Drama at the South Pole
A few eyebrows will have been raised at reports that the Prime Minister intended to take a personal bodyguard with him on a helicopter flight from Scott Base to the South Pole, for fear that an assassin might be lurking when he got there. But there is more to the story than meets the eye.
On the day that the announcement was made, a select few trusted journalists were invited to a secret briefing given by the Controller and Overall Boss of the Prime Minister’s Personal Security Department – at a time of across-the-board cutbacks, the only government department to have escaped the axe and to have trebled in size. The Controller, known only as “Q” (though some of those in the know are confident that he is really Jonathan Coleman, the Minister for Defence), spoke from behind a screen.
“Very few realise the scale of the operation now needed to ensure the Prime Minister’s safety,” Q began. “The Prime Minister’s security needs are now so pressing that 70% of this country’s defence effort must be committed to the task if those needs are to be met. And, when a crisis is imminent, it is literally all hands on deck.”
“Our first indication that something was afoot was the Prime Minister’s fainting fit in the Christchurch restaurant. Our suspicion immediately fell on the red wine that the PM was enjoying that evening. We feared that the enemy had found a way of getting to the wine and lacing it with poison. When tested, it tasted a bit odd, but in the end there was nothing wrong with it, other than it was corked – it was just that the PM hadn’t noticed.
We then suspected that he may have been struck by a poisoned dart. We were keen to have the PM undergo a full body search, to see if we could find any puncture marks, but unfortunately the PM declined unless we could get Liz Hurley to conduct the search. She was, however, otherwise engaged.
The episode was enough, however, to put us on full multi-coloured alert. The general public would be amazed to know the extent of the precautions we are compelled to take in such circumstances. When, for example, the PM’s wife, Bronagh, goes to board the helicopter with him, we will intercept her and ensure that she has a DNA test to make sure that she is who she says she is – it’s frightening what skilled plastic surgeons can do these days and the PM might easily be fooled by a skilled impostor. And when the target is a major world figure like the PM, you can’t be too careful.
The real cause for concern, though, was the intelligence reports we had received from our security services, courtesy of our friends in the CIA. They had picked up a well-founded report from one of their best informants on the “other side” that a well-known polar explorer had been “turned” and – following an epic journey across the frozen continent to the South Pole – was already in waiting, armed and dangerous, hidden under an ice floe at the foot of the Pole and disguised as a polar bear.”
At this point, it is fair to say, there was a murmur from the back of the room. “But there aren’t any polar bears at the South Pole!” someone said. All eyes turned to the interjector.
Q sounded a little discomforted but quickly regained his composure. He was not amused. “It shows how little you understand about these operations. The element of surprise was of course essential to the audacious plan. The unexpected was the key. It was intended that the PM would be so surprised at meeting a polar bear at the South Pole, or indeed anywhere, that he would fall back into default mode. It’s easy to imagine that the PM might, for example, invite the impostor to do a spot of gangnam dancing or some such, thus making himself an easy target for a lethal assault.”
“Or ridicule,” someone murmured.
“The PM, after all, is not entirely ignorant of the natural world,” Q continued, “and well understands from the films he has seen on the Antarctic that animals there – penguins and suchlike – have happy feet and enjoy dancing.
We are confident that, having rumbled the plan, we are now on top of the situation. We believe we have foiled this dastardly plot. Any polar bear, whether real or in fancy dress, presenting itself to the PM at the South Pole can expect the full force of New Zealand military might to be brought to bear. The PM, I can assure you, is in safe hands.”
Q cleared his throat, something Jonathan Coleman could perhaps do more often. “That’s it gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure I can rely on your discretion. I leave it to you to decide how best to get across to the New Zealand public just how seriously we take these challenges.”
Bryan Gould
19 January 2013
The Walls of Jericho
The Minister of Education, Hekia Parata, recently visited a primary school in a rural area. She spent some time with a class of nine year-olds and was impressed with how much they knew.
Thinking to test them out, she turned towards the end of the lesson to a bright young boy and asked him a question. “Who was it who brought down the walls of Jericho?”
The boy looked uncertain. After a moment, he blurted out, “I don’t know Miss.”
The Minister decided to encourage him to think about it a little further. “Are you sure you don’t know?” she asked.
The boy suddenly burst into tears and said through his sobs, “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.”
The Minister was amused and mentioned the incident to the class teacher at the end of the lesson. The teacher became somewhat defensive and said, “Jimmy is a very well-behaved boy. I’m sure he wouldn’t do a thing like that – and if he says he didn’t do it, I believe him.”
Hekia Parata was a little nonplussed, and decided to raise the matter with the principal as she left. She recounted the story and was about to inquire about the teacher’s ability when the principal responded firmly, “Miss Jones is a very experienced and reliable teacher. If she says Jimmy didn’t do it, then he didn’t do it.”
The Minister decided to pursue it no further. At the following Monday morning’s Cabinet meeting, however, there was a discussion about primary education. Seeking to amuse her colleagues, she repeated the story about the walls of Jericho.
There as a shocked silence. The Prime Minister raised his hand and looked at her sternly. “Be careful with this one,” he said. “We’ve had enough PR disasters in education recently. If it gets into the media and you’re asked to comment, just smile and say something like “boys will be boys”; then refer the matter to me and I’ll deal with it. We don’t want the government dragged into an issue like this for which it has no responsibility. The school should be advised that it’s a matter for the local police but that the government takes the issue seriously and will not tolerate acts of vandalism.”
His cabinet colleagues chorused “hear, hear,” and banged their desktops to show their support. Another crisis averted!
Bryan Gould
3 December 2012
Portuguese Deaths
Back in the early 1980s, when I was reporter and presenter on TV Eye – a nationally networked UK current affairs programme – I was sent to Portugal to investigate a series of mysterious deaths of British holidaymakers in Portuguese resorts.
The deaths had all occurred over the space of a couple of months and all involved holidaymakers, often golfers, who had escaped the British winter for some Portuguese sunshine.
Accommodation for the summer trade was often empty during the winter; chalets were often built alongside golf courses and British golfers were a welcome boost to trade. The tourist operators, though, as well as the Portuguese and British authorities, became increasingly concerned at the unexplained deaths.
The deaths all had common features. They usually occurred in the early evening, often after a round of golf. The victims typically exhibited no symptoms prior to collapsing for apparently no reason and dying within a few minutes.
One typical case was that of a middle-aged British couple who had returned to their accommodation after a round of golf. As the sun went down and the temperature dropped, they had closed the windows and the wife had apparently gone to run a bath. She was discovered naked lying beside her husband on the living-room floor; it seemed that they had died within a minute or two of each other.
The Portuguese doctors were totally flummoxed by these deaths. The only symptom common to all the deaths was that the victims all had a rosy colour, perhaps because of the sunshine they had enjoyed. The death certificates variously ascribed the deaths to sun stroke, food poisoning and, in the case of the golfing couple and reflecting the wife’s nakedness, to “excessive love-making”.
The British media were equally mystified. The finger was pointed at lax Portuguese building standards and it was speculated that there may have been gas leaks which were responsible. The Portuguese authorities were adamant, however, that there was no sign of the gas supply being defective in any way, nor were the symptoms consistent with gas poisoning.
By the time I arrived with a film crew, the tourist trade for winter golfers had come to a premature halt. I began my inquiries when most possibilities had been dismissed.
I could place no reliance on the Portuguese death certificates. They were so much at variance with each other and in some cases so fanciful that they were completely unhelpful. The state of Portuguese medicine at the time was illustrated by my discovery of organs taken from one victim during an autopsy stored in an empty Nescafe tin in a shed!
It was clear to me, however, that the victims had died from some kind of traumatic cessation of their ability to breathe properly. I was eventually able, following considerable research of medical histories and of meteorological records for those couple of months, to establish what had happened.
All the cases seemed to involve the use of some form of heating – sometimes just to warm the room or to heat water for a bath or shower. On the date of each death, the external temperature had dropped suddenly and an inversion of the usual temperature layers had occurred; colder air had dropped suddenly closer to ground level.
The holiday-makers had therefore closed windows that would normally have remained open in summer; the heaters had all been properly flued, but the flues were not high or long enough for winter conditions. The result was that the perfectly normal exhaust gases from the flames of space or water heaters had, as a result of the abnormal drop in outside temperatures, cooled before they could escape into the atmosphere; they had then fallen back down the flue and on to the flame, denying the flame the oxygen it needed to operate normally.
The result? The flame produced carbon monoxide – a colourless and odourless gas that is heavier than air. As the level of carbon monoxide built up, it would eventually reach the level of someone sitting or reclining. The lack of air would cause that person to collapse. A potential rescuer, dropping to floor level to help, would also lose consciousness straight away. Pinkness of the skin is a classic symptom of death by carbon monoxide.
I am prompted to recount this story by the reports of the family of five who nearly died in West Auckland last week from what was reported as “gas poisoning” arising from “petrol-generator fumes”. Carbon monoxide is not poisonous in the normal sense. Nor does the fuel – gas, petrol, wood – that produces the flame have anything to do with it. The records show a case in a tenement building in Glasgow, for example, where someone died when exhaust gases from a coal fire in the room above cooled and fell back down the shared chimney into an open fireplace without a fire. All that is needed is poor ventilation, coupled with a flame – irrespective of what fuels it – that is denied oxygen.
Every year or so, we read of similar cases – in caravans, boats, holiday accommodation. These tragedies will not stop until they are accurately reported, so that we understand their real cause.
Bryan Gould
2 December 2012
This article was published in the NZ Herald on 4 December.
More Than “A Decade of Dominance”
When the All Blacks play Scotland at Murrayfield next Monday, it will be just over ten years since they last lost to one of the Six Nations countries on their own ground (the 2007 loss to France was at Cardiff). This “decade of dominance” – as it has been described by Northern hemisphere rugby writers – is just one more indication of how remarkably New Zealand has dominated the world game over its whole history.
The All Blacks’ triumph in the World Cup tournament at home last year is of course still fresh in the memory. But that elusive victory is only one small part of the uniquely successful record they have established over more than a century of international rugby.
The current All Blacks are the number one-ranked team, according to the International Rugby Board’s ranking system. Their margin over the second-ranked team is as great as the spread covering the next six teams and as a margin of superiority is surpassed only by – you’ve guessed it – an earlier All Blacks team.
They have just won the inaugural Rugby Championship, having beaten each of the other three contenders (which include the second and third-ranked teams in the world) both at home and away. This success follows their record – in the predecessor of this competition – of having won more often than the other contenders combined.
The All Blacks have the distinction of almost certainly being the “winningest” team in the whole history of international team sport. The Australians at cricket or the Brazilians at football come nowhere near the All Blacks’ winning percentage of just on 76% of all the test matches they have played against all-comers over 107 years. That ratio of wins comfortably exceeds the next-best Springboks on 62%; and, not surprisingly, reflects the fact that the All Blacks have a positive win-to-loss ratio against every opponent over the same period.
As the All Blacks approach their end-of-season Northern tour, we should remind ourselves that three of the Six Nations countries have never beaten the All Blacks in a century of trying – and, in the case of Wales, their last victory came nearly sixty years ago. (I well remember being allowed to get up at 3 am to listen to Winston McCarthy’s commentary from the warmth of my parents’ bed, and how distraught I was, as a 13 year-old, when the All Blacks went down 13-8).
That match stands out because, as is true for most teams, victories over the All Blacks have been so rare that a one-off or occasional triumph lives on in the annals of the successful opponent. Indeed, so great an achievement is a win against the All Blacks believed to be that their best-remembered matches around the world are often their occasional losses rather than their many wins.
Not surprisingly, and as the recent $80 million sponsorship deal with AIG demonstrates, the All Blacks own the most potent brand in any major sport played internationally by national teams. It is no exaggeration to say that the All Blacks are the most widely recognised aspect of our international profile – something we can celebrate not only for sporting reasons but for what it tells the world about our bicultural heritage and multicultural society.
But it is not just the All Blacks who represent New Zealand’s record of rugby success. The Chiefs’ win in the Super Rugby competition this year contributed to the impressive eleven wins by New Zealand teams in that competition’s seventeen-year history. The New Zealand Sevens team are the current holders of the IRB trophy and have an unsurpassed winning record in the history of the competition, as well as a series of Gold Medal wins in the Commonwealth Games. The Black Ferns are the current holders of the Women’s World Cup and have won the trophy on the past four occasions, dating back to 1998. New Zealand lost the final of the Under-20 World Cup this year to South Africa but had been champions for the preceding four years.
Individuals as well as teams stand out. New Zealand players are prized in rugby teams across the globe, as are New Zealand coaches. Of the twenty teams at the World Cup tournament last year, five were coached by New Zealanders.
These achievements are so comprehensive and longstanding that it is easy to become blasé. There is a tendency to take it all for granted, and to look for excitement and novelty elsewhere. Yet, as a contributor to a British newspaper remarked wonderingly last month, “how could a small country of only a few million stay at the top of a world sport for so long?”
Even those who take little interest in rugby or even actively dislike it should be able to feel some pride in New Zealand rugby’s achievements. They can surely take some comfort from the fact that today’s teams are led by fine men and women as well as by fine players. And in Richie McCaw and Daniel Carter, we have two of the finest players ever to take the field. I tell my grandsons that they will be able to tell their grandchildren that they saw the great Richie McCaw and the great Dan Carter play.
Bryan Gould
29 October 2012
The Human Wrecking Ball
Our Minister for Earthquake Recovery, Gerry Brownlee, has an unenviable reputation for putting his foot in his mouth.
The latest instance is his intemperate attack on Finland, which has – not surprisingly – aroused the ire of the Finns, both because it was so outrageous and because it was also completely misdirected. He apparently had not realised that the Finns might be listening and could understand English.
Mr Brownlee, of course, has what the crime writers describe as “form”. Even in his role as Earthquake Recovery Minister, he was roundly criticised for saying that the best thing to do with damaged heritage buildings was to bowl the lot of them – and more recently, he asserted confidently that “the market should decide” the future of those whose homes were damaged.
But there is another side to Mr Brownlee – an untold story that would certainly show him in a better and more unaccustomed light. Winston Peters may have insulted all woodwork teachers by describing him as “an illiterate woodwork teacher”, but he has other qualities that have enabled him to make an extraordinary (and unsung) contribution to earthquake recovery.
As most people will know, the Christchurch reconstruction cannot be started until a huge demolition task is completed. Demolition contractors have been working flat out against a tight timetable to get the job done.
Mr Brownlee’s enthusiasm for demolition is well known. But what may not be known is that he has found a way of converting that enthusiasm into positive action.
Whenever he can get to Christchurch, and once his working day is over, Gerry Brownlee meets in secret with the demolition contractors and spends several hours through the evening providing his services as a human wrecking ball.
The demolition contractors are delighted with what Mr Brownlee is able to achieve. One said admiringly that it was a great example of how a community-minded citizen could turn his natural assets to the general advantage.
“The Minister may be criticised at times for some of the things he does and says in his day job, but he has made up for any intellectual deficiency by his willingness to use his physical attributes to help achieve the huge task of knocking Christchurch down.”
“He may or may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is certainly an improvement in that respect over your average wrecking-ball,” said another. “It is a huge advantage to be able to communicate, even while it is in mid-air, with your wrecking-ball – something that just isn’t possible with your average lump of metal.”
Interviewed as he was about to don his crash helmet and have his ankles tied to together for attachment to the crane, Mr Brownlee was suitably modest about his contribution. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “I don’t want to receive plaudits for just doing what anyone would do. In any case, you could describe it as a labour of love – it’s something I enjoy doing and is the most useful thing I can do as Minister to get Christchurch back on its feet.”
Mr Brownlee dismissed suggestions that the work was dangerous and that repeated blows to the head might mean that he would pay a heavy price for his public-spirited actions.
“I can assure you that I have noticed no ill effects and my intellectual skills are as sharp as they ever were. I find it a kind of light relief from having to grapple with the difficult problems thrown up in my daytime work as Minister. And the skills required in my demolition work are just as intellectually demanding. I have to guide the crane driver as to where I should hit next.”
The Prime Minister said, when asked to comment on Mr Brownlee’s unusual activity, that it was news to him but that what Ministers did in their spare time was up to them. “This is not a matter for the government – nothing ever is,” he said, “but I’m sure that the citizens of Christchurch will hugely appreciate the Minister’s take on how best to do his job.”