Columns

Nation, what are we doing? A little over a week ago, a large series of incredibly newsworthy things happened, and when I say newsworthy, I mean actually newsworthy; not just TV3 Newsworthy. In the space of a few days, a second New Zealand SAS soldier was killed in Afghanistan, our government had its sovereign debt rating downgraded by two credit ratings agencies, and the closest thing al-Qaeda had to another Bin Laden, Anwar Al-Awlaki, was blown to pieces in a U.S. drone strike in Yemen. Not that you'd know about any of those things, because last Monday morning I awoke to find that the front page of The Press was emblazoned with a giant picture of Dan Carter grasping his balls.

Now don't get me wrong; this is what I've always wanted to see. Ever since I walked into Riccarton Mall to be greeted by a giant poster of Dan Carter undoing his pants and declaring "Get ready", I've been extremely keen to see the bastard get exactly what he deserves. Who's ready now, Dan? You dirty bugger.

But despite that, and to be honest I'm not really sure what "that" is, I just can't help but feel that our beloved news media should really be focusing on things that are, you know, actually important. I do understand that children's programming like Campbell Live can afford to focus on this kind of fluffy stuff, but more serious news programmes like... Hm....

Anyway, turning my attention to these credit rating downgrades, let's cast our minds back to 2010. "But Ben," you say. "Why on earth would we want to do that?" Well Annalise, perhaps because we're Phil Goff? "Wait, what? But... we aren't Phil Goff." Well now, I don't know about that. I think there might just be a little bit of Phil Goff in all of us, don't you? I mean, aren't we all just spiraling hopelessly towards oblivion, clinging desperately to our fleeting years, haunted by the knowledge that one day soon we could just suddenly implode? "Well... no... maybe... but that's besides the point. You've strayed so far from your initial statement that even if I were to accept your secondary premise that we're all like Phil Goff, I fail to see what impact it would have on your overall argument." Hey! Don't you use science with me, Annalise! You know I can't do science! "But it's not..." No! Just shut up! Why do you always have to show up and ruin what I assure the audience would be perfectly good paragraphs? It's not your column. It's my column.

"Speaking of it being your column, can I chime in here for a moment?" Oh, for god's sake Sebastian. Why? "Well, it's just that I'm a little confused. I thought this was meant to be your last open letter; you know, ever?" Sure is. "So, this is it, then? No grand finale? No massive controversial issue? No thoughtful, reflective discussion? No poorly-woven narrative involving child-like understandings of deportation?" Nope, just doing what I've always done Seb: raving on and on and on about things I don't even understand.

Speaking of things I don't understand: the SAS. Why is it that we keep getting so upset whenever one of them gets shot in the head? Didn't we put them in Afghanistan? Isn't that where you send people when you want them to get shot in the head? You know, other than Linwood. If we're going to send our SAS all over the place, we might as well send them somewhere fun like Rainbow's End or Te Papa. There they could learn about the mating habits of marsupials in a poorly-made twenty-minute video that no one will ever watch.

"Ben..." Yes? "I don't mean to interfere, but weren't you going to talk about the credit ratings downgrade when I interrupted earlier?" Oh yes! As I was saying, let's cast our minds back to the year 2010, an innocent time before the onset of a deadly earthquake, a time when Phil Goff still had more than a year to gain the ground he has by now actually lost, and when my dear friend John Vosburgh was still blissfully unaware that he was a racist. Do you still read my column, John? I hope you do. It's a lot fun, isn't it? You big old twit, you.

Anyway, back in the 2010, our Finance Minister, the Sometimes Honourable Bill English, temporarily withdrew himself from his usual vocation of making muffins to provide us with what was surely not remembered as the greatest budget of that year. The aim of the budget was to provide modest tax cuts to the entire population, while simultaneously engaging in the seemingly contradictory exercise of trimming overall levels of government expenditure. Such an effort would require cutting back on core social services like knitting classes for the nearly dead. Outraged by the fact that they could no longer return to high school to learn obsolete languages like French or important life-skills like petanque, the elderly population rebelled in the only way they know how: by calling talk radio and complaining to Marcus Lush.

At the time, Bill English – who, incidentally, is still free to join me on holiday any time – tried to argue that these cuts to the government's budget were necessary to preserve New Zealand's triple-A credit rating in the long-term. An acceptable rationale at the time, perhaps, but just two weeks ago New Zealand's precious credit rating was downgraded anyway, which raises the question: can we have our knitting classes back?

Of course, one thing we won't be getting back is Dan Carter, and I think this whole episode with his crotch has really highlighted to me two fundamental problems with this country. Firstly, our media is way too preoccupied with rugby, turning what was an important sporting event for the entire nation into a pre-prepared news item that shamelessly obscures all other developments at home and abroad, no matter how important they might be. But secondly, we're letting him not play? Seriously!? If I suffer an injury, I still have to do my job. Dan Carter should be required to play, and if he doesn't, we should pass a law under urgency that makes it illegal for him not to, because if there's one thing this government has taught me, it's that important matters like these are what urgency is for.

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Ben Uffindell, and this was An Open Letter.