Idiot box

..Wall.
(Check out the wall on my Facebook
page)
David Langsam commented that ‘..the Palace has the potential to be a good
venue, but the wrestling and golf and rotating sports on big screens is a terrible
distraction.’
Ron Mahony, a fellow Cantabrian musician responded with, ‘Hell – we used
to play with both the big tele on (on stage) and the juke box on, (when I was
back in Christchurch in late ’90’s), or if the rugby was on, no playing allowed..
Which was kinda good as you got to watch a rugby match and then only play (half
pissed) for about an hour.. Rock and roll..’
Big Bob Valentine contributed: ‘I can top that – Wendy Stapleton and I
working at the Home of the old Fitzroy Lions; Albion Charles Hotel.. They had
the game playing on the big screen at the back of the stage with the image actually
projected on us!!! Wendy got a bit ratty halfway thru the set/quarter &
started to chase the ball around – hilarious. At least the crowd was facing
in our direction – a luxury in Melbourne these days..’
(And you try and tell the young people of today that ….. they won’t believe
you).
FaceBook. Maybe I can leave that topic for another day, but by way of commentary
I’ve closed down my MySpace page in favour of a FaceBook presence.
I’ve just been speaking (on Skype) with Tony Brittenden, with whom I stayed
on my recent visit to Christchurch. He sadly confirmed that seven acquaintances
of his, including fellow teachers and students, were killed in the recent earthquake.
His own workplace, St Andrews College, is struggling to re-open, with much of
its building infrastructure and playing fields off limits for the moment.
I suggested to Tony the possibility of the CBD being relocated to another suburb,
which is actually being canvassed apparently, and he told me of the sensational
predictions by self-appointed soothsayer, Mr Ken Ring, of another massive shock
or two on 20.3 and 18.4. Or thereabouts..
These are dreadful times for my old home town and I suspect there’s more
bad news to come, even as the shocks and after-shocks of the last big jolt diminish.
The most depressing sight for me was the decapitated and otherwise ruined cathedral
in Cathedral Square, the very centre of Christchurch’s CBD and the focal
point for locals and tourists alike.
Much to the despair of expats such as myself making the occasional return visit
over the years, the cathedral had been losing the aesthetic battle for pre-eminence
to the inevitable cluster of indescribably dull high rise buildings in the immediate
vicinity, and although some of those very same buildings maybe subject to safety
orders in the meantime, it looks like most of them will survive, albeit without
the heritage frontages some of them went to ridiculous lengths to preserve,
and the beautiful neo-gothic cathedral they surrounded so mediocrely has been
largely destroyed and may possibly never be rebuilt.
Why it was so shocking to me personally was that I was a chorister in that very
cathedral for four years back in the ‘50s and came to know the building
intimately, to the point that reacquainting myself with the slightly musty odour
of the place took me straight back to when I was a cassocked and surpliced young
boy at the head of the procession proudly bearing a black and silver or red
and gold cross (depending on the day of the week) leading the choir to their
respective Cantoris and Decani stalls to sing under the directorship of C. Foster
Browne, (or Fossie as we used to call him).
I was again reminded of those days when I was looking for a book to read on
the flight home from Auckland and came upon David McPhail’s auto-biography,
The years before my Death. David is well-known, indeed famous in NZ
for his career as a comic writer and performer in TV shows such as A Week
of It and McPhail and Gadsby and the one that Australian viewers
might remember, Seven Periods with Mr Gormsby, but I knew him before
his celebrity when he was a fellow chorister in the Cathedral Boys’ Choir.
Although hampered in his delivery by an uncontrollable stammer, (interestingly
his singing was unaffected), I had him pegged as an original comic wit even
in those days, chiefly because of one incident. One of our number’s voice
had broken and he had to prematurely retire from the choir mid-term. The owner
of the broken voice was the affable Hamish Guthrie, although, in the English
public schoolboy tradition, he was known simply as Guthrie, or more often to
his friends by his nick-name, Gubby.
As he was sadly shaking hands with all of us at the door of the choir change
rooms for the last time, there were solicitous murmurings of ‘sad to see
you go’ and ‘good luck’ and so forth, but as he stepped outside
David slammed the door and quipped, ‘Good riddance to bad Gubbish!’
which I thought slightly cruel but very clever.(See large
pic of choir)
On such flimsy pretexts careers are built – witness my own. I was very
pleased to get a couple of mentions in David’s book, which ultimately
persuaded me to buy it, speaking of flimsy pretexts.
I’ve been asked if I’ll ever write a book of my own reminiscences.
Sorry, I’ve got to watch the 42nd re-run of ..