I don’t claim to have closely followed the career of the British fashion designer Alexander McQueen, who sadly took his own life this week, or to have made a close study of the surreal world in which he moved. But I have read and seen enough to conclude that he was a disturbed man. What the sycophants of the fashion world (or art, or pop music, or literature for that matter) describe as genius is often mental or emotional torment desperately looking for an outlet.
Few people outside the fashion industry would doubt that McQueen’s bizarre creations were the products of a damaged mind. His parades looked like out-takes from a Federico Fellini fantasy film, full of models so grotesquely pale and thin that they looked like creatures from an alien planet, wearing garments (for want of a better word) that seemed designed to strip the wearer of all dignity and humanity. To watch those blank-faced, asexual, other-worldly models parading clothes by McQueen was to understand the view of some feminists that the high fashion industry is fundamentally misogynistic, created to humiliate and demean women. (His 10-inch heels were too much even for some models, who refused to wear them for fear of injury.)
Of course his clothes provoked gasps of astonishment, which is why the fashion industry loved him. It is an industry that craves novelty like a drug. Having realised long ago that there were only so many ways classical design themes could be re-invented, high fashion has left itself nowhere to go other than to that edgy place we call out-there.
McQueen appears to have been in his natural realm there. A gay boy from working-class London, he apparently viewed himself as an outsider and seems to have been ambivalent about the adulation heaped on him. According to The Times, he was shy in private but foul-mouthed and confrontational in public. A “powerful fashion journalist” who crossed the Atlantic to meet him is said to have been left “white with shock” afterwards. Good. There should be no such thing as a “powerful fashion journalist” in the first place. The notion is preposterous, and an example of how inflated with conceit and self-absorption the alternative universe that is the fashion industry has become.
It was no surprise to read that McQueen was “discovered” by Isabella Blow, the “eccentric, aristocratic former fashion editor of Vogue”. Blow killed herself in 2007 by drinking weedkiller. Now McQueen too has taken his own life, which leaves me wondering whether the fashion industry, like rock music, attracts talented but inherently unstable people or whether the excesses, adulation, pressures and temptations of the culture and lifestyle render previously normal people unstable.
No doubt McQueen will be ostentatiously mourned for a few days – his funeral, if there is one, should be rich in air-kissing and photo opportunities – and then the Beautiful People will move on, anxious to find the next big thing; some other tortured soul who will satisfy the industry’s appetite for newness, outrage and entertainment.
It’s getting perilously close to cliché territory to say that McQueen was devoured by the celebrity culture that created him. The real explanation for his premature death may be far more simple. In the end, it appears that all the adulation in the world couldn’t compensate this fragile man for the recent loss of his mum. Who knows; she may have been the one person in his glitter-filled life whom he felt loved him as someone other than a fashion darling.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thank God for stroppy democracies
(First published in the Nelson Mail and Manawatu Standard, February 3.)
WHAT a shocking and tragic picture has emerged from the inquiry into the sinking of the Tongan ferry Princess Ashika.
Reports present almost a caricature of the archetypal Pacific Island backwater where complacency, lethargy, deference to authority, lack of initiative and fear of upsetting important people combined with catastrophic results.
There is even an element of what might be called the Bwana Syndrome, in which expatriate white men of dubious ability enjoy being big fish in a small pool.
In the unlikely event that you’ve forgotten the details of the Princess Ashika sinking, let me remind you.
The decrepit, 37-year-old ferry sank last August while on a voyage from Nuku’alofa, the Tongan capital, to the Ha’apai island group. It was making only its fourth trip in Tongan waters.
Of the 74 who drowned, 29 were women and 12 were children. All the survivors were male.
It’s clear there were innumerable opportunities to prevent this tragedy, starting with the ill-advised decision to buy the patently unseaworthy ship. But at every point where people in authority could have applied prudence and common sense, instead a casual fatalism and reluctance to act prevailed – either out of complacency, penny-pinching or fear of angering the bosses.
The Shipping Corporation of Polynesia, which operated the ferry for the Tongan government, dispatched its manager, New Zealander John Jonesse, to buy a ferry in Fiji despite Mr Jonesse apparently having little or no maritime experience. He got the Princess Ashika for $400,000 and reportedly considered it a bargain.
Evidence given to the commission indicates Mr Jonesse, a former schoolteacher who changed his name from Jones, had got his job with the corporation after only one formal interview and without references.
Mr Jonesse was on the corporation’s board with a former Scottish deputy transport commissioner, a lawyer who boasted the grandiose title of Lord Dalgety of Sikotilani, and a Tongan chairwoman who, in the three years she had been in the position, had reportedly never sent an email or letter on corporation business.
It later transpired that Dalgety, the corporation secretary, had spent 66 days staying in a five-star Singapore hotel on corporation business, for which he was paid a daily rate of $US674. So while the corporation was eager to procure a ferry on the cheap, no such constraints seem to have applied to Dalgety’s expenses.
The Princess Ashika wasn’t subjected to a survey before purchase and no independent valuation was obtained. The most recent survey carried out in Fiji had described the ship as “beyond repair” and with “uncontrollable corrosion”, but the survey report either was not seen or not acted on.
The ship had to turn back after taking on water on its delivery voyage to Tonga and when it finally arrived in Nuku’alofa, a team of Tongan marine surveyors compiled a six-page list of defects.
Not to worry – a “provisional survey certificate” was issued to allow the Princess Ashika to sail.
Only the day before the sinking, a former general manager of the Shipping Corporation inspected the ship for insurance purposes and concluded it was an “intolerable risk”, but did nothing to stop it sailing. This was literally an accident waiting to happen.
The same fatal complacency appears to have sealed the ship’s fate on the night of its sinking. Despite alarming incidents on its previous three trips in Tongan waters, including one in which waves smashed holes in the sides of the vessel, no one bothered to check liferafts and lifejackets or ensure that passengers were briefed on safety procedures.
On the fatal night, the ship began taking on water within hours of leaving port at 4pm. Yet the captain went to bed at 7pm, leaving the first mate in charge.
Even when water on the cargo deck was knee-deep and the ship was listing dangerously, no one roused the master. He was finally woken about 10 minutes before the ship sank. It was only then that passengers were alerted to the imminent danger, but it appears to have been too late.
The captain admitted to the inquiry that he knew the ship was unseaworthy but he sailed because that was what the corporation wanted.
The reluctance to act continued even after the sinking. The New Zealander who heads the Tongan police, Chris Kelly, didn’t learn of the tragedy till his daughter texted him the next morning. Kelly’s deputy knew of the sinking at 1.10am but didn’t tell his boss because he didn’t want to bother him.
Instead he directed emergency operations from his bed, evidently sleeping between calls from his subordinates.
It subsequently transpired that a Tongan fishing boat skipper ignored a distress flare from the Princess Ashika because he thought he was short of fuel and didn’t have the right safety equipment. Survivors were picked up later by another vessel.
The shambling incompetence continued the next day. Mr Jonesse came to a briefing with a manifest recording only 79 names rather than the 128 who had been on board. The manifest didn’t even name the ship correctly, calling it the Olavaha – the ferry the Princess Ashika had replaced.
All in all, reports from the royal commission’s hearings present a picture of a terrible tragedy unfolding in slow motion. The bumbling incompetence, amateurism and complacency would have been comical if the outcome hadn’t been so utterly appalling.
The Tongan people have every right to be very angry, but probably won’t be. They are a passive, respectful people who didn’t seem offended even when their worse-than-useless king, immediately after the sinking, flew off to Scotland to attend the Edinburgh Tattoo rather than remain at home with his grieving subjects.
Are there any lessons to be learned from the terrible fate of the Princess Ashika and its doomed passengers? Probably none that we didn’t know already. The tragedy confirms that hierarchical societies produce a culture of deference where people do what they are told and are reluctant to speak out or take the initiative for fear of stepping out of line.
Thank God for stroppy democracies.
WHAT a shocking and tragic picture has emerged from the inquiry into the sinking of the Tongan ferry Princess Ashika.
Reports present almost a caricature of the archetypal Pacific Island backwater where complacency, lethargy, deference to authority, lack of initiative and fear of upsetting important people combined with catastrophic results.
There is even an element of what might be called the Bwana Syndrome, in which expatriate white men of dubious ability enjoy being big fish in a small pool.
In the unlikely event that you’ve forgotten the details of the Princess Ashika sinking, let me remind you.
The decrepit, 37-year-old ferry sank last August while on a voyage from Nuku’alofa, the Tongan capital, to the Ha’apai island group. It was making only its fourth trip in Tongan waters.
Of the 74 who drowned, 29 were women and 12 were children. All the survivors were male.
It’s clear there were innumerable opportunities to prevent this tragedy, starting with the ill-advised decision to buy the patently unseaworthy ship. But at every point where people in authority could have applied prudence and common sense, instead a casual fatalism and reluctance to act prevailed – either out of complacency, penny-pinching or fear of angering the bosses.
The Shipping Corporation of Polynesia, which operated the ferry for the Tongan government, dispatched its manager, New Zealander John Jonesse, to buy a ferry in Fiji despite Mr Jonesse apparently having little or no maritime experience. He got the Princess Ashika for $400,000 and reportedly considered it a bargain.
Evidence given to the commission indicates Mr Jonesse, a former schoolteacher who changed his name from Jones, had got his job with the corporation after only one formal interview and without references.
Mr Jonesse was on the corporation’s board with a former Scottish deputy transport commissioner, a lawyer who boasted the grandiose title of Lord Dalgety of Sikotilani, and a Tongan chairwoman who, in the three years she had been in the position, had reportedly never sent an email or letter on corporation business.
It later transpired that Dalgety, the corporation secretary, had spent 66 days staying in a five-star Singapore hotel on corporation business, for which he was paid a daily rate of $US674. So while the corporation was eager to procure a ferry on the cheap, no such constraints seem to have applied to Dalgety’s expenses.
The Princess Ashika wasn’t subjected to a survey before purchase and no independent valuation was obtained. The most recent survey carried out in Fiji had described the ship as “beyond repair” and with “uncontrollable corrosion”, but the survey report either was not seen or not acted on.
The ship had to turn back after taking on water on its delivery voyage to Tonga and when it finally arrived in Nuku’alofa, a team of Tongan marine surveyors compiled a six-page list of defects.
Not to worry – a “provisional survey certificate” was issued to allow the Princess Ashika to sail.
Only the day before the sinking, a former general manager of the Shipping Corporation inspected the ship for insurance purposes and concluded it was an “intolerable risk”, but did nothing to stop it sailing. This was literally an accident waiting to happen.
The same fatal complacency appears to have sealed the ship’s fate on the night of its sinking. Despite alarming incidents on its previous three trips in Tongan waters, including one in which waves smashed holes in the sides of the vessel, no one bothered to check liferafts and lifejackets or ensure that passengers were briefed on safety procedures.
On the fatal night, the ship began taking on water within hours of leaving port at 4pm. Yet the captain went to bed at 7pm, leaving the first mate in charge.
Even when water on the cargo deck was knee-deep and the ship was listing dangerously, no one roused the master. He was finally woken about 10 minutes before the ship sank. It was only then that passengers were alerted to the imminent danger, but it appears to have been too late.
The captain admitted to the inquiry that he knew the ship was unseaworthy but he sailed because that was what the corporation wanted.
The reluctance to act continued even after the sinking. The New Zealander who heads the Tongan police, Chris Kelly, didn’t learn of the tragedy till his daughter texted him the next morning. Kelly’s deputy knew of the sinking at 1.10am but didn’t tell his boss because he didn’t want to bother him.
Instead he directed emergency operations from his bed, evidently sleeping between calls from his subordinates.
It subsequently transpired that a Tongan fishing boat skipper ignored a distress flare from the Princess Ashika because he thought he was short of fuel and didn’t have the right safety equipment. Survivors were picked up later by another vessel.
The shambling incompetence continued the next day. Mr Jonesse came to a briefing with a manifest recording only 79 names rather than the 128 who had been on board. The manifest didn’t even name the ship correctly, calling it the Olavaha – the ferry the Princess Ashika had replaced.
All in all, reports from the royal commission’s hearings present a picture of a terrible tragedy unfolding in slow motion. The bumbling incompetence, amateurism and complacency would have been comical if the outcome hadn’t been so utterly appalling.
The Tongan people have every right to be very angry, but probably won’t be. They are a passive, respectful people who didn’t seem offended even when their worse-than-useless king, immediately after the sinking, flew off to Scotland to attend the Edinburgh Tattoo rather than remain at home with his grieving subjects.
Are there any lessons to be learned from the terrible fate of the Princess Ashika and its doomed passengers? Probably none that we didn’t know already. The tragedy confirms that hierarchical societies produce a culture of deference where people do what they are told and are reluctant to speak out or take the initiative for fear of stepping out of line.
Thank God for stroppy democracies.
We no longer expect politicians to tell us the truth
(First published in the Curmudgeon column, The Dominion Post, February 2.)
AUSTRALIAN Opposition leader and practising Catholic Tony Abbott brought a hail of criticism down on himself last week for expressing a conservative view on virginity. Feminists and leftist academics predictably pounced, denouncing Abbott as an unreconstructed male chauvinist.
But hang on. Regardless of what anyone thinks of his views, shouldn’t Abbott be given credit for expressing his opinions honestly and openly? That’s what democracy is supposed to be about: politicians saying what they think and letting the voters make up their minds.
Trouble is, politics is now so contaminated by spin-meisters and risk-averse media minders that we no longer expect people like Abbott to tell the truth.
Are his critics saying they would prefer it if he prevaricated and dissembled, like so many of his colleagues? It’s a strange old world, all right.
* * *
HOW entertaining it is to see the fear-mongering campaign of the global warming alarmists unravelling.
First there were the hacked emails and documents that indicated a conspiracy to massage scientific evidence in favour of the manmade global warming hypothesis. Then came the almost comical revelation that a predicted melting of Himalayan glaciers – one of the most alarming assertions in the 2007 report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change – was a fiction, utterly lacking in any scientific validity.
Now a sheepish IPCC has had to admit there was no scientific basis for claims that global warming was linked to a supposed rise in natural disasters such as hurricanes and floods.
This latest backdown came as no surprise to me. I recently watched a compilation of old movie newsreels dating back to the 1920s, and in virtually every year there were reports of catastrophic weather events – most of them every bit as bad as the more recent floods and hurricanes allegedly caused by climate change.
The global warming alarmists insist that a few embarrassing porkies don’t detract from the overwhelming weight of evidence pointing to an impending climate catastrophe. But the truth is that they reveal a shocking lack of scientific rigour and in doing so, raise questions about the credibility of all IPCC reports.
None of this should surprise anyone. When scientific report writers are little more than propagandists, they will inevitably be tempted to use whatever scrap of dodgy information they can find to support their case – even to the point of making things up.
And when gullible governments and charitable foundations are handing out massive grants for research into global warming, what mug is going to choke off the flow of funds by saying it isn’t happening?
* * *
THE funniest comedy on television is often to be found on the 6 pm news.
In a lead item last week on the Auckland power blackout, One News excitedly crossed to reporter Jack Tame who, we were told, was “across developments” (my thanks to media critic Denis Welch for picking up this latest fatuous expression).
Then we saw Tame standing at a city intersection at peak hour, telling us about the traffic problems supposedly caused by the outage. Trouble was, viewers looking over his shoulder could see no sign of congestion. In fact vehicles were moving as freely you’re ever likely to see in Auckland.
I have a suggestion for TVNZ’s Auckland newsroom when covering such stories in future. Perhaps they should hand out petrol vouchers to motorists as an incentive to remain stationary, banking up at the lights and tooting impatiently, so as to replicate the traffic gridlock One News is so anxious to report.
Aucklanders are an obliging lot, after all; I’m sure they would be happy to comply.
* * *
IN THE sports pages of this paper last week, Phoenix football team chief executive Tony Pignata reportedly said he was “in agreeance” with another club about the undesirability of a recent on-field fracas.
Agreeance? Pardon me?
The word “agreement” has served the English language very well for a long time, but what the heck – let’s make up a new one.
Come to that, why doesn’t everyone just invent whatever new words happen to come into their heads? Then people can babble away in their own private languages and make even less sense than they do now.
Speaking of new words, what about “firefight” and “lockdown”? Reporters love them, presumably because they convey a sense of drama – but what do they mean?
I assume a “firefight” (the word originated in the Vietnam War) is what we used to call a gun battle, in which case the latter term seems a lot more accurate.
As for lockdown, I hear it used freely by journalists but don’t have a clue what it means. How can an entire neighbourhood be placed in lockdown, as is sometimes reported? And why are prisoners now said to be locked down when, only a few years ago, they were locked up?
A free weekend in Paremoremo with the partner of your choice for the most convincing explanation.
AUSTRALIAN Opposition leader and practising Catholic Tony Abbott brought a hail of criticism down on himself last week for expressing a conservative view on virginity. Feminists and leftist academics predictably pounced, denouncing Abbott as an unreconstructed male chauvinist.
But hang on. Regardless of what anyone thinks of his views, shouldn’t Abbott be given credit for expressing his opinions honestly and openly? That’s what democracy is supposed to be about: politicians saying what they think and letting the voters make up their minds.
Trouble is, politics is now so contaminated by spin-meisters and risk-averse media minders that we no longer expect people like Abbott to tell the truth.
Are his critics saying they would prefer it if he prevaricated and dissembled, like so many of his colleagues? It’s a strange old world, all right.
* * *
HOW entertaining it is to see the fear-mongering campaign of the global warming alarmists unravelling.
First there were the hacked emails and documents that indicated a conspiracy to massage scientific evidence in favour of the manmade global warming hypothesis. Then came the almost comical revelation that a predicted melting of Himalayan glaciers – one of the most alarming assertions in the 2007 report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change – was a fiction, utterly lacking in any scientific validity.
Now a sheepish IPCC has had to admit there was no scientific basis for claims that global warming was linked to a supposed rise in natural disasters such as hurricanes and floods.
This latest backdown came as no surprise to me. I recently watched a compilation of old movie newsreels dating back to the 1920s, and in virtually every year there were reports of catastrophic weather events – most of them every bit as bad as the more recent floods and hurricanes allegedly caused by climate change.
The global warming alarmists insist that a few embarrassing porkies don’t detract from the overwhelming weight of evidence pointing to an impending climate catastrophe. But the truth is that they reveal a shocking lack of scientific rigour and in doing so, raise questions about the credibility of all IPCC reports.
None of this should surprise anyone. When scientific report writers are little more than propagandists, they will inevitably be tempted to use whatever scrap of dodgy information they can find to support their case – even to the point of making things up.
And when gullible governments and charitable foundations are handing out massive grants for research into global warming, what mug is going to choke off the flow of funds by saying it isn’t happening?
* * *
THE funniest comedy on television is often to be found on the 6 pm news.
In a lead item last week on the Auckland power blackout, One News excitedly crossed to reporter Jack Tame who, we were told, was “across developments” (my thanks to media critic Denis Welch for picking up this latest fatuous expression).
Then we saw Tame standing at a city intersection at peak hour, telling us about the traffic problems supposedly caused by the outage. Trouble was, viewers looking over his shoulder could see no sign of congestion. In fact vehicles were moving as freely you’re ever likely to see in Auckland.
I have a suggestion for TVNZ’s Auckland newsroom when covering such stories in future. Perhaps they should hand out petrol vouchers to motorists as an incentive to remain stationary, banking up at the lights and tooting impatiently, so as to replicate the traffic gridlock One News is so anxious to report.
Aucklanders are an obliging lot, after all; I’m sure they would be happy to comply.
* * *
IN THE sports pages of this paper last week, Phoenix football team chief executive Tony Pignata reportedly said he was “in agreeance” with another club about the undesirability of a recent on-field fracas.
Agreeance? Pardon me?
The word “agreement” has served the English language very well for a long time, but what the heck – let’s make up a new one.
Come to that, why doesn’t everyone just invent whatever new words happen to come into their heads? Then people can babble away in their own private languages and make even less sense than they do now.
Speaking of new words, what about “firefight” and “lockdown”? Reporters love them, presumably because they convey a sense of drama – but what do they mean?
I assume a “firefight” (the word originated in the Vietnam War) is what we used to call a gun battle, in which case the latter term seems a lot more accurate.
As for lockdown, I hear it used freely by journalists but don’t have a clue what it means. How can an entire neighbourhood be placed in lockdown, as is sometimes reported? And why are prisoners now said to be locked down when, only a few years ago, they were locked up?
A free weekend in Paremoremo with the partner of your choice for the most convincing explanation.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Let's ignore this one, chaps
Let it be noted that police breath-tested about 1000 drivers leaving Trentham racecourse after the Wellington Cup meeting on Saturday, according to the Dominion Post. Only two drivers were over the limit.
This inconvenient statistic will doubtless be ignored by the New Wowsers, since it undermines their conviction that we are a nation of helpless drunks who must be protected from ourselves.
This inconvenient statistic will doubtless be ignored by the New Wowsers, since it undermines their conviction that we are a nation of helpless drunks who must be protected from ourselves.
That guy on Q+A
It’s not easy finding positive things to say about TVNZ, but I think political editor Guyon Espiner has earned a big tick.
Espiner is steadily growing into his role as an interviewer on the Sunday morning political programme Q+A. He kicked off the year on an impressive note yesterday with an interrogation of Labour leader Phil Goff that was searching and incisive but never hectoring – not always an easy balance to strike.
As an interviewer, Espiner prepares well, is quick on his feet and has a pleasant manner. He has a slight tendency to interrupt too often, but there’s a fine line between giving interview subjects a fair suck of the sav and letting them control the show (as any politician will do, given half a chance). And he doesn’t shrink from the tough questions, to wit: “Are you a failure as leader?” – a question Goff answered with the same imperturbable smile he displayed throughout the interview. (He has inherited Helen Clark’s practice of grinning even when he’s being serious, which I find slightly unnerving.)
In his pieces to camera on One News, Espiner resists the temptation to grandstand and generally respects the boundary between analysis and editorialising – a skill his blustering counterpart at TV3, Duncan Garner, has yet to master (assuming Garner wants to, which may not be the case). And Espiner passes the most important test of any political journalist, which is that he leaves us guessing as to what his own political views (if any) are.
Best line from yesterday’s Q+A: “You don’t create wealth by taxing people” (Mike Moore). This should be tattooed on left-wing politicians’ foreheads.
Funniest line from yesterday’s Q+A: Asked by Paul Holmes whether he liked being in bed with the Nats, Hone Harawira paused for a moment before answering: “I wake up a lot.” He might have an anger problem, but he’s got a sense of humour too.
Espiner is steadily growing into his role as an interviewer on the Sunday morning political programme Q+A. He kicked off the year on an impressive note yesterday with an interrogation of Labour leader Phil Goff that was searching and incisive but never hectoring – not always an easy balance to strike.
As an interviewer, Espiner prepares well, is quick on his feet and has a pleasant manner. He has a slight tendency to interrupt too often, but there’s a fine line between giving interview subjects a fair suck of the sav and letting them control the show (as any politician will do, given half a chance). And he doesn’t shrink from the tough questions, to wit: “Are you a failure as leader?” – a question Goff answered with the same imperturbable smile he displayed throughout the interview. (He has inherited Helen Clark’s practice of grinning even when he’s being serious, which I find slightly unnerving.)
In his pieces to camera on One News, Espiner resists the temptation to grandstand and generally respects the boundary between analysis and editorialising – a skill his blustering counterpart at TV3, Duncan Garner, has yet to master (assuming Garner wants to, which may not be the case). And Espiner passes the most important test of any political journalist, which is that he leaves us guessing as to what his own political views (if any) are.
Best line from yesterday’s Q+A: “You don’t create wealth by taxing people” (Mike Moore). This should be tattooed on left-wing politicians’ foreheads.
Funniest line from yesterday’s Q+A: Asked by Paul Holmes whether he liked being in bed with the Nats, Hone Harawira paused for a moment before answering: “I wake up a lot.” He might have an anger problem, but he’s got a sense of humour too.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Pernod Ricard is onto a winner here
Sauvignon gris is an obscure variety of white grape – so obscure that it warrants only five lines in the definitive Oxford Companion to Wine (and even then it’s not an entry in its own right, but a footnote to the comprehensive one on sauvignon blanc). In my 2008 copy of the New Zealand Winegrowers Statistical Annual (note to self: must get an updated version), sauvignon gris isn’t even mentioned among the white grape varieties grown in this country, presumably being covered by the catch-all designation “other whites”, which together accounted in 2008 for only three percent of the total white varieties planted.
Nonetheless the sauvignon gris grape has not gone entirely unnoticed. Te Mata Estate, at Havelock North, grows some for blending (along with a small amount of semillon) into its Cape Crest Sauvignon Blanc. And it now transpires that Pernod Ricard, owner of Montana, has quietly been trialling sauvignon gris in its Marlborough vineyards.
The results have just been released under the Montana Reserve label, and I reckon they’re onto a winner. The name of the grape variety suggests an amalgam of sauvignon blanc and pinot gris and that pretty much sums up the wine, though it’s more of the latter than the former. It has the weight and mouth-feel of a good pinot gris – rich, rounded and mouthfilling, with a satisfyingly fleshy texture. The pear and nectarine flavours, too, are more reminiscent of pinot gris than sauvignon blanc. At the same time the wine has something of the fresh brightness of a sauvignon blanc, but without the pungent herbaceousness that puts some drinkers off that variety.
According to Pernod Ricard, sauvignon gris is not a crossing of the sauvignon blanc and pinot gris grapes but a variety in its own right, originating in Bordeaux. My Oxford Companion says it’s also known as sauvignon rosé, presumably on account of its faint pink tinge, and adds that it can produce a more substantial wine than sauvignon blanc. That’s certainly true, judging by the example from Montana.
I hope Pernod Ricard has plenty of the variety planted, because I can see this wine taking off. The recommended retail price is $23.99 but I see from today’s paper that New World is selling it for $12.99, at which price it’s a steal.
● My book The New Zealand Wine Lover’s Companion (published by Craig Potton Publishing, RRP $29.99) is available from a good bookstore near you.
Nonetheless the sauvignon gris grape has not gone entirely unnoticed. Te Mata Estate, at Havelock North, grows some for blending (along with a small amount of semillon) into its Cape Crest Sauvignon Blanc. And it now transpires that Pernod Ricard, owner of Montana, has quietly been trialling sauvignon gris in its Marlborough vineyards.
The results have just been released under the Montana Reserve label, and I reckon they’re onto a winner. The name of the grape variety suggests an amalgam of sauvignon blanc and pinot gris and that pretty much sums up the wine, though it’s more of the latter than the former. It has the weight and mouth-feel of a good pinot gris – rich, rounded and mouthfilling, with a satisfyingly fleshy texture. The pear and nectarine flavours, too, are more reminiscent of pinot gris than sauvignon blanc. At the same time the wine has something of the fresh brightness of a sauvignon blanc, but without the pungent herbaceousness that puts some drinkers off that variety.
According to Pernod Ricard, sauvignon gris is not a crossing of the sauvignon blanc and pinot gris grapes but a variety in its own right, originating in Bordeaux. My Oxford Companion says it’s also known as sauvignon rosé, presumably on account of its faint pink tinge, and adds that it can produce a more substantial wine than sauvignon blanc. That’s certainly true, judging by the example from Montana.
I hope Pernod Ricard has plenty of the variety planted, because I can see this wine taking off. The recommended retail price is $23.99 but I see from today’s paper that New World is selling it for $12.99, at which price it’s a steal.
● My book The New Zealand Wine Lover’s Companion (published by Craig Potton Publishing, RRP $29.99) is available from a good bookstore near you.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
And now for something completely different
Owning a property that backs on to a council reserve full of exotic trees, as I do, has its disadvantages. It means the spouting gets choked with dead leaves every autumn and I have to clamber gingerly along the edge of the roof to clear them. They pile up on the lawns too, in such quantity that I have to pile the trailer high with sack loads of leaves – mostly from elms, but with a smattering of oak leaves too – and take them to the compost pile at the tip. There are far too many for our own compost heaps to accommodate.
But having so many trees around has its compensations. They give us privacy, they protect us from the southerly and they provide an attractive backdrop to the house, which was one of the reasons we bought the property. And most of all there are the birds.
I have to confess my enthusiasm for the local birdlife isn’t always shared by my wife. They scratch out her seedlings, gorge on our plums and grapes, and crap all over the back deck. Notwithstanding this inconvenience, which I unsympathetically categorise as minor, I think the birds are marvellous.
The most visible permanent residents are blackbirds and thrushes. I’m ashamed to say that as a kid I would stalk blackbirds with a slug gun and found them incredibly wary – a blackbird was the ultimate kill. (My father approved because the birds plundered his apple trees.) But the blackbirds around here are engagingly tame and hop around me with insouciance even when I’m using the rowdy motormower. I guess they have learned from experience that human activity disturbs insects, affording an easy feed. One cocky blackbird in particular is always on the scene when there’s digging being done.
Mallard ducks sometimes nest in the garden and we are visited every day by starlings, which I regard as among the least interesting birds – dull to look at and, unlike the blackbird and thrush, totally lacking in musical charm. But even foraging starlings have their fascination, marching in groups across the lawn with almost military precision. They're welcome to every grass grub they can get.
We have chaffinches and silvereyes in abundance, and yellowhammers. Sparrows too, of course.
A young chaffinch startled me a couple of weeks ago when it crashed into the side of my head as I was having a cup of tea on the deck. It bounced off me onto the table in front of me, where it stood for several seconds looking at me with an expression of indignation, as if it was my bloody fault for sitting there, before regaining its composure and flying off, doubtless to rejoin its anxious mum.
There are greenfinches too. At least I think it’s a greenfinch that takes up a position in one of our pittosporums at certain times of the year and announces the start of the day with its extraordinarily loud but not unpleasant twittering. The reason I can’t be sure of its identity is that it seems a shy and furtive bird that hides amid the foliage and disappears if I come anywhere near.
Like the putative greenfinch, other species come and go according to the time of year. We normally have a noisy resident tui population but they have been absent in recent weeks, possibly taking advantage of the warm weather to migrate to the Tararuas. My three-year-old grandson recognises the tui’s song instantly but can’t get the pronunciation quite right, calling it a chewy bird – so that’s what the tui is called now at our place. (We’ve also adopted his habit of referring to the supermarket as the stupid market, which we consider pretty perceptive for a kid that age.)
A morepork (ruru) is an occasional lodger in the reserve. It was a permanent inhabitant for a long time but now seems to visit intermittently; I heard him (her?) only last night. Kingfishers (kotare) appear now and again too, their sharp, distinctive call usually being heard before they are seen. A much rarer visitor was the large shag – I’m not sure which species – that we suspect devoured our goldfish a couple of years ago. (It did us a favour, in a way. We were mildly concerned about the goldfish pond because of our two small grandsons, but once the fish had gone we filled it in.)
Fantails (piwakawaka) are ever-present, as they are in many urban gardens. On a sunny morning a few weeks ago, one fluttered into my office after I had thrown one of the two sash windows wide open. I opened the other window and left the room, hoping the bird would find its own way out – but when I came back I saw, to my consternation, that it had trapped itself in the narrow space between the two panes. By carefully manoeuvring the upper and lower windows while simultaneously making what I thought were soothing noises, I eventually managed to free it – but I wouldn’t mind betting the experience shaved a few days off its life expectancy.
Incidentally, I have heard that the Maori regard the fantail as a harbinger of death – but as you can see, I’m still here. I hope I’m not tempting fate by saying this.
Anyway, what prompted all this rambling about birds was that today my wife, who doesn’t normally get excited about the avian world, called me to the French doors in the dining room. “Aren’t those quail?” she asked, pointing to the far side of the lawn. And dammit, she was right – two California quail were cautiously making their way through the undergrowth.
That was a pleasant surprise, since I’ve not seen quail around here before and wouldn’t have expected them in a built-up area. I just hope the neighbourhood cats don’t get them.
Now I’m waiting for my first kereru, or better still, a bellbird. But I’m not holding my breath.
But having so many trees around has its compensations. They give us privacy, they protect us from the southerly and they provide an attractive backdrop to the house, which was one of the reasons we bought the property. And most of all there are the birds.
I have to confess my enthusiasm for the local birdlife isn’t always shared by my wife. They scratch out her seedlings, gorge on our plums and grapes, and crap all over the back deck. Notwithstanding this inconvenience, which I unsympathetically categorise as minor, I think the birds are marvellous.
The most visible permanent residents are blackbirds and thrushes. I’m ashamed to say that as a kid I would stalk blackbirds with a slug gun and found them incredibly wary – a blackbird was the ultimate kill. (My father approved because the birds plundered his apple trees.) But the blackbirds around here are engagingly tame and hop around me with insouciance even when I’m using the rowdy motormower. I guess they have learned from experience that human activity disturbs insects, affording an easy feed. One cocky blackbird in particular is always on the scene when there’s digging being done.
Mallard ducks sometimes nest in the garden and we are visited every day by starlings, which I regard as among the least interesting birds – dull to look at and, unlike the blackbird and thrush, totally lacking in musical charm. But even foraging starlings have their fascination, marching in groups across the lawn with almost military precision. They're welcome to every grass grub they can get.
We have chaffinches and silvereyes in abundance, and yellowhammers. Sparrows too, of course.
A young chaffinch startled me a couple of weeks ago when it crashed into the side of my head as I was having a cup of tea on the deck. It bounced off me onto the table in front of me, where it stood for several seconds looking at me with an expression of indignation, as if it was my bloody fault for sitting there, before regaining its composure and flying off, doubtless to rejoin its anxious mum.
There are greenfinches too. At least I think it’s a greenfinch that takes up a position in one of our pittosporums at certain times of the year and announces the start of the day with its extraordinarily loud but not unpleasant twittering. The reason I can’t be sure of its identity is that it seems a shy and furtive bird that hides amid the foliage and disappears if I come anywhere near.
Like the putative greenfinch, other species come and go according to the time of year. We normally have a noisy resident tui population but they have been absent in recent weeks, possibly taking advantage of the warm weather to migrate to the Tararuas. My three-year-old grandson recognises the tui’s song instantly but can’t get the pronunciation quite right, calling it a chewy bird – so that’s what the tui is called now at our place. (We’ve also adopted his habit of referring to the supermarket as the stupid market, which we consider pretty perceptive for a kid that age.)
A morepork (ruru) is an occasional lodger in the reserve. It was a permanent inhabitant for a long time but now seems to visit intermittently; I heard him (her?) only last night. Kingfishers (kotare) appear now and again too, their sharp, distinctive call usually being heard before they are seen. A much rarer visitor was the large shag – I’m not sure which species – that we suspect devoured our goldfish a couple of years ago. (It did us a favour, in a way. We were mildly concerned about the goldfish pond because of our two small grandsons, but once the fish had gone we filled it in.)
Fantails (piwakawaka) are ever-present, as they are in many urban gardens. On a sunny morning a few weeks ago, one fluttered into my office after I had thrown one of the two sash windows wide open. I opened the other window and left the room, hoping the bird would find its own way out – but when I came back I saw, to my consternation, that it had trapped itself in the narrow space between the two panes. By carefully manoeuvring the upper and lower windows while simultaneously making what I thought were soothing noises, I eventually managed to free it – but I wouldn’t mind betting the experience shaved a few days off its life expectancy.
Incidentally, I have heard that the Maori regard the fantail as a harbinger of death – but as you can see, I’m still here. I hope I’m not tempting fate by saying this.
Anyway, what prompted all this rambling about birds was that today my wife, who doesn’t normally get excited about the avian world, called me to the French doors in the dining room. “Aren’t those quail?” she asked, pointing to the far side of the lawn. And dammit, she was right – two California quail were cautiously making their way through the undergrowth.
That was a pleasant surprise, since I’ve not seen quail around here before and wouldn’t have expected them in a built-up area. I just hope the neighbourhood cats don’t get them.
Now I’m waiting for my first kereru, or better still, a bellbird. But I’m not holding my breath.
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