FROM MY VERANDAH

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 62, Issue 4429, 23 May 1941, Page 5

FROM MY VERANDAH

NOTES ON THE PASSING SHOW.

(By

J.T.P.)

What’s in a Name? In the evolution of our local election methods there may be “one increasing purpose”. J.T.P. sees the “increase” —especially in hospital board taxation. But the purpose? Herein lies the rub: Mr Eyre, of Ngaruawahia, was elected to the Hospital Board. • “Well,” remarked an elector during the course of Saturday’s polling, "T was surprised when I found a Lew Eyre (of Kihikihi) standing for the Hospital Board. Would not miss giving a‘decent chap like that a vote.” Churchill. It is not as an administrator or as a strategist that Mr Churchill has won his new glory in British political life, writes “Atticus” in the Sunday Times. His biggest victories have been at the microphone and on the floor of the House of Commons. He has brought back the arrogance and the splendour of Elizabethan language. What is more he has recovered the spirit of those rough and vibrant days when men of affairs were buccaneers at heart but poets in their leisure hours and fierce, implacable patriots always. Like Shakespeare, Mr Churchill detests the enemies of England and says so in words that carry across the seven seas. * * * * Hastings Politics. Hastings had a Mayoral election the campaigning for which certainly added to the gaiety;.of the nation. H. Jan Simson, for instance, put out a circular, pleading for votes, wherein . he loudly proclaimed “Same age as ty Winston”. . Comparisons are always odious, so we find the gallant gentleman defeated! Still, he was true but quaint in another utterance: “They give you flowers when you marry and bricks through youi- life. Then they give you flowers again z when you’re dead When I die, I’m “ going to have a window in the back of my coffin so that I can see who is following me,” said Mr Simson, in Hastings. * * * * Where? Our County Clerk who attends to his duties with meticulous care, at a recent meeting was reading out a list —certainly a small one—of ratepayers who had defaulted and whose rates he desired declared irrecoverable —a process necessary to take them off his books and so comply with the requirements of that sapient individual—the Auditor-General. Mr Grant proceeded to read the names with the amounts owing opposite each with the Councillors saying in monotonous regularity “aye.” Suddenly this happened: (name) £42 Ils 6d. Cr. Livingstone: Oh! he’s been dead for years. Mr Grant: Yes. But I don’t know where he is! Even the placid J. T. Johnson indulged in a broad grin. * # * » Worst Disaster. J.T.P., after being literally frozen to death at the R.S.A. turnout on Wednesday evening went home, filled his hot water bag, but forgot to turn off the point—result 27s 6d next day for a new jug. Didn’t get much sympathy when relating the tragedy to “old Brad” D. 5.0., of Maihiihr, yesterday. “Oh! that’s nothing,” he remarked and this is the tale he did relate: The Smiths were on their way north to visit some friends. Suddenly Mrs Smith gave a shriek. “Oh, Harry,” she cried, “I forgot to turn off the electric iron.” “Don’t worry, darling,” he said, “I forgot to turn off the shower bath.” » * * & And Again: An Italian war-time opinion of Germany leaves nothing unsaid that the | “gangster Churchill” might have said and it adds a gi-eat deal more: The German is brutal and savage —the ancient beast from the forests, whose real nature Tacitus long ago exposed. “ Germany must be shattered and rendered completely harmless for at least the next fifty years. Italy’s task is to deal the death blow to Germany. The Italian people must strike mercilessly with their 1,500,000 bayonets. Not until Essen, city of cannon, is wiped from the earth, in the name of the brutal victims of German savagery, can the German robbers and murderers regain the right to belong to human society. Between the Rhine and the Vistula lies the barbarian people superficially cultured and civilised. And the author is again one Benito Mussolini. *** V * Counter-Blitz. ” While Herr Hitler tries to land parachutist troops in Crete, disguised in New Zealand Uniform, J.T.P. learns from an American magazine the’ following commentary upon a counter blitz:— A young Nazi was being admitted to the German Air Force. “You’ll get) 10 marks a day,” his commanding officer told him, “and if you fly over England you’ll get 12 marks.” “Fine,” said the conscript. “How much does that make for a week?” “Well,” the officer replied, “I haven’t worked that out—-we’ve not had to pay anybody for'a full week yet.” The Germans being a methodical nation, the scale of remuneration is probably worked out on a scientific basis. For instance: one flight over England, 12 marks; two flights over England, 12 marks and a medal; I three flights, a widow’s pension.

J.T.P. Side Steps. Of course J.T.P. cannot hope to escape certain questions concerning the recent municipal elections so easily as by pretending there’s no argument, which reminds him that he had to explain all about it to his eight-year-old nephew the other day. Unabashed, J.T.P. -tells you that the conversation went something like this: “Uncle, what is a Labourite?” “Hrrm, what is a Labourite, did you say, my boy?” “Yes, uncle, and what is a Progressive?” “Well, hrrmph, yes, I see! Well, you see, my boy, they’re just people who go in for- politics, if you see what I mean.” 4 “Yes, uncle. Uncle, what is politics ? ” “Er, well, what is politics, you said?” “Yes, uncle.” “Oh, er, now let me think. Well er—politics, my boy, are—let me see —they are just—or perhaps I should say they is just—no, is, I think! well, my boy, they is just er, hrmmph, hrmm-er! You see, my boy, I really think you’re a bit young to understand exactly what they are—l mean, they is—but they is just er, well—just something the Progressives and Labourites is— I mean are—interested in, you see. my boy?” “Yes, uncle. Uncle, what did you say a Labourite is, exactly?” “Err, well, my boy, he are—or is —er,' hrmmph, yes, let >me see. Do you like ice cream, my boy?” “Oh, yes, uncle!” “Good! Well, here’s sixpence for you, and you just run along and buy yourself one, and don’t go worrying yourself about matters that only grown up people can really understand.” * * * * Coming True. Said Job, “Oh that mine adversary had written a book!” But a newspaper article will do for the modern version. At the time when the Government of Italy was setting about the conquest of Tripoli in 1913, the Italian Socialist paper Avanti printed an article containing the following paragraph: Here then we are confronted by an Italy nationalist, conservative clerical, which claims to make the sword its law, and the army the tool of the nation. We had foreseen thid moral perversion, and for that reason we are not surprised by it. But those who think that this preponderance of militarism is a sign of strength are mightily mistaken. Strong peoples have no need to give themselves up to such a stupid orgy as that in which the Italian press is now letting itself go with mad exaltation. Strong peoples have some sense of measure, Italy, nationalist and militarist, shows that it lacks that sense. . . . Thus it comes about that a miserable war of conquest is acclaimed as if it were a Roman triumph. The author of the article—with signature subscribed—was Benito Mussolini. * * * * Can Monte Blush? The old campaigner, veteran of many years of public office, stalwart of many economic and commercial struggles, and battler in all walks of active and vigorous life. Can he blush ? Some there are who know that he can—this case-hardened old campaigner—and blush furiously. It happened on election day when, late in the afternoon Monte (the candidate) strolled in dignified manner towards the booth. “Fancy coming along at this hour”—was the greeting he received, and he was admonished because he had not been in attendance all day to mind the prams, say sweet nothings to the babies, earn the smiles and the votes of the mothers! For an old and experienced campaigner such neglect of vote-win-ning diplomacy seemed amazing, and Monte was roundly rebuked. Just at this stage, however, a lady stepped from the Town Hall and came toward the group, carrying a jug. “Monte, have you any milk?” she enquired. For a moment he was humbly apologetic that he could not there and then oblige, but of a sudden his face brightened. “Send some-' body to my farm and get a can of it—nothing less than a can —his generosity knew no limit; but the lady, explaining that only a jug-full was needed moved away. “There,” he said triumphantly to his taunters, “I hope she hasn’t voted yet-—a can of milk beats all the smiles on the babies.” But alas! The lady, unknown to him, stood almost at his elbow. “But, Mr Montefiore. I have voted”! And Monty blushed—he stammered—he grew red in the face —positively red—and fled! * * * * Is it the Start? At the last meeting of the Borough Council ovei- which he presided, Mr George Spinley, in the course of his remarks, said: He himself intended to dare to brave the storm, and if he failed he would have no regrets, but would settle down as a private citizen—and, say, get married. (Laughter.) Well, yesterday, in pursuance of his usual method, Mr Spinley contributed his mite to the Red Cross funds. And later in the day, it was found that he had won a complete baby’s outfit! Out of the mouths of babes and ex-Mayors Comes prophetic wisdom!