Grumpy Old Men: 47 Kiwi Blokes Tell You What's Wrong With The World

INTRODUCTION

To have embarked on one’s second half century in the belief that all is well with the world is to have spent the first half century not paying much attention. Grumpiness is the older person’s natural state, motivated by alarm — albeit often bemused or amused alarm — at everything that is wrong with the world.

We live in a country that discourages grumpiness. We prefer people not to complain or to make waves or express ideas that may make things difficult for us.

Which is why this book was necessary. The men in these pages can be a very difficult bunch.

But not as far as we were concerned. We would like to thank all of them for agreeing to take part in this project, giving generously of their time and words, and providing us with so many wise and witty offerings.

Some expressed an initial unwillingness to be identified as grumpy but eventually realised that, yes, come to think of it, they did have something they’d like to sound off about.

And we suspect a few at least were informed by other people living in their homes that they were in fact quite grumpy indeed and had been so for some years.

We are also very pleased that the normal authors’ royalty from the sale of this book will go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation, which does such great work to support those men — usually older — whose lives are affected by this disease, including, of course, some of the men whose words appear in this book.

Dorothy Dudek Vinicombe and Paul Little

SIR PAUL

HOLMES

Paper tigers

When this book was conceived, Sir Paul Holmes was top of the list of potential contributors. Unfortunately the rapid progress of his prostate cancer meant it was not possible for him to be involved. However, Deborah Lady Holmes has kindly provided the following piece, based on a speech he gave to regional newspaper editors in 2009, for publication and we extend our thanks to her. We have also chosen it to open this book in tribute to him. Sir Paul was a leading media presence in TV, print and radio during a long career cut short by his early death at age 62. He could also be extremely grumpy.

I cannot believe I have been persuaded to speak to you tonight for free! No fee! For Nothing! Am I going soft in the head? Perhaps you were right all those years. Perhaps I AM thick. Perhaps I am, after all, the strutting, insubstantial little arrogant man so many of your lackeys always said I was.

I must say, the greatest pleasure I have had in recent years is winning Newspaper Columnist of the Year, not once, but twice ahead of so many of the people who wrote me off as a fuckwit.

I used to say to people that I work dear or I work free, but I never work cheap. At least I’ve stuck to that. But I usually work free to groups who cannot pay, people doing good works, people who help others. You do not qualify. And here I am. Working free! So not only do I have to write a column this week for one of your newspapers, for which I am paid a miserable sum which I put with the other modest stipends I am able to eke from the work I do at radio and television and my extra virgin olive oil in order to fund my sad and mercilessly public life and my very expensive family. Running that Bentley Continental Gt is very, very difficult in these straitened times. If any of you are interested . . . I can arrange for an inspection this weekend . . . Do I have any bidders. Who will start me at 90,000?

‘Thinking you know more than the person you are talking to is patronising and pompous"

Really . . . it is a pleasure to be here with you and an honour to be asked to speak to you at the conclusion of your conference. There are even a few people here I am happy to call friends. Within reason. And, in fact, I enjoy my column immensely. My favourite thing is writing nicely about nothing. You may have noticed.

Two men are sitting next to each other in a bar. After a while, one looks at the other and says, ‘I can’t help but think, from listening to you, that you’re from Ireland . . . ’

The other man responds proudly, ‘Yes, that I am.’

The first man says, ‘So am I. And what part of Ireland might you be from?’

‘I’m from Dublin, I am.’

The first man says, ‘So am I.’

‘Sure and begorrra. And what street did you live on in Dublin?’

‘Oh, well, a lovely little area it was. I lived on McCleary Street in a lovely little part of central Dublin.’

The other man says, ‘Faith, and it’s a small world. So did I! So did I!’

‘And to what school would you have been going?’

‘Well now, I went to St Mary’s of course.’

The first man gets very excited. He says, ‘So did I! tell me, what year did you finish there?’

‘Well now, let’s see. I finished there in 1964.’

The first man says, ‘The good Lord must be smiling down upon us. I can hardly believe our good luck at winding up in the same bar tonight. Can you believe it!? I graduated from St Mary’s in 1964 my own self!’

Vicky walks into the bar. The bartender says to her, ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

‘Why?’ she says.

‘The Murphy twins are pissed again.’

We live in tough times. God knows what is going to happen. I’m told reliably that Allan Bollard came back from Davos in shock. He believes the world financial crisis is going to cut through New Zealand like a scythe. I know you must be feeling the pinch already. Wringing your hands, getting me here for free, for a start. The full page ads Newstalk ZB is placing in the New Zealand Herald for the Mike Hosking Show . . . the new dawn in New Zealand radio, apparently . . . are not only full page, they’re in colour. I never got colour. This tells me your rates have come down.

It is affecting all of us, newspapers, radio and television too.

This on top of what many in the newspaper community, I understand, believe, which is that managing newspapers is the job of managing decline. I know Murdoch believes this. Mind you most of you tell us every six months that circulation is up. And readership, (I love ‘readership,’ meaning people who glance at the front page in the dairy while they buy their smokes in the morning, I suppose). And I know there is a lot of angst about getting money out of newspaper use on the internet. It’s a tough one. You have to be there but what pays for it?

It is times like this when I think we all have to remember what we are. Before we are anything, we are communicators. We communicate. We are talking to people. We are reaching out to people and communicating. We tell them stories, we explain, we engage, we entertain. We form relationships with our audience, our readership, same thing, and maintaining that relationship is of crucial importance.

I don’t mean communicating as a lecturer or a teacher, or as someone who knows more than the person we are talking to. I don’t mean communicating as a stern father or a judge. None of that is communicating. Thinking you know more than the person you are talking to is patronising, condescending and pompous. And constantly laying down the law doesn’t get you loved.

I mean communicating as part of the loving process.

You may wonder where I’m going. There is one big difference between most of you . . . and all the people I work with. We live in the cauldron of ruthless, rough, day-to-day, year in year out competition. Most of you do not.

You compete for the ad dollar, we all do. But we compete on product. You can have slack days. We can’t. You become very sensitive to what people want to watch or hear.

For example, in meetings, someone would come up with an idea. My test of its worth was always, am I going to rush home to see that tonight?

I competed very successfully, I believe. And I did it, I think, remembering some basic things. I’m not sure newspapers do. And I’m not sure you have ever appreciated the things we had to do to get interest, to make them watch or listen. Certainly many of your observers never seem to have.

The basic first thing I made myself remember, and I think we all have to remember — to sustain ourselves in the market — is that we are them. We are no better and no worse than the audience to whom we broadcast or for whom we put the paper together. It might sound strange coming from me, but it is a kind of humility.

Before we can communicate anything and develop a relationship where people will want to hear from us, or will want to be communicated to, we must be liked and trusted.

I think that means being a delicate balance of what we all are. We are all serious, we can all be moved, we can all be inspired, we can all be made proud of who we are and what we are part of, we all have a sense of belonging and a sense of community, we can all be envious, we can all be jealous, we can all have our hearts broken and our spirit too. We can all hope, we all want the best for our children and our parents and ourselves. We all have difficulties. Everything turns to shit for everyone at some time. In all of this, the brain surgeon and the dustman are the same, the farmer and the pilot, the Governor General and the hotel porter, the rich man and the poor man . . . the mother and the daughter . . . we are all the same. Some people handle stress better than others, some people are ground down by life more than others, some people seem kinder than others, or brighter than others.

But . . . intelligence is no measure of the person. Actually I never met an unintelligent person. In all my years of broadcasting, I met some downtrodden people, and some people who had a hard row to hoe, but I never actually met a dumb person. Wherever I went . . . and I went right round the country, and round the world, I never ceased to be amazed by people’s ability to surprise with their insight and understanding. I think this because of what I believe was one of my strengths. I hope you don’t think I am deluded but I think I can find a way into the hearts of most people I meet.

And I think that is part of regarding myself as neither better nor worse than anyone else. Part of what I’m talking about here is compassion. I was once asked years ago, by Brian Edwards in front of some students, what I thought was the most important quality for a current affairs host. I suppose I should have said respect for the facts, a sharp tongue, fast thinking, being well-read. Without really thinking, I said, compassion. I thought that then and I still think it. I think it is something all broadcasters should have, and the best ones do. I think it is something newspapers and newspaper writers should have too.

This was what my sign-off line on Holmes was all about. ‘Those were our people today . . . ’ I meant we are all in this together, we are all part of this community, we all have a stake. No matter who you are or what you have done. From the highest to the lowest, those were our people today . . .

So knowing we are simply part of the people we write for or broadcast to . . . is part of the fundamental quality of our communicating, I believe.

Then there is the language we use. It must be clear. I used to say to my colleagues that our story telling and explaining of issues and political ideas must be clear. In broadcasting this is especially so, because our audience can’t go back and read the paragraph again. You can do it in a badly written newspaper story. Even then you might not understand what you are being told. There have been quite a few times, over the years, when I have simply been unable to understand the front page lead of the New Zealand Herald. I believe if a reporter cannot express the story in a sentence, he or she does not understand it. And if he doesn’t understand it, how am I going to be able to? If you can’t explain something clearly, how can anyone get your drift?

‘I sometimes wonder if your newspapers do enough to make sure they are relevant every day’

There is something else, it’s again about being part of our community. We live in a country with a reading age of about 14. We have to remember that.

I grew up in a good, jousting, working-class family. They laughed, they drank, they worked hard and did the best for their children. There was always a story about someone’s fuckup and there was much laughter. On Friday nights, when my uncles and cousins came around, there was much discussion about politics and the issues of the day. It was conducted in clear language. It was no less valid than an explanation from a political scientist or any other academic. Probably most often, it was better analysis and more real. In my broadcasting I always had a picture in my mind of the faces round that table. I thought I was still round that table in Haumoana and those were the people I was talking to.

I always imagined that I was talking to a group of reasonable people with whom I was on warm and cordial terms. Of course, I was in their house. I remembered who I was and where I had come from. I had been very lucky in life, and had found out a lot of stuff, was educated, I read a lot, I knew people of influence and dealt with them. I made money they could only dream of. But I was talking to my family, that group of Friday nighters who listened and talked and laughed. I could not afford to be flash with them.

The brain surgeon deals with life and death but he also likes a drink and a laugh. I never minded using humour. This was frowned on at the start, you’ll remember. Real current affairs people didn’t laugh or entertain. But entertaining is part of communicating. If I think you’re funny today, I’ll show up to meet you tomorrow. Seemed to work, didn’t it, all in all?

So by showing humanity, you can communicate. And by communicating honestly and decently, with clarity and compassion and humour, we will find an audience wanting to engage and re-engage. And constant engagement means the formation of a relationship. And a relationship is the tie that binds.

I felt I had a relationship with my audience. Sometimes I wondered if I’d gone nuts feeling this. Sometimes the relationship was a burden. It meant everywhere I went people felt they knew me. Still do. It drove my kids nuts. But I did.I sat round with families at dinner time and spoke to them clearly and informed them and I hope made them laugh and touched them. There were some nights — and again I hope you don’t think I’m nuts — on the big days, when there were big, clear events and issues, that I could look down the barrel of a camera, just me and the camera, and I could feel the heartbeat of the nation. I could feel the pulse. I knew what people were thinking. I knew what they were feeling. I may have led them towards that feeling, too, but never mind. And some nights I felt the need to comfort and reassure, because I was in a relationship with the people on the other side of that camera, in that big kitchen at Haumoana. I suppose all of that made my walking out of TVNZ such a shock. The nice, warm guy in the family who did the talking had simply abandoned them. I still wonder if I thought too much about me then, and not enough about the people I served.

I think that doing that — by having such an intense feeling of communication and relationship — by remembering who I was and where I came from, by remembering that everyone can make mistakes, everyone can lose and that most people do their best, I was doing my job.

Bearing in mind all of the above, we can maintain all our principles and ethics. It just means we cease to spend the day looking up our arses.

I think it is a newspaper’s job too, to remember that stuff I was remembering. I’m not sure, however, that you do it enough. That you engage enough or that you remember your own Haumoana. You can seem very quick to judge. And we have to remember our power. I think that in the print industry there are people of very little talent themselves who are very quick to be bitchy and nasty and negative. I don’t know why it is. I sometimes wonder if your newspapers do enough to make sure they are relevant, every day. I think you may be spoilt by not having I think you may be spoilt by not having that daily, in your face competition. So, I’m not sure you have compassion enough, warmth enough or that you have enough fun with your people, or that you have enough people who can really write in a way that makes you read till the very last line.

I’m teaching my grandmother, probably, but the daily tests, I would think are these words: Relevance, clarity, informative, compassion, humanity, entertainment. Is the story clear? Does it matter a rat’s arse to anyone? Is the paper funny enough, entertaining enough? Can the average Kiwi understand this? If you’re doing a story about Pakistan, can the average Kiwi understand it?

This does not mean, as so many half-wits, as the snobs, as the Kim Hill crowd would say, we dumb down. You can be clear and informative and interesting, without being dumb. I have such contempt for elites and academics who believe being clear has to mean you’re being dumb. Actually, even the busy brain surgeon will be pleased you’ve made it clear.

Sometimes also, I think newspapers seem to stand apart, seem to think they’re better than the people they’ve been put together for, in the way of old radio announcers and newsreaders. There is a move to the real. Real people doing TV ads. Real people talking about their business on radio ads. It is a move to the direct. Kevin Milne says it started on television around the time I came along and simply spoke to people at home as if they were round the table at Mum and Dad’s. It is all about people speaking to people.

I’ve always been amazed at what you’ll get if people feel