THE FRANTIC FORTIES

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 4, Issue 110, 26 May 1941, Page 5

THE FRANTIC FORTIES

SPECIALISTS IN SPEED PASTIME'S PEPPED UP (By Unome) In these days of struggle and strife, of timepayment and taxes, of impressment and impoverishment, life- moves fast. Cars are faster, money goes faster and women are faster. Gone are the good old days when men drew from the hip—they still draw from the hip, but the women help them drink it. Everything changes now—not only the weather (for instance you have the change daily girl). The point is that to keep people amused now things are invented and when no new things are inventable then old things are re-hashed. I remember in the good old da£ys social evenings where ping-pong was played. These were the birthplace of the matrimonial agencies. Now they have learned that it is faster to advertise than canvas. You read "Wanted a rich husband with one foot in the grave and the other on | a banana skin'* and so on. Yes, these days are lively and costly. Wally Nash's theme song. "Another little tax, another little tax, another little tax won't do us any harm," has; brought income tax. social security tax, radio tax, super tax, syntax, and -carpet tax until we seem to be at the stage when it would be an idea to give the country back to the Maoris and apologise for the mess Ave have made of it, or sink it and let some other mug like Abel Tasman fish it up some centuries later. En this land of bilk and cunning the sky is no limit.—things are going up s'o fast that if we're not careful we will knock a hole in the stratosphere thnt will put a dent in the whole solar system. But as T was saying to Mrs 'Iggins this morning the youth is going back to thei simple pleasures. Wandering along 1 to 58 the other night, having gone over from town to escape the blackout, I heard sound of revelry issuing from a nearby hall. Furtively approaching lest it be a dance I gingerly pushed the door and here we find ping-pong—par-don. table tennis —in action. . Sorry I said ping-pong—that was the. game I used to play. You know when things were nice and gentle and two people gently patted the pill and chatted in between pats. A nice l refined little sport where the sweet young thing at the other end caught one's eye with a demure glance and not caught it with a viscious backhand drive. X remember those happy days when one leaned on the table 'with one hand and pinged the ball to and fro daintily, occasionally taking the exercise by crawling under the sideboard or climbing up to retrieve the ball, from behind gran'dad's picture. Th&n, after one or two pats of the qrb one could be sure of resting on the carpet. But nowadays things move fast. Equipped like American footballers, with polo sweaters, stockings minus, sleeves (if any) rolled up, and with a looking eye the modern miss, delivers.' a devastating serve, p demoralising forehand and a decapitating backhand. She pants and puffs, races and rushes to and fro rocketing the little ball from end to end Avith amazing speed. Alas, no longer is ping pong ping pong, but table tennis; no longer is it a placid peaceful pastime but rather a racing, roughhouse rough-and-tumble. No lohggr can one feel that some gentle eyed viz-a-viz would make a choice decoration for one's drawing room, but rather he' feels that he should join, the Home Guard lor sclf-protection.