The man who works for the West

Press, 16 July 1977, Page 15

The man who works for the West

One of the longest-serving members of Parliament, Paddy Blanchfield, will retire when his present term ends at the 1978 General Election. CEDRIC MENTIPLAY, Parliamentary reporter, and PAT TAYLOR, in Greymouth, look at the career of W estland's spokesman.

The House of Representatives will lose one of its few remaining “characters” when the Labour member for the West Coast, Patrick (“Paddy”) Blanchfield, retires from politics. West Coast members before him built a reputation as self-taught men, descedants of the old Celtic “shepherds of the hills,” whose hard-won wisdom tended to express itself in the words of Burns, Shakespeare, Milton and Thomas Grey. Paddy Blanchfield entered that company very early in his 18 years as a member of Parliament. Many years ago. when the then Speaker (Sir Ronald Algie) was having trouble keeping members to the point during early-morning discussion on an Education* Bill, the member for Westland convinced him that even poetry had a place in the discussion. Quoting from Grey’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” Paddy Blanchfield declaimed that reference to the unlettered occupants of the village cemetery: But knowledge to the/r eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll, Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. As Mr Blanchfield remembers it, Speaker Algie was trying to bustle things along. He sat the member down, and charged him with “pointless repitition.” Mr Blanchfield replied with the verse, and the Speaker exploded: “What has Grey’s Elegy to do

with the bill? If the member can’t relate it to the clause under discussion, he’d better sit down.” To which Mr Blanchfield replied: “What is happening is exactly the same as in Grey’s time, when the poor couldn’t get an education.” Speaker Algie clasped his head in his hands and let the firm of Blanchfield and Grey go on . . . In a way, this anecdote is a summation of the 18 years Paddy Blanchfield will have spent in Parliament when he retires at the end of the 1978 session. He was elected in 1960—t00 late for the second Labour Government —and spent the next 12 years in Opposition. Mr Blanchfield, who was 48 when he entered Parliament in 1960, has had a health problem during most of his term. He had a lung removed in 1967, and only recently went through a “bad period” of lung congestion, which meant a spell in hospital and the use of an oxygen tent. He is adamant, however, in his intention to see out his full term. He confirmed that his intention of withdrawing next year has nothing to do with his health. It is his belief that sitting members should not cling to a seat, and that they should make their intention to retire known as early as possible, to allow a suitable successor to be chosen. Actually Mr Blanchfield said unequivocally during the last General Election campaign that this would be his last term. Among the highlights of the Blanchfield legend has

been his propensity to put into verse his feeling on many subjects. On the suggestion of his leader (the late Mr N. E. Kirk) he wrote a requiem for the 19 miners who died in the Strongman mine disaster in 1967: They entered the mine soon after the dawn Had brightened the hills that January morn. Deep in the earth they worked with their mates Hewing and trucking coal from the face. When that terrible explosion rocked the whole pit. Nineteen men perished down there in Green’s Dip. At Karoro they lie in a long common grave. Not hearing the drum roll of every wave. Or the sea-birds, or the surf’s boom and sound. So like a great charge fired deep underground. They worry no more at the prop-timber's creaks, For they rest at last in eternal peace. He proved also that his ability to write verse could be turned to good political advantage. This occurred at a time when the National Government was planning to allow liquor advertisements on radio and television. Paddy Blanchfield wrote: The advertising mania is spreading through the land, With bikinis, biscuits, benzine, it's getting out of hand. Our radio's not worth listening to, TV is just as bad, When they interrupt our programmes, then licen-

cees get mad. Sickening repetition of adverts on the screen That mutilate the programme bring to my eyes a gleam Of anger and frustration. I rise up from my chair To turn the knob abruptly and cut them off the air. That some revenue’s essential I'm sure we all agree, And thirteen dollars a year's enough to buy a licence fee — Yet I must get coffee, soap,, and cleansers drumming in my ear. To top these off now they're thinking of advertising beer. Racing fans get furious when listening for a race Because some wealthy supermarket has taken pride of place. The first leg of a double put back an hour or so, The punters stop their punting, as latest figures show. This is the age of protest — no need to wheeze you up, Lads, on this advertising game I warn you to ease up. Shut down some of the gimmicks that wreck an evening's fun, Or you and Keith and Percey will soon be on the run. I ask you Mr Minister to now apply the brake On increased advertising, for everybody's sake. The breweries’ brews will stil increase, 0 Pray don't have any fear, So stick to soap and toothpaste — forget about the beer.