24Feb2004

As soon as I saw a photo of Helen Clark walking with Australian Prime Minister John Howard in what appeared to be the very dense bush in Auckland’s Waitakeri Ranges I knew that that spelt TROUBLE. Trouble for John Howard that is. I mean why would he give up a weekend sailing on Sydney Harbor and an early evening barbeque at his delightful prime ministerial residence “Kirribilli” on the shores of the harbour to go tramping through the rain drenched, dripping wet fern fronded Waitakeri’s. And further more to go tramping in that environment without the traditional corks swinging from the bushman’s hat he had brought with him. No he had been summoned by Helen. And many men before him can attest you don’t lightly ignore a Helen summons. Just ask John Tamihere.

On the surface the official line was that “the purpose of this visit was for the Australian Prime Minister to have in depth and meaningful talks about trade agreements, regulation of the banking systems, and the outcome of the cricket.” But I can reveal to you that this was all political window dressing. He had been summoned by Helen to explain how in the name of all that was holy did an ageing singer formerly known as Johnny Farnham but now John Farnham got to be the star turn at this years Gallipoli commemorations. The 90th anniversary. Helen Clark was outraged. And the polls showed so were 84% of New Zealanders. Helen admitted she’d never heard of John or Johnny Farnham for that matter. “Who is he?” she asked a researcher. “Well he is known in Australia as “the Voice”. Some years ago he was named Australian of the year. Strange when he didn’t arrive in Australia until he was eight years old. Then again most Australians came there years ago from England and Ireland at much the same age. Some of his better known songs include “Sadie the cleaning lady”, “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus” and “I can do anything”. “Well you can tell him from us he can’t, get John Howard over hear toot sweet”. I think she meant “toute souit”. And John came toute souit. “I’m not having this John Farnham at Gallipoli. This is no place for a pop concert”. They were well into the Waitakerie’s by now. A punga dripping wet swished John on the cheek. “If you had your corks hanging from your brim you could have stopped that” said Helen. “I know” said John. “But corks are pretty hard to come by now. We’re into screw tops just like you. I’d look a bit stupid with a line up of them swinging from the brim. But I’m 100% in agreement with you on this John Farnham affair. We don’t want any pop concert at Gallipoli either. But the sad thing is Helen by you admitting that you’d never heard of him you have besmirched a great Australian identity. Generally most Australian’s adore him. He is an Aussie icon. He’s right up there with the other great Aussie icons Vegemite and the battered saveloy”. As they fossicked their way through the regenerating Kauri seedlings and young Rimu, John looked back down the track through the gathering gloom of the bush. “There’s no daylight between us Helen. I’m right in front of you on this one all the way.” She chose to ignore the fact that neither was there no daylight between the ball and Aussie batsman Mathew Hayden’s glove when he was on thirty one. Clearly out – caught behind.

They came out of the bush into a typical rain drenched Auckland afternoon with Trans Tasman relationships restored. As a result of this walk John Howard announced that John Farnham will definitely not be singing at Gallipoli.

All this just goes to give truth to the old proverb “a bird in the bush is worth two in the hand”.

Rod Stewart

It was only 3.00pm and already the straw dry hill sloping down to the giant outdoor stage was full of Rod Stewart fans. Saturday afternoon at the Mission Vineyards. A typical February Hawkes Bay day. Cloudless sky and 28 degrees. I had the good fortune to be given a seat close to the stage. To get to it I had to run the gamut of fans who had arrived much earlier than me. Here they were languidly lying on blankets or propped up on the beach chairs. I gingerly stepped my way around bottles of sauvignon blanc and pinot gris, assorted cheeses and salamis, ham and salads. As I attempted to keep a foot clear of a melting round of camembert, I slipped and found my balancing hand in a pottle of guacamole. “No worries mate” that came from the owner of the guacamole. “It’s finger licking good. How about a glass of savvy to go with it?” “No thanks I’ll never get to my seat.” Secretly I am not all that fond of Hawkes Bay sauvignon blanc. “Sorry about the guacamole”. It was good humour all round. I finally achieved my objective. A really good spot. The sun was setting behind the hill, the slopes of which were now jammed packed with fans. I started to take in the crowd around me. I was right in the heart of a group of smiling wrinklies and silveries. It felt like I was in the middle of a Grey Power convention. They were an affable lot. There was a clear space in front of me. I wondered aloud whether this had been set aside for the mobility scooters. “No, they are over the other side with the Zimmer frames,” a delightful wrinkly in front of me tells me. “You know I am only 16 years older than Rod.” A quick mental calculation. That would make her 76. “And my sister here is only 20 years older than him.” Now don’t runaway with the impression that this was a show for the oldies and National Superannuitants having their last big fling. There were all age groups. Like the young woman rushing by holding up a home made sign “Do ya fink I’m sexy? – Rod does”. 6.00pm the stage bathed in the orange setting sun. Dave Dobbin in dark glasses belts out a number. “Awfully loud dear” the 76 year old shouts to me. “I think I’ll just turn off my hearing aids. Dave won’t mind.” Dave was too busy bashing the key board to worry. Dave finishes his act. Loud applause. Some continue to gyrate in the aisles even though the music has stopped. Pinot Gris and sunshine can apparently cause this effect.

The sun is now gone. The spotlight washes over the black backdrop on the stage. The swirl of bagpipes grows louder and louder. These are apparently to recognise Rod’s Scottish affiliation. Funny this as he was born in London. And there he is running out on to the stage. He kicks a football high out into the crowd. He is wearing what appears to be a black shearer’s singlet designed by Trevor Armani. His jeans are about seven sizes too small. Over his shoulder a flimsy jacket all spotted in black and green. Looks like it could have come from some exotic species of green leopard. Picks up the white microphone stand. Throws it into the air as a drum major in a pipe band would throw his staff. Twirls it behind his back. Purses his lips. Runs one hand through his scraggy mane of hair and the other provocatively waves to us all. The crowd goes mad yelling, stomping, arms in the air waving, screaming. The 76 year old and her 80 year old sister are standing on their chairs whistling. All this and Rod hasn’t even sung a note. I reckon that even at this stage if he bowed, blew a few kisses to his adorers and then walked off most would have gone home happy. Twenty eight songs to go. For the next hour slithering across the stage, pouting, gesticulating, the microphone stand taking another thumping and in between all this he sings. His voice is not as gravelly as it was in the early days but it is still Rod Stewart. Stage lights dim and he begins the first bars of “We are Sailing ………” He stops and the band stop. The crowd – they say 25,000 but it looked more like 50,000 to me – in perfect unison unaccompanied take up the refrain “we are sailing far across the sea……..” Rod cups his ear and listens and then decides to join in again. Up on the hill behind thousands of glow sticks all colours sway in time to the music. The whole hill side appears to be moving in the dusk. He has a short break and re-appears in white tie, tails and a red carnation in his lapel. And he hasn’t bothered to do his hair. And for another hour he entertains.

Remember he has been around now for well over 30 years. He’s almost vintage stock. In automobile terminology he would be going round the clock for the fourth time, but
his bodywork is as good as the day it came out of the factory.

Amid the stomping, dancing, shouting, gyrating I had no show of finding out why the bottle of HP sauce I mentioned last week was on his mantelpiece. If I’d had the chance
I bet the response would be “I don’t wanna talk about it…….”