The Rites of Ranfurly

Rip It Up, Issue 99, 1 October 1985, Page 10

The Rites of Ranfurly

by Russell Brown

CHRISTCHURCH IN SPRING

The best way to get a perspective on any place is, of course, to move away from it. From high in the air, the Canterbury Plains is a skewed patchwork quilt, the patches getting bigger and greener as you head towards the Southern Alps. It’s further out from Christchurch that the big holdings lie land is wealth, especially when it’s fertile and the first-in-first-served early Canterbury settlers have become the closest New Zealand has to a gentry. Auckland’s moneyed are postively nouveau riche in comparison, and Christchurch snobbery is like no other. But the difference has its payoffs for citizens. Periodic visits over the last five years would have revealed that while changes in Auckland happen increasingly for the sake of business, the face of Christchurch has changed predominantly for the benefit of people. In Christchurch the city council closes off major inner-city streets to form expansive pedestrian malls, dotted with seats and small gardens and free of noisy traffic. In Auckland, more old buildings go down and rigid glass towers rise up in their place.“ Prosperity” _ isn’t everything ...

Wednesday Sept 11: Rock On and Time Off The words above and those below aren't intended to be part of the progress towards any vital conclusion, but are more composed in the name of cultural observation, highlighting people and places and events of interest, unrepented opinion, sheer whimsy, and whatever else might creep in. Not so much what-l-did-on-my-holidays as what-my-holidays-did-on-me ... First stop is the Christchurch Town Hall, where the final preparations are being made for the Christchurch end of TV’s 'Rock On New Zealand' live TV production. The title's dubious but the idea of getting local music on prime-time TV is laudable and the charity (as most charities are) is unquestionably deserving. A TV concert lightshow and a lightshow at an ordinary concert or pub gig are very different things. Much of the difference is due to the extra light requirements of cameras, but there’s a

certain glitziness that is unique to a TV rig. 'Rock On NZ' is no exception, and a huge tree of lights which fill no other function than to flash on-and-off-on-and-off forms the backdrop to the Town Hall stage. It’s something the bands' individual lighting people don't quite know what to do with. With Wellington’s city fathers apparently deciding that the Michael Fowler Centre is too good for the yobbish youth of the capital, the Christchurch Town Hall is without doubt the best major concert venue in the country. Provided the sound engineer remembers that the hall’s acoustics themselves have been designed to amplify, the sound will generally be first rate. Indestructability seems to have been the only consideration in the design of the huge concrete barn that is Auckland’s Logan Campbell Centre. Optimistic audiences continue to trek there in the hope that this time the sound from the speakers won’t be a boomy mess: which of course it generally is. The Christchurch Town Hall had a problem with damage for a while until they learned to remove the seats from the auditorium floor where appropriate. This night’s production is pretty much faultless; the crowd can hear and see the band and the band can hear themselves play. The overwhelmingly young (school age) audience seems to mightily enjoy the occasion (they also enjoy

sitting around smoking cigarettes outside the auditorium), but from this perspective there’s something a little depressing about it. When I was at school and went to see NZ bands at the Town Hall, I'd see the Swingers, Citizen Band, the Dudes even Toy Love and the Androidss. On this night, Netherworld Dancing Toys are without doubt the star turn, but I think they’d be rather suprised to find themselves the relative radical fringe. The Back Door Blues Band are pub showbiz enthusiastic and likeable, but rather ham-fisted and less than original. The Narcs sounded HUGE, ungracious and closedfisted. They smiled a lot, I didn’t. When you’re young, a live performance can have a major effect on you especially so now when there’s barely a regular under-age venue in the country (there used to be a lot of them where did they go?). It can be inspiring and provocative. There’s not much that’s inspiring and provocative about conservatism.

Sept 12: Nun the Wiser Roger Shepherd’s a pretty big rugby fan, but he’s not staying in Christchurch for the big Ranfurly Shield challenge against Auckland, he’s going to Dunedin. If he stayed in Christchurch he’d just end up doing more work up at the Flying Nun office and he’s sick of that. He gets paid for his full-time job managing a record shop (don’t worry, he’s not allowed to do his own chart returns), but not by his record company. His flatmate Gary is employed part time they'll hold out as long as they can before taking him on full-time, but that will probably happen before the end of the year. A lot of other people help out for nothing, or the occasional free record.

The previous Flying Nun office was almost too spacious, light and comfortable to be true they could certainly do with it now. The office they found after the previous building was sold is two small rooms; the floor almost completely covered with boxes of records, the walls with an array of posters, ones for individual bands and some great ones Lesley Mac Lean has produced to advertise the records.

As he gives and-receives gossip, Roger (he generally isn’t thought of as having a second name) does what he does most lunchbreaks, puts records in boxes. Flying Nun releases a lot of records these days, and others are distributed by the label. On the wall is a schedule of projected releases, week by week up until December. It’s a far cry from the situation where records came out whenever they could be pressed which generally meant when there was enough money to pay for them. It’ll be interesting to see how the Flying Nun structure, which operates on a lot of love and not much wages, changes to cope with what seems certain to be a big increase in the volume of

records sold over the next six months. With records like the Verlaines’ and Tall Dwarfs’ albums, standards are being not only maintained but pushed even further and new bands of the calibre of Goblin Mix and Bird Nest Roys will soon release records that prove the musical depth in this country (and not just Dunedin).

This isn’t to belittle the efforts of other indie labels, who, particularly Jayrem, do much to get local music out on vinyl, but the overall standard of Flying Nun Records simply makes it by far the most exciting place to listen. That’s been reflected in the increasing overseas success. The reason is possibly that rather than existing to be a record company, Flying Nun is only a record company because that happens to be the best way to make great music available. Make sense? Maybe soon they’ll be able to afford a bigger office. But this one will do for now and anyway, it has a nice view of the Square.

Friday the 13th: Sing If You’re Glad To Be Gay; Just Be Careful ... It’s a glorious spring day in Christchurch, "a crystal day" as my host Peter puts it. He’s taken the day off and so we set off on what might ungraciously be called a pub crawl, but it’s more a look at some places with community, culture and character; three pubs.

The first is the newest, although it’s housed in an old building (part of the old university site,adjacent to the Arts Centre). The Dux De Lux bar is a fairly recent extension to the vegetarian restaurant of the same name. The restaurant began in fairly rootsy fashion (it even played host to bands like the fab Vauxhalls for a time, before noise became a problem), but it has prospered over the years and these days is rather more swish.

The bar itself is very Christchurch. By virtue of its attachment to a restaurant, it can stay open a little longer than most and is a popular place to go after the theatre, films, music, or other pubs. The crush sees arty types, young students with well-off parents, young professionals, musicians ... There’s no official dress code but the patrons generally dress casually, conservatively well.

The night-time atmosphere can be as oppressively “social” as a crowded cocktail party and it’s a far more pleasant proposition during the day. Large windows admit plenty of light and, in fine weather, the garden bar is lovely and spacious. A few glasses apparently go missing from the outside tables and sometimes not all the drinks being consumed have been bought at the bar, but the management probably figures relaxed goodwill is worth more than strict policing. Nobody loves a beachfront town in wintertime,

and although a certain kind of Christchurchian delights in living in Sumner, the place is very quiet during the day. The garden bar at the Cave Rock Hotel is purely desolate. At the height of summer it will be packed with people from the beach across the road, noses covered and bodies revealed, but at this time of year the garden is unkempt and it’s all but forgotten. Inside, it’s a typical old men’s pub, you feel very noticed when you walk through it. The crowd will change somewhat at night, especially seeing as the other pub, the Marine Tavern is still rebuilding after a fire.

Sumner is often a little warmer than the rest of Christchurch, and the scent in the air is a sea breeze rather than a smog inversion, so some prefer to work in the city and travel the eight or nine miles home (about as far-flung as you get in Christchurch) at night. If you have money, you live “on the hill" and watch the tide go in and out. If you don’t have money you live on the flat and on average are probably more likely to own a Volkswagen than someone in virtually any other suburb in the country.

Over a steep hill from Sumner is Lyttelton, the port of Canterbury. As the initial landing place for the first settlers, it’s the oldest part of Christchurch and much of it has been built of stone. The Lyttelton tunnel links the city with its harbour these days, but there probably isn’t anyone who’s been to school in Christchurch who hasn’t trekked up and over the Bridle Path, the original gateway to the Canterbury Plains. Long, long before that, it was the side of a volcano.

The First Four Ships might have landed there, but most people have little reason to visit Lyttelton. If they pass through the tunnel, they’re probably en route to one of the calm bays further around the crater. We used to come to the place for the British Hotel.

The British is an old hotel, and as seamy as befits one in a harbour town. It's a hard pub. but not the hardest in town. The daytime crowd in the front bar is a mixed bag: problem drinkers, sailors, a couple of big bikers, a couple of off-duty hookers. locals. The friendly barman wears a faded 'Triumph' sweatshirt which doesnt quite conceal the tattoos around his neck.

But the pub has several bars the bottom one used to host a weird selection of bands and was a favourite place for the Androidss to play (I dread to think of the connections that led to that). The six band members alone made the little room seem crowded but the Androidss and the place fitted each other. My fondest memory of the place is them shambling out a full-length 'Sister Ray; singing about sailors and prostitutes and junkies to the sailors, prostitutes and junkies. And us. The landlady used to come down and open the side door so all the under-agers could slip outside when the police visited.

After a quick bite at home, it’s into the Square just in time to catch the tail of the Gay Law Reform march. Immediately it's a little intimidating,

because the last part of the march, 30 or so people, has been cut off from the main body by traffic. All around us people stare and some shout insults: “Queer shits!" Quite a few of the people looking on seem to be men here for tomorrow’s Ranfurly Shield challenge. It’s a lot more fun when we join the rest of the march, 800 or so. Pat Faigan from Say Yes To Apes and several people who seem to be bits of the Conoisseurs and Axemen stroll along playing some merry marching music; 'Get Up Stand Up’ and the like. Another bunch of buskers sits on the truck at the front.

The march slows down and halts in Cashel St and there's a chance to look around. The mood is quite ebullient, especially given some of the hatred from the footpath. Men and men hold hands, women and women hold hands, men and women hold hands and for once, it all seems pretty much the same. Badges, balloons and banners communicate essentially the same message.

There's a guy I went to school with right from the primers. He’s here with his boyfriend and now openly gay bility he might be. He was rather shy and nervous at school; now he’s grinning wildly and looking happy. And nearby is a teacher from my secondary school who risked his job and put himself in line for a lot of stupid student innuendo by being prominent in agitating for gay rights. He’s suddenly grey-haired, looks rather distinguished. He seems to know people all around him and smiles as he speaks to them.

The mood is diluted a little when the organisers switch on the PA horns on the truck-for speeches that 80 per cent of the marchers can’t hear. It's further broken by the attempts to get chanting going. Most of the crowd aren’t interested, and fair enough an issue as simple and clear as gay rights doesn’t need that kind of clumsy politicking. There’s something a little brutal and superfluous about mass chanting of the same phrase. It seems to undermine the status of the marchers as individuals, and that’s the sort of thing that leads to a society that rejects those who are different.

And it also brings the marchers down to the level of the young males who stand back and scream abuse, often in unison, on the Hereford St leg, the end of the circular march. One group of half a dozen or so is effectively silenced by a voice from the crowd:“Hi Fred! Remember me? Remember last weekend?” They all look amusingly sheepish.

It gets nastier as we proceed up the street, past Shades Tavern. (Former All Black fullback Fergie McCormick works at Shades. Anyone who was gay and drank at the Cantabrian when Fergie went to work there will know his stand on this particular aspect of human rights. It used to be a gay bar.) A bunch of drinkers, some in matching rugby club dress jerseys, have come through from the pub to look at the queers. Some actually cross the road and stand on the

centre line to yell abuse. More stand back on the path and chant: “Push shit! Push shit I ’’, then, “Gays should be shot l Gays should be shot!” That sends a chill though my happily het heart I can’t imagine what it’s like for someone who doesn’t just wear a badge or march occasionally, but has an entire lifestyle that attracts that kind of stupid, hateful threat. I happen to on balance fall the side of the fence called “normal”. A lot of the people around me don’t. Exactly why people hate gays, I’m not sure, there are various psychological and sociological explanations. I only know they’re wrong and they make me feel angry and ashamed: What right do you have to tell two adults who love each other how they can and cannot touch in the privacy of their own home? Do you know how many gay people you meet every day? Would you have them all “shot’? Who the fuck are you? Look after your own life before you try and fuck up someone else’s! Maybe you're not really bad, just stupid or misinformed you still scare me. Enough! There is an unwritten rule within the gay community that no one challenges anyone else, particularly a public figure, to come out publicly. The understanding apparently protects the double standards of several homosexual politicians (not to mention the odd All Black) who have gone on record as registering opposition to gay law reform but then they have to live with their own self-hatred.

The protest loses its momentum as the march halts again in the Square, so its time to go to the Zetland Tavern, where Dunedin’s Alpaca Brothers are playing. There aren’t a lot of people there when I arrive. Look Blue Go Purple’s Kath Webster is a half-Brother (sister?) for the weekend and plays and songs on about half a dozen songs each night. She explains that the Alpacas shelled out for 300 posters to be printed, only to have Air New Zealand deliver them to the wrong place ...so, no posters.

But enough people are in the know to make

for a comfortable crowd eventually. Nick from Record Joynt (my co-host) arrives and gets himself a drink; he’s had a hell of a night, a lot of people in town and, just to top it off, two people rolling around on the floor in a fight sparked off by one’s wearing a Heterosexuals Unafraid Of Gays badge. There’s a slight concern among the staff about violence at the pub after last weekend's confrontation between boot boys and the police. It’s not true what you read in the papers about staff calling the police after trouble at the pub, but it still happened.

But there’s no problem, and most people get serviceably relaxed. The band has the unenviable task of playing the whole night naturally the last set is by far the best. Read next month for a description of Saturday night'

Sept 14: The Big Match To fully understand the Ranfurly Shield, you have to take note of it not simply as a sporting trophy, but as a cultural, social and financial symbol.

The Earl of Ranfurly probably had nothing of the sort in mind when he offered the NZ Rugby Union “a cup for competition in the colony” in 1901. In fact colonialism was still sufficiently pervasive at the time for the good Earl to make the rather embarassing mistake of handing over a shield with a centre panel depicting a soccer game. The mistake was hastily corrected. The only province the shield could logically go to at the time was Auckland, which had just ended its sixth unbeaten season.

After Auckland took the shield in both 1902 and 1903, its status was changed to make it a challenge trophy in 1904. It was up for grabs with every game that was accepted by the holders as a challenge and has been ever since. With only a couple of exceptions, it has only been at stake at the holders’ home ground. The question of how many challenges to accept and who to accept them from has been a matter of a "sporting attitude” Any team seen to be giving less than a fair crack at the shield to other teams will bring down dishonour on itself, as North Auckland did by refusing to play any more challenges for the season when it took the shield several years ago. When rugby's national championship was introduced in 1977, it was feared that the 'Log Of Wood’ would lose status, but the shield is just as prestigious and profitable now as it was then. The edge the shield has is that every game sees it laid on the line, so the crowds come along every time.

Canterbury's record-equalling spell with the shield began in 1982 with a thrilling win over Wellington, which saw first-five Wayne Smith carve a 30-yard arc through the defence to score the winning try. Since the first defence, a shaky 15-15 draw with Counties on September 25, it has been estimated that the shield has reaped about s2om for Canterbury businesses. The 10,000 visitors for the Auckland match alone will leave be-

hind more than sl.sm. The Canterbury Rugby Union will take between $4 and $lO from the 52,136 people who come to Lancaster park for the match. So the Ranfurly Shield’s significance lies not in any intrinsic value, but in the fact that so many people still place stock in it. Without them it would be just another trophy.

To understand the shield as it relates to Canterbury, you must have some ken of Alex Wyllie. "Grizz” Wyllie is a rugged North Canterbury farmer, but unlike the typically rawboned example of the species, he’s built like a bear, with shoulders that would shame Atlas. A specialist No.B loose forward, he was an All Black, but according to widely accepted rumour, never played for his country again after certain shenanigans on the 1973 tour of Britain.

As captain of the Canterbury rugby team, Grizz became a legend. I recall one game late in his career when he sat out the first half of a game against Wellington because of a nagging injury. Wellington utterly dominated the home side until a Canterbury player’s injury allowed Wyllie to come on at half time. The red and blacks stormed back and overhauled a lead of something like 20 points to win well. Miraculous. His motivating methods are unclear but they have probably been at least partially based on the injection of a good degree of the-fear-of-God, especially for any University players in the side. Grizz has reportedly got little time for university students.

After his'retirement, it was somehow inevitable that, after a decent period, Alex Wyllie should return as Canterbury coach. He did and he did wonders for the team. In 1982 they did the unprecedented by winning both the shield and the

national championship. Since then his farmer’s squint, ruddy hair and, well, grizzled features have become sufficiently enshrined to appear uncredited in a couple of TV commercials. A friend used to turn the TV up blaringly loud every time just to hear Grizz telling his lads about the "Funnamennells.”

To understand the significance of the Auckland challenge for the shield you have to bear in mind the historical factors, both recent and not so recent. As they trotted onto the field, the two teams

shared the record for consecutive shield defences (25) and had won more shield games than any other provinces. Two years ago, Canterbury thrashed Auckland at Lancaster Park, and were in turn humbled the next season at Eden Park in Auckland. Last season ended with Auckland as national champions and Canterbury still in possession of the Ranfurly Shield. The stagesetting continued even unto the weekend before the big match, with both sides ditching previous form to win their respective games with authority. As the (scarcely necessary) newspaper advertisement for the game said: "This should be one of rugby’s greatest games ever.”

It almost seems too perfect when the blinds are drawn back to reveal a shining Saturday morning, with nary a cloud to blemish the sky. Elsewhere, at this very moment, a noisy red and black parade, the largest yet, is traversing city streets. The Press front page is dominated by a picture of a young woman wearing a Canterbury hat and scarf. No doubt the game is all over the radio stations too.

I should make it clear at this point that I was fervently opposed to the proposed All Black tour of South Africa and when the NZRFU announced with finality its intention to carry on with the tour, I swore off attending another rugby game ever. Luckily for them, the foolish old men on the Rugby Union board had their faces, hides and raison d'etre saved in the nick of time by a couple of smart lawyers who placed an injunction between the team and the departure lounge.

To waltz into South Africa at this time would have gone beyond approval for an evil political system, it would have been the most unspeakable arrogance. It would also have driven several

dozen additional nails into NZ rugby’s coffin; probably enough to seal the lid for good. It could also conceivably have seen one or two of our nation's finest come home in coffins of their own. But reason prevailed and it’s safe, for the the time being, to immerse oneself in the spectacle of Shield Rugby.

When you go to a major sporting event, actually seeing the game is only one of a number of considerations. After all, if you really want to see the game, you’re better off watching it on television. There on the terraces you sway around on tiptoes, blink and miss the action; there are no action replays or close-ups. But live sport, like live anything, is a spectacle, an experience. Part of the experience is the preamble ... That is, the pre-game amble to the ground. On this day we begin a fair amble away, at the United Services Hotel in the Square. The hotel offers accomodation and a fair proportion of the noonday tipplers are groups of Auckland supporters, distinguished not only by their blue and white accesories, but their vaguely nervous smiles and tendency to clump together. As might be expected of "enemies” plumped down in the midst of rampant provincialism. Of course, all the jibes are friendly ... The group I’m with don’t look like “typical” rugby supporters, but the intent and vision is clear: “This is the one day when you get to be a Bruce so you’ve got to make the most of it,” as one puts it. The fervour is more noticeable and more inebriate as the stop off points nearer Lancaster Park are reached. Finally, the last post, the DB Lancaster Park Hotel. I can recall it always seemingly spilling over with people when I went to games as a kid, but now it’s beginning to empty out the attached wholesale outlet is still doing a roaring trade. Inside the ground the crowd has been "entertained" by the traditional brass and pipe bands and marching girls, as well as Larry the Lamb and his grotesquely large-headed Auckland counterpart. The Canterbury team also takes the unusual step of lining out on both sides of the field and applauding the crowd; a nice gesture. Opting to miss the festivities means we have to stand by the side of the field at ground level. Sporting events aren’t what they used to be and out of caution the Canterbury officials squeeze several thousand fewer onto the Embankment than they did in the 19505. Visibility isn't the best, especially when policemen form screens by standing together while they watch the game. Regular calls for the "jokers in blue” to sit down are heard. Later the police have to push the crowd back from the line one youth of about 18 says the wrong thing and is dragged away in a headlock. The game, as it transpires, is a classic in its way. Auckland has been given the wind in in the first half and goes on a rampage, looking to be in complete command when they finish the half up 24-0. That kind of lead should by rights be unassailable, but no decent Canterbury supporter will write off the Canterbury Machine while there’s a chance.

And sure enough, Grizz talks to his boys and they go back on and score a try immediately. Auckland scores once more to go to 28 points but the home team gains momentum as the game goes on. They score with five minutes to go, then again two minutes from time and suddenly it’s 28-23 and the impossible looks possible. It looks mind-blowingly probable as Canterbury attack again and Wayne Smith puts a high kick up into the Auckland in-goal. As the ball goes up, slows and begins its descent 100,000 eyes fix on it, hearts race and even the most reserved in the crowd give voice. But the ball bounces the way of Auckland's John Kirwan rather than his All Black team mate Craig Green and suddenly, anticlimactically, it’s all over. Perhaps even a little early ... but that’s history.

The crowds pour out and create the usual jams of people v. autos in the surrounding streets. The mood isn’t as downcast as you might expect; after all, it was a good game against a good opponent and Canterbury lost in the most honourable manner thwarted by the final whistle. The point has been made, and there’s almost a sense of relief among supporters, they don't have to help defend the shield any more. There’s always the challenge in Auckland next year...

The next morning, Alex Wyllie and the Auckland coach John Hart are interviewed together on TV’s Weekend show. Everything about the interview seems to emphasise the fact that these are two very different men.

Hart appears in dress jersey and tie, hair neatly groomed; Wyllie has come in in his tracksuit, his ginger thatch wiry and woolly. Hart is a coach who hated training as a player and places little emphasis on it as a coach; Wyllie trains his players hard. Hart is a smooth, smiling talker; Wyllie’s brow seems permanently furrowed and his syllables are as pinched as any farmer’s. Wyllie repeats his disgust at the NZRFU’s selling of the naming rights of the shield (unprecedented) to NEC computers, making it the NEC Ranfurly Shield; Hart thinks it’s part of what rugby has to do to survive. Wyllie again slams the new scrum laws and the lack of live TV coverage for the game; Hart is more moderate. They pay well-deserved compliments to each other and their teams.

In a way, Wyllie seems to symbolise Canterbury solidness; Hart, Auckland go-ahead. They have both been highly effective in their respective ways. Maybe the edge is that Alex Wyllie is just a bit of a legend ...