Island Life by David Slack

So much for the old saw that you shouldn't blame the messenger. The old Kiwi tradition of doing a favour for a mate may be losing a little of its shine as the story of the hapless Mike Ryan makes the rounds.

His brief as a messenger in the PM's office was to take the Cabinet paper to the shredder, with no side trips. The notion that his old mate who worked at Telecom might appreciate a copy in a plain brown manila folder was thoughtful to say the least, but wasn't ever very likely to turn out well.

The State Services Commission report reassures us of the robust recruitment processes to which the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet cleaves, and very reassuring it is to hear it. In the case of the recruitment of Mr Ryan, we read, this entailed no fewer than four reference checks, and we're told that the referees were specifically asked about Mr Ryan's personal integrity in relation to confidential information "and this had been noted as a strong point". And just to be sure, there was a criminal record check, an assessment by a registered psychologist and in addition

...the necessary form to obtain a Secret clearance had been provided to the Security Intelligence Service and confirmation that the vetting was in train was provided by the NZSIS on 26 January 2006. The SIS vetting process for Mr Ryan had not been completed at the date of writing this report.

Well that takes me back. One morning in the Prime Minister's Office in the dying months of the fourth Labour government, I sat down to a cup of coffee with my colleagues Mr Chris Eichbaum and Mr John Robson. After the obligatory three choruses of The Peoples Flag and the ritual spitting upon the map of the continental United States, we got down to chatting about sundry matters of pressing political importance and then John mentioned that he had finally had his security clearance approved by the SIS. He was a veteran of the Springbok tour with a number of court appearances to his name, and the spooks had been a bit leery, he said.

What SIS approval would that be?, I asked, in all innocence.

You haven't been interviewed? they said.

No, I said, I was still using the pass they'd given me when I started working as the speech writer for the Minister of Justice. No reference check, no psychologist, no visit from the SIS.

If I was vetted, it all happened without my knowledge. But then I was just writing speeches using cabinet papers as source material. I wasn't carrying them to the shredder or anything like that.

I do know the security guards took some earnest pride in their work, though, and kept me under at least occasional surveillance. I arrived in my office one morning to find a note declaring there had been a security breach in my office. Shit, I thought, what bastard's been at my things? Then as I read the note, it became clear that the offender was me. My sin was to have left some paper marked "confidential" with its face up in open view. Who knows who might have come sauntering past in the middle of the night in the Prime Minister's office and taken a look? I should be more careful in future etc etc.

The other incident had less to do with the security of the nation and more to do with keeping your name out of the newspaper or books written by gallery journalists at their "ascerbic entertaining best" to quote the back cover of Jane Cliftons' entertaining little outing last year.

I mention this because one’s other close encounter with security staff is alluded to on page 83. The book ponders whether the incident was, as rumour very quickly had it, captured on film. I can attest that, if there was a camera, we were never invited to procure a romantic souvenir copy, nor were we asked by the State Services Commission to give an account of our movements that night. The bemused look on the guard's face as he stood in the doorway wondering whether he should pretend to be invisible was certainly worth a photo, though.

By the next day, we were being alerted by our colleagues that this was the talk of the security staff at Parliament. When we arrived in the early afternoon at the Labour Party conference, the hugely amused expression on the Prime Minister's face confirmed to us that he had been briefed and entertained by this indisputably benign security intelligence. We have still not been invited by the State Services Commission to volunteer our recollections of the incident in question and at this late remove, I think I can say with quiet confidence that we're in the clear.

The fact that I can make light of this while poor Mr Ryan is probably not sleeping at all well has a good deal to do with what the very entertaining Harry Hutton had to observe last week, in his blog, about John Prescott.

If I were his lawyer, I would point out that using a government office for having sex with his secretary was far less ruinous for Britain than how he might otherwise have been using it.

Michele A'Court has some very nice lines, in her new show, about the Germans. I will spoil the gag by telling tell you the punch line - completely out of context - which is that they have no word for "comedy". That still leaves several hundred excellent jokes from the show I haven't ruined for you, and you should absolutely get along to see her this week from Tuesday to Friday at the Transmission Room.

The show ostensibly concerns itself with the anguish that is the mid-life crisis, but that's just for starters. It's damned funny, and in the course of an hour or so she finds time to explore sundry moments of anguish for people of all ages, miners included.

Not forgetting, of course, those Germans. Do they have a word for the custom of charging hotel guests according to their weight, I wonder?

As improbable as it might sound, that is how you pay for your lodging at the Hotel Ostfriesland. 50 cents per kilogram. This is no doubt where Kate Moss will stay on her holidays if Pete keeps sucking all their savings up his nose.

If you're not prepared to get on the scales, you'll just pay the upper limit of 74 Euro. The hotel owner says it's not discrimination at all.

First of all, there's the upper limit. And besides that I don't force anyone onto the scale. Nevertheless, no one has yet to say 'no, forget that'.

He's clearly a good sport, because he'll let you disrobe for the purpose of saving a few bucks.

One man stripped all the way down to his underwear to try to push the price down.

Fair enough. Dignity is a much over-rated concept. Saving 2 Euros on the other hand; well, the Germans may not have a word for it, but Mastercard does.

If the sharemarket assessment is accurate, Telecom is all out of options. The tide of competition is rolling in, and they will have to put down their cocktails and get up out of their deckchairs. But could we all be getting ahead of ourselves? What about the Treaty?


The Waitangi Tribunal
141 The Terrace
WELLINGTON


The Honourable Pita Sharples
Minister of Maori Affairs
and
The Honourable Gerry Brownlee
Minister in Charge of Treaty of Waitangi Negotiations
Parliament Buildings
WELLINGTON

1 April 2009


You will recall that in 2006, the organisation formerly known as Telecom issued a declaration of identity as a Born-Again Maori Trading Enterprise (BAMTE) on the anniversary of its purported alienation by the Crown in 1990 to American investors.

The organisation asserted its rights to be identified as Te Lekomo, a hapu of the Monopoli iwi, and demanded that the Crown desist from any measure large or small which might interfere with the full, exclusive and undisturbed possession of its landlines, phisheries and all other digital taonga protected under article two of the Treaty of Waitangi.

In particular it asserted its customary rights as Monopoli to make a killing in all its traditional hunting grounds.

We will shortly be issuing our findings, and summarise them below, as you requested.

The Monopoli have been hitherto little known to Maori scholarship; however, as the report will show, the iwi has been able to produce an impressive body of historical evidence tracing the history of this enigmatic and somewhat withdrawn group of people along ocean-going pleasurecraft routes to their ancestral home of the Cayman Islands.

Our findings deal principally with evidence presented at the site of Tribunal hearings in a traditional Corporate Marquee on Takapuna Beach where the hapu's sacred Southern Cross Cable comes ashore.

Much of the evidence took time to interpret, especially those files which had been shredded.

In total, 14,983 files from 1367 wine boxes were inspected by specialist forensic and taxation specialists, and inquiries have taken much longer than initially anticipated.

However the totality of evidence has left the tribunal in little doubt.

We have found that the Crown has not acted in a manner inconsistent with the principles of the Treaty in relation to any facet of 21st century telecommunications. There is clear evidence that most signatories to the Treaty were adept surfers; a cultural heritage which endures to this day. To impede the right of any other iwi to engage in any form of surfing, be it by water or net, would be to create a fresh injustice.

Furthermore, notwithstanding the principle long-recognised by this tribunal that the confiscation of property can frequently be shown to have been unjust and oppressive, it is not therefore correct to assert that all abrogation of property rights can be so described. The Crown drew our attention to the history of AntiTrust legislation in the United States of America, which we note to be the home of the Chicago School of economics. In particular we note the compelling comparison made by the Crown in relation to the dissolution of AT& T under the Reagan administration, which era the Crown somewhat colourfully characterised as "any libertarian's economic wet dream"

It was also suggested to us that the spiritual identity being asserted by the representatives of Te Lekomo and Monopoli was no more than "a koru-emblazoned flag of convenience"

We hesitate to make judgment on that matter, given that the consequence of our findings will have the same effect whether the evolution of Telecom into a BAMTE is artifice or not.

We do note in passing, however, that it did seem a little fanciful for its Chief Executive to note of her childhood in Rotorua that such an experience was sufficient to qualify anyone as a person of First Nation status and that, to use her words, if it were not so, then she was a Dutchwoman.

We further thought it a strain too far on our credulity to suggest that a deceased Jack Russell terrier named Spot possessed spiritual qualities from which Senior Executives derived guidance of the most profound character and that the announcement of the deregulation proposals had brought upon no fewer than 14 middle managers an incontrollable urge to bark like a small dog. A saying comes to mind: He tutae nui tenei, or as reporters have been sometimes overheard to say in the marae car park, what a load of shit.

We therefore suggest that the Crown need feel no anxiety about reviving the strategy which has come to be known colloquially as "nuked DSL." In the words of the old snooker players, Mau e timata. Your break.

Na Judge Shane Jones
Presiding Officer

April 3. Book deadline looms, writer finds quiet refuge in inner city apartment. Harbour views. Gym two blocks away. Ferry within six minutes walk. Very fine sushi bar on far side of Hobson Street. No deadline worries now.

April 4. Web server hosting writer's online business crashes with extreme prejudice. Writer's online business wiped off face of Internet in 30 seconds.

Writer establishes in terse exchange with web host in Kentucky that backups have not been performed. Writer learns, as vague knot develops in pit of stomach, that backups are automatic with the shared server option, but optional with the dedicated server option. Writer upgraded to dedicated server three years ago. Failed to tick box for optional backups. Writer berates self for characteristic failure to pay attention to small details in his business dealings. Self-beratement yields nothing by way of bringing business back online.

Writer now checks laptop for backup material. Web page coding backups exist, copy of database backup does not. Sweat forms on brow of writer. In absence of database backup, online business possesses equivalent of car body with no engine. Online business keeps writer's family in comfort to which they have all become happily accustomed. Absence of such comforts might well make re-creation of business long and bitter experience. Only hope now lies with three PCs at home. One had a hard drive crash three months ago. There will be nothing there. One needed an OS reinstall late last year. Writer cannot recall backing up database to that one since. Sole remaining PC therefore only hope, if apologetic support staff in Kentucky fail to retrieve writer's arse from fire.

Apologetic support staff in Kentucky confident of retrieving database from smoking hard drive. Panic may be premature. Writer nonetheless keeps wary distance from window of sixteenth floor apartment. Hours pass; emails and phone calls fly up and down wires from Altitude Apartments, Auckland to maximumasp.com, Lexington Kentucky.

Succeeding messages not dissimilar both in discouraging content and eternally hopeful style to those seen being delivered to quivering Fuehrer in his Berlin bunker in excellent movie Downfall.

Writer returns home at dinner time, with little appetite. Boots up last-hope PC with trepidation. Database backup is extant, but pretty damn stale. August 2004. 18 months of subscriber details therefore not accessible. Will be possible to open up shop, but nightmare still likely if subscriber details not accounted for.

Perfect technology storm has converged: writer has made pig of self in preceding month using Bit Torrent to catch up with movie or two. Has consequently, for first time, had lightning-fast internet connection rate-limited by Wired Country and thus has only dial up speed with which to upload mammoth backup database file.

Writer returns to apartment to use laptop to upload file using faster access available through Telecom hotspot service. Login fails using mobile broadband account. Spends 45 minutes on hold listening to execrable Natures Best cd. At 46th minute Sanjev asks how he can help. Ten minutes now elapse as he demonstrates inability to do so. Access still not possible, and laptop battery now fading.

Writer abandons attempt, checks to see if apologetic support staff have had any joy retrieving database from broken drive. Answer: yes! Writer tries to attach database without success. Invites apologetic support staff in Kentucky to have a bloody go. Apologetic support staff in Kentucky agree: cannot be re-attached. File may be corrupt. Database administrator may be able to help.

Night passes, messages continue. Writer finds apartment less agreeable for overnight stay than initially anticipated. Sleeps only a short time through the night, rising to check email and make calls. Berlin falls at daybreak with email from database administrator:

David,

I was able to recover your database and bring it back online. However, the database is so corrupt I can not access any of the data. In your situation the recovery tools on the market will not work.

However, you may want to look at hiring a data recovery consultant to see if they can recover your data. I have never worked with anyone who does this so I can not make a recommendation. However, I believe that an internet search brings up several firms who offer this service.

Thank you

Sarah
Database Administrator
Maximum ASP

Writer looks bleakly out window as sun rises. Registers only the grey in the sky. Thinks for a moment or two, then begins search for data recovery consultant. Settles on one in Auckland, one in Toronto, and one in Dallas. Auckland tries for day and fails. Toronto tries and fails. Dallas spends two days analysing database and then reports:

The engineer has found that the database is corrupted due to RAID rebuild. The table must be manually scavenged for all possible records. The table had over 36,000 records, so we should get the majority back.

Sky looks less grey. Writer sets to work resurrecting site on temporary basis, helping subscribers into temporary accounts as they make contact. Writer relives all coding corrections of past three years as aged coding shows its gaps.

Life returns slowly to normal. Two weeks pass. Dallas sends an Easter email: the records are back. Writer reinstates subscriber details. Breathes out.

For all your data crises large and small, the writer wholeheartedly and unreservedly recommends Datarecovery.net. They're in Dallas. The writer has also ticked the relevant box at maximumasp.com.

Book going well; blogging likely to remain sporadic for a week or two.

This afternoon I listened to Russell Crowe making life difficult for Paul Brennan on National Radio. I didn’t hear the whole thing: I presume he had graced the show with his presence to promote his new CD and/or the tour that will be supporting it, but he didn’t sound very happy to be there.

Perhaps he’s just a victim of the merciless marketing machine carting him from one meaningless publicity gig to another.

Perhaps the otherwise-genial Brennan had said something deeply provocative just before they came on air.

Perhaps Crowe was simply striving to be his uncompromising self.

Whatever the truth of the matter, it didn’t make for a very appealing exchange. This is truly a man who puts the “curt” into discourteous.

None of this will be news to anyone who has read even a little about him. He has a reputation for making people who don’t suffer fools gladly look positively Buddhist in their forbearance.

But I can’t help wondering whether the whole thing isn't just one great big performance. I listened to him speaking in a pitch so low it would surely vibrate the Lladro off your mantelpiece, and I wondered if that masterful voice really was his.

There are many men who speak with a genuinely deep voice. The nation has only heard David Bain deliver about half a dozen words in all the years we’ve been debating whether he is a mass murderer or not, but those five or six words established without a doubt that he has a remarkably deep voice. I can tell you that our own Dr Che sports something of the DJ’s deep boom, and I don’t think he affects it just to improve his appeal with the layyydeez. But I’m willing to wager that The Gladiator actually has a voice that sits a little closer to middle C than he would like us to think. It sounds to me as though Russ has taken it down an octave or two for effect.

Try it for yourself: try to read this paragraph aloud in a really deep voice. You’ll notice two things: your voice slows down, and you find that it’s easier to speak in short bursts. Grunts, even.

And that, my friend, is how you end up sounding curt.

In other words, if I’m right, the man could be a Victim! Could it be that he’s not rude, but that he’s in fact grappling with some kind of voice box fixation? Could it be that he’s doing all he can to keep any hint of a girly-man squeak out of his delivery?

Mr Brown might be able to bear this out: he interviewed the guy back in his Go Russ Go! days in the early 80s, when Russ LeRoq was just another rockstar wannabe in a leather jacket with big shoulder pads. These days he's Mr Crowe to you, me and the pool boy. He can write a Hollywod contract as big as you like and he’s living a life that, I’ll freely grant you, might leave a fellow like me tainted by the old green monster. But truly, there’s no envy in this. It’s just that the phoney-meter hits the red line whenever I hear him in action, and I’m intrigued to know if I’m right or not.

Do we have anyone in the audience who knew him before he sported a 3-packs-of-Rothmans-a-day John Wayne drawl? Has anyone ever been in a room with him when a mouse appeared?

I might be 180 degrees off beam, here, but I’m intrigued. There’s something fishy here and I think it might be the Bass.

UPDATE:

Now we're getting serious. Jen Hay, whose day job is in linguistics, kindly took some time last night to analyse changes in Russell Crowe's pitch.

Click here for an honest-to-goodness graph.

She took interviews from the web and calculated the median pitch from a random excerpt.

"Looks like there might be a downward trend, as you suspect," she writes, "but - weirdly - the two most recent interviews I looked at actually show his pitch going up again.

If anyone sends pointers to early Russ Le Roq recordings, then do pass them on, and I can try and test your hypothesis more systematically..."