Outraged

by Paul Henry

  SUPPLEMENTARY FACT:

  I am overweight. Sometimes I make an effort to slim down, but mostly I eat too well, and am pudgy as a result. This could be directly related to my lack of education or the things that have been forced into my shopping cart by pretty labels and two-for-one specials. But I prefer to blame the government and John Key.

  NOTE TO JOHN KEYS:

  Stop making me and lots of the Maoris fat. We need more money so we can buy the fruits.

  PARENTING

  I know it’s a well-worn path, but parenting really is the most important thing you can do. It is also without doubt the most rewarding. Let’s be honest, there are a lot of rewarding and important things out there, and life is all about balance. But if you are going to have children, or you have them now, their childhood is your responsibility. Don’t fuck it up.

  Children develop a capacity to experience magic at a very early stage. It is wondrous and infectious. It should last for many, many years. For the very lucky it lasts a lifetime. It is a parent’s fortunate responsibility to foster the magic, and the parent’s great fortune to be able to share in the ride.

  Sadly, some children are saddled with substandard parents. The very worst of these are true abusers, but they are covered in another chapter. The vast majority of parents are substandard because they are too interested in moving their own lives on to the next stage. Too concerned with themselves. Too focused on speeding their children through childhood. They have no time, perhaps as a result of working for a future, at the expense of the present.

  You see, far too many parents — the overwhelming majority — don’t understand one simple thing: these are the golden years. Now. Stop and experience the best of your children’s childhood.

  Yes, you can be absent earning money, as I was for far too much time. Yes, the money is great, and if you are successful it means you can spend it on your children. But here is the problem: by the time you have lots of it, they are not children anymore. They are always your children, but there is no going back. You can’t recreate the tree-hut days when all they wanted was to stay out another hour with you. You can’t tell that little girl another bedtime story, because the little girl no longer exists. She is still wondrous, and still your little girl, but changed. A bit more of the magic has gone. Squeezed out by life lessons, like ‘Get in here and do your homework!’ or ‘Stand in that queue for registrations!’ You have missed out, and they have missed out.

  Good parenting is not about learning how to be a parent and following some prescribed wisdom. It is about fostering childhood and loving the shit out of the golden years. If you have one or more parenting books, throw them out now and let your children teach you how to be a parent. They are actually telling you how to do it with a signalling system you have been too busy to pick up on. If you love the shit out of them and spend the time, nothing can go wrong.

  TEST:

  Next time your child says ‘Look!’, do. Stop, crouch down, and look. Let them tell you what they see. And then, rather than tell them what it is or how it works, see it through their eyes by asking them what they think it is and how they think it works. Make it more colourful and fascinating than it already is to them. And in doing so, share some of the magic. Don’t tell them what it is and move them on. That’s not parenting, that’s child-minding.

  The best child you can produce is one who is loved and is loving. Secure and passionate about life and living. Wide of vision and bursting with enthusiasm and personality. Who gives a fuck about academic qualifications? That will come easily if the rest is in place.

  If you fail to be a great parent, you are a true failure. And you should be fuck’n outraged at that. Don’t blame anyone or anything else. It’s down to you.

  ANECDOTE:

  It was a rare occasion. I was in Pak’nSave in Albany (great supermarket), shopping as quickly as possible to avoid overexposure in the human contact department. Between ‘fresh produce’ and the most important area — ‘wine’ — I was passing through the personal hygiene aisle. I noticed a mother and son shopping for a new toothbrush. The boy, about seven years old, was dwarfed by a mind-boggling array of options. He was almost hyperventilating with the excitement of the moment.

  Now here’s the thing. His mother noticed. She was in the moment with him and appreciated how wondrous this was. This was the magic of childhood happening, right now. This was more important than getting home on time or doing homework or having dinner ready for the rest of the family. Frankly, this was the most important thing that was going to happen, maybe all week. And she saw it. She knew it was her responsibility to keep the magic alive. She stood back and gave him all the time in the world, and all the enthusiastic encouragement she could, as he excitedly and thoughtfully buzzed from shiny brush to brush.

  After making my wine selection with similar enthusiasm, I broke with tradition and, rather than exit as fast as possible, walked via the wall of tooth care. The little seven-year-old boy was still there. He was standing with a big grin on his face, holding his selection proudly in his hand. His mother was smiling. She knew at that moment that she was the best parent in the world.

  SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTE:

  Years ago, when my children were young, I knew of a family who were at a similar stage to mine. Three young children all around 10-ish. I was working spectacularly hard and successfully to create a great future for my family. It would have been easy for me to be blind to the magic, but, as luck would have it for my children, I was a magician so all was not lost. Anyway, this other family were not doing so well in the money stakes. Shit house, etc. All they seemed to want to do was have fun with their children.

  I sort of resented how comparatively unsuccessful they were, and yet how much I envied them. One day I found out that they had sold their shit house, a sort of shambolic small holding, and had bought a steel sailing ship. ‘What complete fools,’ I enviously thought. The father had even quit his dead-end job. What a twat. I have, naturally, completely lost contact with them and have no idea where they are now or what they are doing. However, I did hear a few years later that, by the time their children were in their early teens, they had seen the world together as a family. Apparently, I was told, they were having the time of their lives and, although surely as poor as church mice financially, they were as rich as kings in every other way. How stupid were they? Wasting their time living the golden years!

  PERSONAL REGRET:

  I quite often think about one moment in time. My three girls, Lucy, Sophie and Bella, were playing in a magic tree. The game was a very complicated scenario that I was never fully privy to. We had a magical house with a large, magical garden, and the magic tree stood close to the bandstand and in sight of the fairies’ forest, a large deep hedgerow running the length of the front of the section.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but this particular moment was, I think, the epicentre of the golden years. I needed them to come into the house to get ready for some unimportant thing that I had prioritised. I remember standing and looking for far too short a time at three little girls completely immersed in a wonderland — and shutting it down.

  It can never be recreated. I snuffed it out with a line like ‘You can do that later.’ Not now, they can’t!

  PATRIOTISM

  There is an interesting conundrum in New Zealand. Many New Zealanders have an over-inflated view of the significance of our country on the world stage. Simultaneously, as a country we show a huge, almost embarrassed, reluctance to take overt pride in the promotion of our country. To the point that you will often hear the country and its attempts at self-promotion criticised and put down by its own. It is also rare to find a New Zealander quick to jump to the defence of New Zealand in critical discussions. And much more likely to find one agreeing with the criticism. I have a feeling that as a country we are beginning to lose our reluctance to be overtly patriotic, but we have a long way to go.

  Australians are far advanced on New Zealand in the patriotic stakes. A
ny excuse to hoist a flag and get out the pyrotechnics is proudly embraced. As it should be.

  In the United States, drugstores and supermarkets have aisles set up with patriotic merchandise. Bunting, streamers, pins and flags to adorn your home on special occasions or just every day. It’s a thing! And I think it’s a good thing.

  Let’s talk about the flag. We have a flag. It’s a great flag, full of proud history, and evocative of the creation of a new land. The building of a new nation under the banner of an old but honourable world leader.

  Let me be frank. We have a spectacular flag under which we can all stand proudly united. But do we? No. The Maori flag is waved in contempt — often of the New Zealand flag and New Zealand. Rather than ignoring it, our leaders and many New Zealanders buckle and concede that it may be time to change. The liberal set, already embarrassed by their own country and disloyal to it, suggest that it is time for change. In an effort to compromise, others say, ‘Yes, let’s adopt a new flag. Perhaps that Saatchi and Saatchi advertising hoarding? The silver fern?’ After all, everything in New Zealand is either the fuck’n fern or ‘all’ or ‘black’, or both. ‘Let’s grow up,’ they say. ‘Be a nation in our own right.’ Dickheads!

  We are a nation in our own right. And rather than cower in the shadow of our history, let’s be proud of it. And damn proud of the country we have built and are building. We don’t need a new flag. We need a better attitude. We don’t need the Maori separatist flag flying on the Auckland Harbour Bridge or on any official structure, just as we don’t need the silver fern fluttering like a billboard.

  If you seriously think that the only thing standing in the way of uniting us as a people is a fabric symbol, you are mad. If we change our flag now, we will be changing it regularly. Do you honestly think those who want the Maori flag want the silver fern, or will settle for it? ‘Oh, well, we didn’t get our separatist wish, but at least we got an artist’s impression of a plant on a black background! Now let’s sing that great national anthem!’ That’s going to fly! (You won’t be surprised to know that I love the national anthem.)

  Back to the interesting conundrum. As a country on the world stage we are fairly insignificant; those who think otherwise are at best deluded. The world could manage without us and, worse, it knows it. But for a tiny little landmass at the arse-end of the planet, we have a great reputation with a voice that is louder than the sum total of our mouths. God, that’s something to be proud of. We live in paradise, have unbelievably good lifestyles by world standards, and very good governance. We have a reputation we should all be proud of.

  So, as a nation that understands its place in the world, let’s be feverishly patriotic and strive to promote ourselves so that we continue to thrive and grow.

  ANECDOTE:

  I got to SeaWorld in San Diego with my youngest daughter at opening time. We were let into the first part of the compound, but were stopped from going any further by ropes and staff until the clock struck 10. At the beginning of many lanes, there was rope, staff and 50 or so people waiting. At the ticket booths, another 300 or so people waiting in line. The clock struck 10. In unison, the staff stopped talking and smiling, and firmly planted their feet slightly apart on the ground. They held their heads high as overhead speakers played ‘The Star-spangled Banner’ at volume. Spectacular.

  SUGGESTION:

  Stand in Darling Harbour on Australia Day. Accept an Australian flag when it is offered to you for free, and wave it with enthusiasm with the 20,000 others there, waiting for the fireworks to celebrate a nation. It’s not ‘Say Sorry Day’, it’s Australia Day. And they are fuck’n proud of it!

  PERSONAL:

  At my residence in Auckland I have two flagpoles. The one at the entrance always flies the New Zealand flag. The larger one on the property flies not just the New Zealand flag, but flags of all nations that have particular significance on the day. At my beach house I fly mostly the Stars and Stripes. The whole large US flag set at Walgreens was just US$14 plus tax. Wrapped in a packet that exclaimed in large print: Proudly made in the USA. Plastic golden eagle. Metal poles. External wall-bracket connectors, screws, large flag and all. A bargain … Now that’s something to celebrate.

  SUPPLEMENTARY:

  I have a car that I keep in America. It’s a 2011 Ford Mustang. In the middle of one of the small side windows there is a sticker that I haven’t removed. It says: Proudly made by the men and women of the American Auto Industry. I often look at other new Mustangs in the States, and I have never seen the sticker missing.

  My Mustang is just a little different to the others there: on the rear window, the line proudly born and bred appears under a New Zealand flag.

  QUEUING

  With the exception of those with absolutely nothing constructive to do with their lives, or those who socialise in queues, queuing is a complete and offensive waste of life. It outrages me how often we are expected to stand patiently in line while others control our lives. Queues are a tool used by business for their convenience, not for the convenience of their customers.

  Perhaps, though, for me the most agitating thing about queuing is the blind acceptance of the need for it by others. Often I will exclaim at volume ‘What the hell are we waiting for?’ as staff mill around, seemingly oblivious to a queue, only to be informed by fellow queuers that they are ‘obviously’ busy and will ‘presumably’ get to us as soon as they can. Don’t turn on me, you fool! And what’s with ‘presumably’? Get more staff — or better staff. You don’t deserve my custom!

  When you are on your death-bed, no one will offer you the weeks upon weeks you have wasted standing in queues so that you can do important things like be with your children or just live.

  It is like waiting on 0800 numbers to enquire about something or have a problem fixed, the making of which is probably the responsibility of the company that now has you on a queue on the phone in your own home. And you are not even being dealt with by a human being — it’s a fuck’n android voice. This outfit you pay money to does not even think you deserve to be talked to by a living creature. Fuckers. And don’t tell me that my call is important to you, you lying bastard.

  Banks, Customs and Immigration arrival halls, shops, the fuck’n post office … Who do they think they are?

  And here’s another thing: why have so many check-outs? If you only intend to have three staff on, why have 25 check-outs?

  Quite often you have gone to a lot of trouble to get to the store. You have done the business a great favour by calling in and selecting something. And they reward you by making you wait in line to spend your money with them. Thanks!

  SUPPLEMENTARY THOUGHT:

  Queuing is akin to being expected to fill in entirely useless forms. You would be surprised how often I have avoided filling out forms by simply saying, ‘This is not necessary. I am not filling it in.’

  ANECDOTE:

  I had been standing in line for half an hour waiting to enter Disneyland with my youngest daughter, Bella. Finally, we got to the gate and were told that the ink used to write our names on the ticket was not the kind they now use. We were asked to wait, with an increasingly large group of people, for a security guard to arrive with the correct marker-pen. I said, ‘No, we’re going in.’ The woman said we could not, as our ticket needed marking. I said to her, ‘I have paid my money. I have stood in your queue. I have done my bit. You owe me an apology for holding me up. You have failed to do your bit and have let me down. This is the happiest place on fuck’n Earth, and I am due some fun!’ As I walked off to find fun with Bella, the woman said, ‘How will we find you?’ I replied, ‘I don’t care.’ Interestingly, (1) the world did not end for the lack of the correct marker-pen, and (2) everyone else seemed content to wait with their families for a pen to arrive!

  QUESTION:

  Why, when your doctor’s appointment is at 2.45pm, are you still in the waiting room at 3.30pm? I thought he was professional! You trust the doctor with your health and he can’t even sort out a si
mple client roster? If people walked out in disgust it would be sorted immediately, but instead, when the doctor says, ‘Sorry for the wait’, you say, ‘That’s fine.’ No, it’s not fine. It’s your fuck’n life he’s flushing down the toilet!

  RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE

  New Zealand is a Christian country. Fact. I know this partly because, when I was a little boy in Howick, Auckland, starting my stellar journey through life, I was surrounded by the God squad. On both sides of us were huge families. Five children apiece. Always attending Sunday school, church and Christ knows what else.

  We were C of E, but I had little understanding of that. Mostly we were agnostic, and religious experiences were confined to boating and the beach. We were very tolerant of others’ religious beliefs, though. My father would laugh himself witless at the antics of visiting Mormons, and the Jehovahs across the road provided occasional interest.

  Basically, though, New Zealand is Christian. That is our heritage. It is our shared experience growing up in a Christian land. The Jehovahs and Mormons share the same experience as the rest of us growing up in a Christian land. But things are a-changing! Others are moving in in vast numbers, and they are not so happy to be part of a Christian land. They are offended by some of our beliefs and heritage. Christmas and Easter are good examples. Our progressive, politically aware leadership promotes religious tolerance as though it means we should alter our way of life in order to accommodate others. That’s bullshit! Tolerance is what my dad gave to the Mormons and Jehovahs. You are welcome to hold and practise your beliefs, just don’t force them on me.