It’s all academic, old Kiwi fruit!
Okay, it’s quiz time at the old Curmudgeon blog. We’ll start with an easy one. What do an Australian cricketer, two French secret agents and two international Test umpires have in common?
Answer: All five did the dirty on our cousins across the Tasman in one way
or another.
Curmudgeon admits to a soft spot for the Kiwis. They are generally more tolerant as a race than Australians. They come across as a kinder, gentler community; for a very small country they punch above their weight in international sport; remarkably, they are the benchmark for excellence in international Rugby; they tend to be genial on occasions when we Aussies might be downright grumpy, horrid and objectionable; relations between indigenous New Zealanders, the Māori, and the white majority are mostly a showcase for the world.
Their prime minister is much, much prettier than ours and she made a global impact with her compassion and empathy recently when an Australian gunman went on the rampage in Christchurch.
The Kiwis’ one regrettable national trait? They react with a “we was robbed!” paranoia when the world, even just one part of the world, does them a mischief. And it’s not a passing thing: they hold the grudge for the
rest of their lives.
Any Kiwi worth his salt will tell you endlessly how Trevor Chappell bowled
a ground-hugging underarm ball to prevent NZ batsman Brian McKechnie hitting a possible match-winning, last-ball six in a one-day international in 1981. It was a case of poor sportsmanship on Australia’s part. But 38 years later Trevor, the least talented cricketer of the Chappell brothers, is still the scapegoat when it was really batting great Greg Chappell, his captain and big brother, who should shoulder the blame.
Only four years after Chappell’s unsporting mullygrubber, a much more explosive event sent NZers as a nation into implacable fury. Two French secret agents bombed the Greenpeace vessel Rainbow Warrior. The Frenchmen swam to where the boat was moored in Auckland and sank it with explosives.
Rainbow Warrior was the Greenpeace flagship, leading protests against French nuclear testing in the Pacific. Fernando Pereira, a Portuguese crew member, was killed. Dominique Prieur (France’s first female secret agent) and Alain Mafart, posing as a husband and wife on their honeymoon, were arrested, charged with murder, pleaded guilty to manslaughter and served a 10-year stretch in jail. Although the attack was against an international organisation and not against the Kiwis, they were outraged. Curmudgeon, when he runs across the odd Kiwi or two, finds they are still fuming.
So, how will the latest international slight to the citizens of the Land of the Long White Cloud play out? We’re talking about that spine-tingling final of the World Cup and, more succinctly, the incident in which each team — England and New Zealand, after they had tied in the allotted 50 overs — faced an extra over, somewhat akin to the golden points decider in rugby league.
The crucial moment was when England scored six from the third-last ball, when a throw from Martin Guptill rebounded off a diving Ben Stokes’s bat and ran on to the boundary. The umpires, Sri Lankan Kumar Dharmasena and Marais Erasmus from South Africa, awarded six, as Stokes and Adil Rashid were returning for their second run when the overthrow was made.
But that extra run should only have been awarded if the batsmen had “crossed” before the ball was released by the fieldsman.
It’s all academic now. And like much of cricket’s folklore, it’s become an instant “what if?”. What if the umpires had known the obscure rule and had had the nous to call for a video review of exactly where Stokes, Rashid were when Guptill released the ball?
This is a part of the glorious trivia that aficionados love and which turns cricket-haters into insufferable bores, or sends them to their rightful place in the madhouse. Ah, the delicious joy of cricket. Former top umpire Simon Taufel is to be congratulated on starting the argument.
Oh joy, oh rapture, where did we go wrong?
In case you missed it, Wednesday July 17 was a significant day in the ups and downs of human history. Fifty years ago, on July 17, 1969, three American astronauts were on their way in Apollo 11 to take “one giant step for mankind” on the Moon. It was a time of hope and expectation … a joyous time celebrated by 400,000 happy music-lovers, drug-lovers and just plain lovers at Woodstock, a time when we felt we no longer needed to say “The sky’s the limit” because we had conquered the sky, there were no limits: a time when even the despicable Richard Nixon did something positive by visiting China, one small step towards thawing the Cold War.
Compare that upbeat atmosphere with July 17, 2014, five years ago. Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17, flying from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur, was murderously shot down over Ukraine. All 298 people on board, including 80 children, were killed. A Russian-made Buk missile, almost certainly fired by a Russian soldier, brought the plane down. It was a time when many of us became convinced the world was more than usually stuffed up. Fascism was on the rise globally, as millions of refugees sought — and were rejected — by affluent countries. Clearly big business had become more powerful in many ways than elected governments. Tony Abbott, one of Australia’s more unfortunate choices as prime minister, threatened to “shirtfront” Russian leader Vladimir Putin, but didn’t. Showbiz couple Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin “consciously uncoupled” (separated), thereby driving another spear into the heart of the English language.
FROM THE BUNKER
(Our serial so far … Secret agent 001 has fled the horrors of Pearly Gates Dormitory Retreat, survived an attempt on his life by Chief. Now on the run, he is keeping an assignation with a mysterious nappy rash relief saleswoman in the Wingham bat reserve.)
Oh no! Not the nappy rash ploy!
Spooky! That’s what it is. Spooky, weird, unsettling, unnerving, spine-tingling, creepy. Why would she want to meet in a rainforest swarming with bats? Well, not exactly swarming; you can’t really call hanging upside-down asleep in a tree “swarming”. But it feels like swarming when there are hundreds of the little blighters. Thousands. And they might be faking sleep. Can’t see their mean little eyes.
Come on, 001, how do you know they’ve got little eyes and, if they have eyes, how do you know they’re mean? Because I’m working on instinct. Bringing all those years of training to bear. Operating on the survival instinct. The thing that’s kept me alive the last 15 years. And stop talking to yourself. And stop calling yourself 001. You’re not a secret agent any more. You’re an ex-agent, a man on the run. Someone who could be gunned down and his body kicked into the gutter at any moment.
Oh, what a nervous little Nelly you are, aren’t you?
What! Who said that? Come out and reveal yourself. Come out from wherever you are. Immediately!
Look at you, trembling, shaking all over.
Who are you? Where are you? Are you the nappy rash lady?
Nappy rash lady! Have you any idea how stupid you sound?
Are you the 22-year-old who rang on my top secret mobile phone, claiming she was doing a survey on the various brands of nappy rash relief?
Got you right in, didn’t it?
I told you I had no expertise in the area. It didn’t get me in at all.
Not the nappy rash lie, the fact that I was only 22. That lie. You couldn’t wait to get your hands on me.
So, it was a lie too? How old are you?
In human years or bat years?
Are you saying you’re a bat?
Look up! See for yourself. No, not there. Higher and more to the left.
Good grief! Bat Woman!
No. Woman bat.
Are you trying to confuse me? If you are, you’re making a good fist of it. Are you Bat Woman, or not?
You’re not well up on gender politics, are you?
What do you mean by that?
I’m not that make-believe super hero from the comics and cinema who calls herself Bat Woman. But I am a woman and I am a bat. So, woman bat.
You mean you’re a female bat.
Yes, I am but we don’t say it like that anymore.
We don’t?
No. We say woman bat. I’m a woman bat.
Why the hell do we say that? It’s very poor English.
But politically correct, gender wise.
Bloody hell! What in the name of reason am I doing, standing here in the middle of a rainforest, talking with a bat woman, or a woman bat, who is hanging from a tree, upside-down, maybe 10 metres above me, trying to teach me bad English and good gender politics?
I think you should ask yourself that question.
Okay … what the hell am I doing standing in the middle …
You’re a very literal person, aren’t you?
Am I? I just want to know who you are and what you’re up to?
Just hangin’ around.
I can see you’re … oh, I see, that was meant to be some sort of joke. Ha-ha.
It was a joke until you got your grubby little secret-agent hands on it.
We’re not paid to have a sense of humour in the secret service. If we had a sense of humour, we’d see how laughable we are.
You mean risible?
Risible … laughable … what’s the difference?
No difference at all. It’s just that all the clued-up, with-it writers use “risible” when they’re describing something laughable.
Why? I’m sorry, but you’re confusing me. A lot more people know laughable, who don’t know what risible means.
That’s why they use it, you dummy, to make other people think they’re smarter than they actually are.
They sound a bit pretentious to me.
They’re bloody wankers, mate, take it from me, absolute wankers. But we’ve strayed from the point, ex-001.
Which was?
If you’re not trained for humour in the secret service, what are you trained for?
We’re trained to see danger, even when it doesn’t exist; we’re trained to know the goodies from the baddies, even when it isn’t apparent; we’re trained to take no nonsense from slopes and rag-heads or any other undesirables, we’re trained to be sexist and racist undercover even if we are unbiased when we entered the force, we’re trained to shoot first and ask questions later …
Of the stiff …?
Which stiff?
The stiff you’ve just gunned down?
How do you know he’s dead?
Are you a rotten shot?
Madam, I’m the best in the business. You can take it from me, if I shoot, they don’t get up again. They’re headed for the morgue.
There you are, then.
Where?
Stiff … morgue …
Why is he there?
You just shot him. Remember.
Come on. This is past a joke.
Pasta joke? Are you mocking my cooking?
I don’t even know you. I’ve only just met you. How could I know whether you’re a good cook or a crook cook?
Very clever, ex-agent 001. You almost lured me off the matter at hand. Very, very clever indeed. You …
What matter? What hand?
You’ve admitted that you’re a Dead-Eye Dick when it comes to shooting.
Yes, but …
You’ve conceded that the poor stiff, lying on the cold slab in the morgue is there because of your expertise in firearms.
We were just playing a word game. He was an innocent bystander. He’s not real.
You are about to discern the difference between reality and illusion, my friend. I am arresting you under the provisions of the anti-terrorist legislation of the Commonwealth of Australia. I must warn you that anything you now say is being recorded. And may I make a personal observation, you are a regular chatterbox, ex-agent 001. It has been a joy to work with you. I expect we’ll have many enjoyable conversations in the years ahead. You will be incarcerated a very
long time.
I want my lawyer.
Not allowed, under the Act.
I’ll phone him myself. On my mobile. Good grief. Disconnected.
All right, I’m coming down. Clear some landing space.
Help! Help! What a wingspan. Gone all dark. Blocked out the sun. Please, please, tell me … You’re not a vampire bat, are you. Please …
NEXT TIME: Blood worth bottling
© Michael John Barnes. This serial also appears in the Manning Community News, a journal distributed on the NSW North Coast.
