THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 24, 30 January 1939, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MEN ABOUT TOWN.)

During the week-end I heard an amusins story from an American friend who landed in these "balmy" inlands a few days ago Two of the inmates of a JUST WHITING. modern and luxurioui j "nut-house" in the State* t were sharing a room. As it was a beautiful!} fine day they decided to stay indoors. The ' first nut kept pacing the length of the room like a caged ant-eater, while his companion fcat at the writing desk toying with (tencii and paper. Suddenly the restive one ceased his steady pacing, and, confronting th« ' scribblei*, asked abruptly, "What are you doing?" "Just writing a letter," replied hi* i crony laconically. "Who to?" "Myself.' "Tell me," pursued the inquisitive hiker "what's in the letter?" "Oh, you make me mad!" snorted the other in high dudgeon. "How do I know what's in it till the postman comes round in the morning?"— Uncle Joe. Will this go on indefinitely? Can nothing be done to minimise the nerve-racking concatenation of this twc::ti«?th-century abomination? If I enter a teaRADIO TORTURE. room and give my customary order, a cup of strong tea with bread and butter, the noi*v radio all but drowns my attenuated voice, and the waitress brings nie spaghetti oil toast, or a bowl of soup. My friends frequently call for me on Sundays, with their cars. As soon as we start for Petticoat Lane, or, as it is called here, Mission Bay, on goes the radio and my brilliant sallies pass unheard! When invited to a funeral I stipulate, "Is there a radio in the hearse?" as the "Dead March" makes me creepy. If (oil rare occasions) my flask is empty and I "sit it out" during the interval, at the cinema, I have to submit to the torture of radio "music." If I- make a business call at a private residence, the radio is mostly going at top, and before I can state my business the lady of the house says, "We don't want anything to-day, thank you.*" When I endeavour to explain that I have nothing to sell, the door slowly but inexorably closes. —A.A.P. You have doubtless heard the story of the early days of Aucklandj when a policeman found a dead horse in Karangahape Road, at a time when that "CENTENARY!" thoroughfare carried traffic of about two horses per hour, instead of twenty motor cars per second. As the policeman could neither fpell the name for liip. report, nor pronounce it when lie would have to give evidence in Court against the owner, he persuaded some friends to help him to drag it round the corner into Pitt Street. I am reminded of the story by the j»ersistenoe of so many people in writing about next years anniversary celebrations as the Centenary, whereas they dodge the pronunciation by speaking of it as the Centennial, the official title. At the Melbourne Centenary of 1934 they did not find such a happy solution. One lot wanted to call it Centre-nerrv, with the accent on the first syllable, and another lot Cen-tenner-ry, with the accent on the second syllable, the middle part of the word being the same as we gave to the crumpled bits of paper which opulent people, like you and me, used to carry to make our purchases. In the end they compromised in Melbourne to please both parties, although I believe they offended both by calling it Cen-teen-ary, with the accent on the second syllable. Lest such a dreadful pronunciation should he adopted in Auckland, I would suggest that you urge your readers to adopt at once the official title, Centennial, for nobody could mutilate that.—Aucklander. At chilly dawn came a knock. "You go, Mac," old Alf said. Shivering, I opened the door, and in staggered Bob. I stared at him. JJe stared back, unseeONE SOLUTION, inglv, a wild light in his once beautiful eyes, i "Mac," he said, trembling violently, "you and Alf have saved us before; we're desperate.) You must think up something He I collapsed, and I poured him out a stiff! "nobbier" and laid him on the sofa. "Tell me, Bob, is it Walter again?" I asked. He nodded, buried his head in hi« arms, and sobbed bitterly. Stealing quietly upstairs, I explained to Alf. "Walter's probably stopped him spending," he suggested. We gazed at him as he lay sprawled out, sound asleep. "Completely worked out," I said, placing a rug around liim. The 'phone rang—it wa-s Walter—asking for Bob. "I can't wake him —the man's all in," I told him. "Bah! Temper," he said unfeelingly. "He's sulking because I told him there's no more money for roads—or anything." "Between the mob of you. you've got him properly rattled," I said, hanging up. Bob stirred. "A road through every farm," he muttered. I winked at Alf. The farms had all gone, ages ago. It was Britain for the Briton these days. "He's looking backwards," I said. "He should have stuck to tunnelling." Bob sat up. "Tunnelling?" he echoed. "Bob, do you really want Alf and Ito help you?" I asked. He nodded. "Then listen. Why not build one huge tunnel from the North Cape to the Bluff and shift everyone into it? Let's grow mushrooms, and give Enzed back to the Maoris, Jews, Adam— anyone who wants it. You and Paddy are practical tunnellers. You could be Minister of the Interior, of Mines, Prince of the Underworld, too. Think of it! Everybody Would have a roof over their heads. Real security. Ko more costly housing problem. Xo railway deficits, no waterside strikes, no freezing work's hold-ups; just one, big, happy family of diggers, in bomb-proof dugouts. All the ancient races are underground, Bob. All the great men, too. We'd be right next to all the gold, coal and oil; no overhead, no interest, no National Debt, no need for a Navy, an Army or an Air Force. Burrow, not borrow. Our kids, too, could grow up in the dark, same as the importers ." He gripped my hand. Then old Alf woke me up.—MacClure.

ANOTHER WELLS ROMANCE. H. G. Wells, of the far-fetched romances, Does not at the moment fee , cheery; It seems it's because he's discovered the Aussies Are exowinjy quite Fascist in theory. A talk that he srave on dictators "Was sternly rebuked as an error: It caused quite a fuss, so "Wells fancies that Musso. Is srettinjr hie errip on Canberra. Says he, "I aspired, when I landed. To stir up some sort of a riot: But fellows in Sydnev of similar kidney To Hitler soon made me he nuiet. It seems I was ffreatlv mistaken A radical ppnple to rterrn von: The doctrines of Stalin ;<-o <*°=tined to fail in The land of the 'roo and the emu. "When starting to air mv oninions I didn't expect such a squashing. I know you don't lack shirts, both brown shirts and black shirts. But thought that was iust want of washine lours mav be a wonderful country— It crave me a very raw deal, and I'll take mv opinions to other DominionsOh. why did I leave out New Zealand , " ' —SINBAD.