Wellington Airport's rebranding exercise: And the point is?

I’m not a shareholder in Wellington Airport but if I was, I’d be getting up on my hind legs at the next annual meeting to object to an extravagant promotional charade that demonstrates how completely the corporate sector has been captured (or should I say conned?) by the twin forces of marketing hucksterism and feel-good wokery.

The online platform Stop Press, which uncritically chronicles all the absurdities perpetrated by the bullshit artists of the PR and advertising industries, reports that the airport company is undertaking a rebranding exercise in which it will become “WLG – a portal to the future”.

There’s nothing in the Stop Press item to indicate why it was deemed necessary to change the brand. “Wellington Airport” describes perfectly well what the company does and I confidently predict that that’s how it will continue to be known long into the future. But the PR and advertising industries derive a lot of their income by suckering gullible corporate clients into pointless rebranding exercises and this seems a classic example.

But it goes far beyond that, because the rebranding incorporates an element of fashionable virtue-signalling that crosses into the realms of pure make-believe. I’ll let Stop Press take up the story – but be warned: it’s a textbook piece of flatulent PR puffery.

Two decades ago, the airport in the capital rebranded with a new positioning, “Wild at Heart,” which captured the spirit of the place and land where it stands.

Alongside brand storyteller Everyone and Kura Moeahu (Te Atiawa, Nga Ruahine, Taranaki-tuturu, Ngati Mutunga, Ngati Tama & Ngati Toa), Wellington Airport has continued the narrative by delving into the ancestry of the harbour and the forces and guardians that shaped it.

The aim is to capture Wellington Airport Rangitatau as WLG, a portal to the future.

“The best stories start with listening,” says Cameron Sanders, Managing Director, Everyone. “We were introduced to the story of the legendary bird Te Manu Muramura and the rich narratives and graphic forms that are etched into the land, water and sky here.

“And we also heard the passion and commitment of airport staff, Wellingtonians, local government and local artists when they told us what the airport means to them and how it relates to the city.”

Matt Clarke, CEO, Wellington Airport adds that the airport has always been filled with stories.

“But we really haven’t had any Mana Whenua stories, stories of the land beneath the airport, and that’s something we’re really looking to introduce to the terminal and the welcome to the city.”

Another revelation was the proximity between Rangitatau, the ancient portal the bird spirit took to the beyond, and the Airport’s place. The design team looked to draw a direct parallel between the power of this legendary portal and the role of the Airport as the region’s portal, a gateway to central New Zealand.

“Collaborating closely with local artist Manu Winata (Ngāti Raukawa, Te Āti Awa, Ngāti Awa, Ngāti Tūwharetoa), we explored the concept of imagining the gateway of Rangitatau – our portal to the universe,” says Everyone Creative Director Andrew Treder.

“We created a suite of dimensional light portals that illustrated the entirety of the origin story, passing through the realms of sea, land and sky. Through this, we have looked to position Rangitatau as a portal to the universe for manuhiri returning home, a gateway to central New Zealand and a launch pad for those setting off to explore new horizons.”

As air technology continues to evolve, the team wanted to acknowledge that the future is aerial, and that WLG is very much part of that.

“We hope that our Airport, Wellingtonians, and manuhiri can reflect on, share and contribute to this living narrative,” says Everyone Producer Nathan Blundell. “The launch video re-tells the origins of Wellington Harbour while inspiring its next chapter, reflecting a wish from mana whenua that these stories don’t remain as once-upon-a-time tales, but are shared in a present context and continue to evolve.”

“The new brand identity, the many touchpoints and of course the beautiful broader visual language have all been designed to honour everything that got the Airport to this point, and all that is yet to come,” explains Cam Sanders.

“The new telling of this airport’s story is exciting, confident and vibrant. We’ve built on the emotion of Wild at Heart, but with the insights of all involved, we’ve expressed WLG as an Airport of Tomorrow and a place of unparalleled aerial activation. Our two-decade partnership with WLG has been one of passion, innovation, and collaboration. We can’t wait to see where the journey leads next.”

Let’s try to unpick some of this preposterous gibberish. “The ancestry of the harbour and the forces and guardians that shaped it”, for instance. The harbour is not a person, therefore has no ancestors. The forces that shaped it were geological. The idea that it was shaped by “guardians” is romantic tosh, deployed here to satisfy Wellington Airport’s desperate desire to be seen as culturally sensitive.

In any case, how does the harbour come into it? Wellington Airport was the creation of engineers and contractors who flattened Rongotai Hill, demolished or relocated 180 houses and shifted enormous amounts of earth to create a flat space for planes to land on. The harbour just happens to be adjacent. Was this a case of the rebranding team deciding the construction of the airport provided no suitably inspiring cultural narrative and focusing on the harbour instead, even though it’s not integral to the airport story?

“We were introduced to the story of the legendary bird Te Manu Muramura and the rich narratives and graphic forms that are etched into the land, water and sky here.” Yes, but what does this actually mean? Exactly what “rich narratives” are etched into the land, water and sky, and how do they relate to a company whose function is simply to run a safe, efficient and profitable airport? Who has heard of Te Manu Muramura (I hadn’t) and what relevance does he/she have to a 21st century aviation business? (I’m not knocking or demeaning Maori myths and legends here; they are a valued and unique part of our heritage. I’m just tired of them being opportunistically exploited for spurious purposes.)

Another revelation was the proximity between Rangitatau, the ancient portal the bird spirit took to the beyond, and the Airport’s place. The design team looked to draw a direct parallel between the power of this legendary portal and the role of the Airport as the region’s portal, a gateway to central New Zealand.

I had to look up Rangitatau. It was the name of a pa that once overlooked Tarakena Bay, which is tucked around the headland immediately east of the airport. Here we go again – straining to find a connection with Maori mythology where there is none. It may have suited the “design team” to convince themselves of such a connection, but no one else (with the exception, perhaps, of credulous Wellington Airport executives such as Matt Clarke) is going to buy it.

“We created a suite of dimensional light portals that illustrated the entirety of the origin story, passing through the realms of sea, land and sky. Through this, we have looked to position Rangitatau as a portal to the universe for manuhiri returning home, a gateway to central New Zealand and a launch pad for those setting off to explore new horizons.”

This poetic piece of spin relates to the 5-minute video produced – no doubt at great expense – to accompany the “rebranding”. Again, the video draws heavily on Maori mythology relating to the creation of Wellington Harbour – or Te Whanganui-a-Tara, if you prefer – and goes so far as to imply the creation of the airport was inspired by events in Maori legend. I’m sure that would have come as a revelation to the engineers and contractors who built it.

As for the rest of the comically pretentious launch material reproduced in the Stop Press report, I marvel that whoever wrote it managed to do so with a straight face. But the tragedy is that they probably believe their own bullshit.

Here’s my prediction. The “rebranding” will serve no purpose beyond gratifying the egos of the people who commissioned and produced it. Given that no industry celebrates itself more enthusiastically than the advertising business, the video will almost certainly win a prize (and in the process, reinforce my contention that “award-winning” are the two most meaningless words in the English language). But the entire grandiose exercise will pass unnoticed by the rest of the world, including the countless thousands of people who use Wellington Airport. In which case, can someone please explain what the point is?

Footnote: It occurred to me after publishing this post that Wellington International Airport Ltd is not a listed company, being jointly owned by Infratil and Wellington City Council. There would therefore presumably be no annual meeting at which shareholders could air their gripes. Nonetheless, my points stand.

The sad, ignoble decline of Frog City

On a recent Monday morning, my wife and I had breakfast at Bordeaux Bakery on Thorndon Quay, Wellington. I expressed surprise that the place was empty. A couple of years ago it would have been humming.

We sat by the window with a view over the street. What we saw was a forest of traffic cones and red-and-white posts delineating the cycle lanes that have spread like a cancer all over the city (a city, it should be noted, whose topography makes it singularly unsuited to cycling because many of its main thoroughfares are narrow and winding).

Cyclists rode past in dribs and drabs on their way to work but there were no cars outside because there were no parking spaces. One guy took his chances, stopping illegally for a few minutes while he came in for a takeaway coffee. Other than that, it was just my wife and me.

I felt sorry for the staff. Working in a business with no customers must be demoralising.

It was no surprise, then, to read the depressing announcement only days later that the three Bordeaux cafés around the city were closing, causing the loss of 40 jobs. The owner of the company was blunt about the primary reason: “Everyone keeps telling us how hard it is to get to us,” he told the NZ Herald.

And so continues the slow, torturous death of a city that 20 years ago was buzzing with vitality, ideas and promise. Wellington today is a hostile, alien environment, unfriendly and often bewildering even to its own residents, to say nothing of hapless outsiders trying to navigate streets that resemble obstacle courses. I spent most of my working life in Wellington but sometimes barely recognise the moribund city it has become.

Who’s to blame? The decay began in 2010 when Wellington voted out the last in a long run of capable mayors and perversely allowed itself to be persuaded its future lay with a Greenie blow-in from Britain. Three more useless mayors and Left-dominated councils later, the city has become so terminally dysfunctional that government intervention looks both likely and necessary.

But while it’s easy to pin the blame on ideologically driven zealots at the council table and the tone-deaf, unelected commissars and planners who really run the show, not to mention their media enablers (the Dom Post, under a former editor, harangued its readers almost daily with lectures on the virtues of cycling), it has to be said that the citizens and voters of Wellington can’t entirely escape responsibility.

It’s an old cliché that people get the governments they deserve and the same can be said of councils. New Zealanders en masse tend to be passive, complacent and apathetic. The late Gordon McLauchlan, in his book The Passionless People, called us smiling zombies. We gormlessly stand by while stupid and dangerous things happen, then shriek with indignation when the damage has been done.

We’re all familiar with the parable about the frogs in a pot of water that heats so gradually they don’t realise they’re being cooked alive. By the time the temperature reaches boiling point, it’s too late to reverse the process. The scientific veracity of the analogy has been challenged but it’s apt nonetheless. The city's steady decline, so obvious to occasional visitors, may not seem so apparent to the people who actually live there. 

In this case, the frogs are the people of Wellington who allowed a clique of barmy activists to take over their once-proud city. My good friend Neil Harrap points out in a letter in The Post today that Wellingtonians who voted in the last local government elections were far outnumbered by those who couldn’t be bothered. There’s the problem, right there.

The rising stars of the Southern Cross

 

[An abridged version of this article was published in the September issue of North & South.]

You know you’re getting old when you can look at a 1949 Christmas card illustrated with caricatures of the editorial staff of the Labour Party newspaper the Southern Cross and not only recognise many of the names, but recall knowing them personally.

I didn’t know them then, of course; I hadn’t quite been born. But I worked and drank with them two or three decades later.

The Christmas card (above) is reproduced in Pressing On, the second volume of Ian F Grant’s monumental two-part history of New Zealand newspapers. Volume I, Lasting Impressions, covered the period 1840-1920 and was published in 2018. The sequel, which was launched in May, brought us up to the year 2000 – a cut-off point sensibly chosen because after that, things got messy and chaotic in the print media, with no clear picture of where all the turbulence would lead. (It’s probably safe to say there will be no Volume III, or if there is, it will be a lot shorter than the 670 pages of Pressing On.)

The Christmas card reproduced in Ian’s book was drawn by John McNamara, aka “Mack”, the Southern Cross’s resident illustrator. The subjects were identified in spidery writing so tiny that I had to use a magnifying glass.   

In those days newspapers pompously referred to reporters and sub-editors as their “literary” staff. I couldn’t help letting out little yelps of recognition as I identified those depicted on the Southern Cross Christmas card. Not all of them, but quite a few.

They were journalists of a generation that now seems as distant and archaic as clunky Imperial 66 typewriters, wads of copy paper, metal spikes on sub-editors’ desks (on which to impale stories that didn’t make the grade), Lamson tubes (pneumatic suction tubes for dispatching stories to the printer to be set in type) and overfilled ashtrays – all standard newspaper office appurtenances in that era.

Even the Southern Cross itself was a thing of antiquity. The idea of a daily paper published by a political party is unimaginable now, but the Southern Cross was born out of frustration with newspapers that were seen at best as unsympathetic, at worst downright hostile, to the political and industrial wings of the Labour movement.

Launched in Wellington in 1946, the Southern Cross was Labour’s attempt to even the score, or at least the odds, in the battle for the public’s hearts and minds. But the paper lasted only five years before being brought down by a combination of inadequate capital, incompetent management, struggles for control between competing party factions, and not least by the departure of journalists who, although sympathetic to the cause, became fed up with being told what to write by the likes of party leader Peter Fraser and trade union tyrant Fintan Patrick Walsh.

Seventy-five years on, the Southern Cross is notable chiefly for the talented people it employed, many of whom went on to positions of prominence as writers, editors and broadcasters – which brings us back to the faces and names on that 1949 Christmas card.

In the top row, I see Ian Cross, Noel Hilliard and Winton Keay.

More than two decades on from his stint as a young reporter at the Southern Cross, Cross would become the Listener’s most successful editor ever, albeit helped by a state-imposed monopoly on the right to publish weekly TV and radio programme schedules. Long before that, he had attained fame as the author of The God Boy, a novel partly inspired by a murder trial he had covered as a young reporter but also incorporating elements of his own Catholic childhood. Published in 1957, The God Boy was acclaimed by the New York Times as “a brilliant first novel”.  Its success wasn’t replicated by his later literary efforts and Cross vanished into the PR game before resurfacing at The Listener in 1973.

I first dealt with him after he was appointed chairman of the Broadcasting Corporation in 1977, effectively making him the supremo over virtually all television and radio, which was then still under tight state control.

Cross was a zealous defender of the Listener’s sole right to publish TV and radio programme information in advance. Daily newspapers were allowed to publish programme listings no more than 24 hours ahead, giving the government-owned Listener a huge competitive advantage.  On one occasion, when a paper challenged the monopoly by breaching the rules, Cross punished the entire daily press by withholding all programme information – a petulant response that penalised the public at large. I edited the Evening Post’s TV page at the time and wrote a column accusing him of behaving like a teacher who placed the whole class on detention because of one pupil’s transgression.

I interviewed Cross at length for the Listener in 2014, in the big, chilly Kapiti Coast house where he rattled around with his wife Tui. Cross was a hard man to read; not cold, exactly – that would be overstating it – but rather distant and aloof. Like many good journalists, he always retained something of the quality of an outsider. When he died in 2019, I was privileged to write his obituary for the magazine he had once edited.

Noel Hilliard was another who became famous as an author. His 1960 novel Maori Girl, which was followed in 1974 by Maori Woman, broke new ground by tackling the taboo subject of racism in New Zealand. He and I worked together in the 1970s at the Evening Post, where Noel was a sub-editor. We lived a short distance away from each other in Titahi Bay, and on the rare occasions when I had the use of an office car I would sometimes drive Noel home, he never having had a driver’s licence (a peculiarity he shared with several other male journalists of his vintage). I would sometimes sit with Noel’s wife Kiriwai on the bus from Porirua station; she hailed from the Far North and had been introduced to him by the poet Hone Tuwhare. The Hilliards’ daughter Hinemoa babysat our kids.

Noel personified many of the characteristics of a particular type of journalist from that era: a natural leftie from a deprived working-class background whose political views were forged by his experience of the Depression and its impact on his parents. In pub conversations he was always polite and affable, in fact almost courtly, but his politics were never far from the surface and you could sense a controlled anger. He had been a member of the Communist Party but like many others, had quit in disgust after the Soviet invasion of Hungary in 1956. 

Noel had previously worked at the Listener and was a veteran of a famous stoush over the 1972 sacking of the magazine’s editor, the stroppy Alexander MacLeod (whom Cross succeeded). MacLeod’s dismissal, which resulted in a commission of inquiry, was widely seen as punishment by the Broadcasting Corporation board (heavily dominated by National Party figures and chaired by Major-General Walter McKinnon, father of Sir Don) for taking a defiantly liberal editorial line on such issues as race relations and the Vietnam War. It didn’t help that MacLeod’s people skills weren’t great. He had a strained relationship with some of his staff and his firing triggered a bitter schism that left its imprint for years. I can’t recall which side Noel took, but I would guess from his political leanings and his subsequent departure from the magazine that he was in the pro-MacLeod camp.

Next to Noel on the Christmas card is Winton Keay, who in 1949 was the Southern Cross’s editor. By the time I knew him in the 1970s, Win was an old man and seemed an unlikely person to have been in charge of a paper with an explicitly political agenda, still less a left-wing one. He was a frequent visitor to the public bar of the Britannia Hotel in Willis St, where Wellington’s newspaper journalists drank, but I don’t recall him ever showing any interest in talk about politics. Win was dapper, charming and a lifelong bachelor, a combination which in those days was assumed to mean only one thing. He was also one of the few regulars at “the Brit” who could fraternise with equal ease among journalists from both the Evening Post and the Dominion – rival papers in those days, with distinct cultures that weren’t always entirely compatible.

Elsewhere on the Christmas card I see Alex Fry. Alex was chief reporter and nominally assistant editor at the Listener when I worked there in the late 70s and early 80s. Not only was he a former flatmate of Noel Hilliard, but both had spent time in a hilltop sanatorium at Pukeora, near Waipukurau, after contracting tuberculosis – a life-threatening illness blamed on living conditions in their unheated Wellington flat.

Alex was that rare creature, a journalist with a university degree. He had a BA at a time when virtually all his peers joined newspapers straight from school and worked their way up from menial jobs as messengers and reading room copyholders. A West Coaster by birth, he had served in the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm, though not during the war, and worked for the Manchester Evening News. Like MacLeod, Alex wasn’t popular with all the Listener staff and had a reputation for being irascible, but I liked him. He was a graceful and erudite writer who should have spent more time doing what he did well rather than pointlessly shuffling bits of paper and largely being ignored in his glass-fronted enclosure.

Talking of erudite writers brings us to another of the rising stars (excuse the pun) on the Southern Cross Christmas card: W P (Bill) Reeves. In the 1960s, Reeves became editor of The Dominion and forged an unlikely friendship with an ambitious young Australian newspaper entrepreneur named Rupert Murdoch. It was the time of Murdoch’s successful bid for a controlling interest in The Dominion – his first acquisition outside Australia – and the two bonded over their shared passion for newspapers and journalism. When in Wellington, Murdoch would stay with the Reeves family and the two men would spend hours sprawled on the floor planning the layout of the soon-to-be-launched Sunday Times (now the Sunday Star-Times).

As Dominion editor, Reeves – a natural-born liberal – had gently eased the paper away from its traditional conservative stance. He later recalled that Murdoch made no attempt to interfere with the Dom’s editorial line; in fact was something of a left-winger himself back then. But when the young tycoon decided in 1968 that the paper should go tabloid – a grievous mistake, reversed four years later – Reeves was replaced as editor by Jack Kelleher, whom Murdoch thought better-suited to tabloid-style journalism. Reeves stayed on as an editorial writer and columnist and continued contributing his weekly Standoff: A Radical View – always authoritative and impeccably crafted – long after his retirement.

It almost goes without saying that there were few women on the editorial staff of the Southern Cross; to be precise, two out of the 32 people on that Christmas card. It wasn’t until the 60s and 70s that women started to infiltrate newsrooms in numbers. But one of those two on the Labour daily, women’s editor Christine Cole, would become Dame Christine Cole Catley, an influential figure in journalism and book publishing.

Again, I had a personal connection with her because she was one of the tutors on the Wellington Polytechnic part-time journalism course that I attended two nights a week – my course fees paid by my employer, the Evening Post – in 1968. Something of a trail-blazer for women journalists, Chris had been the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s correspondent in Indonesia during the turbulent years of the autocratic Sukarno regime. She wrote a popular daily TV review in the Dominion under the nom-de-plume Sam Cree, the choice of a male name indicating that even in the 60s, editors weren’t sure their readers were ready for women columnists. (Chris told me years later that she deliberately adopted a “tough-sounding” name because she didn’t want to sound effeminate.) Later again, while living in the Marlborough Sounds, she and her husband founded Cape Catley Press. She became an important mentor to New Zealand writers and was made a Dame in 2006, five years before her death, for services to literature.

Moving along, we come to the force of nature that was Gordon Dryden, then a young and very left-wing sub-editor. How left-wing? A small clue: he later edited the NZ Communist Party paper The People’s Voice. The son of a sawmiller, Dryden lost count of the number of schools he attended and got his first newspaper job at the scandal-sheet New Zealand Truth when he was 15.

He would go on to become a PR consultant to Labour Party leaders, a pioneer of talkback radio (he founded Radio Pacific) and the promoter of an unsuccessful bid – squashed by prime minister Norman Kirk – to run the country’s first private TV network.  He also, in later life, became a formidable current affairs interviewer. Robert Muldoon reputedly called him the most dangerous man in New Zealand and refused to be interviewed by him again after they clashed on the TV show Friday Conference. An irrepressible communicator of ideas, Dryden also became a passionate promoter of child welfare and educational reform, but never forgot his roots in newspaper journalism. On trips to Wellington from his base in Auckland he would make a point of calling in at the Brit for a beer – or several – with old colleagues. (If my research is correct, he was the last of that 1949 cohort to pass on. He died in 2022, aged 91.)

One of Dryden’s drinking mates, and another face on that Christmas card, was Tom Walsh, whom I knew during his long tenure as the Evening Post’s chief sub-editor. Tom was old-school to the core, with a voice like the bark of a seal. The uncle of Dame Fran Walsh, of Lord of the Rings fame, he was the only man I ever knew who would light each cigarette with the butt of the previous one, which is where the term chain-smoking came from. Tom would be in the public bar of the Brit every afternoon as soon as the day’s work was done and wouldn’t leave until it was time to go home for dinner. Like most journalists of that era he drank too much, at least by today’s standards, and smoked to excess. I doubt that he ate a healthy diet – certainly not at work, because deadline pressures didn’t permit it – and I can’t imagine that he was a stickler for regular exercise. He lived into his 90s.

(As an aside, pubs were central to the culture of journalism. A journalist visiting an unfamiliar city always knew where to find local journos because every issue of the Journalists’ Union’s monthly paper carried ads showing which pubs they frequented.)

Several other familiar names leapt out from that Christmas card. One is Ben O’Connor, who came from a big Irish Catholic family from Nelson and the West Coast – the same family that produced present-day Labour MPs Damian and Greg. Ben became the Evening Post’s business editor and later, the spokesman for the Bankers’ Association. A trenchant and acerbic conservative despite his family’s left-wing leanings, he once stood up at an Independent Newspapers Ltd annual shareholders’ meeting and called for my sacking as editor of the Dominion because he disapproved of the paper’s editorial line, which (among other things) supported the Labour government’s right to defy the US over nuclear-armed ships and the Anzus Treaty.

Louis Johnson, who became a much-admired poet, is on the card too. So is Noel Harrison, who established the aforementioned Wellington Polytechnic journalism course (New Zealand’s first, and long since absorbed by Massey University) and critiqued the press on the weekly TV programme Column Comment, as did Ian Cross.  Harrison’s career ended under an undeserved cloud when he was implicated in allegations of fraud at Northland Polytech, where he was chief executive. A judge threw the case out for lack of evidence and an investigation by North & South reporter David McLoughlin concluded that Harrison had unfairly been targeted by disaffected staff. Harrison later won a $124,000 Employment Court payout and successfully sued National MP John Banks, who had levelled the accusations against him, for defamation.

Lastly there’s Merlin Muir, who understandably preferred to be known as Lin (although his caricaturist misspelled his name as Lyn). Lin covered Parliament for the Southern Cross and would later spend more than 20 years as a desk man at the NZ Press Association. I remember him well from my time as a young and hopelessly inadequate industrial reporter at the Dominion, because Lin would sometimes phone me to query some aspect of a story I had written about the constant industrial disputes which in those days (the early 70s) caused enormous disruption in the life of the country. (All daily papers supplied copies of  important stories to the NZPA so they could be distributed nationally.) I came to dread those calls from Lin because while his questions were always polite and reasonable, which wasn’t always the case when sub-editors pulled up mistake-prone reporters, I was often embarrassed because I couldn’t answer them. He exposed flaws in my stories that the Dom’s own subs never picked up.  

The same Merlin Muir had a celebrated feud with his Khandallah neighbour, the architect Ian Athfield. Muir complained that Athfield’s hillside house kept expanding with scant regard for council planning laws or the rights of those living next door. The bitter dispute culminated with Muir bringing a defamation action against the Institute of Architects, whose magazine took Athfield’s side but ended up publishing an apology to the retired journo.

There were other notable journalists who worked for the Southern Cross but didn’t feature in the Christmas card, presumably because they weren’t on the staff in that particular year. One was my uncle Dick Scott, the paper’s farming editor. Dick, another communist (though he too would quit the party), was married to my father’s younger sister. He subsequently edited the union paper Transport Worker and wrote the book 151 Days, a partisan but immensely lively and readable account of the 1951 waterfront dispute. He also founded and edited New Zealand’s first wine magazine, but left his most indelible mark as the author of Ask That Mountain, the 1975 book that lifted the veil on the Parihaka affair – a stain on the country’s history that had previously been ignored.

The aforementioned Jack Kelleher also once worked for the Southern Cross, as did Russell Bond, a quiet little man who would later occupy a back room at the Dominion, where he wrote editorials and classical music reviews.

That so many former Southern Cross journalists went on to work for the Dominion (Cross was another – he became the Dom’s chief reporter in the mid-50s) was ironic, to say the least. Politically the papers were poles apart, the Dominion having been founded in 1907 by wealthy farmers and professional men with the express object of bringing down the Liberal Party government that laid the groundwork for the welfare state and broke up the estates of the landed gentry.

Another long-serving Dominion journalist was the dignified and gentlemanly Read Mason, a Second World War conscientious objector whose brother Rex had been the influential Minister of Justice in the first Labour government. Kelleher, on the other hand, was a Catholic and a conservative, albeit a liberally minded one. Despite the paper’s Tory roots, the Dom welcomed journalists of all political shades and its newsroom always had a slightly wild, anarchic spirit.

In any case, while many of the Southern Cross journalists may have been left-wing in their personal beliefs, I don’t think they necessarily saw it as their mission to promote a particular political creed. It’s more likely that some simply thought the field was unfairly tilted in favour of the Tory press and that the other side deserved a fair shake.

While it’s a mere side track to the main narrative in Ian Grant’s newspaper history, the 1949 Christmas card is an important journalism artefact.  It recalls a time when newspapers were staffed mostly by egalitarian, personable, highly literate and idealistic lefties, some of whom had a very limited formal education. They observed the rules of editorial balance, had a broad general knowledge, were well-read, could spell properly and were sticklers for correct grammar. Today’s journalists, despite being the most highly educated in history – at least in terms of academic credentials – could learn a lot from them.

Pressing On: The story of New Zealand’s newspapers, 1921-2000, by Ian F Grant, is published by Fraser Books in association with the Alexander Turnbull Library. Recommended retail price: $69.50.

My complaint to the BSA about the use of 'Aotearoa'

On the night of August 1 I was watching Sky Open’s coverage of the Olympic Games. The presenter, Laura McGoldrick, repeatedly referred to New Zealand as Aotearoa. I found this irritating, not least because it was unsubtly making a political point in what was supposed to be a sports programme, but I wasn’t so enraged as to throw something at the TV. We have become accustomed, after all, to media people flaunting their impeccable ideological credentials by the use of Aotearoa, despite the name having no popular mandate. That’s what they’re counting on: that we’ll come to accept it as the norm – or as Jacinda Ardern once put it, that Aotearoa will be adopted “organically”. How convenient to avoid the complication of seeking formal public endorsement.

Sky Open crossed a line for me, however, when the medals table appeared on screen. Where the name New Zealand should have been, Sky Open had inserted (rather crudely) Aotearoa. It seemed to me that for the presenter to use the name informally in her patter was one thing: irritating, as I say, but not something worth complaining about, especially since the Broadcasting Standards Authority has made it clear it approves the use of te reo in the media. But arbitrarily to substitute Aotearoa for New Zealand in the official medals table struck me as qualitatively different. At best, it was an act of conceit and arrogance; at worst, a deception and a manipulation.

I decided to do something I’d never done before: complain to the BSA. But the authority’s rules first required me to approach the broadcaster, so I sent the following email to Sky Open:

“Last night, Thursday August 1, Sky Open’s coverage of the Olympic Games displayed a medals table that listed New Zealand as Aotearoa.

“There is no such country as Aotearoa. Athletes from this country take part in the Games under the name New Zealand, not Aotearoa. They are selected by the New Zealand Olympic Committee, not the Aotearoa Olympic Committee, and they wear the letters NZL, not AOT.

“The medals table displayed last night was not the official one. It appeared to have been tampered with. The official list of participating countries makes no mention of Aotearoa and I would be interested to know whether the International Olympic Committee or the New Zealand Olympic Committee gave permission to Sky Open to use that name in place of the officially recognised one. I suspect not, in which case the medals table was altered without authorisation.

“Unless your response indicates a reversal of policy in relation to the misnaming of New Zealand, it is my intention to make a formal complaint to the Broadcasting Standards Authority under Standard 6 of the Broadcasting Standards Codebook, which relates to accuracy. I am doing this because there could be no more fundamental point of accuracy than to name a country correctly. I await your response with interest.”

Sky Open duly replied (more than three weeks later, but within the 20 working days allowed under the rules). Their reply was as follows:

“The Sky Broadcasting Standards Committee reviewed the content in question and assessed it against the standards in which [sic] you complained.

“The Accuracy standard requires that: ‘Broadcasters should make reasonable efforts to ensure news, current affairs and factual content: is accurate in relation to all material points of fact and; does not materially mislead the audience (give a wrong idea or impression of the facts).’

“As per the Broadcasting Standards Authority (BSA), the use of te reo Māori in broadcasts is a matter of editorial discretion rather than an issue of broadcasting standards. The Authority noted that te reo Māori is an official language of New Zealand and that its use is protected and promoted by existing law.

“You may read the full press release of the BSA’s stance here: https://www.bsa.govt.nz/news/bsa-news/bsa-draws-a-line-under-complaints-about-te-reo

“With regard to the use of ‘Aotearoa’ on the medals table during the Olympics coverage, the word is widely accepted and understood to mean New Zealand, and is unlikely to mislead the audience. In this instance, the Committee determined its use to be an editorial decision and therefore treated as informal feedback rather than a formal complaint. [Clumsy wording: I think they meant my complaint was to be treated as informal feedback.]

“Our task is to assess the content against the Code of Broadcasting Standards. Taking the above factors into account, the Sky Broadcasting Standards Committee determined that the programme did not breach the Code, and your complaint was not upheld.

“Thank you for contacting us, we now consider this matter closed. Please note that you have the right to refer your complaint to the Broadcasting Standards Authority if you are not satisfied with our response.”

All of which was exactly as I expected. I then submitted my complaint to the BSA, with no greater expectation of success than I had with Sky Open.

After setting out the background circumstances, I wrote (and readers may note that I grovellingly tried to ingratiate myself with the BSA by using an upper-case A for authority, which as a journalist I wouldn’t normally bother to do):

“I have read the Authority’s statement of 9 March 2021 relating to the use of te reo Māori in which the Authority noted that Maori was an official language whose usage was protected under law and stated that its use was an editorial decision for broadcasters.

“My complaint is not about the general usage of te reo Maori, but specifically relates to the substitution of Aotearoa for New Zealand in Sky Open’s Olympic Games coverage. More specifically still, it concerns Sky Open’s use of Aotearoa in what was otherwise an official Games medals table shown on screen on the night of August 1 (and presumably on subsequent occasions, although I can’t confirm that). That table gave the appearance of having been altered, rather crudely, so that New Zealand was listed as Aotearoa.

“I accept Sky Open’s point that Aotearoa is widely understood to mean New Zealand. However it is a name that, at best, has limited official recognition and whose authenticity as a synonym for New Zealand is disputed by reputable scholars and historians.

“I don’t question the right of broadcasters to use Maori words and phrases in a general context, which I consider to fall under the general protection of free speech. While I found the Sky Open presenter’s constant use of Aotearoa in place of New Zealand irritating, I accept that it fell within the Authority’s guidelines. However I submit that Sky Open crossed a line when it displayed what purported to be an official medals table in which it arbitrarily substituted Aotearoa for the country name that is recognised by the International Olympic Committee and under which our athletes competed.

“I submit that it breached the accuracy standard for the reasons set out in my complaint to Sky Open. The name of a country is a matter of fact, not one of editorial discretion. Until such time as a change of name is constitutionally mandated by statute, it remains New Zealand. It follows that Sky Open cannot take refuge in the argument that the usage of Aotearoa was a legitimate editorial decision.

“I repeat that there could be no more fundamental point of accuracy than to name a country correctly, and I invite the Authority to rule accordingly.”

The BSA’s response was prompt (it came within two days) and again it was pretty much as I expected. Their email read as follows:

“Thank you for contacting us regarding your concerns about the use of ‘Aotearoa’ rather than ‘New Zealand’ in Sky Open’s coverage of the 2024 Olympic Games.

“Te reo Māori is an official language of New Zealand. The Authority has previously highlighted that the use of te reo Māori in broadcasts is a matter of the broadcaster’s editorial discretion and does not raise any issues of broadcasting standards (decision number 2020-135). You have suggested your complaint raises different considerations as it’s not the general use of te reo you are concerned about but:

■ an ‘inaccuracy’ in calling New Zealand ‘Aotearoa’ (given it has limited official recognition and given scholars/historians dispute it is a synonym for New Zealand)

■ the broadcaster’s tampering with the country name on what purported to be an official medals table, and use of a name that may not be officially recognised by the Olympic committee.

“However, noting:

■ the accuracy standard does not mandate the use of ‘official names’ or require absolute accuracy – it requires reasonable efforts to ensure accuracy on all material points of fact;

■ New Zealand viewers were unlikely to be misled by the use of Aotearoa; and

■ the standards regime does not regulate any relationship between the broadcasters and the Olympic committee (including any rules around the integrity of an ‘official medals table’)

we can see no reason to depart from the Authority’s previous decision (recognising the use of te reo as a matter for the broadcaster’s editorial discretion).

“In matters outside of broadcasting standards, you can provide feedback to the broadcaster so they’re aware of your concerns. We note you have already done this.

“We hope this assists. If you do have further questions, please do not hesitate to contact us.”

So: a polite brush-off, just as I expected. The BSA seeks refuge in legalistic prevarications for which its own self-serving policies provide ample scope. Loosely translated, its response says the BSA is tired of people grizzling about the use of te reo and just wants them to bugger off.

Incidentally, the email was anonymous, being signed simply “BSA”. Sky Open’s email was at least signed by a person, though I choose not to name her here because her identity isn’t relevant.

I was intrigued by the speed with which the BSA came back to me, so I asked whether my complaint had gone before a formal meeting of the authority or had been dealt with summarily, so to speak, on the basis of established policy. The BSA’s reply confirmed my assumption that the complaint didn’t go before the appointed members of the authority, explaining that this was in accordance with its policy not to accept complaints about the usage of te reo Maori. “However, the Authority will be advised of the complaint (and our response).”

All done and dusted, then. It all unfolded exactly as I foresaw. But just a couple of points:

The BSA sidestepped my point that The name of a country is a matter of fact, not one of editorial discretion. To officially list New Zealand as Aotearoa, particularly as it’s not the name recognised by the International Olympic Committee, is to step outside the general protection of “editorial discretion”. I therefore invited the BSA to find that the usage in this instance was inaccurate. Admittedly, breach of the accuracy standard wasn’t the ideal basis for a complaint, but it was the only one of the official broadcasting standards that seemed applicable. Predictably, the authority kicked for touch.

The BSA also used the justification (as did Sky Open) that Aotearoa was widely accepted as meaning New Zealand and therefore wasn’t likely to mislead anyone. I’m not sure that’s a valid defence either. If a TV newsreader referred to a certain former prime minister simply by the name “Jacinda”, for argument’s sake, everyone would know who that referred to, but nonetheless it wouldn’t (and shouldn’t) happen.

It’s worth noting that I twice emailed the New Zealand Olympic Committee, asking whether Sky Open had sought permission to substitute Aotearoa for New Zealand in the official medals table and whether the NZOC approved. No reply on either occasion; not even the courtesy of an acknowledgment. A deafening silence.

In my experience, sporting administrators tend to be fiercely, nigglingly fussy about compliance with rules and conditions surrounding the right to broadcast. I find it interesting that in this instance, the NZOC appeared to be content for Sky Open to take upon itself the right to use a name different from the one officially approved. What does that tell us?

To summarise, I made my complaint purely as a protest gesture, with no expectation of success. But I feel a certain perverse satisfaction in recording that events unfolded exactly as I thought they would.

Do I object to Aotearoa as a name for New Zealand? Not at all, as long as New Zealanders decide that’s what they want the country to be called. I accept there are good arguments for changing the name, just as there are compelling arguments for leaving it as it is. But it’s worth noting that I don’t hear the name being used by New Zealanders (Aotearoans?) in everyday conversation, which surely tells us something.

What I do object to, strenuously, is the name Aotearoa being imposed on us by an elitist ruling caste – and here I include the media and the BSA – that either isn’t interested in whether the populace at large endorses it, or is too scared to put it to the test in a referendum, which is the only fair and democratic way of resolving the issue.

What Diderot might have said about traffic cones

What the hell took him so long? That’s the only question arising from Transport Minister Simeon Brown’s belated crackdown on traffic cones.  

I wrote about the traffic cones lunacy nearly three years ago. It was a racket and a disgrace that had long been obvious even then.

I devoted another post to it in March last year and identified the traffic management cult as a prime symptom of the precautionary principle, which risk-averse regulators use as moral justification for imposing costly, wasteful and intrusive controls that defy common sense.

All the while, the problem has grown more intolerable. And we meekly fall into line even while cursing the irritation and inconvenience because we are essentially a passive, compliant people.

There’s an ideological element in all this. The urge to control human behaviour is central to the mentality of the bureaucracy, even in a supposedly liberal democratic state.

Traffic cones are just another means by which people can be made to submit to authoritarian edicts for which there’s no rational basis. The Covid-19 lockdown, which by common consent is now regarded as having been needlessly oppressive and damaging, can be seen in the same light.

While Brown’s belated initiative may be welcome, it’s also disappointingly half-hearted.  He says the government will be introducing a "risk-based" approach to traffic management, which raises the likelihood that decisions will be left in the hands of the same control freaks who got us into this mess in the first place.

The bottom line is that New Zealand built a network of state highways without a single traffic cone and no one, to my knowledge, has ever advanced a cogent reason why that needed to change. 

The 18^th century French philosopher Denis Diderot famously said that men could never be free until the last king was strangled with the entrails of the last priest. He might have added: “… and the last traffic cone is buried in a landfill”.

Here's the news: life will go on

I’ve asked this question before, but it’s time to ask it again: do TV journalists have any idea how precious and self-absorbed they look?

The evidence overwhelmingly suggests they don’t. Over the past couple of weeks we’ve witnessed an unedifying orgy of self-aggrandisement as Newshub journalists and broadcasters very publicly and ostentatiously mourn the imminent loss of their jobs.  

Paddy Gower, Mike McRoberts, Samantha Hayes, Lloyd Burr, Eric Young and Melissa Chan-Green have all invited us to share their grief, although Chan-Green, holding back tears, at least had the self-awareness to acknowledge that other people have faced tough times too.

Young, who I’ve always respected as a newsreader, deserves special mention for his maudlin display on a video released today. “There’ll be no time for self-indulgence,” he says of his final bulletin. Just as well, because we’ve seen far too much already.

It has been a strange combination of self-pity and self-celebration. The Newshub team are appealing for public sympathy while simultaneously bigging themselves up in a manner that many ordinary New Zealanders will find risibly over-the-top and more than a little self-centred.

They’re behaving as if they’re the first people ever to experience the trauma of losing their jobs, but of course it happens all the time. Businesses constantly fail, often with far more damaging consequences for those affected.

Untold thousands of unskilled and semi-skilled New Zealanders have been thrown out of jobs by technological change or economic upheaval and faced a far bleaker outlook than the relatively small number of skilled and talented people affected by the Newshub closure, some of whom have already acquired new and presumably well-paid jobs.

The difference, of course, is that all those anonymous victims of redundancy had no public platform from which to draw attention to their misfortune. Newshub journalists do, either via their own medium or through others in the media (such as the Herald’s Shayne Currie, who has assiduously reported all the hand-wringing). I’m sure it’s not lost on the public that they are exploiting a privileged position.

Yes, losing your job must be tough. It's also problematical, from a public interest standpoint, that there will be one less competitor in the news arena. But the Newshub journalists would probably win more sympathy, and certainly more respect, if they took it on the chin, just as thousands of anonymous workers had no choice but to do when they found themselves surplus to requirements.

I wonder, what makes the Newshub employees so special that their fate warrants all this wailing and breast-beating? What makes them think they have more emotionally invested in their work than all those other poor stiffs who fell victim to the cruel caprice of changing markets? An obvious explanation is that television is a uniquely ego-stroking medium. It can create the illusion, at least within the bubble of those working in the business, that the lives of the people who report and deliver the news are themselves a matter of vital public interest. Fatally, they come to regard themselves as celebrities.

It’s worth noting that this overweening egotism and sense of entitlement doesn’t afflict all journalists. Hundreds of print journalists have lost their jobs in recent years, with serious consequences for the public’s right to know what’s going on in their communities. They went quietly, without public fuss. What is it that makes TV journalists think their role is so uniquely precious?  

Similarly, when the Evening Post ceased to exist as a title when it was merged with The Dominion in 2002, it marked its own passing with a one-off commemorative issue that was notably light on self-congratulations. Hardly a word was published about the individuals who produced the paper. It was largely left to readers and public figures to write about what the Post had meant to them and to Wellington. (And bear in mind, this was a newspaper that had been an essential part of Wellington life for 137 years. Newshub, by way of contrast, came into existence only 35 years ago and was never more than a secondary player in its market.)

Well, here’s the news, to coin a phrase: life will go on. A timeline of Newshub’s history, published today in the Herald, graphically demonstrates that TV news and current affairs programmes come and go and are soon forgotten. The timeline serves as a striking reminder that television is essentially an ephemeral medium. Many of the shows mentioned have long since faded from the public memory, along with the names of the people who presented them. The same will happen to the 6 o’clock Newshub News, and possibly sooner than many of its grieving employees imagine.

Footnote (appended July 7): On Muriel Newman's Breaking Views page, a commenter named Gaynor responded to this piece by wondering where the mainstream media were when good people were losing their jobs because they chose not to have the Covid jab. No sympathy for them. A good point that I wish I'd thought of.

A monumental piece of work

 

By anyone’s standards, my friend and long-ago employer Ian F Grant leads a very busy life, especially for an 84-year-old. But the past week has been exceptionally full even for him.

Last Thursday saw the launch of Pressing On – Volume II of his monumental history of New Zealand newspapers – at the National Library. Volume I, Lasting Impressions, covered the period from 1840 till 1920 and was published in 2018. The second book brings us almost to the present day.

I say “almost” because Ian wisely chose the year 2000 as his cutoff point. After that, things started getting messy in the print media and there would have been little point in charting subsequent trends and events, given the industry’s highly fluid state and uncertain future.

Lasting Impressions was a prodigious piece of work for the sheer depth and detail of Ian’s research into an aspect of New Zealand history that had previously been largely overlooked. Pressing On bears evidence of the same exhaustive research, but it’s probably fair to say that it has wider appeal simply because it covers newspaper titles and industry personalities familiar to current generations.

Lifelong newspaper enthusiast Sir Hugh Rennie (a co-founder, with Ian, of the National Business Review) and the retired political journalist Colin James addressed the gathering at the launch and there was an elegiac tone to their remarks – an acknowledgment that the book covers a golden age of New Zealand print journalism and that society and democracy will be much the worse for its decline.

By an apt coincidence, the launch was followed only days later by the announcement that Ian had been made an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit for services to literature and historical preservation. His inclusion in the King’s Birthday honours list followed similar recognition of his wife and publishing partner Diane 22 years earlier.

As founders and co-owners of Masterton-based Fraser Books, the Grants are prolific authors and publishers and show no sign of cutting back their workload. I keep urging them to slow down, partly because they make me feel wretchedly slothful, but they haven’t taken my advice in the past and I don’t expect them to do so now.

You can read a fuller account of the book launch here: Wellington.Scoop » Not dead, but …. 

Pressing On sells for $69.50. Copies are available from ifgrant@xtra.co.nz