Southerly by David Haywood

My Glaswegian anarchist grandfather would have enjoyed Kiwi Foo Camp. He thought you only needed the bare minimum of rules, and then everybody would magically co-operate for the common good. For technology geeks, at any rate, it turns out that he was absolutely right.

Kiwi Foo Camp was a triumph of applied anarchism, and one of the most enjoyable gatherings that I've ever attended. All of the seminars were excellent -- but the most excellent thing was that each and every seminar demonstrated the power of the new electronic age. From the international co-operation required to build Debian Linux to websites that allow greater participation in the democratic process, the anarchism of the internet is enabling society to interact and share ideas in radically new ways.

It was, as I burbled relentlessly to Karl von Randow and a group of his new friends, comparable to the influence of the printing press on the Reformation. Only after the conference had finished did I decode their polite but mystified silence. Errr... what I actually meant, guys, was the influence of the printing press on the Enlightenment. Funny how easily you can get those two confused.

One of the seminars was so inspiring that David Slack and I formed our own political lobby group. Operating under the snappy acronym ISODWOPA (International Society of Davids Working on Public Address) the aims of the group are fairly simple:

1. To gain greater political representation for people called David who work for Public Address.
2. To get off our arses and make a submission to the select committee dealing with the new copyright legislation.

Personally I thought that the 'I' in ISODWOPA should have stood for 'Intergalactic' -- but the other David was adamant that 'International' was sufficient. So it won't be my fault if Earth is contacted by an alien civilization, and we have to spend a fortune on re-branding.

Other enjoyable seminars were given by: Russell Brown, David Slack, and the multi-talented Mark Cubey on "Stories as the New Data"; the deep-thinking Don Christie on "The Importance of Open Infrastructure to our Economy"; and the remarkable Rob McKinnon on his project TheyWorkForYou.co.nz. As a bare minimum, Rob should have a statue erected in his honour for public service to New Zealand voters, and everyone should visit his website so that they can better track the shenanigans of their MPs.

Jen Hay's seminar on New Zealand English raised an interesting question. Is it just me, or do chicks who speak five languages, have an in-depth knowledge of UNIX, and can program a computer with one hand tied behind their back... well, you know, seem kind of hot? And, if it's not an even more inappropriate question: would marriage be a possibility?

Auckland City Councillor Richard Simpson's seminar had relevance to a recent Southerly post in which I made myself unpopular by saying:

Auckland's tragedy is not so much what it is -- a dysfunctional hotchpotch of suburbs with a lousy transportation system -- but, rather, that it falls so far short of the great metropolis that it could have been. Given Auckland's natural features it should be the most beautiful city in the world, but it's only mildly pretty at best.

As the chairman of Auckland City Council's Transport and Urban Linkages Committee, Richard Simpson intends to make me eat my words. Frankly, I'd be delighted to eat both my words and my laptop if his stunning plans become a reality for Auckland.

It's no exaggeration to describe Richard as a visionary genius -- his seminar had my mouth hanging open in admiration at his ideas. He is exactly the sort of local body politician that Auckland needs to reach its potential as an international city. His innovative solution for Auckland's sports stadium problem has already received positive coverage in the Herald, as well as a promised $200 million in investment from a consortium of private companies.

<div style="text-align: center"Above: Richard Simpson's vision for a stadium at Carlaw park.
[click to see a larger image]

Richard explained that his solution involves a comparatively straightforward revamp of Carlaw park -- but the revolutionary concept is the way in which the stadium will become connected to the city. He proposes a travelator in the disused WW2 tunnel which runs under Albert park from the end of High street. The tunnel would be linked to the stadium via an "art bridge" which spans across Stanley street.

Above: Richard Simpson envisages an "art bridge" over Stanley street (perhaps similar to the Webb bridge in Melbourne).

The new stadium would also help relieve the congestion problems in Auckland city by providing 10,000 new parking spaces. Commuters would take the Stanley street motorway off-ramp to Carlaw park, and then catch the travelator directly into High street. The proposal has the added bonus of connecting the Auckland domain to the heart of the city -- meaning that lunch in the park is only a short travelator ride away.

Above: Richard Simpson envisages a travelator connecting Carlaw Stadium to High Street via the existing tunnel under Albert park.

I was amazed by some of the information that Richard presented in his seminar. Did you know that metal fatigue in the existing 'Nippon clip-on' means that the Auckland harbour bridge has only a decade or so of remaining life? Luckily for Aucklanders this is another problem to which he has found a brilliant solution.

Richard proposes a billion-dollar replacement bridge which will span the harbour from the Wynyard point 'Tank farm' to Onewa road. This frees up the land under the existing bridge on-ramps, and makes available for sale nearly one-and-a-half billion dollars worth of new real estate in St Mary's bay and Northcote point. The net result being that Auckland gets a new bridge without costing the ratepayers a cent.

Above: Richard Simpson envisages an 'iconic' Harbour bridge (perhaps similar to the El Alamillo bridge in Spain).

Richard explained the importance of developing an "iconic" bridge design, and suggested that the El Alamillo bridge in Spain might be a good starting point. He also stressed the need for the new bridge to cater for pedestrians, cyclists, and a light rail link (in addition to cars). I felt like cheering. Who would've thought a city councillor could contemplate such revolutionary thoughts?

According to Richard's plan, the majority of the new land in St Mary's bay will be zoned for high density housing -- but some will also be set aside for a waterfront park. This will provide a seamless greenway stretching from the central city through to Victoria park, the waterfront, and the Westhaven marina. Richard also proposes to develop a light rail link that runs from the Western bays to Ponsonby, and then along the waterfront to St. Heliers. Eventually he expects that the Northern Busway will be upgraded to light rail as well.

Above: Richard Simpson envisages an up-sized ferry fleet using New Zealand made vessels such as this Breeze Fatcat.

Are you stunned into silence yet? What about a rail link to the airport? Well, probably not, says Richard. He thinks a ferry link would be a better idea. In fact, he suggests up-sizing the current ferry network, and connecting it via a canal to the Manukau harbour. Sounds impossible? Well, it turns out that this type of canal has been planned since the 19th century.

Above: A 'canalized' Tamaki river links the Waitemata and Manukau harbours (M = Manukau Harbour; W = Waitemata Harbour; Tamaki river shown as dark blue; canal extension shown in red).

The proposed Waitemata-Manukau canal would make use of the Tamaki river, which only requires a couple of kilometres of new waterway to reach the Manukau. The 1966 Encyclopaedia of New Zealand describes a similar canal scheme in an article on the Manukau harbour (in which, curiously, it reports the construction proposal as a done deal).

Above: How the Waitemata-Manukau canal might look.

Richard's proposed ferry link would put the airport only twenty minutes away from the heart of the city. And, as he points out, it would also give visitors a unique "gateway experience" to Auckland. According to Richard, a canal would be no more expensive to construct and operate than a rail link. This is especially true if you consider the tidal potential between the two harbours, and the likely revenue from a tidal-to-electricity power station.

Above: Richard Simpson envisages tidal turbines on the new Waitemata-Manukau canal.

I left the seminar with my faith in the unimaginativeness of Auckland's town-planning severely shaken. In Richard's seminar it all seemed so possible, and as I drove back from Kiwi Foo Camp the landscape was overlaid with images of how fantastic Auckland might become in the future.

That night I visited my other (non-anarchist) grandfather, and told him about Richard Simpson's seminar. My grandfather listened with mounting scepticism. He then proceeded to pour cold water on my enthusiasm with a statement that began: "I went to a lot of trouble when I was in the air force to bring home a bomb..." and ended with the words "... and that's why Auckland will never have visionary town-planning or beautiful architecture. The council couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery!"

It seems to me that it's up to the council and citizens of Auckland to prove my grandfather wrong. For God's sake, Aucklanders, re-elect Richard Simpson! And what about nominating him for mayor? We could do with a Foo-camper in charge!

Acknowledgement:
I'd like to extend my thanks to Nat Torkington and Russell Brown for their kind invitation to Kiwi Foo Camp. May I say that Nat not only organizes a great conference, but that he (and his lovely wife, Jenine) are an enviably talented musical duo as well.

NOTE:
Any inadvertent errors in this article are doubtless my own, and should not be attributed to Cr. Richard Simpson (or any other attendee of Kiwi Foo Camp).

I am writing this from a doctor's waiting room, a place that I particularly loathe. Not only because (by definition) you always have to wait, but also because -- while waiting -- you are sure to catch an even worse disease than the one you already have.

My school once showed us an American health film from the 1950s. It was shot in black and white, and entitled 'Joe Spreads Hepatitis'. I've always suspected that the script was written by Howard Hughes. It made a big impression on me. The voice-over was particularly memorable: "Joe has hepatitis. He goes to the lavatory. On the way out he touches the door-handle. Now the door-handle has hepatitis. Now Pete comes into the lavatory. He touches the door-handle. Now Pete has hepatitis."

Joe, Pete, and the door-handle all pulsed with a sort of nuclear-radiation glow when they were infected. As a consequence of Joe and his hepatitis I have a deep-seated suspicion of all toilet door-handles. Although recent research suggests that I should have similar misgivings about light-switches, tap-handles, telephones, pens, and the remote control for the telly.

The trouble with a doctor's waiting room is that everything in it has been pawed by sick people with infectious diseases. This means that there is no object in the room that you can safely touch. This is especially true of the magazines, which will have become encrusted with multiple layers of deadly viruses and bacteria. These same magazines -- in an ironic twist -- are the only thing available to prevent you from going insane with boredom during the interminable hours of waiting.

Fortunately, on this particular visit, the receptionist has given me an exciting-looking form to read. Under the heading 'Help Us Help You Even Better' it contains the following slightly confusing message: "We want you to help us to help you even better so that we can give you the best possible service. If you have any suggestions to improve our facilities then please let us know!"

Here are my helpful suggestions for improving their waiting room:

1. Make other patients wait outside in the fresh air where they are less likely to spread diseases to me.

I wrote that 20 minutes ago. In the meantime I have lost my fear of infectious disease, and have begun to suspect that I will die of old age before my appointment becomes due. I am the first patient of the day. How is it even possible to be running this late without seeing a single patient? Unless -- it suddenly occurs to me -- my doctor is still treating people who have been waiting since yesterday.

I once witnessed a case of what I can only describe as 'waiting room rage' from a businessman in an expensive-looking suit. His doctor's appointment had been delayed for three-quarters of an hour. The businessman stood up and gave an impassioned speech to the other people in the waiting room, ending with the words: "My business would go bankrupt if it treated its customers like this". Then he walked out -- slamming the door for maximum dramatic effect. I now regret that I did not stand up and lead the room in a round of applause.

That was at my previous doctor. She was a fundamentalist Christian who -- from the word go -- had me sized up as a sexual degenerate. Frankly, in the words of Australia's most famous philosopher, I should be so lucky.

Regardless of the symptoms, she always diagnosed me with venereal disease. A few years back I had mysterious stomach pains. I hit upon a particularly cunning diagnostic approach which involved drawing a circle in indelible pen where it hurt, and writing the time and date in the middle of the circle.

After a week or so, I had a line of time-date circles that went up one side of my abdomen, crossed my body just above the navel, and then down the other side. I went to the medical library, and had a look at a cross-sectional drawing of a person. Bingo! The large intestine. Some sort of affliction of the colon, I thought.

Not so my old doctor. She had me tested for syphilis, gonorrhoea, and AIDS. "I know what you university students get up to," she said with a disapproving sniff. "Worse than the beasts in the field." She gave my circles short shrift. "And clean all that scribble off your stomach," she said. "It looks ridiculous."

It turned out to be vitamin B12 deficiency. The next year I had the same symptoms again. "Vitamin B12?" I suggested. "Hmmm," she said sceptically. "Do you have a burning sensation when you urinate? Any boils or warts where you shouldn't have them? I think we'll check you for venereal diseases just to be sure." She dismissed my protests with a wave of her hand. "No need to feel embarrassed, David. There's nothing to be ashamed about. Half the students in Canterbury have the clap as well. The campus is riddled with it."

In the end she prescribed a diet of raw vegetables to boost my B12 intake. As a consequence I spent months stuffing myself with salads. Unfortunately, as I was amused to discover some time later, vegetables are a food group which contains absolutely no vitamin B12 whatsoever.

From an comedy point of view my old doctor was brilliant, and if she hadn't left to join a religious commune in Texas I would still be one of her patients. I can only hope that my new doctor will be just as entertaining. After waiting for nearly an hour I should bloody well think so.

There is no doubt that -- musically speaking -- last summer belonged to Fat Freddy’s Drop. Their album Based on a True Story provided the soundtrack for a seemingly endless succession of sweltering days. By the end of the season, Fat Freddy's Drop had become as evocative of summer as the rasp of cicadas, or the smell of tar melting on hot roads.

In Christchurch you simply couldn't escape Based on a True Story. Bikini-clad girls listened to it as they baked their bodies on New Brighton beach. Sullen teenagers played it on their iPods while slouching along footpaths shimmering with heat. The rhythms of Fat Freddy's Drop blasted from the sound systems of the cars cruising down Colombo street. And in the evening the smooth voice of Joe Dukie seemed to drift from the window of every house in the city.

This year on Midsummer's day the weather in Christchurch wasn't quite so pleasant. Sleet was falling from the sky, and listening to Fat Freddy's Drop seemed somehow unseasonable. I deleted Based on a True Story from my MP3-player, and uploaded We are the L.e.d.s.

If a mad scientist spliced together the genes of The B52s and Thomas Hardy they would produce a creature who makes a noise like The L.e.d.s. They are a band eminently suited to a sleety summer's day in Christchurch. Their wistful electronic songs tend towards melancholy, but with occasional bursts of optimism that feel like the sun coming out from behind clouds. The song Rumba (video here on YouTube) is -- for want of a better description -- positively rumba-matic.

The L.e.d.s stayed at the top of my playlist as we travelled north in search of warmer climes. In Wellington the rain fell horizontally, and my rumba-ness descended to a low ebb. But even in foul weather, Wellington is easily my favourite New Zealand city. I know it's crazy to situate a nation's capital on a fault line, foolish to balance houses on precarious hillsides, and utterly dippy to bung a gigantic concrete beehive in the middle of it all -- but I absolutely adore the place.

I love the staid bustle of Lambton Quay and the Wellington waterfront. I love the trolley buses, and the cable-car to the botanic gardens. I love the green belt that swaddles the city. And I love the commuter rail system -- public transport that actually works! Wellington feels like a proper city: the sort they have in other countries. In comparison, Christchurch and Dunedin are merely towns, and Auckland is just an oversized suburb.

The weather was dreadful in Auckland as well, of course. We got stuck in motorway traffic with rain battering down so hard that it bounced off the road. The L.e.d.s were playing on the car stereo, but my rumba-ness had nearly reached rock bottom.

The next morning the rain had dwindled to occasional showers, and we reacquainted ourselves with the city. Australians visiting Auckland often comment that it looks like an ugly version of Sydney. It's certainly true that Sydney's downtown and waterfront areas are handsome -- just as Auckland's are undeniably shabby. But does Sydney have anything that compares with Auckland's towering volcanic cones? Does Sydney have anything like Rangitoto, or the other sixty-two islands in the Hauraki gulf?

Sydney has a good-looking harbour, but Auckland has two good-looking harbours -- in different oceans! Sydney has beautiful beaches, but not in the same league as the black sands of Piha or Karekare. And Sydney has nothing that is remotely comparable to the spectacular rainforests of the Waitakere ranges.

I grew up in Auckland, and was always astonished by the way that foreign eyes saw the city. As a teenager, a German exchange student told me that visiting Auckland made her feel guilty. "I can see that it must have been badly bombed during the war," she explained seriously. In a similar vein, I once had a memorable conversation with a town-planner from Edinburgh, who was truly appalled by some of Auckland's housing developments. "But, of course, one can't really complain about the town planning in this city," he commented dryly, "because there obviously isn't any."

Having lived away from Auckland for more than a decade, I can now see the city through a foreigner's eyes. It's the bricks and mortar that distract from the inherent beauty of the place. Yes, there are some attractive areas such as Devonport or Titirangi -- but too much of it is simply shopping malls surrounded by dreary characterless suburbs. And, yes, I have to admit that parts do resemble those bombed-out European cities that were rebuilt too quickly and too cheaply after the war.

Auckland's tragedy is not so much what it is -- a dysfunctional hotchpotch of suburbs with a lousy transportation system -- but, rather, that it falls so far short of the great metropolis that it could have been. Given Auckland's natural features it should be the most beautiful city in the world, but it's only mildly pretty at best.

At any rate, at least Auckland's architecture has the virtue of making Christchurch look good by comparison. As we drove home from the airport I found myself pleasantly surprised by the attractiveness of my home city -- apart from the weather, of course.

Rain was falling in dismal sheets. We sat shivering inside our house with the soothing sound of The L.e.d.s, and the not-at-all-soothing squeak of our heat-pump. I contemplated all the outdoor jobs I had planned to do -- in particular, the repair of numerous leaks in our roof. Outside the willow trees dripped, and the swollen river threatened to overflow its banks.

We tried to cheer ourselves up by visiting the seaside suburb of Sumner. It bore an astonishing resemblance to Norman Garstin's painting The Rain it Raineth Every Day. In a brave move, Jennifer decided to make the most of her enforced idleness by learning the baritone concertina. Soon our house reverberated with sea-shanties.

Prior to this, sea-shanties had always struck me as cheerful. But the baritone concertina gives them a very dirge-like quality -- as if performed by Russian sailors who have been sent to a concentration camp for criticizing Stalin. It made me want to howl with misery. To console myself I re-read John Masefield's excellent 1906 essay on the history of the sea-shanty (available online here).

In Christchurch the rain continued to piss down. The puddles on our front lawn grew so large that ducks came to live in them. This maddened me beyond belief. Didn't they realize this was dry land? For the first time in my life I truly wanted to shoot a duck. I closed my eyes, and tried to sooth myself by recalling F.W. Harvey's poem (written on a bad day in Holzminden prison during World War I):

From troubles of the world I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comical things
Sleeping or curled
Their heads beneath white wings
By water cool...

If nothing else, the summer of The L.e.d.s has been good for ducks.

"Well, there was this woman who worked with a friend of mine," I said. "And she was engaged to this bloke, and they were both Christians."

"And because of their Christianity they had decided -- as you do -- that there would be no hanky-panky before the wedding. Now for some reason this weighed on my friend's mind. In fact, she even expressed her concerns to the Christian workmate by saying: 'Wow, I don't know if I'd be too relaxed about getting married without knowing how he performed in the hanky-panky department'. But the Christian workmate replied: 'I know that God has chosen the perfect man for me, so I'm sure the hanky-panky will be a real knockout'.

"Anyway, the wedding was fast approaching, and already the happy couple's parents had paid for the venue. All the female friends and relations had bought new dresses, and the blokes had hired penguin suits. The church pastor had interviewed them both. It's even possible that the majority of the wedding presents had been wrapped.

"Neither the bride nor groom wanted a tacky bachelor party or hen night. So they decided to spend the weekend before the wedding at the hot springs in Hanmer with their close friends from church. I don't know why, but hot springs are a magnet for Christians -- they just can't get enough of them. Maybe it's because they don't expect to be particularly warm in the afterlife.

"The whole situation was extremely wholesome, of course, and there was no hanky-panky amongst anyone in the group. But naturally they had to wear swimming togs in the pool. And, as it happened, this was the first time that the happy couple had seen each other without full attire. And this was the moment when everything went to custard.

"It transpired that the groom had a certain amount of body hair. And it also transpired that the one thing the bride couldn't stand was body hair. Of course, it had never occurred to her that God would choose a guy with body hair to be her perfect bloke -- and naturally she was quite upset.

"So she called a crisis meeting among her women friends. And they suggested all sorts of solutions: 'He could shave', 'He could wax', 'He could have electrolysis'. But the bride wouldn't even consider it. 'It'll grow back," she said. 'Even with electrolysis.' And so, in the end, she actually called off the wedding. She totally ended the relationship. They never got married.

"And, I repeat, simply because of her fiancé's body hair."

I swigged down the last of my beer. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways," said Michael from Bavaria. "But even so, I don't think you should give the English Writing Competition prize to Carl from Sydney. Maybe it's not so bad to be hairless, but he had chronic sweating as well. You can't give the prize to someone like that -- it would be disgusting."

I had agreed to meet Michael for a quick beer at the Twisted Hop to discuss his entry. He rapidly pinned me down with a remorseless line of argumentation. The logic being roughly as follows:

1. Michael should win.
2. His prize should take the form of alcohol.
3. The prize should be awarded right now.

I had explained that I could only stay for an hour because I had a blog to write. But as the delicious pints of Challenger Ale slipped down, the evening seemed to speed past on fast-forward. At one point a chap drove his Landrover SIIA up onto the footpath. He tooted his horn, and one of the barmaids handed him a pint of beer.

"That never happened when I drove a Landrover," said Michael.

"Me neither," I said. "And I owned a Landrover for thirteen years. But even if I had been handed a pint every time I tooted the horn it wouldn't have been worth it. I had to spend half my life fixing the thing."

"Me too," agreed Michael. "I'd never buy another one."

I staggered off to visit the lavatory. Two blokes were standing at the urinals having one of those standing-pissed-at-the-urinals-having-a-piss conversations.

"Now take your monotremes, for example," the first bloke was saying. "You've got your platypus."

"You've got your Short-beaked Echidna," said his friend.

"You've got your Western Long-beaked Echidna..." continued the first guy.

Back at the table, Michael had procured our fifth pint. The bloke in the Landrover was sitting with his feet on the bonnet smoking a massive pipe -- the stem alone must have been half a metre long. When he'd finished the pipe, he tooted his horn again, and a beautiful woman emerged from the pub. She climbed into the Landrover beside him.

"She's probably Dutch," said Michael. "Dutch women are very uninhibited. You know, I would buy another Landrover."

"I'd buy one in a heartbeat," I said.

We watched a fight in front of the pub between the barman and a drunk. It occurred to me that my hour of drinking might be up. I looked at my watch. More than six hours had elapsed. It was time to go home.

Michael wobbled off on his bicycle -- while I tried to flag down a taxi. It was nearly two in the morning before I sat in front of my computer, and began to read through the entries in the English Writing Competition. Perhaps it was the evening of beer drinking, but I thought that all of the submissions were excellent. It seemed to me, however, that three writers showed exceptional talent.

The first finalist is Moira from Glasgow, who produced this minor masterpiece:

Last Rites

The rituals surrounding an English funeral are as old as England herself.

"It is time to place Klaus in the special burial deckchair," said Mr. Brown. "Following our age-old custom, his footwear must be removed and his trouser legs rolled up to the knee. On his head we must place a white handkerchief. A knot on each corner of the handkerchief will represent the four great Englishpersons of history -- Walter Raleigh, Lord Nelson, Shakespeare, and Princess Diana."

"Lastly we must place a newspaper over his face," said Nanny.

"Yes," said Miss Brown. "Because Klaus was an Englishman it shall be The Sun -- opened at Page 3."

After three days it was time for the burial. Everyone at the funeral displayed the famous English stiff upper lip

During the ceremony the Brown family were given bloater paste sandwiches and boiled ham to eat. "This is the only food allowed at an English funeral," explained the vicar. "This rule cannot be bent."

Very subtle humour, and -- may I say -- nice to see Princess Diana assume her rightful place in history. Alas, however, there is no such subtlety in the second finalist, a last-minute re-entry from Carl of Sydney:

The End of the Browns at the End of the World

Englishmen often take their holidays in the British colonies. "Welcome to Australia," said the immigration officer. "Your luggage has been stolen."

"This is good," said Mr. Brown. "As an Englishman I know that all Australians are criminals -- so this confirms my ignorant prejudices."

Later that day the Brown family visited the outback. Nanny cooked a barbeque while the rest of the family went swimming.

"Goodness! We have experienced the real Australia today," said Nanny, when she returned. "Miss Brown was poisoned by a box jellyfish, and Gretchen was poisoned by a funnel web spider. I tried to call the hospital but my handy had been stolen. Then, while I was burying their corpses, I was bitten by a serpent. Now I am waiting for the toxins to reach my heart."

"I have been stung by a platypus," said Mr. Brown. "In my English ignorance I had not realized that monotremes are venomous."

"Oh look, a crocodile!" said Nanny.

Funny how you hear a word for the first time, and then just a short while later you hear it again. Luckily, for all the platypus fans out there, I can reveal that monotreme venom is not actually fatal. Well done, Carl. Underneath your hairless and sweat-soaked skin lies considerable talent.

The last finalist is Listener and Avenues art critic Andrew from Christchurch:

The Browns Visit the Country

One Sunday the Browns drove to the country after church.

"This is a very pretty village," said Mr Brown, "but not nearly as pretty and well organised as those in Bavaria."

"Yes," agreed Nanny, and then she died because someone shot her. The English are prone to criminality.

"Oh dear," said Mr Brown, "this is a rum do, what?"

There is no police presence in the English countryside, and all rural crime must be solved by elderly spinster women or lesbian gardeners on television. They have a Landrover.

"I wish we had a BMW or a Mercedes Benz, or some other excellent product of German engineering," said the lesbians.

"It was Klaus," said Miss von Marplestein and the two lesbian gardeners.

"Tickety boo," said Mr Brown. "I will now marry Miss von Marplestein because the gardeners are both lesbians and do not like Englishmen. Please now cook me some eggs."

Nanny was displayed in the garden.

Andrew has produced an evocative and moving tribute to English country life. And, incidentally, he should be given full marks for including a subtle allusion to Jake "Cook the Man Some F**king Eggs" Heke. I also suspect that Andrew's lesbian gardeners will greatly enhance Public Address's search engine hits.

And now the winner...

It transpires that I'm terrible at assessing the nuances of quality, and so it seems to me that this can only be judged a three-way tie. On this basis I'd like to declare all three finalists as joint winners of Southerly's inaugural English Writing Competition. Congratulations to you all! I'll be in contact soon to arrange delivery of the prizes.

Furthermore, in the interests of fairness, I shall also award a prize to Morris from Vienna whose superb work was featured in last week's post. Michael from Bavaria's consolation prize (which took the form of beer) has already been awarded.

I had meant to spend my last post of the year doing something of a post-mortem on my first few months at Public Address. But it's getting very late (or very early), and my bed is beckoning irresistibly. So I'd just quickly like to thank all the Public Address readers who have written to me this year -- I really appreciate that you took the time to send me your thoughts.

I'd also like to thank the other Public Address contributors for their helpful suggestions and reassuring words. I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity to step into Che Tibby's big shoes. I realize that I haven't quite managed to fill them yet -- but I'm working on it.

And on that final note: goodnight and Merry Christmas. See you next year.

Anyone who has ever been the dictator of a small country will be familiar with the exhilaration which comes from having absolute power.

In particular, it must be a terrific thrill to enact whim-based legislation. Former FPP cabinet minister (and Dominion Post columnist) Michael Bassett is reputed to have restructured the daylight-savings calendar simply on the basis of his preferred bedtime. If I were the Minister of Internal Affairs I would pass a law requiring the devious Dr Bassett to strip naked, put an apple in his mouth, and lie in the middle of a platter at the parliamentary Christmas lunch. I'd just be interested to see if anyone would notice. Isn't it wonderful how we all have different whims?

Alas, I shall probably never run the country, or have the opportunity to put this sort of sensible policy into practice -- but I have experienced the next best thing. My career as a university lecturer was short-lived but action-packed. The Head of Department appointed me with the (possibly unwise) words: "You have complete control". Mussolini can have felt no less entranced when Victor Emmanuel III granted him rule over Italy.

As I discovered, complete control will turn even the most boring administrative chore into a delight. One of my first tasks was to arrange the tutorials for the course. My predecessor did this by splitting the students into alphabetical groups according to their surnames -- an approach that struck me as completely crazy. I implemented an entirely new system which arranged students into different themes.

One tutorial group (including the tutor) was composed entirely of people called Andrew. Another contained only Matthews, Marks, Lukes, and Johns. A third group consisted solely of students with names like Moon Unit and Kimp Jangle. This led to the fascinating revelation that people with funny names find humour in other people's funny names. The tutor for this group -- a pleasant fellow called Creon -- visited my office after his first class. "You know," he said, "the strangest thing happened when I called the roll in my tutorial this morning..."

My pièce de résistance was a sociological experiment in which I put the five highest-GPA women into a tutorial group with the five lowest-GPA blokes. Could love triumph over the barrier of differing academic ability? Not really -- as it turned out. Four out of five of the low-GPA blokes never turned up. However the remaining chap attended every single tutorial, and eventually passed with flying colours. He took the trouble to shake my hand after the final lecture, and enthusiastically told me that it was the best university course he'd ever done. "Especially the tutorials," he added.

This is the kind of comment that swells the heart of any dictator -- knowing that his or her efforts to make the trains run on time have been truly appreciated. In a similar vein, I am always delighted to receive feedback from Southerly readers. Last week I announced the new English Writing Competition, and there has been a veritable tidal wave of responses. Although, admittedly, none of them are in strict compliance with the rules of the competition.

Despite this shortcoming, all three entries border on genius. Take this example from Morris in Vienna:

Danke to das Englisch lernen mit den Browns, mein Englisch ist fucken good geworden in just einen kleinen Zeit. Schit, sage ich zu meinself -- es ist nicht nur akademik, ich kann talken mit dem Slob in der Strasse. "Ow's yer Vater, y'alt cobber bastard?" ich say, alt chap. Herr Brown ist ein Kolourvoller Bloke und ein properer Englischer Tschentelmann. Tschermans are nicht Tschentelmann, wir buyen das Bier von vending Maschinen bei der Autobahn, nicht von quaint Seeseit Cafes unter der Menu heading "Englisher Traditioneller Supper." Es macht me want Englisch zu be, und therefore habe ich meine teeth since 10 Months nicht gekleaned. Now kenne ich der Reason, Alles the same tastes fuer den Englischmann. Well, ich had better geh collect mein Frau von den front Garten, wo sie has been fuer drei days. Sie ist nicht well. Herr Brown understands Frauen very good -- Er insperiert mich home zu kommen und shout "Geschlectsrollendifferenzierung, Du alte Bat!" und "Dreikugelwirbelwannenbrennraum!". Sincerely, Morris von der Vogelweide.

Morris's entry is unquestionably a linguistic masterpiece. It made me wonder if he might be a descendent of the famous medieval Austrian poet Walter von der Vogelweide. Although perhaps I could suggest a couple of slight corrections to his English prose, as follows:

Thanks to 'Learning English with the Browns' my English has become extremely good in just a short time. Goodness, I say to myself -- it's not just academic, but I can also talk to the average man in the street. "How's your father, my good friend, old chap?" I say. Mr. Brown is a colourful bloke and a proper English gentleman. Germans are not gentleman. We buy beer from vending machines by the motorway, not from quaint seaside cafés under the menu heading "Traditional English Supper". It makes me want to be English, and therefore I haven't cleaned my teeth for 10 months. Now I know the reason that everything tastes the same to Englishmen. Well, I had better go and collect my wife from the front garden, where she has been for three days. She has not been healthy [ever since her poisoning]. Mr. Brown understand women very well. He inspires me to come home and shout "Gender role differentiation, you old bat!" and "Triple hemispheric combustion chamber!"*. Sincerely, Morris von der Vogelweide.

Morris includes a helpful postscript giving the delivery address for his prize. However I note that for all his assertions about "we" Germans -- Morris is, in fact, Austrian. Could this be a bit of gentle Austria vs. Germany humour?

An authentic German sends in the next entry. Michael from Pfraundorf, Bavaria writes:

I have lived in a more-or-less English-speaking country (New Zealand) for seven years without knowing a word of the language. So I was completely isolated from society prior to reading 'Learning English with the Browns'. In just a few quick minutes your English programme has transformed my life! Now I am completely fluent, and have even been asked to serve on a jury!

My improved English skills have meant that I can now understand New Zealand television for the first time. In fact, when I phoned to complain about the quality they offered me a job as a newsreader. Yes, that's just how good my English has become!

I'm really looking forward to becoming a local media celebrity. In the meantime I have already read Struwwelpeter. May I have some form of alcohol as my prize instead? Servus, Michael.

Michael's moving account of the struggle to overcome his language demons really brought a lump to my throat. But his story is small fry compared to that of Carl from Sydney, who confides:

Before reading 'Learning English with the Browns' I had never found success with ladies. Sometimes I wondered if I would die a virgin.

But now I have found success with literally thousands of attractive women -- and am getting paid big $$$. My new boss has even complimented me on my weight, and constantly tells me I have an intellectual forehead.

'Learning English with the Browns' has a positive influence on my life in so many ways. I no longer fantasize about having plastic surgery, and I'm feeling so confident in myself. My over-eating problems have disappeared as well as my chronic 'sweats'. I even think some of my hair is beginning to grow back.

I heartily recommend this English language programme to anyone who wants to earn $$$ or have meet with attractive ladies. Thank you Southerly for changing my life! Will posting the prize to Sydney be a problem?

Jesus wept! I hardly know who is more deserving of a prize -- Carl or the thousands of attractive ladies who have had to endure his hairless sweating body. But after careful consideration I am doubtful that I can award him a prize, or any of the other entries so far. Despite their genuine brilliance they simply don't conform to the rules. And I must have conformity! There shall be no exceptions!

Just a quick reminder about the competition details:

• Write your own final chapter to Learning English with the Browns and submit it here.
• Entries should be around 150 words in length.
• Entries should be submitted by Wednesday, 20 December 2006.
• The winning entry (and selected finalists) will be published on Public Address on Friday, 22nd December 2006.
• First prize is this magnificent book (delivered anywhere in the world).

Don't force me to give the prize to Carl -- a man who has already been amply rewarded by attractive ladies and big $$$. Submit your own literary masterpiece now.

*There is a slight possibility that I have translated this word incorrectly.