Starman

Since arriving in New Zealand I've been regularly amazed, surprised and sometimes shocked by the choice of stories chosen to grace the front pages of the national newspaper, The New Zealand Herald. Sometimes it's the choice of the actual story that is on the cover but occasionally it is the story that is not. 

Now I haven't done any actually numerical analysis - I'll leave that to the experts - but I get the impression that the prevailing headlines fall into one of three categories;

Rugby - the national sport graces the front of the national newspaper more often than not. Let's, for the sake of argument, say 70% of the time. This may or may not be true but why let the truth get in the way of a good story. The All Blacks are surprisingly good at Rugby and so should get a fair smattering of coverage but what is surprising is the length that The Herald will go to ensure that happens. Whether the team win, lose or draw then a picture of a player will beam (or frown) appropriately from the cover. If there isn't a suitable game to cover on the, err, cover then how about linking the story to an All Black player?Hopefully the victim is a relation of a player. A distant cousin will do - it doesn't pay to be picky. Perhaps they met an All Black player once? If that doesn't work out, then a good fall back is to simply get the opinion of a player on the story. Easy as.

Auckland House Prices - another favourite topic of the New Zealand Herald, which let's face it is the Auckland local paper, is the astronomical rises in the Auckland property market. Debates roll on endlessly about the cause, the duration and whether there is a bubble that is about to burst. With a population of 1.4 million there are plenty of newspaper column inches to be had. Yes we know the prices are high, and that individuals are stupid enough to fork out over $1m for what is basically a wooden shed with curtains, but does it really warrant repeated reporting? Apparently the answer is yes. No wonder Aucklanders are Jafas to the rest of the country.

Deaths - Quite worthy of reporting but depressingly frequent are the stories about accidents on New Zealand's roads, beaches and mountains. Any outsider reading these articles would get the impression that New Zealand is a dangerous place in which to find one's self. It's not. Not like its neighbour Australia, where every living creature seems to be hell bent on shortening your life in some gruesome way. But the sheer frequency of accidents in a relatively small population surely must give pause for thought? Not at all. Road crashes, drownings, collisions with trains and falls from mountain tracks are all too common.

With all this stuff going on, world events don't get a look in. Nuclear testing in North Korea? Page 35. The rise of fascism in Europe? Page 38. I started to wonder what would it take to relegate the All Blacks, house prices or another accidental death from a freak wave to the inside pages. The death of a monarch? World war? Maybe.

In the 11 January I got the answer. David Bowie. Yes David Bowie. The headline on the national newspaper on the 11 January 2016 reported the sad loss of one of music's true geniuses. This, of all of the media's worldwide glowing tributes, perhaps spoke the loudest. It was a moving and heartfelt report. 

Admittedly, as the article continued to later pages, they got the reaction of his death from an All Black, but it was tastefully done and genuinely touching. Being a relatively recent arrival into the country, I had no idea that what could be the farthest country on the planet from his home had such a deep respect for him. Well done New Zealand.l and well done The Herald.

Of course, within a few days, normal service had resumed and once again Auckland was the centre of the universe. The 'wobble' in world's stock markets and the crashing of oil prices caused the paper to wonder just what this would mean for Auckland's house prices and just what would Richie McCaw make of it all......

Hot on the Heels

I know the ink is still drying on my last blog but I just have to share this.

We have been, of late, relaxing in a sleepy town called Raglan. Nestled out on the west coast of the North Island it is an ideal place to while away the time, take in some sea air and let the stresses of modern life ebb away with the evening tide. 

Until tonight. 

So there we were, minding our own business (which admittedly is unusual for us) idling away the time on the verandah of the Harbour View Hotel with a cold beer and reflecting on the activities of the day which, being Raglan, had involved drinking tea, eating ice cream and sleeping. You see Raglan is a place where even the sleepy go to relax. It is so laid back that the place is positively horizontal. Where was I?

Oh, yes. So there we were relaxing, when the wail of a siren could be heard in the distance. Then, a small sporty hatchback hurtled down the main street. Well, I say main street but it is only a couple of hundred metres long. But anyway, this car hurtled down the street, windows open with the arms of several young men waving enthusiastically to the static and slack-jawed onlookers. They were, several seconds later, followed by the pursuing siren and the accompanying police vehicle who were giving chase.

Now, I feel that I have to stress, if it has not already been made clear, that Raglan is not a big place. There can't be more than two roads into the town and, as it is on a peninsula, there are not a lot of other roads in between. A handful at best.

Almost as soon as the police had passed out of sight, the protagonist appeared once again and sped in front of the onlookers, or if you prefer spectators, and hurtled down the main street. Inevitably, the police followed and they both successfully completed one lap of the small town. 

After the third lap, the police had clearly spotted the developing pattern and wisely decided to despatch a second police car. This should have quickly resolved the problem except now we were witnessing what seemed to be a police car being chased by a small sporty hatchback, which in turn, was being pursued by another police vehicle. Much, it had to be said, to the delight of the spectators who cheered their support for their new underdog. With each competed lap, the arms in passing car waved more furiously and the cheers grew louder.

At this point occurred to me that the police would surely be better off regrouping and simply blocking the two roads into the town? Eventually the speeding car would run out of petrol, cigarettes or, even worse, crisps? 

But no. The pursuit continued. Except this time, the perpetrators had changed their tactics. Cunningly, they were now going in the opposite direction. It took the police a while to cotton onto this and for a short period of time we witnessed the strange spectacle of a police car chasing a police car around the town centre. Or at least that's how it looked.

But it was getting out of hand. The speed had increased, as had the desperation and there was a real chance that a serious accident could occur. By this time, the sporty hatchback was driving on the wrong side of the road, going the wrong way around the mini roundabout and narrowly avoiding on coming cars and strolling families out enjoying the summer evening. 

It was after one such near-miss that the chase left the town and we never got to see the final scenes play out. Hopefully the police came to their senses and let the perpetrators go. Surely by now they had enough details to pursue them from a safer distance? Either that or they were too dizzy from the pursuit and needed a sit down.

Thankfully the excitement of the rest of the evening did not follow the opening act. Within minutes Raglan had returned to its sleepy state, the spectators to their beer and, as the early evening relaxed into the night, Raglan raised its arms above its head and let out a contented sigh on a day well done. You've just got to love this place.

A Game of Two Halves

I I'm really trying to suppress my optimism because as I sit here and write this, the mighty Boro are four points clear at the top of the Championship with a game in hand. So that's effectively seven points clear isn't it? An unassailable lead and promotion guaranteed. Or at least you might think. Hhmmm maybe not, this is the Boro we are talking about.

But more of that later. I find myself in the unusual position of supporting a club but not being able, not in any practical sense anyway, to turn up for games. I've always thought it a bit odd that some fans proclaim their undying love for a team but have never seen them play - even when they live in the same hemisphere. But here I am, 12,000 miles away from the Riverside (or 'Fortress Riverside' as it is undoubtedly being called in bars on Teesside) and proudly boasting to be a Boro fan. Technically I could go to some home games but it would be one hell of a commitment - I'd be so jet lagged that I'd probably snooze through the game I'd gone to see. In recent times this would've been a God send - I have sat through some turgid games; windswept, cold, bored, frustrated and embarrassed. With the time-zone changes, I probably wouldn't even know what day it was. A bit like the Stachan era team I suppose.

Travelling halfway around the world and back to support my team is not going to happen, so I have resigned myself to being an armchair supporter. Or, as I am usually asleep when the games take place, should that be a bed-time supporter? Either way it's okay. Except when I look at the team sheet and read the names I've not got a clue who these people are; what they look like, their strengths, weaknesses or most importantly what their chant is. I'll never forget the glorious sound made by the Riverside crowd when Joseph Desire-Job got the better of an opponent. 'There's only one Job on Teesside' must go down as one of the finest post-ironic football chants ever. Who said football fans weren't erudite?

But being 12,000 miles removed doesn't help my optimism levels. Only witnessing the results and not the performance does raise expectations somewhat. I can't see, for example, the near misses, lapses in concentration in the defence and flukey wins. Yes I can (and do) analyse the stats but even they can give the wrong impression. To me, a 2-0 win is simply that. Three points following another classy display. I know, from bitter experience though, that the Boro like to do things the hard way. 

But I am very optimistic about this season. Surely, as I stated at the top of this blog, we can't squander a four point lead? But again, bitter experience tells me that we can, and usually in fantastic fashion. Three up at half time? Great, but surely it's better entertainment to let the opponents score two right after the break to set up a nail biting second half? Why stop there? How ably getting a player sent off with ten minutes to go? I'm told it's character building. Which is great if you want to build a character that is tense, sarcastic grumpy and pessimistic.

But I am starting to feel a little excited. Oh go on, very excited. So much so that I offered to buy a close relative a pint if we get promoted as champions. 'So what?' I hear you say? Well I also offered to fly him to New Zealand to drink the pint to help me celebrate. I know. Well there is a lot of football to be played before then. And knowing Boro it won't be straight forward.... but it's going to be fun finding out!