of course, I mean the action strategy; not the vision statement or the vision plan.

Section 1.3 is your action statement (not to be confused with your action strategy). This outlines the philosophy behind your vision plan, and explains how you will implementize your vision to develop synergistic processes that will empower both strategization and proactivization.

Section 1.4 gives details of your action plan (not to be confused with your action strategy or action statement). This should focus on the strategic deliverables from your vision statement (not to be confused with your vision strategy or vision plan), and describe how you will flexibilitize, facilitize, and

synergistically proactivize your role in order to achieve complete actionalization. You should also give full details of how you intend to incentivize your stakeholders (and I mean 'stakeholders' in the sense of people who apply for funding, of course, rather than actual stakeholders) to take ownership (and I mean 'ownership' in the sense of complying with FRST action plans, of course, not actual ownership) of the results-driven priorities in terms of overall action plan actionability.

I note that you have written nothing at all on Page 2. Perhaps you did not notice that the other side of the application form also had text? The questions on this page deal mainly with ontology, and should be relatively straightforward for you to answer.

I hope to hear from you again soon.

Yours affectionately,
Karen Brown
Foundation for Research Science & Technology.

Dear Mr Screwtape,

Your accusations are ridiculous.

No, I am not trying to "deliberately confuse you" in the hope that you will give up trying to apply for the job. I can assure you that FRST Funding Co-ordinators regularly have to deal with questions about the ontic nature of Dasein. It's probably the first thing you will be asked by one of our stakeholders.

Nor am I simply adding -ization to the end of words to "sound more impressive". Really, Mr Screwtape, such suggestion are beneath you! Tsk, tsk! Are you suggesting that activities such as clerkorization, admistratorization and word-processorization don't exist? Why, I do them all the time when making important funding decisions!

Let's cut to the chase, Mr Screwtape. You are the most promising job candidate we've seen in years. We'd be completely mad to let someone of your calibre slip through our fingers. Just answer a single question on the form -- any question -- and we'll give you the job.

I strongly urge you to continue with the application process, Mr Screwtape.

Yours encouragingly,
Karen Brown
Foundation for Research Science & Technology.

Dear Mr Screwtape,

I am very sorry that you have decided not to apply for the position at FRST.

I would, however, be extremely interested in your counter-offer of coming to work for Satan.

I have always admired the efficient top-down and client-focussed management structure of Hell. The possibilities for up-leveraging the challenging functional excellence of your organization are obvious, and I feel that my talents will be an ideal strategic fit with your core tactical values.

My application is accompanied by a Gantt chart and critical path network diagram which describes (on an hour-by-hour basis) my corporate vision goals for the first five years of my contract. As you can see, I am confident that I can achieve a paradigm shift in deincentivization of your stakeholders.

I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

At your service,
Karen Brown.

On Wednesday, my neighbour Merv turned up at my front door, and invited me to attend a march against the amendments to Section 59 of the Crimes Act.

"If you're a Christian, you should be going," he informed me. "God's the only one who should be telling us how to raise children -- not childless Labour Party lesbians like Sue Bradford."

We discussed Merv's grasp on reality in terms of Sue Bradford's party affiliations, sexual preferences, marital status, and childlessness -- eventually concluding that I would not be accompanying him on the march.

But it's been interesting to read reports that many of the marchers appeared to share Merv's general viewpoint. A number of protestors carried placards which proclaimed the biblical basis for corporal punishment of children. Fifteen-year-old Carl Leenders -- who was given time off by his school to attend the march -- was quoted as saying: "If someone truly loves his children he will discipline them according to God's word, which is with the rod. If you don't, you hate them."

Craig Smith of the organization Family Integrity appears to have similar beliefs. He cites scripture such as Proverbs 22:15 ("Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction will drive it far from him") in order to prove to parents that they have a religious duty to use corporal punishment on their children.

He also cites Proverbs 22:19 ("A servant will not be corrected by mere words; for though he understands, he will not respond") as evidence that you cannot properly discipline a child simply with a good telling off.

In his pamphlet 'The Christian Foundations of the Institution of Corporal Correction', Mr Smith concisely explains why corporal punishment of children is so effective:

I freely admit that I do not understand the connection between a physical smack on the bottom and a rebellious spiritual condition of the heart, nor how the first drives out the latter. But the Scripture declares it is so, therefore I am obliged to believe and practice it.

Deep-thinking stuff, I'm sure you'll agree. But is this really the most detailed possible analysis of God's view on punishment of children?

I decided to ask Dr Michael Grimshaw, Senior Lecturer in Religious Studies at the University of Canterbury, if he could shed a little more light on the subject.

How would you describe Mr Smith's analysis of biblical doctrine with regard to punishment of children?

It's just blind faith. You often get this in closed sectarian communities who view the world through a particular lens which is intensely Biblicist.

Typically they would see themselves acting as God for their family. In essence it's a reduction down to a very patriarchal family model.

How far can Mr Smith carry his logic that: "... scripture declares it is so, therefore I am obliged to believe and practice it"? I'm thinking of other bits of parental advice in the Bible, such as Deuteronomy 21:18-21 which states that parents should put persistently disobedient sons to death; or Deuteronomy 13:6-9 which says that you must kill your children if they try to convert you to another religion. Wouldn't Mr Smith be obliged to believe and practice this scripture as well?

Yes -- in a strictly logical sense. But there is a distinctly irrational rationality that occurs with this particular viewpoint of the Bible. A selective literalism. So there will be some verses that they take literally, and then other verses that they say: "This doesn't quite stand up".

When scripture fits with what they feel is the correct response, then they say: "Scripture declares it so". When the demand of scripture stands against what they perceive to be the right action, then they say: "Well, that's analogy or metaphor; or that's something that only pertains to that particular time and place; or that's something which has been corrected by the New Testament."

Leviticus is a great example. Conservative Christians are always very keen on the prohibition against male-male [sexual] relationships. But it's actually a question about purity in Leviticus, so any mixing is an affront. Mixing fibres is just as bad as mixing genders.

If you're standing there ranting about corporal punishment of children in a polyester and wool suit, then -- in a strictly literal sense -- you're causing just as much affront to God as engaging in a gay relationship.

In the end you can get anything you want out of the Bible.

So Deuteronomy doesn't require parents to use corporal punishment on their children -- or kill their children in certain circumstances?

Well, as I said, you can make the Bible say whatever you want. The more interesting question -- and it's one that the news media hasn't picked up on yet -- is why conservative Christians are particularly activated by this issue.

What you're seeing here are two distinctly different groups. On the one hand you're getting the secular opposition to Bradford's amendment: the Gary McCormick side, if you like. And then you're getting the religious groups -- the Simon Barnett side -- coming together. But the groups are talking about two entirely different things.

There's a particular conservative Christian response which says that being a Christian also involves corporal punishment of children. But their real point is to have their religious views not only taken seriously, but recognized by law.

So, despite appearances, the Libertarians and fundamentalist Christians were actually on two different marches?

Very different.

Underlying all of this is a question which has bubbled up recently -- is New Zealand a Christian nation or not? And you're getting religious groups in various ways trying to make a public statement that we are a Christian nation.

We've got Destiny Church and the Exclusive Brethren involved in this now. So we've got to see it against the background of what happened in Australia, where religious conservatives formed an interfaith alliance that basically returned John Howard to power.

These groups

are very worried. They've seen the latest census figures which makes this country at least 50 per cent non-religious. And the conservative Christians traditionally expect more Christians with time -- not less.

So from their perspective the march wasn't so much about smacking, but more about whether there is going to be governmental legislative recognition of what these particular Christians believe is their religious right or duty.

Conservative Christians often emphasise the Old Testament. Is there anything in the New Testament which relates to corporal punishment of children? I think someone at the march had a sign asking: "Would Jesus smack children?"

The whole "what would Jesus do" question is deeply problematic.

It's like asking what Jesus would drive. Well, he expected the end of the world within his lifetime, he lived in a middle-eastern country with very bad roads, and he had twelve people to cart around. So he'd probably drive some dirty great four-wheel-drive like a Hummer.

As with the old Testament there's a concentration on different passages to suit different agendas at different times. Trying to answer the question "what would Jesus do" is just a reverse form of literalism.

I mean at one point Jesus says: "Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.". He also says: "Leave your family".

So you can selectively quote Jesus in a way that stands against the whole family values thing. Completely against the fundamental beliefs of the Christian conservatives.

The question of the Bible and smacking children is really a red herring. What seems like a simple question of right and wrong needs to be set against a whole host of other perspectives. Not least the motivation of Christian conservatives to have their religious

beliefs reflected in legislation.

It's a real can of worms once you get into it.