Grumpy Old Men 2: 48 more Kiwi blokes tell you what's wrong with the world

INTRODUCTION

The success of Grumpy Old Men I — as it must now be called — took a lot of people by surprise, not least its publisher.

Who would have suspected there was such a huge appetite for other people’s rancour?

It appears that grumpiness loves company as much as misery, and many readers were perhaps relieved to know their frustrations were shared by others.

When I began inviting contributions for this volume I was again delighted by the enthusiasm and generosity of the contributors whose complaints you will find on the following pages.

I am also thrilled that the normal authors’ royalty from the sale of this book will again go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation, which does such great work to support those men — usually older — whose lives are affected by this disease.

Paul Little

JOHN ANDERSON

Traveller’s wails

John Anderson was born in Wellington in 1938. At 23 he left for a one-year OE to Europe. He returned some 20 years later with a wife, four children and the iconic international tourism business Contiki Holidays. His book Only Two Seats Left tells the incredible story. He was awarded the MNZM for services to tourism and is now on the international professional speaking circuit.

My life seems to have revolved around sitting on planes and staying overnight in a myriad of types of accommodation from sleeping under the stars on a Greek beach, progressing to tents, log cabins, chalets, chateaux and the super luxurious hotels of Abu Dhabi. It’s been an amazing journey which I never want to stop.

However, travelling today is a nightmare compared to the past. When I drove my first tour around Europe, in 1962, it was a breeze. It was empty of tourists compared to today’s mingling millions. On arrival at the Eiffel Tower I’d park the minibus beside it and spread a rug on the grass below for a picnic when the passengers returned from their trip to the top. Today, the wait is for hours and hours in a never-ending queue. These tourist queues have spread everywhere, like a plague.

All the tourist sites are overwhelmed by coach loads of tourists (yes, I take some of the blame for starting it) all pushing for a better angle with their camera for that special selfie shot in front of some ancient, innocent statue. The Asian groups with their flag-carrying leaders blurting out in Follow me — this way and the screaming groups of school kids on that special day outing do not make for an enjoyable experience.

It’s said that if every tourist who has visited the Coliseum took just one tiny piece as a souvenir it would have disappeared by now (I’ve still got mine). I’ve often wondered how much the Trevi Fountain has collected over the past 75 years (they still have my 100 lire coin).

But it’s the airports that really bring out the worst in me. They have become ghastly, unavoidable, human obstacle courses. Just getting to an airport in the often-congested traffic by taxi, with the fare sometimes approaching the cost of the air ticket, can be the first challenge to arriving there on time.

By private car the uncovered parking spot is always at least 200 metres away, and it’s raining. Who are the lucky people who always take up the closest parks to the terminal, as there’s never one available for me? The same applies to rental car companies — eg, in Wellington and Queenstown — where the hired car is a good five-minute walk from the terminal, more often than not in the rain, too.

Now the race is on, through the airport’s tiresome obstacle course, to get to your plane on time. The queues to check in can sometimes wander all around the concourse. But there is hope on the horizon — thank you, Air New Zealand and Qantas — with self-check in. Then security with its officious gestapo, the person ahead of you unpacking and repacking their over-sized cabin bags, having had their precious tube of make-up confiscated after a much heated discussion. Having to empty pockets and strip down (belts, shoes, gold chains, etc) before entering those imposing new arms-above-your-head body scanners. I detest them. No sooner through and the last indignity is — surprise, surprise — a body pat down.

It’s pouring with rain and with the wind thrashing around you it’s a mad dash for the gangway stairs…

The Immigration booths are next on the horizon, when suddenly you are intercepted by another official you have pretended not to see, waving an explosives-seeking wand which is stroked all over you. Of course the passport check-in queue zig zags eight deep. By now you are huffing and puffing with impatience, but have time forcibly to meet all sorts of strangers. I once heard that a passenger met his future wife in such circumstances.

With Immigration and Customs now cleared, the challenge is to find a path through all the duty-free counters which have been purposely and invitingly put in your way to impede progress. Sydney and Melbourne do this extremely well. Eventually you arrive at the departure gate, exhausted, only to find there has been a flight delay of two hours and all the waiting seats have been taken.

The flight is called and, joining the fifth queue of the day, you proceed through the final ticket check for embarkation onto the plane.

Once through the gate you find the plane is outside on the tarmac a good 100 metres away. Coolangatta airport on the Gold Coast is a classic case. It’s pouring with rain and with the wind thrashing around you it’s a mad dash for the gangway stairs, only to be held up waiting to enter the inside of the aircraft. You are now drenched. Lucky you, you’ve hit the jackpot, the plane is full and your seat is in the centre of the fourth row from the back (47e). I suppose this is an improvement from being right next to the bloody toilets. There’s no room in the overhead lockers for your small bag, so you surreptitiously stash it under the seat in front of you, thus limiting your leg space. Settled in, soaking wet, you secretly check your fellow passengers on either side, with a smile and polite comment and, fortunately, with no further delay we are off. The child seated directly behind you then proceeds to kick the back of your seat. And so it goes on with the exciting thought that on arrival you will be required to complete the entire obstacle course all over again. I just love flying!..

To be honest, my hard-earned Air New Zealand Gold Elite and Qantas Gold cards do make for an easier obstacle course. But I do identify with those not so fortunate, as I once had to endure the same nightmare through the general channels….

BRUCE ANSLEY

Heads up

Bruce Ansley has written for newspapers, magazines, radio and television. He is the author of seven books. He was born far too long ago, in 1944.

The other day a woman kissed me on my bald head. I flew into a rage, the worse because I couldn’t show it: neither fury nor vanity fit well into graceful ageing. I kept it inside, probably doing untold damage to various organs and shortening my life span, although these days that would scarcely span a ditch.

Shakespeare gave a man seven ages, traipsing through infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, justice and old age to the seventh, a dribbling lunacy.

If he’d lived in the 21st century, he’d have rewritten his fifth age, which finds a fellow in fair round belly, vain, ready to enjoy the finer things of life, and full of wise saws. How was the Bard to know that that kind of lifestyle would be reduced to one drink a day and lots of horrible jogging? As for the wise saws, arguing that the thin person struggling to get out of the fat one is gagging on his Brussels sprouts doesn’t count for much around here.

Of course, Shakespeare had never heard of internet banking or the six o’clock news. Nor smartphones, texting, Twitter, plastic bags for everything including dog shit, motor homes, fruit labels, PSA testing, colonoscopies or John Banks.

The other day a woman kissed me on my bald head. I flew into a rage…

He’d have thought a silo was a place you stored grain, and he certainly would never have believed it could be a verb.

So arises the age of the curmudgeon. The whiner, sourpuss, misanthrope. The Grinch. The bloke who has a thorn in his foot and no Androcles to take it out. Nor much sign of the lion either. The man who discovers that the shining beacon of old age is only the reflection off his bald head. The fellow who finds the milk the only trim thing at the table. The person who wishes that he was Elvis Presley, not for the private jet or the women or Jailhouse Rock, but because the King could shoot his television set. The guy who no longer trusts a fart, who not only hasn’t discovered the secret of life but can’t even remember what he was looking for, who takes Viagra for the taste.

Yet, as in so many other things, we can learn from the All Blacks and turn pain into passion. Already we wear orange shorts and yellow shoes. We swim across harbours and run marathons.

We’re convinced that 70 is the new 60, or even 55. We get upset when our free ticket is handed to us even before we find our SuperGold card.

Postponing Armageddon should be easy enough. Even my dog food packet promises a shiny coat, strong bones, a fit and active life and healthy teeth and gums. The only thing you need for all that is a dog biscuit.

We could get so good at all this we might put off the final two ages, old age and dementia, probably forever. After all, if there’s one thing a man excels at, it’s myth.

As for losing hair, I no longer think of that as going bald. I know it for what it is, gaining face.

GRAY BARTLETT

Country life

Gray Bartlett was born in 1942. The singer and musician’s 1965 single Lay Playa charted in New Zealand and Japan, where it reached the number two position. In 1987 he won China’s Golden Plume Award for Foreign Artist of the Year. One third of the True Legends supergroup, he is a tireless champion of country music.

I’ve had all the operations. I’ve got a titanium screw in one finger. The specialist told me most people live their lives without wearing out that joint, but it came to grief when I was doing a show in Palmerston North. I’d been in constant pain and I did a big bend note, holding the guitar up high, and the whole finger joint went sideways.

I worked out that, at that stage, I’d played roughly 7500 shows, not including recordings, so it’s no wonder something had to give. But I’m still going.

A few other things get to me. One is global warming. I believe it’s a UN money scheme kept going by the massively funded science boys, who don’t want to lose their fat pay packets.

I’ve been involved with people who’ve made money out of it. I’ve heard figures like $70,000 dollars for appearances mentioned.

New Zealand is the only country in the Western world where there is no dedicated mainstream country station.

I’m a great believer in looking after the planet and eco systems. We’re really eco-friendly. We don’t waste water. We don’t use things that shouldn’t be used. We do our little bit. But what gets me is when I see people saying these things because they’re getting a hefty pay packet. That doesn’t go down well with me, especially when it’s reported at face value.

A journalist doing a story may hate the answer they get, but they have to get the other side.

There’s also a lack of balance in the New Zealand music industry. How and where can we hear the top selling artists in the world on New Zealand media? Two top-selling music artists in the USA are Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney — both top country music artists. You’ll hear Taylor on the radio, but you’ll never hear Kenny Chesney who was bigger than Taylor just a year ago.

Why don’t we hear them?

New Zealand is the only country in the Western world where there is no dedicated mainstream country station. I’ve stopped going nuts about it because we’ve done fine ourselves, but you can’t even get things with a strong country presence into the media — like the NZ Country Music Awards that sell out in Hamilton every year.

We’ve got people here who are outstandingly good and doing well in America, and every year the winner of our Horizon Award for new talent plays to about 15 million people in America on their CMA awards. Why wouldn’t the media follow up on that — just once?

Country is one of the world’s most popular formats and radio should recognise that and play some of those great tracks. They should look at what’s selling in Britain and Europe.

They shouldn’t be closing their minds like The Radio Network is doing now. Their classic hits station is not playing anything from before 1980. I couldn’t believe it. I said to their guy: You mean you won’t play the Stones?

No, they don’t fit the format.

But they’re classic, even now.

Oh no, it doesn’t fit the formula.

The American experts come in to advise the radio stations for three days, then they go off again, having laid down the law about what the station has to do.

AS YOU GET older the money becomes less important. I’m doing an album for the SPCA, with John Rowles, Suzanne Lynch and others.

But we struck roadblocks with record companies, so I went direct to The Warehouse and JB Hi Fi and just did it. We have a 26,000 database, and if we can get 20 per cent of them to buy it, we’ll make some good money for the SPCA.

I WAS INVOLVED with TVNZ in the days of That’s Country. I believe it should be broken up and sold immediately. What a disastrous organisation. Unfortunately, they have too many journos and executives who believe they know how to entertain and inform New Zealanders, but they don’t.

I don’t mind saying what I think because I don’t need these people. Our only issue with TVNZ has been how many times, through one of our publicists, Sandra Roberts, we would have a major name coming through and they’d book it. Then a week out: We have to cancel that now. And of course we’d turned down lots of other offers in the meantime. You don’t mind that once or twice, but it happened regularly.

So now I just buy the space for ads and use it. I just wait for the right time. I want to do a show with Suzanne Prentice called The Two of Us. It’s a good idea. It’ll work. I can just do it myself and get someone in to do the paperwork. If we need to spend $50,000 on radio we will.

You don’t need much. I did five-second ads with Hank Marvin’s tour. I took 26 ads over two days in all key spots and bookings took off.

It doesn’t always work out. I was going to do a show called Grumpy Old Bastards. I went to radio and was told I couldn’t use that word in an ad. So I thought, Bugger — I can’t be bothered. That’s not a fight worth having.

TIM BEAGLEHOLE

Silence is olden