Posts by Felix Marwick
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The one thing that I find very hard to believe in all of this is that the HR/acting Comm's Manager never passed on Setchell's relationship with Kevin Taylor to the interview panel.
It's the first thing I would have done and, for the life of me, I can't comprehend why it apparently did not happen.
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Worst job - push hoeing tobacco for $3.50 an hour. Basically it involved walking up and down rows of tobacco plants 8 hours a day removing the weeds. It was mind numbingly dull.
Picking the stuff was even worse. Sitting in a small hard plastic seat at the bottom of a giant harvester contraption, bundling sheafs of green tobacco leaves into a highly dangerous chain belt contraption (get your timing wrong and lose a finger) where they were whisked to other stooges on a platform above who then put them into special kiln racks. By the end of the day you'd be covered from shoulder to wrist in tobacco sap. You'd end up black and sticky and have absorbed vast quantities through your skin - nicotine via osmosis - and naturally feel like shit.
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At the risk of kicking permit me a comment or three.
1) Behaviour during Question Time tends to be fractious at the best of times (though Thursdays are often quiet). However this does not mean things improve during debates on legislation. Some of the more extreme stuff I've witnessed has actually occurred in the evenings (the Bradford Bill and Dog Microchipping legislation spring to mind)
2) All the offices in the Press Gallery have a live audio feed from the Chamber. For the radio journalists, who have tighter deadlines, it's easier to monitor the feed and submit stories from the office. Sitting in the house, recording material, then going back to the office to edit can be a bit time consuming. Having said that, on high profile legislation, where there's chance of feistiness, reporters do tend to pop in and out of the gallery to keep an eye on things.
3) How Michael Cullen could say with a straight face that the House was for debate and not theatre escapes me.
4) When it comes to covering the Parliamentary Chamber the public has the right to be able to see exactly what they would were they in the public gallery. The fact is the new rules can be (and will be) used to block this. If an MP behaves like a tit in the chamber then the voters (who pay his or her salary) should be able to see just the sort of person that's representing them.
5) Final point. The good news for those of us in radio and print is there's nothing in the new rules to prevent us giving graphic oral or written descriptions of exactly what we see going on. That, at least, is reassuring. Still removing satire as a tool for TV is a worry. Serious political coverage is all well and good, but politics does have a lighter side and it deserves to be aired (albeit in a fair measure)
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The following story is all true. It's another tale from my sojourn in Japan in the days I was working with horses and journalism wasn't even a remote consideration. The mists of memory, and the necessity to protect the reputations of others means some of the names have been changed.
Evey summer the showjumping team, with which I worked, would go all around the country as a part of the national championship circuit. The team I was working with was pretty decent. The boss's son was one of the most naturally talented riders I have ever seen and has subsequently represented Japan at the Olympics. Anyway there was a lot of money and prestige involved which is why the boss hired foreign workers, such as myself, to provide the expertise that the locals simply couldn't match. Our set up was two Japanese riders, one foreign rider (who was also coach to the two Japanese riders), myself , and two stable hands. Generally when we were at a show we'd have upwards of a dozen horses competing so it made for a lot of hard work. With competition running from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon I'd be starting my work day at four AM and finishing sometime around ten at night ..... as you can imagine it was pretty intense stuff.
The thing was that the foreign staff, like myself and our French riding instructor Andre, only got to get together with our other gaijin colleagues at these events, and when we did we made the most of it socially. So by the time you've worked a 16 hour day and then spent upwards of 16 hours of socialising it didn't leave a lot of time for sleep. This conundrum was fixed courtesy of some wonderful little pills which kept the motor running during the day and enabled us to do what had to be done to keep things running smoothly. Unfortunately after three or four days of competition, little or no sleep, and a headful of these little pills our collective judgement tended to be a bit wanting. Which probably explains the really dumb things we got up to.
It was the end of a spring show in Sapporo, we'd done well, and had got well and truly trashed at the formal event afterwards. But because we were well and truly buzzing all the gaijin decided to carry on. Anton, the French riding instructor, was in his element as he'd come across a couple of fellow countrymen and he finally had people he could talk to with no language barriers (he spoke no English or Japanese and no-one could speak any French .... which left him in a very solitary predicament). Anyway Anton was in his element and in the mood to party, so he and his two French friends (Jean-Paul and Jacques), along with myself, an Aussie called Craig, and an Irish girl (Melanie) decided to hit the town. To be honest we sort of had to leave the official celebrations as Jacques had just had an amorous encounter with his boss's wife in a toilet somewhere and all sorts of suspicions had been raised by those that had heard the noise of passion emanating from the aforementioned cubicle. So in the true French tradition Jacques decided a hasty retreat was called for and we all just sort of got dragged along.
We ended up at a little bar somewhere in the city. I don't recall what it was called, just that it was dark and had stunningly attractive bargirls (as most Japanese city bars do). It very soon became obvious to those of us of non-gallic persuasion that there are certain dangers in socialising with Frenchmen when they're in a pack. Now I'm no angel, and upon occasion my behavior has been somewhat wanting, but I have never witnessed such a scene as I did that night. Their treatment of the bargirls was outrageous, demeaning, and despicable. Then their personal habits hit new lows. Instead of getting of their backsides to go to the toilet the trio decided they'd just flip out their willies and piss under the table. We discovered this when one of the bargirls discovered it wasn't a drink that had spilled, but it was Jean-Paul pissing on her leg. Needless to say we were unceremoniously kicked out.
So after a few casual car vandalisms and the occasional sidewalk urination later, it was back to the show venue and the accommodation that had been set aside for us. The night was still far from over. Anton and Jacques amused themselves by spitroasting some poor female Japanese groom while the rest of us continued drinking. it was about this stage the real trouble began. Fresh from his tag team episode with Anton and the Japanese groom Jacques decided he now had a fancy for Irish Melanie. A fancy he declared had to satisfied through mutual passion. Needless to say Melanie told him where to go in the way only an Irish girl can which left our Froggie friend in a very miffed state. The problem was Melanie had decided if she was going to bonk anyone it was going to be Jean-Paul, who she'd taken a fancy to (me and Craig were left right out .... Antipodean accents just don't work that well on foreign women). As it turned out it was not a wise move on her part as, while she was briefly out of the room, the spurned Jacques cooked up a nasty revenge plan with Jean-Paul. Their strategy was that Jean-Paul would go along with Melanie's advances, get her in a state of undress, and then take a heap of revealing photos of her which then could be used to humiliate her.
The plan was put into effect and off to a secluded room went Melanie, Jean-Paul, and the camera. The moment the door closed Jacques told the rest of us what was going on and we waited for the flash of the camera and the expected squeals of female rage.
Sometimes fate takes some funny twists.
On cue the camera flashed ..... silence. Then it flashed again ...... more silence. No angry feminine outcry whatsoever! There was a collective exchange of puzzled glances in the living room, then out strode a fully clothed and happily triumphant Melanie. We made a rush for the bedroom to see what possibly could have happened and were greeted by the sight of a naked Frenchman bent double, whimpering in pain, and clutching his genitalia. It turned out Melanie had been onto their game from the start and made plans of her own. She got Jean-Paul into a state of arousal, using methods I'm almost positive aren't approved of by the Catholic faith, and when he was almost in a state of bliss she bit down hard on his fundamentals, grabbed the camera and had a Kodak moment or three.
French pride was battered, and Irish eyes were definitely smiling. Meanwhile two young Antipodean lads were left wondering if this was what people when people went on about the sophistication of European culture.
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I'm always bemused how people can travel half way around the world and then still end up with a Kiwi
I must say I have met the occasional foreign girl who promised to "love me long time" but they weren't what you'd consider the marriageable types.
But that's what you get for visiting the more insalubrious areas of cities like Bangkok, Saigon, and Manila.
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I had read somewhere that Emerates sponsorship of TNZ ends the day the last race is sailed, so the cup would never go to Dubai anyway.
To clarify, and I did check this with Mallard's office a few weeks back, it was firmly written into the deal the Government did with TNZ when it committed $35 million to the campaign that, should TNZ win in Valencia the next regatta would be held in NZ.
It was the only way they'd had over the dosh. Hosting the Cup would bring substantial returns for NZ and the Government wanted a return for their support. Mallard says it's cast iron.
Regard that how you will.
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Cheers for the feedback.
And while I remember here's some handy travel advice.
Hitchhiking across the King Hussein Bridge from Jordan to Israel is not a good idea. And definitely don't be wearing a Palestinian kheffiyah when you do it.
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I could probably write a book (or at least a collection of short stories) on OE escapades. But I'll share the one that I told my interview panel (almost a decade ago) when I'd decide that journalism seemed like a fun thing to do. The question they'd asked me was to give an example of thinking on my feet and dealing with a difficult situation.
This is the answer they got:
Back in 1990 and 1991 when I was in my late teens I was living and working in Japan looking after a showjumping team. Initially I was all official and had a working holiday visa. All was sweet with the wonder that is Japanese bureaucracy. However after my first six months getting an extension proved to be a difficult task and I had to resort to some unorthodox tactics to stay in my country and in my job. The solution was simple - every three months I'd quickly flit out of the country and come back in getting a tourist visa.
Not strictly legit' but it achieved my aims.
So things progressed along this path for some time but unfortunately for me things changed. You see I wasn't the only Kiwi in a certain area of Hokkaido working in the horse industry and eventually the immigration department wised up and decided to check matters out.
Learning this I made efforts to make my status a little more legal and endeavoured to get my paperwork in order. Unfortunately the system decided not to play ball, in fact it decided to lodge said ball squarely in my fundamental orifice. I ended up in the situation where, not only did I not have a working visa but I also had no tourist visa either.
Matters got worse when immigration rang my place of work and a receptionist (long on looks but short on guile) blithely told them how long I'd been working and exactly how much I had been paid. At this point I decided a strategic retreat to New Zealand was necessary and this is where things began to get a bit tricky.
There I was at Narita Airport plane tickets in hand going through immigration when I struck up a conversation with an Australian. He like me had visa issues and was heading home to rectify matters. He was just ahead of me in the queue, presented his passport at the immigration desk, and a kerfuffle ensued. Two of the largest Policemen I'd ever seen promptly turned up and hauled him off for questioning.
I'm now slightly apprehensive.
I roll up to the immigration officer and hand over my passport. He looks at it, then at me, then calls for the police. Off I'm hauled to a small room and the interrogation, and the bizarre nature of Japanese bureaucracy, begins to unveil. Because I have no visa I'm told I can't be in the country. However without a visa I also can't leave it.
"Simple" says I, "give me a visa and I'll go".
"Not possible", says the not so friendly official,"a visa can only be issued by the Japanese Embassy in NZ"
"OK let me on the plane and I'll apply for one when I get home" says me.
"You can't leave Japan without a visa"Bollocks.
Anyway while all this was going on files had been checked and my somewhat undercover work history was sprung. In no uncertain terms I was told I could face 6 months in jail and/or a hefty fine. Fairly heavy duty stuff for an 18 year old to handle. Suffice it to say I was shitting bricks.
The official sternly tells me I'm in big trouble (btw all this conversation was going on in Japanese), tells me to stay where I am and heads out the door. I. of course, do the complete opposite. As I still had my passport and plane tickets I was on my feet in a flash, out through the other door, past immigration and heading for the boarding gate at a great rate of knots.
Luckily for me the flight was boarding and I scuttled on and wedged myself into a window seat taking care to ensure there was at least one octogenarian between me and the aisle.
Five minutes later there's a commotion at the front of the plane. Very foolishly I look up to see what's going on and there's the immigration official I'd escaped from not 15 minutes before. His eyes meet mine and down the aisle he strides shouting angry imprecations and calling down all sorts of nasty curses upon my head.
Bugger!
A number of options were flashing through my head as he's screaming at me (in Japanese) to get of the plane immediately. I did what any other baka gaijin would do in such circumstances and stared blankly at him pretending I couldn't understand him(despite our prior fluent conversation). The poor man is now a bright shade of red, and heading for purple, as he speaks through clenched teeth in strained english. Again he orders me off the plane.
Time for plan B and in my best 3rd Form German I said;
"Einen bien auschlander. Nicht spechen sie englisch. Sprechen sie Deutsch?"Now I won't say his face was reminiscent of Hiroshima revisited at this point, but it was pretty close. Veins throbbing his rage was approaching incandescent status.
And this is when my saviours intervened. God Bless Air NZ hostesses who will come to the aid of a Kiwi boy in distress. Pleading schedules, fuel loads, baggage priorities, and other such aviation priorities they efficiently whisked the protesting official off the plane and onto the airbridge. The poor bugger didn't know what hit him. Before he knew it the door was closed and yours truly had flown the coop and was home free and clear.
Needless to say when I applied for a visa when I got home it was turned down. I've never been back to Japan since - I'm still slightly worried about what might happen if I did.
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All I can say is I'm now glad the prominence of a certain cartoon show is not what it once was. People under the age of 25 tend not to know it.
Oh and I too own the google search for my name. I really doubt there's anyone out there that shares my full name
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For the feature may I suggest OE stories. I'm sure there are some great tales to be told.
Or if you want to be topical - dodgy real estate agents (or landsharks in Cosgrove speak)