It's been forty years that we've spent together, but I'm afraid our ways must part. Over the past four decades there've been times that you've been so very, very good. It's been especially noticeable when times have been bad: they've perversely been your best times. But those worst of times, the times that really inspired you to go further than anyone could have expected or demanded, have spoilt the good times.
You see, I look on you now, when times aren't so bad, and you simply disappoint me. You're striving for mediocrity - or, even worse, you're mugging for the cheap seats.
I'm really not all that nostalgic for the so-called good old days. Really, when I compare the capabilities you had then with what you're able to do now, I shake my head in wonder. You had so little, and you did so much with it. I recall thinking that if you could do that now, what would you be able to do in the 21st century? Well, it seems that all you've been able to do is put pearls on a dung-beetle.
I guess the rot set in when you changed your religion. You used to worship at the altar of Story, of Substance, of Truth, of Veracity - of Responsibility. You looked at what you had to do, and you worked so hard to do it well, assuming that I was a trusted friend, someone with intelligence and wit, someone who was worthy of your respect.
Then you were tempted by the glittery idols of popularity, fame, and celebrity. You saw the cover of the Women's Weekly, and its siren-call brought you too close to the hidden reefs of of the slum-lords. You stopped working for Story and Substance, and allowed yourself to be seduced by the Strumpet of "Success". You looked at me, and were disappointed in me, because I remained wedded to the idea that you were so much better. You sold me out for a mess of pottage, and, in doing so - you broke my heart.
And so, TV1 and TV3 News, it is sayonara. When you stopped having confidence in my ability to think and analyse, when you took away from me the strong meat and drink of real news and demonstrated your total contempt for me by serving up self-congratulatory pabulums that included inanities and jovialities and non-stories about television shows that your light-entertainment department were screening later that night.. well, that's when I knew that our marriage was over.
What hurts is that, just a month ago, you showed me how capable you were of acheiving true excellence. The coverage you both gave me of the Christchurch earthquake showed me you're still capable.
But you mopped the sweat from your brow, and got back to the real world of entertainment of joviality.
So, it's goodbye. Don't feel too bad. I feel that some of the fault lies with me: I forgot to demand more of you. I'll invite you in occasionally in the future. Nostalgia will demand it of me. But we'll never be close again. Not even good friends.
READING: Joe Haldeman, "Old Twentieth". Again, sci-fi the way it should be. Demanding.
LISTENING TO: Jeff Beck, "Emotion and Commotion". Bloody hell. He is beyond brilliant.
Still having trouble connecting to the WiFi with the baby 'pooter - and, as that's the one I have "Heroes" on, I'm afraid that's where it stays. bummer.
Showing posts with label TV1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TV1. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Brooke v Key. Let's get stoned.
In yet another sign of utter desperation and total venality - not to mention barrel scraping, lowest-common-denominator- arselicking, and a determination to stick it to anyone in the audience who knows how to spell audience (I wouldn't mind betting they have a whiteboard with "Awe-dience" scribbled on it) TV1 habe once again struck gold. As long as you think manure is gold, that is..
On the day that the PM, our very own Jonkey, gets up on his hind legs and generalises and teases about some projected tax cuts "that some will use to lay off debt*", TV1 had organised to have a hard-hitting (Al guffaws richly) interview with him on "Colgate Close Up". This would have been their chance to show the country they had some journalstic chutzpah, integrity, and balls. They could have peppered him like a cheap steak about this non-announcement. This could have been award-winning stuff.
Instead, they canned the interview, and did a story about a second-grade ex-All Black who did vile, drunken things to a 15 year old child... and then spontaneously apologised after being threatened with court action. And even then, they treated the apology as if it were a gracious thing: a king humbles himself. Breaking spews, folks, TV1 style.
* Tui moment, anyone?
So - finally. Someone's had the nous to address drug abuse as a health problem, instead of a Laura Norder concern. We have criminalised hundreds, if not thousands, of people who have a health problem. We started experimenting with this years ago when we turfed mentally ill people out on the streets, then applauded as they were quickly herded into prison. We rapidly followed it up with drug abusers.
Common sense tells us that we need to de-criminalise drugs. We'll take all that power (and money) out of the filthy gang members' hands... and start helping abusers and addicts back into being healthy individuals. Predictably, Jonkey's Laura Norder Justice spokesman foamed at the mouth as he rejected the report (before reading it? Probably), and suggested that there'd be no change to the law, no, not as long as while bile flowed through his veins...
READING: "The Long Night of Winchell Dear", by Robert James Waller. Yes, the man who brought us "The Bridges of Madison County". It is, it must be said, excellent.
LISTENING TO: Fiona Pears, "Fire & Light".
WORD OF THE DAY: Integrity. Journalistically, TV1 blew it.
Rats:
Back in Trentham, they hadn't considered the thought of counter-sniping: their lack of imagination had been the cause of three deaths.
Now, four months in, Arthur was one of only two snipers on this stretch of the British line. The other was, in fact, in the British army, although he'd drop you with his outsize fist if you called him a Pom, or a Briton. Andy McShea was a Scot, and was terrified that his flaming red hair would be the end of him.
“They can see it a fookin' mile off, Arthur. I smear boot polish through my hair, but it just makes the orange stand out even further.'
Arthur had found Andy a long woman's wig in the French town down the track, in return for the ghillie's suit the bog Scot had made him. The ghillie's suit was the Scottish gamekeeper's first weapon against the determined poachers: It was an overall that had bits and pieces of sacking, feathers, fleece, scraps of uniform stitched over it – anything that would break up their outline, and make them appear to be just another part of the landscape. In return, Arthur had also scavenged a couple of pieces of steel plate, and had then cut and filed slots into them, and attached a stand. From any more than ten yards they looked like a couple of pieces of scrap metal, rusty and filthy. They weighed more than 30 pounds each, and each one had saved their lives more than once.
Arthur woke two hours before dawn every day. He brewed a cup of tea, and ate the bully beef sandwiches the mess-man had brought for him the night before. He dressed carefully, and checked the rifle that he'd carefully cleaned and checked five hours previously. He looked for wet spots, for swellings in the wooden frame, for any hint of rust. He worked the bolt's action, making sure it flew back and forth under his fingers. Then he filled his ammunition pouch: twenty rounds only. Each bullet would have been checked and polished. At night he used emery paper to rub away any imperfections in the shape of each bullet. Andy McShea mocked his fastidious work, but Arthur's single-mindedness of purpose would not allow him to take any chances with accuracy.
He dressed warmly, despite the heat of the early Autumn days. Where he was going, he'd be constantly in shadow, and lying on a supposedly water-proof tarpaulin. For most of the day he'd move extremely slowly: he make a shot, then slowly slither away, dragging his shield and tarp behind him. Speed was the killer. Speed told the Germans where he was. Arthur's skill at disappearing in four feet of bush back home in New Zealand's Waikato kept him alive, day after day.
And Arthur had to survive. His conscience, that damnable worm in his brain, wouldn't allow him to die.
On the day that the PM, our very own Jonkey, gets up on his hind legs and generalises and teases about some projected tax cuts "that some will use to lay off debt*", TV1 had organised to have a hard-hitting (Al guffaws richly) interview with him on "Colgate Close Up". This would have been their chance to show the country they had some journalstic chutzpah, integrity, and balls. They could have peppered him like a cheap steak about this non-announcement. This could have been award-winning stuff.
Instead, they canned the interview, and did a story about a second-grade ex-All Black who did vile, drunken things to a 15 year old child... and then spontaneously apologised after being threatened with court action. And even then, they treated the apology as if it were a gracious thing: a king humbles himself. Breaking spews, folks, TV1 style.
* Tui moment, anyone?
So - finally. Someone's had the nous to address drug abuse as a health problem, instead of a Laura Norder concern. We have criminalised hundreds, if not thousands, of people who have a health problem. We started experimenting with this years ago when we turfed mentally ill people out on the streets, then applauded as they were quickly herded into prison. We rapidly followed it up with drug abusers.
Common sense tells us that we need to de-criminalise drugs. We'll take all that power (and money) out of the filthy gang members' hands... and start helping abusers and addicts back into being healthy individuals. Predictably, Jonkey's Laura Norder Justice spokesman foamed at the mouth as he rejected the report (before reading it? Probably), and suggested that there'd be no change to the law, no, not as long as while bile flowed through his veins...
READING: "The Long Night of Winchell Dear", by Robert James Waller. Yes, the man who brought us "The Bridges of Madison County". It is, it must be said, excellent.
LISTENING TO: Fiona Pears, "Fire & Light".
WORD OF THE DAY: Integrity. Journalistically, TV1 blew it.
Rats:
Back in Trentham, they hadn't considered the thought of counter-sniping: their lack of imagination had been the cause of three deaths.
Now, four months in, Arthur was one of only two snipers on this stretch of the British line. The other was, in fact, in the British army, although he'd drop you with his outsize fist if you called him a Pom, or a Briton. Andy McShea was a Scot, and was terrified that his flaming red hair would be the end of him.
“They can see it a fookin' mile off, Arthur. I smear boot polish through my hair, but it just makes the orange stand out even further.'
Arthur had found Andy a long woman's wig in the French town down the track, in return for the ghillie's suit the bog Scot had made him. The ghillie's suit was the Scottish gamekeeper's first weapon against the determined poachers: It was an overall that had bits and pieces of sacking, feathers, fleece, scraps of uniform stitched over it – anything that would break up their outline, and make them appear to be just another part of the landscape. In return, Arthur had also scavenged a couple of pieces of steel plate, and had then cut and filed slots into them, and attached a stand. From any more than ten yards they looked like a couple of pieces of scrap metal, rusty and filthy. They weighed more than 30 pounds each, and each one had saved their lives more than once.
Arthur woke two hours before dawn every day. He brewed a cup of tea, and ate the bully beef sandwiches the mess-man had brought for him the night before. He dressed carefully, and checked the rifle that he'd carefully cleaned and checked five hours previously. He looked for wet spots, for swellings in the wooden frame, for any hint of rust. He worked the bolt's action, making sure it flew back and forth under his fingers. Then he filled his ammunition pouch: twenty rounds only. Each bullet would have been checked and polished. At night he used emery paper to rub away any imperfections in the shape of each bullet. Andy McShea mocked his fastidious work, but Arthur's single-mindedness of purpose would not allow him to take any chances with accuracy.
He dressed warmly, despite the heat of the early Autumn days. Where he was going, he'd be constantly in shadow, and lying on a supposedly water-proof tarpaulin. For most of the day he'd move extremely slowly: he make a shot, then slowly slither away, dragging his shield and tarp behind him. Speed was the killer. Speed told the Germans where he was. Arthur's skill at disappearing in four feet of bush back home in New Zealand's Waikato kept him alive, day after day.
And Arthur had to survive. His conscience, that damnable worm in his brain, wouldn't allow him to die.
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