Journalist, Writer, Editor, Copywriter, Producer, Director - print, television, radio
In my opinion....
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January 2012
Creating a stink….
There’s nothing like a dried out old Xmas tree tossed out on the kerb to remind you that yuletide time is over. But here in Ponsonby there’s another sign that a new year is on its way – the bus stops up and down the strip are no longer plastered with the image of a pouting girl, clad in a concoction of black netting, (that on a second or third glance reveals there’s nothing between the netting and her knickers.) One knee is invitingly raised to help support a gigantic bottle of perfume, balanced against the waif’s fragile and under-nourished shoulder.
The model looks out at the viewer with eyes that are largely expressionless, except for the faintest hint of frisky trouble. Apart from the ridiculousness of the pose and the huge bottle of Jucy perfume, which if it were real, would require herculean strength, or at the very least a healthy weight to height ratio, to hold aloft, the overall look of ‘little girl combined with barely controlled lasciviousness’ is disturbing and demeaning to girls and women.
One target audience – men buying Xmas gifts - no doubt went out with this image in their heads, and stupidly parted with good money in the hope that a few dabs of Jucy on their wives/girlfriends/lovers would transform them into this little girl-on-heat. Well they wouldn’t be the first dumb males to do that. More worrying is the message to the other target: young girls. Come over all vampy and sex kitten when you wear the perfume and you’ll get a man, provided you are passive, unresistant and thin. And flashing your knickers won’t go amiss either.
It took me back to those aspiration perfume ads that were around when I was a teen in the 1970s and early 80s. Import controls ensured that precious little perfume found its way into NZ in the first place, and duty-free was still the primary source for such luxuries.
But then along came Charlie. Remember the song? “There’s a fragrance that’s gonna stay and it’s here now, Charlie. A whole new fragrance that's going your way and it’s here now, Charlie!” It was kind of young and kind of now, kind of free and kind of wow! The face of Charlie was model Shelley Hack striding out alone in her gorgeous high-waisted, flared pant suits (the first time a woman had worn trousers to advertise perfume in the United States). She was single, independent, thoughtful, and happy. No pouting, no hint of knickers, not a whiff of sex kitten. Sure some man came along and gave her a kiss at some stage in the ad, but who remembers him? This was about a fragrance that reflected how modern women lived, not a ploy to get a man into bed. And even if it did lead to sex, she had bigger fish to fry with her career, her ambitions, her future.
Even the title of the perfume had a gender-free edge to it – Charlie could be a liberated Charlotte. If it was a man – well he was on the same level as Ms Hack taking on the world. Ditto the UK ad for Chanel No.5. Here a woman, old enough to be our Jucy sex kitten’s mother, is immersed in the works on display in a modern art gallery. Reflecting on a particular piece – (a Henry Moore? A Barbara Hepworth?) she bumps into a man and they size each other up. Next moment we’re in her sophisticated modernist apartment. She’s on the phone dabbing on the No 5. Is the call with him? Is it another woman she’s sharing her story with? Sadly the final scene falls back on the cliché of a kiss at sunset. But that aside you know this woman. First off, she’s smart, intelligent and independent. Secondly she chooses the man as much as he chooses her. And did I mention she’s over 15?
So how could little old me, growing up in Wellington’s dull, windy suburbs not want to be that woman? Could I imagine the same romantic and tantalizing meeting over a piece of challenging modernist art occurring at the old Buckle Street National Art Gallery? Well a girl can always dream and I was so taken by that ad, the first bottle of duty-free perfume I bought was Chanel No 5 – at the ripe old age of 20.
But I don’t want my teenage daughter to buy Jucy and dream about scoring some bloke by appearing to be in a perpetual state of horniness. Look over perfume ads for men (well just about any ad for a male product) and you have images of dressed, interesting men, having conversations with each other, making decisions, taking responsibility. Yes there’s a bit of flesh around sometimes, but sadly it’s often accompanied by near naked women in compromising poses, bending to the highly perfumed man’s will.
And on that note, the bus stops of Ponsonby Road now sport large photos of Sonny Boy Williams in a defiant, aggressive pose, sporting a layer of sweat and decorated with tattoos. He’s every inch the uncompromising, thuggish, dominating Maori male, exuding an air of barely controlled malice which could at any moment cause those muscled arms to break out and give the ‘missus’ and any vulnerable children who bother him, a thorough beating. The product he’s pushing? Bottled water with ‘natural’ energy. Expensive, unnecessary and unlikely to turn your average Maori (or Pakeha man for that matter) into a muscle-bound hunk. But then I guess blokes are allowed to dream as well.
I’m sure Williams and dopey Jucy girl would make a lovely couple…
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December 2011
I Do I Do I Do I Do I Do
It’s wedding season, and in the same week that I signed my divorce papers, the Bridal mags were fighting for space on the shelves and Ponsonby Road was invaded by chicks and dicks out for the obligatory hen and stag nights. At the same time facebook was flooded with links to articles about people who despair of ever getting married at all. Working my way through all the forlorn, self-pitying and largely inaccurate drivel that made up these articles convinced me that getting married is a lot like having sex – unless you actually do it yourself, you’ll never appreciate what it’s really like.
And let me tell you, we’re only talking about the deed on the day here – not the tedious, tiresome business of actually spending years and years with your selected partner. Because most of these articles (and yes they were pretty much all written by women) demonstrated an unhealthy obsession for the public commitment accompanied by the ceremony and consumerism of saying “I do” whilst leaving the reality of marriage to drift somewhere in the ether along with paying for the overpriced dress, catering and photographer and dealing with the tears over the guest list and bride diet gone wrong.
Ha! I hear you say. All very well for her – she had her day in the limelight, she could call herself ‘Mrs’ (no I never did) refer to her beloved as ‘my husband’ (ditto) and dribble over the photo album for years to come (never got around to ordering one of those.)
According to the latest statistics, marriage isn’t exactly a la mode in New Zealand so I’m intrigued by its popularity amongst some of my peers. We’ve been on a steady downward slide since our marriage high in 1971 when the rate was 45.5. per 1000 not-marrieds aged 16 or over. In 2010 that had dropped to 12.5 per 1000 or around 23,000 marriages including civil unions. In the same year though 8900 divorces untied the knot. Ouch, hardly a ringing endorsement for marriage, and the divorce rate is actually down from a high in 2004.
Statistics New Zealand have a few reasons for the fall in the marriage rate, including the growth in de facto unions, a general trend towards delayed marriage, and increasing numbers of New Zealanders remaining single.
To that list I add women finding themselves unmarried against their will. In the weeks leading up to divorce day, I had many a never-married friend confide to me that it was definitely on her bucket list – but not necessarily on her current partner’s one. And the reason she wanted it? Commitment, the day, the dress, the memory yes, but mainly because they had never done it.
How do you tell someone that the morning after the wedding, life looks pretty much the same. Disney might have sold us the idea that true love’s kiss will transform our boring old mundane lives into a fairytale, but basically it’s business as usual, except you can stop looking – period. You’ve made your choice, signed on the dotted line, dropped out of the race.
But even if you reveal the awful truth to the never-been-marrieds, it seems that publicly declaring, ‘I’m taken!” is important to lots of people, especially women over 40 who’ve never been brides and that’s against the harsh reality of a shortage of suitable mates to be brides of anyway. It sure makes straight people more sympathetic to how it used to be for so many gay couples wanting the date, the dress, the memory and the photos to dribble over too.
Friends I spoke to who were married rarely used the word love to describe why they had made it all legal, except one, who was so in love she wanted to share her happiness with friends and family – and she had been married before – although second time round she admitted she was a bit more savvy about all the trimmings.
(Wedding planners must hate second-time-rounders for this reason – they know that the most expensive cake, dress, and a squillion bridesmaids, don’t make any difference in the long run.)
Just so you don’t think I’m a bitter old witch, chewing my newly divorced gums and muttering away as I rip apart the latest issue of Brides NZ and feed it to the fire, I’m happy to reveal that I’m re-partnered with someone who has also been married before. Given we share a home and a life and all the paraphernalia that goes with that, and we’re in an exclusive and loving relationship, marriage isn’t going to make either of us happier or more committed. Every dog has its day and we both had ours, so now everyday we’re just really delighted we met and fell in love and we’re able to pull it off. We know that it takes work to make it work, and choosing to bring it all down to just one day in the hope that that will make it last ‘forever’ is naïve.
Having said that, my 14-year-old daughter brought me up sharp recently when we were talking about whether some friends, with children, would ever get married. ‘It’s not fair, “ she moaned, referring to the offspring. “They would get to go to their parents’ wedding and I never did with you and Daddy.”
Now that’s one reason for marriage I hadn’t thought of.
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Fonterra's Free Milk wouldn't impress in France...
September 2011...somewhere in South West France...
The gentle golden haze of early evening has descended on the village. Children play on the parc opposite our 160-year-old farmhouse, while the leaves of the 200-year-old ash tree shelter me from the last of rays of yet another hot, cloudless, still day. As I contemplate my aperitif for the evening, the tinkle of cowbells fill the air and fireflies dance before my eyes. Sacre bleu! I’m living in a cliché – the classic southern French experience complete with crusty old timers in berets, eccentric bar and cafe owners (with even more eccentric opening hours) and the glorious relaxed pace of French rural life, that doesn’t appear to have changed much since this house was built.
I sniff the air and the delicious smell of tonight’s diner wafts out to greet me: my partner William is almost bent double in the tiny dark kitchen, chopping, sautéing and deftly stirring up yet another simple, but tasty meal concocted from the endless supply of quality local ingredients on offer.
It’s an Indian summer in the Auvergne and despite the four-five months of snow that’s on its way, the locals are complaining about this pregnant summer that simply refuses to deliver autumn on cue. President Nicholas Sarkozy’s heavily pregnant wife, Carla Brunei is similarly keeping the country in waiting as the days pass and no action appears on the baby front.
In the village every introduction elicits the same response: “Kiwi – Le rugby! Les All Blacks! Le Bleu!” (accompanied by heads in hands as a reflection of France’s patchy performance in the World Cup so far). The local paper has France’s defeat by the All Blacks on its front page complete with a photo of Maa Nonu lurching for the try line. Inside there are four pages of comment and analysis. We came to France to escape the hype of the world cup, but we’ve been ‘hoist by our own pertard’ as it seems there is no escape even in this tiny hamlet we currently call home.
The locals other concern about ‘les kiwis’ who have plonked themselves in their village, is my school-age children. How is it possible that they can be away from school when it is not school holidays in New Zealand? In France this would not be allowed and is considered a very serious breach of educational protocol. When I try and explain that they are missing only two weeks of actual school time before the holidays kick in and that they are gaining the experience of French language, culture, art and food, I’m met with the classic gallic shrug of the shoulders.
Education is king and it doesn’t sit so lightly on these southerner’s shoulders. What they are comfortable with though is agricultural subsidies. Thanks to the EU they can live comfortably off herds of less than a dozen cattle and cows, laced with a few splendid bulls and even fewer sheep. These beasts are thoroughly indulged, grazing in velvety green pastures and snoozing under stands of elegant beech trees.
Come marche time and it all comes home to roost – or should I say roast. A roll of succulent pork (over a kilo), 900 grams of dark, rich blade steak, 500 grams of pork mince and two free range chickens comes to less than E$30. With the exchange rate nudging NZ 0.60 cents, that’s the bargain of the century and this is no cheap meat either. The chicken skin is taught and fine and drops hardly any fat, the blade steak becomes a robust beef bourguignon (price of a bottle of local burgundy to cook it in approx E$4) and the pork is damn near perfect. But wait there’s more: a litre of local milk (demi-crème) is E.58 cents. I have to stare hard at the price to make sure I’m reading it right. St Nectaire, the local cheese brand is a fraction of the cost of our basic cheddar, ditto the salami and moreish salty, garlicy saucisson. Fruit and vegetables are similarly locally grown and reasonably priced – especially at the weekly markets.
The most expensive thing in the only supermarket (about 15 km away) is the organic Australian shampoo. Even tampons are a fifth of the price back home.
Okay so yes, the French have issues. Their lives are not perfect – and after eating the local delicacy, truffarde (a glorious concoction of chopped potato, crème fraiche, lard and lashings of salt and pepper) I do wonder about the waistlines and hearts of some of the locals. But if subsidies ensure you eat local, nourishing, high quality food – particularly dairy products, then I’m all for bringing them back to New Zealand. Ditto some control over what food is available when and where. It’s a 55 km drive to Clermont Ferrand, home of the nearest fast-food joint. The shops close Saturday lunchtime and reopen Monday or Tuesday. Sunday is a day of rest with family and friends (the local boulangerie conveniently opens until noon so there are bread supplies for Sunday lunch.) But Sunday is not spent worshipping at the altar of Bunnings, Harvey Norman or McDonald’s. Instead le pique-nique and a stroll around some of the local lacs and passages is conducted - in an orderly French fashion.
Yes I hear you: country life is less sophisticated than the city and yes in the big cities of Paris and Lyon shops do open on Sundays and there are billboards there advertising all manner of material possessions, but it’s more controlled, contained and let’s face it censored. On a recent weekend trip to the Coromandel I stopped in the tiny town of Ngatea. On offer for travelers? A Subway outlet and a Lotto shop. Yet we were surrounded by some of the richest growing land in the country, covered in dairy cows and sheep and crops, but not a single piece of local produce was on sale.
My village locals are amused at my comparison of the prices for milk, cheese, butter and meat. New Zealand is one giant farm as far as they are concerned. And they are right. But it’s become one giant corporate farm, dominated by the industrialization of food. Overseas-owned supermarkets dictate the price and supply of produce (and more disturbingly the aisles are being turned over to giant freezers packed with pre-prepared meals.) We export our best and subsidise the cost of freight by paying more at home for these goods than they cost abroad. Meanwhile cooking a meal from scratch with seasonal ingredients has become the preserve of the middle classes who call themselves’ foodies’ for eating asparagus in spring and aubergines in autumn.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that New Zealand farmers are the most efficient in the world and that almost every other country has to subsidise this important economic activity. But the pursuit of profit from the sector has been at a big cost: although farmers make millions for our economy from food destined for overseas markets, New Zealand ranks only behind the US worldwide in the generous number of McDonald’s per head of population.
As the leaves start to drop and the days shorten, the villagers are united in their preparations for winter: firewood is stacked, preserves are stored, warm bedding and clothing comes out of storage and they await l’hiver. Despite the lack of heat pumps, flat screen tvs, cheap lounge suites, multiplexes and take away food, the way they embrace the natural ebb and flow of life is something to be envied. I wish I could say the same of home. *****************************************
November 29 2011
Wanted: New brand for far-right and left leaning political parties
The brand design challenge of the decade? Or the stupidest assignment you could take on as a designer?
Yep – coming up with a new brand for ACT has to be one of the least sexy propositions to pop into the design mix since someone tried (and failed) to make paying your taxes appealing. And Labour – once so mighty and powerful, are now reduced and humiliated, sharing the air in the opposition seats of the debating chamber with NZ First and the Greens.
But is it possible to rebrand either party, send them out again and watch them win? Well of course. Just look at National back in 1999 and 2002. A more sorry and spent political force would have been hard to find. So they brought in brand John Key to sell their unimaginative policies and hey presto! By this time next year some company in Pennsylvania will own 49% of our power companies and solo mothers will be abandoning their babies to fulfill their government work obligations.
With just over one percent of the party vote, the only place for ACT to go from here is up up up and away from the current name.
And those colours. ACT (and National) are obviously big on research: it was the findings of David Farrar’s poll company that set them on the road to ridding themselves of Rodney in Epsom. So here’ some more research they could absorb: blue and yellow are the colours of choice when you want to discount something or send a message that it’s cheap: think Ikea, JB Hi Fi, and Pak ‘n Save. Not too many ACT voters hanging out in those stores I expect. At least their unbeloved leader took the hint and exited as fast as he could – well before lunchtime by all accounts.
Labour had a fabulous new logo courtesy of Barnes Catmur and friends, some great advertising and a leader who didn’t look half bad in the dying days of the campaign. Trouble is they had a whole lotta baggage from the past too which had clearly turned their grassroots supporters away – especially those comfortably off, educated, liberal types who turned Green, because a vote for them felt goooood. It’s also possible that students, another traditional support group went to NZ First over the dollar for dollar loan repayments policy, forgetting the minor detail that it would just about bankrupt us. Just like the Old Spice relaunch, Labour needs to attract attention and be seen as relevant, credible and a bit hip, again. A charismatic leader wouldn’t go amiss either.
Overall though the message from the voters was loud and clear – they don’t want a far right party having too much influence on government, but they aren’t too fussed about the far left either. This means taking over the spongy and crowded centrist brand ground so they can win back the hearts, minds and votes of their deserters.
Meantime, who said it isn’t easy being Green? Kermit my friend, it’s a doddle when it comes to branding. Your name, what you stand for and your colour are all conveniently rolled into one. No wonder they gobbled up over 10 percent of the party vote. Maybe those old school house colours have something going for them afterall….Purple Party anyone???
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January 2012
Creating a stink….
There’s nothing like a dried out old Xmas tree tossed out on the kerb to remind you that yuletide time is over. But here in Ponsonby there’s another sign that a new year is on its way – the bus stops up and down the strip are no longer plastered with the image of a pouting girl, clad in a concoction of black netting, (that on a second or third glance reveals there’s nothing between the netting and her knickers.) One knee is invitingly raised to help support a gigantic bottle of perfume, balanced against the waif’s fragile and under-nourished shoulder.
The model looks out at the viewer with eyes that are largely expressionless, except for the faintest hint of frisky trouble. Apart from the ridiculousness of the pose and the huge bottle of Jucy perfume, which if it were real, would require herculean strength, or at the very least a healthy weight to height ratio, to hold aloft, the overall look of ‘little girl combined with barely controlled lasciviousness’ is disturbing and demeaning to girls and women.
One target audience – men buying Xmas gifts - no doubt went out with this image in their heads, and stupidly parted with good money in the hope that a few dabs of Jucy on their wives/girlfriends/lovers would transform them into this little girl-on-heat. Well they wouldn’t be the first dumb males to do that. More worrying is the message to the other target: young girls. Come over all vampy and sex kitten when you wear the perfume and you’ll get a man, provided you are passive, unresistant and thin. And flashing your knickers won’t go amiss either.
It took me back to those aspiration perfume ads that were around when I was a teen in the 1970s and early 80s. Import controls ensured that precious little perfume found its way into NZ in the first place, and duty-free was still the primary source for such luxuries.
But then along came Charlie. Remember the song? “There’s a fragrance that’s gonna stay and it’s here now, Charlie. A whole new fragrance that's going your way and it’s here now, Charlie!” It was kind of young and kind of now, kind of free and kind of wow! The face of Charlie was model Shelley Hack striding out alone in her gorgeous high-waisted, flared pant suits (the first time a woman had worn trousers to advertise perfume in the United States). She was single, independent, thoughtful, and happy. No pouting, no hint of knickers, not a whiff of sex kitten. Sure some man came along and gave her a kiss at some stage in the ad, but who remembers him? This was about a fragrance that reflected how modern women lived, not a ploy to get a man into bed. And even if it did lead to sex, she had bigger fish to fry with her career, her ambitions, her future.
Even the title of the perfume had a gender-free edge to it – Charlie could be a liberated Charlotte. If it was a man – well he was on the same level as Ms Hack taking on the world. Ditto the UK ad for Chanel No.5. Here a woman, old enough to be our Jucy sex kitten’s mother, is immersed in the works on display in a modern art gallery. Reflecting on a particular piece – (a Henry Moore? A Barbara Hepworth?) she bumps into a man and they size each other up. Next moment we’re in her sophisticated modernist apartment. She’s on the phone dabbing on the No 5. Is the call with him? Is it another woman she’s sharing her story with? Sadly the final scene falls back on the cliché of a kiss at sunset. But that aside you know this woman. First off, she’s smart, intelligent and independent. Secondly she chooses the man as much as he chooses her. And did I mention she’s over 15?
So how could little old me, growing up in Wellington’s dull, windy suburbs not want to be that woman? Could I imagine the same romantic and tantalizing meeting over a piece of challenging modernist art occurring at the old Buckle Street National Art Gallery? Well a girl can always dream and I was so taken by that ad, the first bottle of duty-free perfume I bought was Chanel No 5 – at the ripe old age of 20.
But I don’t want my teenage daughter to buy Jucy and dream about scoring some bloke by appearing to be in a perpetual state of horniness. Look over perfume ads for men (well just about any ad for a male product) and you have images of dressed, interesting men, having conversations with each other, making decisions, taking responsibility. Yes there’s a bit of flesh around sometimes, but sadly it’s often accompanied by near naked women in compromising poses, bending to the highly perfumed man’s will.
And on that note, the bus stops of Ponsonby Road now sport large photos of Sonny Boy Williams in a defiant, aggressive pose, sporting a layer of sweat and decorated with tattoos. He’s every inch the uncompromising, thuggish, dominating Maori male, exuding an air of barely controlled malice which could at any moment cause those muscled arms to break out and give the ‘missus’ and any vulnerable children who bother him, a thorough beating. The product he’s pushing? Bottled water with ‘natural’ energy. Expensive, unnecessary and unlikely to turn your average Maori (or Pakeha man for that matter) into a muscle-bound hunk. But then I guess blokes are allowed to dream as well.
I’m sure Williams and dopey Jucy girl would make a lovely couple…
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December 2011
I Do I Do I Do I Do I Do
It’s wedding season, and in the same week that I signed my divorce papers, the Bridal mags were fighting for space on the shelves and Ponsonby Road was invaded by chicks and dicks out for the obligatory hen and stag nights. At the same time facebook was flooded with links to articles about people who despair of ever getting married at all. Working my way through all the forlorn, self-pitying and largely inaccurate drivel that made up these articles convinced me that getting married is a lot like having sex – unless you actually do it yourself, you’ll never appreciate what it’s really like.
And let me tell you, we’re only talking about the deed on the day here – not the tedious, tiresome business of actually spending years and years with your selected partner. Because most of these articles (and yes they were pretty much all written by women) demonstrated an unhealthy obsession for the public commitment accompanied by the ceremony and consumerism of saying “I do” whilst leaving the reality of marriage to drift somewhere in the ether along with paying for the overpriced dress, catering and photographer and dealing with the tears over the guest list and bride diet gone wrong.
Ha! I hear you say. All very well for her – she had her day in the limelight, she could call herself ‘Mrs’ (no I never did) refer to her beloved as ‘my husband’ (ditto) and dribble over the photo album for years to come (never got around to ordering one of those.)
According to the latest statistics, marriage isn’t exactly a la mode in New Zealand so I’m intrigued by its popularity amongst some of my peers. We’ve been on a steady downward slide since our marriage high in 1971 when the rate was 45.5. per 1000 not-marrieds aged 16 or over. In 2010 that had dropped to 12.5 per 1000 or around 23,000 marriages including civil unions. In the same year though 8900 divorces untied the knot. Ouch, hardly a ringing endorsement for marriage, and the divorce rate is actually down from a high in 2004.
Statistics New Zealand have a few reasons for the fall in the marriage rate, including the growth in de facto unions, a general trend towards delayed marriage, and increasing numbers of New Zealanders remaining single.
To that list I add women finding themselves unmarried against their will. In the weeks leading up to divorce day, I had many a never-married friend confide to me that it was definitely on her bucket list – but not necessarily on her current partner’s one. And the reason she wanted it? Commitment, the day, the dress, the memory yes, but mainly because they had never done it.
How do you tell someone that the morning after the wedding, life looks pretty much the same. Disney might have sold us the idea that true love’s kiss will transform our boring old mundane lives into a fairytale, but basically it’s business as usual, except you can stop looking – period. You’ve made your choice, signed on the dotted line, dropped out of the race.
But even if you reveal the awful truth to the never-been-marrieds, it seems that publicly declaring, ‘I’m taken!” is important to lots of people, especially women over 40 who’ve never been brides and that’s against the harsh reality of a shortage of suitable mates to be brides of anyway. It sure makes straight people more sympathetic to how it used to be for so many gay couples wanting the date, the dress, the memory and the photos to dribble over too.
Friends I spoke to who were married rarely used the word love to describe why they had made it all legal, except one, who was so in love she wanted to share her happiness with friends and family – and she had been married before – although second time round she admitted she was a bit more savvy about all the trimmings.
(Wedding planners must hate second-time-rounders for this reason – they know that the most expensive cake, dress, and a squillion bridesmaids, don’t make any difference in the long run.)
Just so you don’t think I’m a bitter old witch, chewing my newly divorced gums and muttering away as I rip apart the latest issue of Brides NZ and feed it to the fire, I’m happy to reveal that I’m re-partnered with someone who has also been married before. Given we share a home and a life and all the paraphernalia that goes with that, and we’re in an exclusive and loving relationship, marriage isn’t going to make either of us happier or more committed. Every dog has its day and we both had ours, so now everyday we’re just really delighted we met and fell in love and we’re able to pull it off. We know that it takes work to make it work, and choosing to bring it all down to just one day in the hope that that will make it last ‘forever’ is naïve.
Having said that, my 14-year-old daughter brought me up sharp recently when we were talking about whether some friends, with children, would ever get married. ‘It’s not fair, “ she moaned, referring to the offspring. “They would get to go to their parents’ wedding and I never did with you and Daddy.”
Now that’s one reason for marriage I hadn’t thought of.
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Fonterra's Free Milk wouldn't impress in France...
September 2011...somewhere in South West France...
The gentle golden haze of early evening has descended on the village. Children play on the parc opposite our 160-year-old farmhouse, while the leaves of the 200-year-old ash tree shelter me from the last of rays of yet another hot, cloudless, still day. As I contemplate my aperitif for the evening, the tinkle of cowbells fill the air and fireflies dance before my eyes. Sacre bleu! I’m living in a cliché – the classic southern French experience complete with crusty old timers in berets, eccentric bar and cafe owners (with even more eccentric opening hours) and the glorious relaxed pace of French rural life, that doesn’t appear to have changed much since this house was built.
I sniff the air and the delicious smell of tonight’s diner wafts out to greet me: my partner William is almost bent double in the tiny dark kitchen, chopping, sautéing and deftly stirring up yet another simple, but tasty meal concocted from the endless supply of quality local ingredients on offer.
It’s an Indian summer in the Auvergne and despite the four-five months of snow that’s on its way, the locals are complaining about this pregnant summer that simply refuses to deliver autumn on cue. President Nicholas Sarkozy’s heavily pregnant wife, Carla Brunei is similarly keeping the country in waiting as the days pass and no action appears on the baby front.
In the village every introduction elicits the same response: “Kiwi – Le rugby! Les All Blacks! Le Bleu!” (accompanied by heads in hands as a reflection of France’s patchy performance in the World Cup so far). The local paper has France’s defeat by the All Blacks on its front page complete with a photo of Maa Nonu lurching for the try line. Inside there are four pages of comment and analysis. We came to France to escape the hype of the world cup, but we’ve been ‘hoist by our own pertard’ as it seems there is no escape even in this tiny hamlet we currently call home.
The locals other concern about ‘les kiwis’ who have plonked themselves in their village, is my school-age children. How is it possible that they can be away from school when it is not school holidays in New Zealand? In France this would not be allowed and is considered a very serious breach of educational protocol. When I try and explain that they are missing only two weeks of actual school time before the holidays kick in and that they are gaining the experience of French language, culture, art and food, I’m met with the classic gallic shrug of the shoulders.
Education is king and it doesn’t sit so lightly on these southerner’s shoulders. What they are comfortable with though is agricultural subsidies. Thanks to the EU they can live comfortably off herds of less than a dozen cattle and cows, laced with a few splendid bulls and even fewer sheep. These beasts are thoroughly indulged, grazing in velvety green pastures and snoozing under stands of elegant beech trees.
Come marche time and it all comes home to roost – or should I say roast. A roll of succulent pork (over a kilo), 900 grams of dark, rich blade steak, 500 grams of pork mince and two free range chickens comes to less than E$30. With the exchange rate nudging NZ 0.60 cents, that’s the bargain of the century and this is no cheap meat either. The chicken skin is taught and fine and drops hardly any fat, the blade steak becomes a robust beef bourguignon (price of a bottle of local burgundy to cook it in approx E$4) and the pork is damn near perfect. But wait there’s more: a litre of local milk (demi-crème) is E.58 cents. I have to stare hard at the price to make sure I’m reading it right. St Nectaire, the local cheese brand is a fraction of the cost of our basic cheddar, ditto the salami and moreish salty, garlicy saucisson. Fruit and vegetables are similarly locally grown and reasonably priced – especially at the weekly markets.
The most expensive thing in the only supermarket (about 15 km away) is the organic Australian shampoo. Even tampons are a fifth of the price back home.
Okay so yes, the French have issues. Their lives are not perfect – and after eating the local delicacy, truffarde (a glorious concoction of chopped potato, crème fraiche, lard and lashings of salt and pepper) I do wonder about the waistlines and hearts of some of the locals. But if subsidies ensure you eat local, nourishing, high quality food – particularly dairy products, then I’m all for bringing them back to New Zealand. Ditto some control over what food is available when and where. It’s a 55 km drive to Clermont Ferrand, home of the nearest fast-food joint. The shops close Saturday lunchtime and reopen Monday or Tuesday. Sunday is a day of rest with family and friends (the local boulangerie conveniently opens until noon so there are bread supplies for Sunday lunch.) But Sunday is not spent worshipping at the altar of Bunnings, Harvey Norman or McDonald’s. Instead le pique-nique and a stroll around some of the local lacs and passages is conducted - in an orderly French fashion.
Yes I hear you: country life is less sophisticated than the city and yes in the big cities of Paris and Lyon shops do open on Sundays and there are billboards there advertising all manner of material possessions, but it’s more controlled, contained and let’s face it censored. On a recent weekend trip to the Coromandel I stopped in the tiny town of Ngatea. On offer for travelers? A Subway outlet and a Lotto shop. Yet we were surrounded by some of the richest growing land in the country, covered in dairy cows and sheep and crops, but not a single piece of local produce was on sale.
My village locals are amused at my comparison of the prices for milk, cheese, butter and meat. New Zealand is one giant farm as far as they are concerned. And they are right. But it’s become one giant corporate farm, dominated by the industrialization of food. Overseas-owned supermarkets dictate the price and supply of produce (and more disturbingly the aisles are being turned over to giant freezers packed with pre-prepared meals.) We export our best and subsidise the cost of freight by paying more at home for these goods than they cost abroad. Meanwhile cooking a meal from scratch with seasonal ingredients has become the preserve of the middle classes who call themselves’ foodies’ for eating asparagus in spring and aubergines in autumn.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that New Zealand farmers are the most efficient in the world and that almost every other country has to subsidise this important economic activity. But the pursuit of profit from the sector has been at a big cost: although farmers make millions for our economy from food destined for overseas markets, New Zealand ranks only behind the US worldwide in the generous number of McDonald’s per head of population.
As the leaves start to drop and the days shorten, the villagers are united in their preparations for winter: firewood is stacked, preserves are stored, warm bedding and clothing comes out of storage and they await l’hiver. Despite the lack of heat pumps, flat screen tvs, cheap lounge suites, multiplexes and take away food, the way they embrace the natural ebb and flow of life is something to be envied. I wish I could say the same of home. *****************************************
November 29 2011
Wanted: New brand for far-right and left leaning political parties
The brand design challenge of the decade? Or the stupidest assignment you could take on as a designer?
Yep – coming up with a new brand for ACT has to be one of the least sexy propositions to pop into the design mix since someone tried (and failed) to make paying your taxes appealing. And Labour – once so mighty and powerful, are now reduced and humiliated, sharing the air in the opposition seats of the debating chamber with NZ First and the Greens.
But is it possible to rebrand either party, send them out again and watch them win? Well of course. Just look at National back in 1999 and 2002. A more sorry and spent political force would have been hard to find. So they brought in brand John Key to sell their unimaginative policies and hey presto! By this time next year some company in Pennsylvania will own 49% of our power companies and solo mothers will be abandoning their babies to fulfill their government work obligations.
With just over one percent of the party vote, the only place for ACT to go from here is up up up and away from the current name.
And those colours. ACT (and National) are obviously big on research: it was the findings of David Farrar’s poll company that set them on the road to ridding themselves of Rodney in Epsom. So here’ some more research they could absorb: blue and yellow are the colours of choice when you want to discount something or send a message that it’s cheap: think Ikea, JB Hi Fi, and Pak ‘n Save. Not too many ACT voters hanging out in those stores I expect. At least their unbeloved leader took the hint and exited as fast as he could – well before lunchtime by all accounts.
Labour had a fabulous new logo courtesy of Barnes Catmur and friends, some great advertising and a leader who didn’t look half bad in the dying days of the campaign. Trouble is they had a whole lotta baggage from the past too which had clearly turned their grassroots supporters away – especially those comfortably off, educated, liberal types who turned Green, because a vote for them felt goooood. It’s also possible that students, another traditional support group went to NZ First over the dollar for dollar loan repayments policy, forgetting the minor detail that it would just about bankrupt us. Just like the Old Spice relaunch, Labour needs to attract attention and be seen as relevant, credible and a bit hip, again. A charismatic leader wouldn’t go amiss either.
Overall though the message from the voters was loud and clear – they don’t want a far right party having too much influence on government, but they aren’t too fussed about the far left either. This means taking over the spongy and crowded centrist brand ground so they can win back the hearts, minds and votes of their deserters.
Meantime, who said it isn’t easy being Green? Kermit my friend, it’s a doddle when it comes to branding. Your name, what you stand for and your colour are all conveniently rolled into one. No wonder they gobbled up over 10 percent of the party vote. Maybe those old school house colours have something going for them afterall….Purple Party anyone???
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