Shadbolt, McCormick

Press, 2 December 1985, Page 6

Shadbolt, McCormick

“Life, Love and Other Concrete Matters” by Tim Shadbolt and Gary McCormick. Presented at the Limes Room, Christchurch Town Hall. December 1. Running time: 7.45 p.m. to 10 p.m. Reviewed by Gerrit Bahlman.

Some people are fluent — their sauve, considered phrases, erudite and precise, paint full-colour pictures rather than images. Others have the gift of the gab. Their fluency is less practised. Not for them the prescribed delivery, rather the rich fabric of spontaneity. His Worship, Tim Shadbolt, and Gary McCormick are two New Zild raconteurs who vacuum epigrammatic summaries from their experiences which are superbly indigenous. s Life Love, and Other Concrete Matters” is no more than an alternating monologue in which two native sons have a yarn about New Zealand and New Zealanders. Gary McCormick ever the audience warmer and general M.C., began the evening with an anti-sport and television diatribe. Cricket quickly established itsetf as the front-runner in McCormick’s summary of most hated television sport. “Incredibly , bonng game which is so wrinS cornmeotators have to resort to describing individual bumps in Astron g plea for women cricket sides was made, not on the ground of

Cricket fans will be pleased to read that most other sports caught flak as well. Golf, squash, badminton, tennis and enthusiastic sporting owners of Morris 1100 s were quickly added to McCormick’s kills. Tim Shadbolt chose to

explain how his life had basically, you know been an attempt to fail. Something which he had been hoplessly unsuccessful at Having gained 203 for School Certificate, U.E. was accredited because he played rugby, eh? Even joining a commune failed to do the trick. Land bought at $2500 ended up selling for $BO,OOO. Whoever heard of a profitable commune. Dressed in gumboots, blue jeans, workshirt and jacket, Tim Shadbolt gave a version of a Dale Carnegie course of career guidance. From the local pothole gang with the policeman’s son who grew pot to describing in poetry the reaction of the working-class heroes to the opulent Hari Krishnas, Tim Snadbolt’s reminiscences were a comic delight. Rats popping out of hangis and being described as tender timers, the two-dollar Van Gogh clash at the Auckland Art Gallery — topics ranged far and wide. The flavour was unmistakably New Zealand. Upward inflecting “eh”s, the free use of “bloody,” and “d’ya know?” — the language of the Shadbolt charming buffoon invited the audience to underestimate an astute observer of the New Zealand culture., a A hardened reviewer is not often brought from belly laughter to tears. The texi|ture of a performance has

to be special to achieve that. Tim Shadbolt’s story of the Maori family supported by the swimming businessmen during the 1951 wharf strike had that texture. It struck a chord which was echoed throughout the audience.

After the interval the Mayor was once more preceded by Gary McCormick who took stock of the state of the nation through its public organ, the newspapers. Snippets were read and clarified to the hilarity of all.

Tim Shadbolt, suitably dressed in a suit, then described some of his sewer (sue-er) problems in Waitemata.