Thurbage

A Column Of Freelance Comment

Gay. Virile Music is heard, accompanied by slides of wonderful, wonderful sport. Words "Sportsview, a drab look at a week of sport" appear over picture of bleeding boxer. Fade to jovial announcer sitting behind flash-looking NZBC desk and in front of photo mural of a swimming champion picking her nose.

Announcer (sits looking vacant for a moment before he realises camera is on. Flashes big sporty smile.)

To start off with, I'd like to say something jolly conversational and intelligent.

Good evening. (Smiles inanely while trying to squint unobtrusively at notes.)

I think we've got a pretty boring half-hour for you this evening, with News about Underwater wrestling and football. To kick off we've got a dull film clip about the Ngauranga underwater wrestling tournament. Over to the offal outlet at Ngauranga.

(Screen goes blank. Announcer appears momentarily making V sign. Film clip follows. It consists of murky pictures of flailing limbs. Announcer reappears smiling.)

That was boring, wasn't it? We hope to have more boring rubbish like that in future weeks. I'm sure all the cretins in the audience thought that was super duper. You all won't be interested to know that we have the captain of the team in the studio . . . er . . . tonite. Errol Blun. (Camera jerks along flash-looking NZBC desk to Errol, who is picking his teeth with a ballpoint pen. He is wearing a blazer with "Seaview Sewerage Farm 1956" on the pocket.)

Errol: Hello, jovial announcer.

Announcer: Hello, Errol. Tell me something boring about Underwater Wrestling.

Errol: Well, you great fat smiling twit, underwater wrestling is unknown, or almost unknown in ... er .. . New Zealand.

Announcer: How dull. I suppose I'll have to ask you if you were Ngauranga's representative at the Upper Hutt festival, even though I know you were.

Errol: No I wasn't, you clod. If I may interrupt with something irrelevant and uninteresting here. UW is big in the USA. So it must be good. (He tears off his blazer.) Can I show you my scars? (He rips off shirt and is about to start on trousers when camera swings awkwardly back to announcer.)

Announcer: Thank you Errol Blun. And if I may say something fatuous for the mass of our apathetic viewers —the worst of luck for the Gear Meat Works tournament.

(Struggling can be seen in corner of screen and cries of "scars," "scars," "where's the snake house?" etc. Screen goes blank. Slide of Masterdon public lavatories appears on screen accompanied by soothing music. Words "normal transmission will be resumed as soon as possible" flash on screen. Announcer reappears. His tie is crooked but his smile is sportier than ever.)

Announcer: We've got in the studio tonite, three witless football administrators who are going to be jolly controversial. (He stands up and walks away from desk. Trousers fall off. Camera flickers to a group of three dour-looking men, perched on NZBC standard-issue modern-looking stools.)

Announcer (appears, clutching trousers): Hello.

All: Shut up. Up yer nose, etc.

Announcer: I wondered if you might say something pretty controversial about muddy balls, and anything else that is little known and totally uninteresting.

Man 1 (putting finger in ear and standing on his stool): Mind yer own business.

(Camera moves among group to give illusion of action and interest. It fails.)

Man 2: If I may say something frank and controversial here. I think Verwoerd was right when he kept the nig-nogs and wogs out of sport. I mean 60 years ago they couldn't even write their bloody names. . . .

Man 3 (making raspberry sound): Where's my cheque?

Announcer (camera is now in close up on his teeth):

Well, that was controversial. Which all goes to show that the NZBC is not afraid to be jolly daring!

(There is an earthshattering roar. Camera pans desperately to left. Several shots of the studio clock, accompanied by sound track of a commercial for women's corsets. Part of a news clip on Rumanian circus animals is shown backwards. Announcer staggers around screen waving trousers. Switchboard is jammed with calls. Tube shatters. McFarlane explodes.)