Posts by Joe Wylie
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. . . does anyone remember Man's single 2oz of Plastic With A Hole in the Middle? Or Bauhaus's album Press Eject And Give Me The Tape?
No, but do I remember this.
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'Flying Circus' started in 1969. . . It was at the time of 'Dad's Army'.
They noticed that, too.
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Back in the day I recall hearing:
This land is your land, this land is my land
But we can't set foot on our own Somes IslandExcept now, thanks to te tiriti settlements and the removal of the quarantine station, you can.
Also old hippies never sang those songs, what you're after is old folkies. Folkies just don't have the drug-induced brain damage cred to be genuine hippies. Here's what happened to a young Woody Guthrie-influenced folkie once he discovered drugs:
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The Smiths . . .
Not your average genealogist's favorite band. Like the Joneses, Taylors, and, I'm sorry to say, the Browns, you can get stuck forever sorting who is and who isn't who.
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She wasn't Caroline Webb née Adams, was she? Because that would be weird.
Elizabeth Overend, later Moss, née Smith, as it happens. Disappointingly her headstone's vanished from Woolston cemetery. I take some comfort from Ferry Road being long enough, and Christchurch large enough, for a whole heap of things to happen, both sequentially and in parallel.
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Oddly, I was born hundreds of miles from my family's traditional territory, but since then our habitual wanderings after jobs and education and houses have brought me to a point where I now live three blocks from the house where my great-grandfather lived 160 years ago . . .
That's my story too, pretty much. Not native to these parts, but Bromley, Linwood & Ruru cemeteries are riddled with my forebears. My great-great-granny lived in Ferry Road (not at the Holy Smoke address), and married her second husband in a civil ceremony in the front parlour in 1862. Until a couple I years ago I had no idea who fitted where, and didn't care. Now I do.
If you're ever possessed by a hankering to find these things out, best to do it while those who recall the vital clues are still on deck. There are a heap of things I now wish I knew that are lost under the sandy soil of east Chch.
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Rob, as Thomas Gray* said"
"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep."A passing similarity there to Smif-n-Wessun's
Bucktown :Another murderer, just another prankster
Rude boy dead 'cause he thought he was a gangsta
Tried ta live da life of a hood from the streets
Test da wrong dread, now I'm in eternal sleep -
Popliteal Fossa!
The very spot where the hapless rugby-playing John Bull, of Will Self's Bull: A Farce, mysteriously develops a vagina, which excites the passions of the doctor from whom he seeks help.
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I'm going to be writing an opinion column for Metro magazine.
Good old Auckland Necro. Trust some of that cemetery ambience will permeate your piece.