Inferno destroys Taranaki hotel
26.04.06 9.00am
A fire destroyed the New Commercial Hotel in Manaia, Taranaki, last night. The Fire Service was told of the blaze about 9.15 and seven appliances with volunteer crews rushed from New Plymouth, Eltham, Kaponga, Hawera, Manaia and nearby Okaiawa. A Fire Service spokesman said all guests and staff had got out safely. "The hotel is a total write-off." The cause of the blaze had yet to be established.
Saturday, April 29
Friday, April 28
Club Bizarre
http://www.clubbizarre.co.nz/aboutcb/events.php
Club Bizarre (and its predecessor-Maximum Ego Productions) have been putting together events and gigs since the mid eighties clocking up quite an impressive back catalog of dates. Below are some of these dates. We havent listed EVERY gig, just the nights that stood out or the ones we could remember. Just click onto the event name to see photographs, gig flyers, reviews, tickets, sticker art and much much more!
Club Bizarre (and its predecessor-Maximum Ego Productions) have been putting together events and gigs since the mid eighties clocking up quite an impressive back catalog of dates. Below are some of these dates. We havent listed EVERY gig, just the nights that stood out or the ones we could remember. Just click onto the event name to see photographs, gig flyers, reviews, tickets, sticker art and much much more!
MAORI SHOW BANDS FROM THE 60's
http://homepages.ihug.co.nz/~mstowers/id47.htm TE PAPA MUSEUM LAUNCHES THE MAORI SHOWBANDS WEBSITE!!
http://www.maorishowbands.co.nz
Some of the great Maori Show Bands from the 50's & 60's set a precedence and paved the way for New Zealand music and were an important part of New Zealand's musical history. While they have yet to be fully recognised and appreciated for their talents and contribution to NZ Music, these pages are for the showband members themselves to share memories, tell their own stories and share it with the rest of the world. A meeting place where they can get together and reminisce.
http://www.maorishowbands.co.nz
Some of the great Maori Show Bands from the 50's & 60's set a precedence and paved the way for New Zealand music and were an important part of New Zealand's musical history. While they have yet to be fully recognised and appreciated for their talents and contribution to NZ Music, these pages are for the showband members themselves to share memories, tell their own stories and share it with the rest of the world. A meeting place where they can get together and reminisce.
Bits and Pieces of Auckland
Royal and Central Grill Rooms around the top of Victoria St ( after 6 o’clock closing)
the Hi Diddle Griddle, Gourmet and El Matador.
Tommy had been in Sea Of Tranquility before forming a short-lived jazz group called The Adderley Walker Movement with pianist Mike Walker. They played at the El Matador nightclub in Auckland and released one single in 1970 called 'Hooray For The Salvation Army'/'Does Anybody Know What Time It Is?'.
... Who on here remembers the dances at the Orange? And there was that restaurant El Matador just up the hill and around the corner in Symonds St. ... http://www.realwomen.co.nz/
..the Orange Ballroom is still on Newton Road, Auckland, significantly at the opposite end of Newton Road to the Irish Society.
It is not a commercial Ballroom anymore but I think it can still be hired out for 'functions.' And
..the Orange Lodge Ballroom is on Newton Road, opposite St Benedicts Street and just a short walk from the PowerStation.
the Hi Diddle Griddle, Gourmet and El Matador.
Tommy had been in Sea Of Tranquility before forming a short-lived jazz group called The Adderley Walker Movement with pianist Mike Walker. They played at the El Matador nightclub in Auckland and released one single in 1970 called 'Hooray For The Salvation Army'/'Does Anybody Know What Time It Is?'.
... Who on here remembers the dances at the Orange? And there was that restaurant El Matador just up the hill and around the corner in Symonds St. ... http://www.realwomen.co.nz/
..the Orange Ballroom is still on Newton Road, Auckland, significantly at the opposite end of Newton Road to the Irish Society.
It is not a commercial Ballroom anymore but I think it can still be hired out for 'functions.' And
..the Orange Lodge Ballroom is on Newton Road, opposite St Benedicts Street and just a short walk from the PowerStation.
Tuesday, April 25
Who remembers all the jets when we were at Hawera Main
The days of playing non stop cricket and softball on the fields.
Sunday, April 23
Mystic on the Road again
Mystik on the road again 23 April 2006
by ELLEN DAVIES The Nesian Mystik boys have been busy in the three years since their debut album Polysaturated entered the charts at the No 1 spot.
Two members of the band have become fathers, one has a baby on the way and singer Te Awanui Reeder has completed a business degree.
Things have changed in three years - and that couldn't help but be reflected in the music of their new album Freshmen, Reeder tells Sunday News.
And the band feels more ready to deal with success the second time around.
"Three years ago, we didn't know what to expect," says 22-year-old Reeder.
"We also didn't know this industry. We were quite naive. In saying that, I think that was good for us.
"We thought we were invincible and now we still do but we are a lot more straight up.
"We have always been straight up with each other ?now we are straight up with anybody.
"We are realistic in that we like our music but it?s business as well."
Reeder and his bandmates Donald McNulty, Junior Rikiau, David Atai, Feleti Strickson-Pua and Heath Manakau formed Nesian Mystik back in 1999 when they were still students at Auckland's Western Springs College.
Polysaturated spawned the hits It's On, Nesian Style, For The People, Unity and Brothaz.
Waiting three years after Polysaturated to release Freshmen was a conscious decision for the Nesians, who are all now in their early twenties.
"We knew there was going to be so much pressure," Reeder says. "That, and every second album we've seen has been kind of stink to be honest - it hasn't been as good.
"It's like the movies - you like the first one and you see the second one and think, 'Why did you make it?"
"We are pretty happy, we are very proud of this album. Musically, it kills the first one. The production is so much better and the structure of songs is better."
by ELLEN DAVIES The Nesian Mystik boys have been busy in the three years since their debut album Polysaturated entered the charts at the No 1 spot.
Two members of the band have become fathers, one has a baby on the way and singer Te Awanui Reeder has completed a business degree.
Things have changed in three years - and that couldn't help but be reflected in the music of their new album Freshmen, Reeder tells Sunday News.
And the band feels more ready to deal with success the second time around.
"Three years ago, we didn't know what to expect," says 22-year-old Reeder.
"We also didn't know this industry. We were quite naive. In saying that, I think that was good for us.
"We thought we were invincible and now we still do but we are a lot more straight up.
"We have always been straight up with each other ?now we are straight up with anybody.
"We are realistic in that we like our music but it?s business as well."
Reeder and his bandmates Donald McNulty, Junior Rikiau, David Atai, Feleti Strickson-Pua and Heath Manakau formed Nesian Mystik back in 1999 when they were still students at Auckland's Western Springs College.
Polysaturated spawned the hits It's On, Nesian Style, For The People, Unity and Brothaz.
Waiting three years after Polysaturated to release Freshmen was a conscious decision for the Nesians, who are all now in their early twenties.
"We knew there was going to be so much pressure," Reeder says. "That, and every second album we've seen has been kind of stink to be honest - it hasn't been as good.
"It's like the movies - you like the first one and you see the second one and think, 'Why did you make it?"
"We are pretty happy, we are very proud of this album. Musically, it kills the first one. The production is so much better and the structure of songs is better."
Bless your cotton socks
Bless your cotton socks 20 April 2006
By ANDY MORRIS
INTERNET EXCLUSIVE COLUMN One of the first journalists I worked with made it his personal mission to replace swear-words with the likes of "breadstick" and "cotton socks".
He lived a double life. By day a mild-mannered sub-editor - by night the even milder-mannered founder and secretary of The Polite Society.
The group was formed to encourage better behaviour in Britain.
Ian Gregory set it up after several of his friends returned from holidays abroad - including New Zealand - saying how polite everyone in other countries were, and how badly the UK fared in comparison.
Some 19 years later that contrast between Britain and New Zealand seems even greater. So I say thanks, New Zealand, for the politeness and friendliness which you seem to take for granted but which just isn't the rule elsewhere.
I became an immigrant in January, though it took me a few weeks to learn how to pronounce my new title - "Pakeha".
Nobody at PAK'nSAVE knows I am a newbie. The guy behind the counter at the dairy has no idea I'm judging each encounter, looking to reassure myself I've done the right thing in moving halfway round the world.
In short, nobody's trying hard for my benefit.
Must be that this is how you are most of the time.
I've seen people give up train seats for pregnant women - without being asked. Half the people on my bus in the morning thank the driver when they get off.
Isn't that incredible? No, that's just the thing - you guys don't think it is.
The best thing of all is the behaviour of kids.
At my two boys' schools in the UK, talking in class and disrespecting the teacher was the norm.
Thankfully at Avondale College (and they deserve to be recognised) the teachers have put my kids straight - you do things differently over here.
Well done, I shall be sending the Polite Society a report. I tell you, I'm breadsticking glad I came. http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/sundaynews/0,2106,3642969a15596,00.html
By ANDY MORRIS
INTERNET EXCLUSIVE COLUMN One of the first journalists I worked with made it his personal mission to replace swear-words with the likes of "breadstick" and "cotton socks".
He lived a double life. By day a mild-mannered sub-editor - by night the even milder-mannered founder and secretary of The Polite Society.
The group was formed to encourage better behaviour in Britain.
Ian Gregory set it up after several of his friends returned from holidays abroad - including New Zealand - saying how polite everyone in other countries were, and how badly the UK fared in comparison.
Some 19 years later that contrast between Britain and New Zealand seems even greater. So I say thanks, New Zealand, for the politeness and friendliness which you seem to take for granted but which just isn't the rule elsewhere.
I became an immigrant in January, though it took me a few weeks to learn how to pronounce my new title - "Pakeha".
Nobody at PAK'nSAVE knows I am a newbie. The guy behind the counter at the dairy has no idea I'm judging each encounter, looking to reassure myself I've done the right thing in moving halfway round the world.
In short, nobody's trying hard for my benefit.
Must be that this is how you are most of the time.
I've seen people give up train seats for pregnant women - without being asked. Half the people on my bus in the morning thank the driver when they get off.
Isn't that incredible? No, that's just the thing - you guys don't think it is.
The best thing of all is the behaviour of kids.
At my two boys' schools in the UK, talking in class and disrespecting the teacher was the norm.
Thankfully at Avondale College (and they deserve to be recognised) the teachers have put my kids straight - you do things differently over here.
Well done, I shall be sending the Polite Society a report. I tell you, I'm breadsticking glad I came. http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/sundaynews/0,2106,3642969a15596,00.html
How Th' Dudes Got Started
Should you ask me to put a date on when Th' Dudes began, I'd point to a Saturday afternoon sometime early in the Auckland summer of 1975. If the past is a foreign country, then New Zealand in the 1970s was another fucking planet. When the world ended, the joke went, we'd be OK because everything here happened five years late.
We were isolated, protected colonials. We pledged unquestioning allegiance to Great Britain and played "God Save the Queen" in the cinemas at 11, 2, 5 and 8 every day except Sunday, when the country was shut. After the anthem and before the main feature there'd be a National Film Unit short about P Class locomotives or touring the central North Island by Austin Allegro. A Clockwork Orange carried an R20 certificate. Ulysses was screened to sexually segregated audiences, lest Joyce inflame the senses and cause spontaneous public coupling.
For entertainment that went beyond the local booze barn, the Ace of Clubs featured Diamond Lil and Marcus Craig. The Pink Pussycat had girls "in g-strings only" (according to the ads). His Majesty's Theatre (does your blood still boil when you see the carpark it became?) and the St James hosted shows "direct from the West End": local-girl-made-good Nyree Dawn Porter in Charlie Girl; Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett & Jonathon Miller reunited for Behind the Fridge; ooh-you-are-awful Danny La Rue and slapstick Norman Wisdom - though Wisdom did not prevail and went home after two nights of empty seats. The stage production of Hair came, and was put on trial for obscenity. Germaine Greer came, said "bullshit" in public, and was put on trial for obscenity. Our nanny justice system was determined to do the thinking for us. We could have been the laughing stock of the world, if only the world would notice us.
Tommy Adderly's club, Grandpa's, was nearing the end of its blues-wailin' life. The Inbetweens played at Aladdin's, Steampacket at Your Father's Mustache, Dalvanius at Cleopatra's out east in the shadow of Mount Wellington, on the edge of civilization. Woe betide you if you tried to get into any of these places wearing jeans, though if you said they were "dress jeans" you could get lucky. Draconian licensing laws meant many clubs - like Maurice Greer's Crofts in Airedale Street - served soft drinks only. It's hard to believe that grown adults would go out for an evening's entertainment without the chance of getting wildly pissed. There'd be a drop of the real stuff under the counter though, if you knew how to ask.
Television One and South Pacific Television, both state-owned but programmed to offer the pretence of competition, transmitted from 2pm daily and closed down well before midnight . Entire families would gather at 8pm each Saturday to watch the pinnacle of the week's broadcasting: Des O'Connor, Morecambe and Wise, the Seekers, the Two Ronnies, or the innocent and spectacularly popular Black and White Minstrel Show. Sunday nights provided a musical lifeline to the outside world as Dr Rock - Barry Jenkins - presented the Grunt Machine and Radio With Pictures, flashing us images of the birth of punk and the music video revolution two decades before MTV made it to these distant shores. The biggest selling colour television set on the market, the Philips K9, cost NZ$999, about twenty times the average weekly wage. There was no "reality" or "bloopers" tv, and the announcers just announced and the newsreaders just read news. Radio Hauraki - far superior to the NZBC's 1ZM - was the only radio station worth listening to. On Saturday mornings they had American Top 40 beaming in Dr John and Marvin Gaye with Casey Kasem exhorting us to keep our feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars. There were no "classic hits" or "easy listening" or "news-talk" stations, and the disc jockeys played what they wanted to play, knew something about music, and didn't have the sense of humour of your average snickering 13 year old schoolboy.
A cafe was a place where stonking great portions of bacon and eggs and baked beans were piled on thick, buttered white toast and washed down with Choysa tea and instant coffee. A coffee lounge was slightly more refined and offered savouries and sandwiches and scones and lamingtons, with more Choysa tea and instant coffee. Fish and chips was the staple takeaway. McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken were rare and extravagent novelties, watched warily by the neighbourhood burger bar. The few restaurants around were for special occasions only: the Hungry Horse, Hagan's, El Matador, El Trovador. At the Tai Tung in Wyndham Street you had to book weeks in advance and could still wait an hour for your table. Local wine was thin and sweet: Cook's Chasseur, Blenheimer, Cold Duck, Marque Vue. Imported wine was scarce and expensive.
We drove Hillmans, Holdens, Fords and Austins. The occasional Toyota or battered Datsun drew curious glances. Buying a new car - perhaps an HQ Holden "with distinctive W-shaped front" - required something mysterious called "overseas funds". Panelbeaters flashed neon hammers and glittering sequinned signs. "Drive With Care Or You'll End Up Here", warned the wreckers at the top of Newton Road.
There were tariffs and controls on everything imported. In shops the range of goods was slim and the prices high. Clothes, furniture, appliances, electronics, hardware, toys: if you could get them at all they would cost you two, three, four times as much as in their country of origin. Things manufactured here by our protected industries were usually of poor quality, hence our still-persistent belief that offshore is better.
Fruit and vegetables though were big and cheap: Golden Delicious apples and Packham pears, plums and apricots from Marlborough and Hawke's Bay , oranges from Kerikeri, watermelons and crates of Golden Queen peaches from the Henderson orchards. Dairy products were cheap too of course: four cents for a pint of milk, twenty-five cents for a half pound of butter. All the best meat was sent to Mother England, but the leftovers were affordable and plentiful and many a suburban chest freezer held half a beast.
But better do your shopping before the weekend arrived. After 9 o'clock on Friday night there was nothing open but the corner dairy, selling goods at premium prices. Many people dreamed of owning a dairy for a few years and retiring on the profits. "A little goldmine", my dad said.
Businessmen wore locally-made Cambridge suits and Summit Viyella shirts. In summer office-workers, plain-clothes policemen and All Blacks in mufti switched to too-tight walk shorts and walk socks, a local fashion aberration that brought to mind hairy-legged sixth formers. Crimplene, seer-sucker and velour were big. Ladies' fashions filtered slowly south of the equator, arriving a season or two after their northern debut: the culotte, the trouser suit, the maxi dress. Hippies, beads, kaftans, incense and love oil thrived at Cook Street Market.
There was no fresh fruit juice, no low-fat milk, no flavoured milk, no soy milk. No energy drinks or smart drinks. No light beer, no boutique beer. No short blacks or flat whites. No one-day cricket, no Black Caps or All Whites or Silver Ferns, no aerobics, no sportswear-as-fashion, no sports-shoes-as-streetwear. No traffic jams. No video games, video players, or videos. No compact discs, DVDs, laser discs, or laser light shows. No fax machines or filofaxes, no cell-phones or phone cards. No personal computers or desktop computers or laptop computers or palmtop computers. No Internet, Intranet, World Wide Web, or email.
There was no GST, no CER, no ATM, no EFTPOS. If you wanted money for the weekend you had to remember to go to the bank and cash a cheque before 3pm on Friday. No one- or two-dollar coins, no fifty dollar notes. To buy foreign currency you had to present your passport and airline ticket as proof of travel.
There was no Prozac, no Viagra, no Ecstacy, no AIDS, no herpes.
No hole inthe ozone layer...
And on this balmy Saturday afternoon in late 1975, Dave Dobbyn, Peter Urlich, Peter "Nyolls" Coleman and I were gathered - as usual - in Nyolls's grandmother's basement in Greenlane. We were "getting a band together". Dave, Peter U and I had known each other since form one at Sacred Heart College in 1968, laughing at Milligan and Sellers and Cleese, passing notes in sex ed class, and blanking out the wretchedness of canings and new maths and Latin verbs with a love of music and a heightened sense of the absurd.
I'd come from England in 1966, aged 9. Wild colonial New Zealand was all a bit of a shock after the sandals and socks and shy reserve of the Old Country. I had trouble fitting in to this bare feet and beer jugs place. I did have a guitar though, and an older sister who - back in England - had exposed me early on in life to the wonders of pop music: the overwhelming magic of Beatlemania, the depravity of the Stones. Radio Caroline and Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady Go: I was hooked on the soundscape of the three-minute wonder. Tennis racquet as guitar? I was that cliché.
Peter Urlich was a living light entertainment show in himself. He could grease up the teachers yet still spit with the bad boys at the back of the class. And a sharp dresser: even then he was the sort of guy who could play a hard rugby match in a hurricane and still look like he'd come straight from the dry-cleaners via the hairdressers. Together we harboured a dream: that one day we'd be like Mick and Keef, or Bowie and Ronson, or Daltrey and Townshend.
I knew I was going to be friends with Dave on our first day at SHC. When he walked into class late, wearing a too-large hand-me-down uniform and a savage crewcut courtesy of his mother's kitchen shears, I recognised a fellow loner. I see him still: ginger on porcelain swaddled in a tent of navy blue. He was picked on and put upon all through school and found solace in his guitar. At lunch-time a sport-hating half dozen of us would gather in the hall or a music room, banging away on guitars. While the others were diddling around with Simon & Garfunkel, Dave would stonk into some riff-driven Neil Young. When Abbey Road was released and everyone was trying to plinkety-plink their way through "Here Comes the Sun" Dave impressed upon me the blackfoot boogie of "Come Together". He and I lived for the days when Mr Gannaway, the music master, brought his electric organ to class and played the Peddlars' "Girlie" with wah wah and everything. Together, Dave and I would jam for hours on endless Santana riffs. We'd yell "fuck the neighbours!" along with the Small Faces. We'd pound out the entire bridge of "Something in the Air" on an out of tune piano. There was never - praise be - a scrap of formal shape to his music; he's probably never read a chord chart in his life. If my guitar playing was ordered progression; his was a tumbling, swirling cloud.
Nyolls came to SHC from the Waikato in third form to work hard and pass exams, but when he wasn't studying or breaking both legs skiing he'd be sitting around with a bunch of guitar-strumming boarders, all plinking and tinkering away at Cat Stevens songs, easing the misery of life far from the farm. Despite Cat, Nyolls was sensible enough to realise - even at that early age - that the Guess Who could never be cool. And sensible enough to realise that becoming a doctor would most likely be a more prudent career choice than playing the bass guitar. He would eventually leave the band to explore his own personal Hippocratic frontier, and in his place we pulled in someone we'd had our eye on for a while. Peter White had been playing in bands for - ooh, ages. Over a year. And he'd even managed to grow a slight beard. He played a solid and melodic bass, like his heroes McCartney and Entwhistle. His Jewishness and deadpan humour were perfect foils for our arrogant, tight-arsed Catholicism. His high kicks alone could provoke hours of scoff and counter-scoff. The only thing really wrong was his name: we felt we couldn't have yet another Peter, so we shortened his middle name and - whether he liked it or not - made him Lez.
Anyway, this afternoon here we were with our Teisco and Jansen guitars and some fuse-blowing, shock-giving amps made by a bearded valve-nerd in Forest Hills. Also an endless supply of Krispie biscuits and L&P. A year out of school and still chemistry-class daydreaming of Fender Twin Reverbs and Telecaster basses, Shure microphones and JBL K120 speakers, Ludwig drums and WEM Copycats. The Stones and Little Feat and Ziggy Stardust. Playing at Madison Square Garden and the Hammersmith Odeon and the Marquee Club. Recording at Strawberry Studios and Mussel Shoals and Abbey Road and the Manor, produced and engineered by Glyn Johns and Ken Scott and George Martin and Bill Szymszyck. Day-glo posters, album liner notes, Creem and NME, Lester Bangs, Charles Shaar Murray and Nick Kent. Just for now though we'd settle for the sniff of a chance to get up and play at the Glendowie Tennis Club annual dance.
For some weeks we'd been honing a repertoire of other people's songs, the songs that had inspired us. Some of them we could play passably well, some were a shambolic lurch, and some would always remain beyond our ill-timed and out-of-tune grasp. No-one could say we weren't eclectic. We explored the rhythm and blues of Chuck Berry, the Stones, the James Gang and Little Feat. Funk from the Commodores and the Average White Band. The perfect pop of Mott the Hoople, Bowie and T-Rex. Wildly ambitious covers of 10CC and Steely Dan, trying to recreate on a Saturday afternoon with two guitars what Godley and Creme and Becker and Fagen had taken a year and several million dollars to achieve.
There was but one thing holding us back, we reckoned: we had no drummer. Today we'd advertised for one in the Herald. Three people answered.
The first guy was ancient - twenty-five at least - and wore the ubiquitous leather jacket of the aged. He pulled up in an Anglia van and unloaded case after case of Tama gear, which wasn't exactly Ludwig but there was a lot of it. Once he'd set it all up though, he played with a skippy little beat that reminded me of shiny suits and saxophone sections. He paradiddled and mummadaddad his way around the edges of the songs. He looked blank when we mentioned Keith Moon and Charlie Watts. Tama.
The next auditioner was more our own age and had at least heard of Ringo Starr and even the Prairie Prince, but his kit was a mish-mash of put-together parts. His pants, however, were fashionably high-waisted with huge flared legs. Peter counted in "Blue Suede Shoes". The guy got the stops OK, but when we hit the chorus it sounded like a split bag of King Edwards tumbling down the cellar stairs. We staggered on for a few more seconds. Strictly a play-in-the-bedroom man.
Finally a yellow Toyota Corolla station wagon reversed down the drive. A Japanese car was unusual in itself. Looked like it cost a few grand. Had a tow bar. Certainly a step up from my hundred dollar Humber 80. The driver had bad hair, neither short enough nor long enough, and bad jeans with creases in the front. Bruce, he said, and certainly looked like one. Bruce Hambling. He set up a Premier kit - about midway between Tama and Ludwig in our estimation - all polished and tidy.
We decided to skip "Blue Suede Shoes". Instead, Dave started the riff to "Alright Now". Bruce raised his meaty arms. Clenched in his carpenter fists were small tree trunks. The thick varnish on them glinted in the exotic half-light of the fly-spotted fluorescent over the pool table. Through an L&P-induced haze I watched as they hammered down towards drum and cymbal.
In the explosion on beat one of bar five, a new universe was created. I took on a dazed expression of bliss, like a tummy-scratched labrador. The music took shape and hovered over us with electrified, uncontrollable life. A heaving Frankenstein's monster of noise created from the darkest parts of our individual souls. I came close to almost believing there could possibly be a remote chance that there might be some sort of God somewhere.
Either that or I'd eaten too many Krispies.
We were isolated, protected colonials. We pledged unquestioning allegiance to Great Britain and played "God Save the Queen" in the cinemas at 11, 2, 5 and 8 every day except Sunday, when the country was shut. After the anthem and before the main feature there'd be a National Film Unit short about P Class locomotives or touring the central North Island by Austin Allegro. A Clockwork Orange carried an R20 certificate. Ulysses was screened to sexually segregated audiences, lest Joyce inflame the senses and cause spontaneous public coupling.
For entertainment that went beyond the local booze barn, the Ace of Clubs featured Diamond Lil and Marcus Craig. The Pink Pussycat had girls "in g-strings only" (according to the ads). His Majesty's Theatre (does your blood still boil when you see the carpark it became?) and the St James hosted shows "direct from the West End": local-girl-made-good Nyree Dawn Porter in Charlie Girl; Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett & Jonathon Miller reunited for Behind the Fridge; ooh-you-are-awful Danny La Rue and slapstick Norman Wisdom - though Wisdom did not prevail and went home after two nights of empty seats. The stage production of Hair came, and was put on trial for obscenity. Germaine Greer came, said "bullshit" in public, and was put on trial for obscenity. Our nanny justice system was determined to do the thinking for us. We could have been the laughing stock of the world, if only the world would notice us.
Tommy Adderly's club, Grandpa's, was nearing the end of its blues-wailin' life. The Inbetweens played at Aladdin's, Steampacket at Your Father's Mustache, Dalvanius at Cleopatra's out east in the shadow of Mount Wellington, on the edge of civilization. Woe betide you if you tried to get into any of these places wearing jeans, though if you said they were "dress jeans" you could get lucky. Draconian licensing laws meant many clubs - like Maurice Greer's Crofts in Airedale Street - served soft drinks only. It's hard to believe that grown adults would go out for an evening's entertainment without the chance of getting wildly pissed. There'd be a drop of the real stuff under the counter though, if you knew how to ask.
Television One and South Pacific Television, both state-owned but programmed to offer the pretence of competition, transmitted from 2pm daily and closed down well before midnight . Entire families would gather at 8pm each Saturday to watch the pinnacle of the week's broadcasting: Des O'Connor, Morecambe and Wise, the Seekers, the Two Ronnies, or the innocent and spectacularly popular Black and White Minstrel Show. Sunday nights provided a musical lifeline to the outside world as Dr Rock - Barry Jenkins - presented the Grunt Machine and Radio With Pictures, flashing us images of the birth of punk and the music video revolution two decades before MTV made it to these distant shores. The biggest selling colour television set on the market, the Philips K9, cost NZ$999, about twenty times the average weekly wage. There was no "reality" or "bloopers" tv, and the announcers just announced and the newsreaders just read news. Radio Hauraki - far superior to the NZBC's 1ZM - was the only radio station worth listening to. On Saturday mornings they had American Top 40 beaming in Dr John and Marvin Gaye with Casey Kasem exhorting us to keep our feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars. There were no "classic hits" or "easy listening" or "news-talk" stations, and the disc jockeys played what they wanted to play, knew something about music, and didn't have the sense of humour of your average snickering 13 year old schoolboy.
A cafe was a place where stonking great portions of bacon and eggs and baked beans were piled on thick, buttered white toast and washed down with Choysa tea and instant coffee. A coffee lounge was slightly more refined and offered savouries and sandwiches and scones and lamingtons, with more Choysa tea and instant coffee. Fish and chips was the staple takeaway. McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken were rare and extravagent novelties, watched warily by the neighbourhood burger bar. The few restaurants around were for special occasions only: the Hungry Horse, Hagan's, El Matador, El Trovador. At the Tai Tung in Wyndham Street you had to book weeks in advance and could still wait an hour for your table. Local wine was thin and sweet: Cook's Chasseur, Blenheimer, Cold Duck, Marque Vue. Imported wine was scarce and expensive.
We drove Hillmans, Holdens, Fords and Austins. The occasional Toyota or battered Datsun drew curious glances. Buying a new car - perhaps an HQ Holden "with distinctive W-shaped front" - required something mysterious called "overseas funds". Panelbeaters flashed neon hammers and glittering sequinned signs. "Drive With Care Or You'll End Up Here", warned the wreckers at the top of Newton Road.
There were tariffs and controls on everything imported. In shops the range of goods was slim and the prices high. Clothes, furniture, appliances, electronics, hardware, toys: if you could get them at all they would cost you two, three, four times as much as in their country of origin. Things manufactured here by our protected industries were usually of poor quality, hence our still-persistent belief that offshore is better.
Fruit and vegetables though were big and cheap: Golden Delicious apples and Packham pears, plums and apricots from Marlborough and Hawke's Bay , oranges from Kerikeri, watermelons and crates of Golden Queen peaches from the Henderson orchards. Dairy products were cheap too of course: four cents for a pint of milk, twenty-five cents for a half pound of butter. All the best meat was sent to Mother England, but the leftovers were affordable and plentiful and many a suburban chest freezer held half a beast.
But better do your shopping before the weekend arrived. After 9 o'clock on Friday night there was nothing open but the corner dairy, selling goods at premium prices. Many people dreamed of owning a dairy for a few years and retiring on the profits. "A little goldmine", my dad said.
Businessmen wore locally-made Cambridge suits and Summit Viyella shirts. In summer office-workers, plain-clothes policemen and All Blacks in mufti switched to too-tight walk shorts and walk socks, a local fashion aberration that brought to mind hairy-legged sixth formers. Crimplene, seer-sucker and velour were big. Ladies' fashions filtered slowly south of the equator, arriving a season or two after their northern debut: the culotte, the trouser suit, the maxi dress. Hippies, beads, kaftans, incense and love oil thrived at Cook Street Market.
There was no fresh fruit juice, no low-fat milk, no flavoured milk, no soy milk. No energy drinks or smart drinks. No light beer, no boutique beer. No short blacks or flat whites. No one-day cricket, no Black Caps or All Whites or Silver Ferns, no aerobics, no sportswear-as-fashion, no sports-shoes-as-streetwear. No traffic jams. No video games, video players, or videos. No compact discs, DVDs, laser discs, or laser light shows. No fax machines or filofaxes, no cell-phones or phone cards. No personal computers or desktop computers or laptop computers or palmtop computers. No Internet, Intranet, World Wide Web, or email.
There was no GST, no CER, no ATM, no EFTPOS. If you wanted money for the weekend you had to remember to go to the bank and cash a cheque before 3pm on Friday. No one- or two-dollar coins, no fifty dollar notes. To buy foreign currency you had to present your passport and airline ticket as proof of travel.
There was no Prozac, no Viagra, no Ecstacy, no AIDS, no herpes.
No hole inthe ozone layer...
And on this balmy Saturday afternoon in late 1975, Dave Dobbyn, Peter Urlich, Peter "Nyolls" Coleman and I were gathered - as usual - in Nyolls's grandmother's basement in Greenlane. We were "getting a band together". Dave, Peter U and I had known each other since form one at Sacred Heart College in 1968, laughing at Milligan and Sellers and Cleese, passing notes in sex ed class, and blanking out the wretchedness of canings and new maths and Latin verbs with a love of music and a heightened sense of the absurd.
I'd come from England in 1966, aged 9. Wild colonial New Zealand was all a bit of a shock after the sandals and socks and shy reserve of the Old Country. I had trouble fitting in to this bare feet and beer jugs place. I did have a guitar though, and an older sister who - back in England - had exposed me early on in life to the wonders of pop music: the overwhelming magic of Beatlemania, the depravity of the Stones. Radio Caroline and Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady Go: I was hooked on the soundscape of the three-minute wonder. Tennis racquet as guitar? I was that cliché.
Peter Urlich was a living light entertainment show in himself. He could grease up the teachers yet still spit with the bad boys at the back of the class. And a sharp dresser: even then he was the sort of guy who could play a hard rugby match in a hurricane and still look like he'd come straight from the dry-cleaners via the hairdressers. Together we harboured a dream: that one day we'd be like Mick and Keef, or Bowie and Ronson, or Daltrey and Townshend.
I knew I was going to be friends with Dave on our first day at SHC. When he walked into class late, wearing a too-large hand-me-down uniform and a savage crewcut courtesy of his mother's kitchen shears, I recognised a fellow loner. I see him still: ginger on porcelain swaddled in a tent of navy blue. He was picked on and put upon all through school and found solace in his guitar. At lunch-time a sport-hating half dozen of us would gather in the hall or a music room, banging away on guitars. While the others were diddling around with Simon & Garfunkel, Dave would stonk into some riff-driven Neil Young. When Abbey Road was released and everyone was trying to plinkety-plink their way through "Here Comes the Sun" Dave impressed upon me the blackfoot boogie of "Come Together". He and I lived for the days when Mr Gannaway, the music master, brought his electric organ to class and played the Peddlars' "Girlie" with wah wah and everything. Together, Dave and I would jam for hours on endless Santana riffs. We'd yell "fuck the neighbours!" along with the Small Faces. We'd pound out the entire bridge of "Something in the Air" on an out of tune piano. There was never - praise be - a scrap of formal shape to his music; he's probably never read a chord chart in his life. If my guitar playing was ordered progression; his was a tumbling, swirling cloud.
Nyolls came to SHC from the Waikato in third form to work hard and pass exams, but when he wasn't studying or breaking both legs skiing he'd be sitting around with a bunch of guitar-strumming boarders, all plinking and tinkering away at Cat Stevens songs, easing the misery of life far from the farm. Despite Cat, Nyolls was sensible enough to realise - even at that early age - that the Guess Who could never be cool. And sensible enough to realise that becoming a doctor would most likely be a more prudent career choice than playing the bass guitar. He would eventually leave the band to explore his own personal Hippocratic frontier, and in his place we pulled in someone we'd had our eye on for a while. Peter White had been playing in bands for - ooh, ages. Over a year. And he'd even managed to grow a slight beard. He played a solid and melodic bass, like his heroes McCartney and Entwhistle. His Jewishness and deadpan humour were perfect foils for our arrogant, tight-arsed Catholicism. His high kicks alone could provoke hours of scoff and counter-scoff. The only thing really wrong was his name: we felt we couldn't have yet another Peter, so we shortened his middle name and - whether he liked it or not - made him Lez.
Anyway, this afternoon here we were with our Teisco and Jansen guitars and some fuse-blowing, shock-giving amps made by a bearded valve-nerd in Forest Hills. Also an endless supply of Krispie biscuits and L&P. A year out of school and still chemistry-class daydreaming of Fender Twin Reverbs and Telecaster basses, Shure microphones and JBL K120 speakers, Ludwig drums and WEM Copycats. The Stones and Little Feat and Ziggy Stardust. Playing at Madison Square Garden and the Hammersmith Odeon and the Marquee Club. Recording at Strawberry Studios and Mussel Shoals and Abbey Road and the Manor, produced and engineered by Glyn Johns and Ken Scott and George Martin and Bill Szymszyck. Day-glo posters, album liner notes, Creem and NME, Lester Bangs, Charles Shaar Murray and Nick Kent. Just for now though we'd settle for the sniff of a chance to get up and play at the Glendowie Tennis Club annual dance.
For some weeks we'd been honing a repertoire of other people's songs, the songs that had inspired us. Some of them we could play passably well, some were a shambolic lurch, and some would always remain beyond our ill-timed and out-of-tune grasp. No-one could say we weren't eclectic. We explored the rhythm and blues of Chuck Berry, the Stones, the James Gang and Little Feat. Funk from the Commodores and the Average White Band. The perfect pop of Mott the Hoople, Bowie and T-Rex. Wildly ambitious covers of 10CC and Steely Dan, trying to recreate on a Saturday afternoon with two guitars what Godley and Creme and Becker and Fagen had taken a year and several million dollars to achieve.
There was but one thing holding us back, we reckoned: we had no drummer. Today we'd advertised for one in the Herald. Three people answered.
The first guy was ancient - twenty-five at least - and wore the ubiquitous leather jacket of the aged. He pulled up in an Anglia van and unloaded case after case of Tama gear, which wasn't exactly Ludwig but there was a lot of it. Once he'd set it all up though, he played with a skippy little beat that reminded me of shiny suits and saxophone sections. He paradiddled and mummadaddad his way around the edges of the songs. He looked blank when we mentioned Keith Moon and Charlie Watts. Tama.
The next auditioner was more our own age and had at least heard of Ringo Starr and even the Prairie Prince, but his kit was a mish-mash of put-together parts. His pants, however, were fashionably high-waisted with huge flared legs. Peter counted in "Blue Suede Shoes". The guy got the stops OK, but when we hit the chorus it sounded like a split bag of King Edwards tumbling down the cellar stairs. We staggered on for a few more seconds. Strictly a play-in-the-bedroom man.
Finally a yellow Toyota Corolla station wagon reversed down the drive. A Japanese car was unusual in itself. Looked like it cost a few grand. Had a tow bar. Certainly a step up from my hundred dollar Humber 80. The driver had bad hair, neither short enough nor long enough, and bad jeans with creases in the front. Bruce, he said, and certainly looked like one. Bruce Hambling. He set up a Premier kit - about midway between Tama and Ludwig in our estimation - all polished and tidy.
We decided to skip "Blue Suede Shoes". Instead, Dave started the riff to "Alright Now". Bruce raised his meaty arms. Clenched in his carpenter fists were small tree trunks. The thick varnish on them glinted in the exotic half-light of the fly-spotted fluorescent over the pool table. Through an L&P-induced haze I watched as they hammered down towards drum and cymbal.
In the explosion on beat one of bar five, a new universe was created. I took on a dazed expression of bliss, like a tummy-scratched labrador. The music took shape and hovered over us with electrified, uncontrollable life. A heaving Frankenstein's monster of noise created from the darkest parts of our individual souls. I came close to almost believing there could possibly be a remote chance that there might be some sort of God somewhere.
Either that or I'd eaten too many Krispies.
Saturday, April 22
Despite my protest -
His comments were - Look at my torch - what does that say!!! Well, that's a trick... At the front of the cars was this other sign... Totally missed by me... Oh well, they can work for their money,,,
This was a costly place to park at night
$40 was the fine - It looked an okay place to park in Auckland City. At 1 pm the parking warden was still there - to observe my reaction! He had given me a ticket at 10.30pm.. So what was he doing for 2.5 hours! I bet his name was DICK
$5 Meal Deal in Wairoa -
We were broke - no cash - 2 spring rolls, 2 wontons, 2 fish, 2 potato fritters and chips. How do they make a profit
Poppy Day
Anzac poppies could be made overseas22.04.06 1.00pm
A plan by the Returned Services Association (RSA) to put its poppy-making out to tender could see Anzac Day poppies made overseas. RSA president Pat Herbert told The Press newspaper the matter would be discussed in November at the RSA national council meeting. The Christchurch RSA makes about a million poppies each year -- a role they have carried out for the past 30 years. The proposal was motivated by the need to save money through the manufacturing process, which could then be spent on the welfare of returned service people. Christchurch RSA president John Suttie told the newspaper only a low labour-cost country like China could do the job cheaper. "We are running a business and it's difficult. We have run out of volunteers and we have to pay people to do it and pay the adult wage." Mr Suttie said he did not know how the public would feel about buying poppies made in a sweatshop. The paper for the poppies is currently imported from Taiwan and the plastic components are made in Christchurch. The poppies are assembled mainly by a sheltered workshop in Christchurch run by Kilmarnock Enterprises. - NZPA
New Zealand Armed Forces Memorial Project
This project has two primary aims
A To photograph and collect a pictorial record of New Zealand war graves and memorials both overseas and in New Zealand to commemorate those servicemen and women who gave their lives in the service of their country.
B To collect photos and stories not only of those who lost their lives, but also of those who came home. Generation by generation stories and old photo's are being lost to us. Our aim is to record as many photos and stories as we can while those who remember can help us to provide an accurate online resource.
We are currently completing paper work to have the project registered as a Charitable Trust.
We need volunteers to photograph graves and memorials.
We want YOUR stories, photographs and details for inclusion on the site.
Can you help us with information/history on individual units, ships, squadrons etc.?
How to submitWe have an on-line guide for volunteers and those wishing to submit information on our How to page. Please visit this link if you want to contribute to the site or if you want to volunteer to take photos of the graves and memorials in New Zealand or overseas.
http://www.nzafmp.org/
A To photograph and collect a pictorial record of New Zealand war graves and memorials both overseas and in New Zealand to commemorate those servicemen and women who gave their lives in the service of their country.
B To collect photos and stories not only of those who lost their lives, but also of those who came home. Generation by generation stories and old photo's are being lost to us. Our aim is to record as many photos and stories as we can while those who remember can help us to provide an accurate online resource.
We are currently completing paper work to have the project registered as a Charitable Trust.
We need volunteers to photograph graves and memorials.
We want YOUR stories, photographs and details for inclusion on the site.
Can you help us with information/history on individual units, ships, squadrons etc.?
How to submitWe have an on-line guide for volunteers and those wishing to submit information on our How to page. Please visit this link if you want to contribute to the site or if you want to volunteer to take photos of the graves and memorials in New Zealand or overseas.
http://www.nzafmp.org/
Thursday, April 20
Hawera Cinema
Three groups interested in buying Hawera cinema 20 April 2006
By RICHARD WOODDThree parties have registered interest in buying Hawera's Cinema 2 from the local owners.
Two are from outside Taranaki and one of them would keep the cinema going. The other would remove the cinema and use the building for other commercial purposes.
The third party is a local group that hopes to establish a community trust to take over and operate the cinema.
In February, the 50 shareholders invited a trust purchase to save the cinema from closure, saying they were not prepared to continue bearing the financial losses.
"All parties have inspected the assets and we've had directors' meetings, but nobody has made an offer yet, so anything could happen," chairman of directors Graeme Champion said.
He said the directors were hoping to have a clear decision made by the end of April or early May, but were prepared to extend the negotiating period if requested.
A shareholders' meeting would be called to consider the directors' recommendations.
By RICHARD WOODDThree parties have registered interest in buying Hawera's Cinema 2 from the local owners.
Two are from outside Taranaki and one of them would keep the cinema going. The other would remove the cinema and use the building for other commercial purposes.
The third party is a local group that hopes to establish a community trust to take over and operate the cinema.
In February, the 50 shareholders invited a trust purchase to save the cinema from closure, saying they were not prepared to continue bearing the financial losses.
"All parties have inspected the assets and we've had directors' meetings, but nobody has made an offer yet, so anything could happen," chairman of directors Graeme Champion said.
He said the directors were hoping to have a clear decision made by the end of April or early May, but were prepared to extend the negotiating period if requested.
A shareholders' meeting would be called to consider the directors' recommendations.
Ivan Jones
Petrol head heaven as truck racer farewelled
19 April 2006
By RICHARD WOODD
Hawera has never seen a funeral like yesterday's, when they buried Ivan Jones.
Nearly 1000 people, mainly from hot rodding, drag racing and engineering circles, descended on the JD Hickman warehouse, the only place big enough to stage it.
The coffin came in aboard Ivan's shiny black racetruck, the 565 cubic inch V8 thundering from header pipes, competing with the poignant lyrics of Don McLean's American Pie.
His black helmet sat on the coffin, beside a figurine of Ivan clutching his legendary spud cannon. It was made by Nigel Ogle and given to him on his 50th birthday, after the cannon blew up and nearly killed him when he tried to fire it with oxy-acetylene gas for a bigger bang.
Projected on a big screen were images of Ivan racing, shooting his arsenal of guns, hunting and fishing. Hot rodders made up a convoy of V8 rods and muscle cars for the occasion.
The service was non-religious, with no prayers or singing but lots of music, stories and tributes. Ivan went to such a funeral four years ago and told his mate Geoff Furborough who conducted it: "That's the kind of funeral I'd like. You're in charge."
Three months later, Ivan was diagnosed as having a malignant tumour on his spine and died on Good Friday, after a lengthy illness, aged 57.
"It would be hard to get a welding job done in South Taranaki today," quipped MC Mr Furborough.
He said Ivan was a man who lived hard and played hard, always on the edge. He'd known him 36 years and they only ever talked about guns, horsepower, explosives, engineering and politics.
There were tributes from Ivan's three daughters Nicola, Megan and Carla, his partner Sheryl (his wife Maria died in the Ansett Dash 8 aircrash near Palmerston North in 1995), brother Trevor, Egmont Rod and Custom Club president Hamish Hiestand, fellow petrolhead John Rae, and business partner Steven (Scotty) Landsborough (who is now the sole owner of Ivan Jones Engineering).
Ivan and Scotty built the 1100hp racetruck during the past three years. It was said to be the fastest street legal ute in the Southern Hemisphere. Ivan's best drag run was 9.49 seconds at 240km/h. He was wheelchair bound when he raced the truck at Meremere last month.
Two weeks ago, he competed in the Wanganui drags (in winning form) and was planning another run at Meremere this weekend, but picked up a virus and never left Te Rangimarie Hospice. "I don't know what we're going to do with the truck, to be honest. We talked about burying it with him, but the engine's too good for that," Scotty said.
* RICHARD WOODD is based in Hawera. Ph 06 278 1718 or 027 655 3446, or e-mail dailynews.hawera@tnl.co.nz
19 April 2006
By RICHARD WOODD
Hawera has never seen a funeral like yesterday's, when they buried Ivan Jones.
Nearly 1000 people, mainly from hot rodding, drag racing and engineering circles, descended on the JD Hickman warehouse, the only place big enough to stage it.
The coffin came in aboard Ivan's shiny black racetruck, the 565 cubic inch V8 thundering from header pipes, competing with the poignant lyrics of Don McLean's American Pie.
His black helmet sat on the coffin, beside a figurine of Ivan clutching his legendary spud cannon. It was made by Nigel Ogle and given to him on his 50th birthday, after the cannon blew up and nearly killed him when he tried to fire it with oxy-acetylene gas for a bigger bang.
Projected on a big screen were images of Ivan racing, shooting his arsenal of guns, hunting and fishing. Hot rodders made up a convoy of V8 rods and muscle cars for the occasion.
The service was non-religious, with no prayers or singing but lots of music, stories and tributes. Ivan went to such a funeral four years ago and told his mate Geoff Furborough who conducted it: "That's the kind of funeral I'd like. You're in charge."
Three months later, Ivan was diagnosed as having a malignant tumour on his spine and died on Good Friday, after a lengthy illness, aged 57.
"It would be hard to get a welding job done in South Taranaki today," quipped MC Mr Furborough.
He said Ivan was a man who lived hard and played hard, always on the edge. He'd known him 36 years and they only ever talked about guns, horsepower, explosives, engineering and politics.
There were tributes from Ivan's three daughters Nicola, Megan and Carla, his partner Sheryl (his wife Maria died in the Ansett Dash 8 aircrash near Palmerston North in 1995), brother Trevor, Egmont Rod and Custom Club president Hamish Hiestand, fellow petrolhead John Rae, and business partner Steven (Scotty) Landsborough (who is now the sole owner of Ivan Jones Engineering).
Ivan and Scotty built the 1100hp racetruck during the past three years. It was said to be the fastest street legal ute in the Southern Hemisphere. Ivan's best drag run was 9.49 seconds at 240km/h. He was wheelchair bound when he raced the truck at Meremere last month.
Two weeks ago, he competed in the Wanganui drags (in winning form) and was planning another run at Meremere this weekend, but picked up a virus and never left Te Rangimarie Hospice. "I don't know what we're going to do with the truck, to be honest. We talked about burying it with him, but the engine's too good for that," Scotty said.
* RICHARD WOODD is based in Hawera. Ph 06 278 1718 or 027 655 3446, or e-mail dailynews.hawera@tnl.co.nz
Newton King
Granddaughter pushes plan for memorial 19 April 2006
By ROCHELLE WESTA memorial to pioneering Taranaki businessman Newton King is planned for New Plymouth.
But just what kind of tribute and where it will be placed is uncertain.
King's granddaughter, Adrienne Tatham, said yesterday that she had been contacted by various people about erecting some kind of memorial to her grandfather, who set up a Taranaki stock and station agency that bore his name.
"I think it should be done. There are quite a few memorials around the place for lesser people. Newton King did a lot for Taranaki. He helped the farming community get on its feet. He was a good businessman. Times were tough and he would keep people going who were not in the money.
"Throughout Taranaki he made his mark, and many older folk still talk about the help he gave them," she said.
King died in 1927, aged 72.
One of New Plymouth's most loved parks – Brooklands – was a gift from King, in lieu of an unpaid bequest. When King died, he left E10,000 for parks and reserves in the city. But because all of King's money was tied up in his business, buildings and in land, the trustees discovered there was not enough cash to give the city.
His family, therefore, decided to give King's 21.5ha property and house. The two-storey, five-bedroom home, overlooking what was to become the Bowl of Brooklands, was later demolished.
Mrs Tatham said that, while Brooklands Park could be a location for a memorial, there were other possibilities.
"Some memorial ideas already suggested to me include a statue centrally located within New Plymouth. His offices were situated where Centre City is now in place.
"Perhaps another idea to consider would be to name the Huatoki development after him, especially as it is so close to King's Building, which he built," said Mrs Tatham, who has written a letter to Mayor Peter Tennent and councillors about the memorial idea.
New Plymouth deputy mayor Lynn Bublitz, who is the chairman of the Huatoki development working party, said a memorial for Newton King was a good idea.
"Newton King played a very important role in early New Plymouth. I think it's important that we recognise these pioneers in a formal way.
"Whether that memorial be the Huatoki development named in his honour, that's one of the things we could consider," Mr Bublitz said. »PRINTABLE VERSION »SUBSCRIBE TO FREE HEADLINES »SUBSCRIBE TO ARCHIVESTUFF
By ROCHELLE WESTA memorial to pioneering Taranaki businessman Newton King is planned for New Plymouth.
But just what kind of tribute and where it will be placed is uncertain.
King's granddaughter, Adrienne Tatham, said yesterday that she had been contacted by various people about erecting some kind of memorial to her grandfather, who set up a Taranaki stock and station agency that bore his name.
"I think it should be done. There are quite a few memorials around the place for lesser people. Newton King did a lot for Taranaki. He helped the farming community get on its feet. He was a good businessman. Times were tough and he would keep people going who were not in the money.
"Throughout Taranaki he made his mark, and many older folk still talk about the help he gave them," she said.
King died in 1927, aged 72.
One of New Plymouth's most loved parks – Brooklands – was a gift from King, in lieu of an unpaid bequest. When King died, he left E10,000 for parks and reserves in the city. But because all of King's money was tied up in his business, buildings and in land, the trustees discovered there was not enough cash to give the city.
His family, therefore, decided to give King's 21.5ha property and house. The two-storey, five-bedroom home, overlooking what was to become the Bowl of Brooklands, was later demolished.
Mrs Tatham said that, while Brooklands Park could be a location for a memorial, there were other possibilities.
"Some memorial ideas already suggested to me include a statue centrally located within New Plymouth. His offices were situated where Centre City is now in place.
"Perhaps another idea to consider would be to name the Huatoki development after him, especially as it is so close to King's Building, which he built," said Mrs Tatham, who has written a letter to Mayor Peter Tennent and councillors about the memorial idea.
New Plymouth deputy mayor Lynn Bublitz, who is the chairman of the Huatoki development working party, said a memorial for Newton King was a good idea.
"Newton King played a very important role in early New Plymouth. I think it's important that we recognise these pioneers in a formal way.
"Whether that memorial be the Huatoki development named in his honour, that's one of the things we could consider," Mr Bublitz said. »PRINTABLE VERSION »SUBSCRIBE TO FREE HEADLINES »SUBSCRIBE TO ARCHIVESTUFF
Saturday, April 15
DJ Captain Starlite
Catering for a vegan at Christmas dinner would probably be enough to cause heart palpitations in the average omnivore. Not so for self-taught Birkenhead chef Colin Sky, who is organising a Christmas feast for up to 50 vegans on December 18, at Blissful Foods in Mt Albert.
Colin has been vegan for more than three years, and had been vegetarian for six years before that. He is well-known as DJ Captain Starlite, and also teaches vegan cooking classes. Many of Blissful Foods’ mock meats (made from wheat protein and soy protein) will be included in the banquet, whose preparation will be a combined effort led by Colin.
He calls veganism “the beautiful diet”, because of its beneficial effects on animals, human health and the environment.
“Christmas is a time of peace and love, so what better way to celebrate than with the lovely people from the vegan community, sharing a sumptuous meal completely made from plant products?” he says.
“A lot of non-vegans seem to think that the vegan diet is dull and monotonous – this menu should prove that vegans aren’t missing out on anything!”
Colin has been vegan for more than three years, and had been vegetarian for six years before that. He is well-known as DJ Captain Starlite, and also teaches vegan cooking classes. Many of Blissful Foods’ mock meats (made from wheat protein and soy protein) will be included in the banquet, whose preparation will be a combined effort led by Colin.
He calls veganism “the beautiful diet”, because of its beneficial effects on animals, human health and the environment.
“Christmas is a time of peace and love, so what better way to celebrate than with the lovely people from the vegan community, sharing a sumptuous meal completely made from plant products?” he says.
“A lot of non-vegans seem to think that the vegan diet is dull and monotonous – this menu should prove that vegans aren’t missing out on anything!”
Captain Starlite - suitcase of 45s for sale Avondale Flea Market
Remember Captain Starlite?
04 May 04
Started in 1978... still partying, you may have had the joy of Captain Starlite spinning the hits at your blue light disco back in the day.
17:52 · 04 May 04
Captain Starlite did our primary school disco's he was so cool with his fluro track suits and fluro van hehe...
Saturday, April 8
Thursday, April 6
Ohura House and chimney
19. Ohura Ohura township is 10km off the main trail. The township has declined since the closure of the coal mines.
http://www.windwand.co.nz/heritagetrail.htm
Ohura General Store
30.07.05By Nicola Boyes
A solitary Coca-Cola sign on the footpath of a little town nestled against the rugged King Country hills signals the last commercial venture in a main street abandoned, where the shop windows offer nothing but your reflection. This is Ohura, 35km off State Highway 4, heading towards Taumarunui. Even the people who make their homes in this town, part of Ruapehu District, say it is "dead". Their opinion is backed by a survey released by KPMG this week which shows that in the past 12 months Ruapehu has lost 3.5 per cent of its population, making it the biggest "loser of people" in the country. Ohura was once a bustling little town famous for coal mining. It had a high school, farming stores, markets - even a picture theatre. Now it is famous for its prison and even that will close in November. A Cosmopolitan Club, a dairy and a primary school will be all that is left, but residents say even the dairy may be under threat after years of making money from prisoners using it to stock up on cigarettes and supplies. The survey says 500 people have moved out of Ruapehu District in the 12 months to June last year. Ruapehu Mayor Sue Morris disputes the figures, saying people are moving into the district from overseas and the bigger cities. She says school rolls are not dropping. The district is moving ahead. "We've got people coming into the area. The houses are being sold. You're lucky if you can get a house." Mayor Morris says coal mining is set to take off again in Ohura with an Australian company seeking resource consents. But residents in the town are dubious. "It's just dead," says Ohura resident and fire chief Gary Holmes. "Even Taumarunui, that's dying I reckon. They've lost the [meat] works [Affco]. All the railways have gone, shops are empty. It's quite amazing. It is dying." Ruapehu District encompasses Taumarunui to Waiouru, and borders Te Kuiti. Mr Holmes has lived in Ohura all his life, 50 years. He has struggled to maintain the volunteer fire brigade - essential when it takes a brigade from Taumarunui an hour to get to Ohura - and the district's ambulance service. He says the closure of the prison will not affect Ohura any more, because people have already gone, the older folk moving to centres where health care is available and they don't have to wait for the doctor to visit every Monday. "She's a ghost town all right," says resident Rob Craw. "There is still the farming community, but the town is dead." Bruce Stevenson has lived in Ohura since 1987, when his wife, Doreen, and children Bonny and Holly took over a house earmarked for demolition and made it into their home. It's Government centralising things which is emptying small rural towns, he says. A tui twitters in a nearby camellia bush and Mr Stevenson says, "See, you can hear the birds. There's no traffic noise. It's peaceful." He has no plans to move. Sandra MacKenzie and her husband, Trevor, moved here seven years ago, when the Affco freezing works in Taumarunui closed and he was made redundant. He started up as a prison officer at Ohura Prison; now that's closing. "We have a freehold house here. It cost us $5000. What are we going to do?" Sandra MacKenzie asks. About 16km back towards Taumarunui is Matiere - once another little service town. All that remains there is the cosmopolitan club. Jim Hepi and his wife, Edith, have lived there for 16 years, their horses tethered on the roadside opposite a derelict shop with broken car bodies. Standing beside the four pigs he hunted that morning in the Ohura valley, Mr Hepi says he is a "rural" sort of guy and that he would live nowhere else. It is sad to see the smaller towns die out, he says, but when the businesses go there is no reason for people to stay. Ruapehu's opposite, the fastest-growing area in New Zealand, is Queenstown, says the KPMG survey. There, the population grew 7.2 per cent. The survey also predicts that Christchurch will take over from Wellington as New Zealand's second-biggest city by 2007.
Author
•
More by Nicola Boyes
Clock Tower Stratford
This little mountain town has an appealing freshness that complements the surrounding lush green countryside. Most of the streets are named from Shakespearean themes and the clock tower reflects this with New Zealand’s only Glockenspiel.
Monday, April 3
Ohura Primary 100 Years Old Next Year
A long and winding Road to Ohura - Great to get to the other side
Sunday, April 2
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)