A family farewell

A family gathering at Purewa Cemetery in Auckland on Wednesday 19 August 2015 to farewell grandmother Gwen Tucker.

Gwen steps out

Remembering this stylish young lady about town, Gwendoline Violet Tucker (nee Phillips), born 30 August 1921, who died at the St Andrew’s Rest Home hospital in Auckland on Saturday morning, aged 93. An Onehunga resident for almost the entirety of her life, Gwen raised three children and doted on five grandchildren and plenty of great-grandchildren that crossed her path at the sky-blue ex-State family home in Smith Crescent. 

 Following her marriage to Claude at St James’ church in Mangere Bridge in 1943, the couple lived happily together for 70 years, receiving congratulatory messages for their platinum anniversary in 2013 from the Queen, the Governor General and the Prime Minister. She will be missed by her assorted clan, and can rest easy in the knowledge that none of them will ever leave the house without remembering to take their handkerchief.

Xmas Day 2008, Hamillton

On the occasion of my sisters' 30th birthday

May 1988

Zoe and Gabrielle, my sisters - you were born in Auckland on this day 30 years ago, or if you prefer a little more precision, 10,957 days ago. The moon waxed gibbous on the day they entered the world. The same day you were joined (on the other side of the world) by the daughter of Igor and Nataliya Zvonareva, who was born in Moscow in the then USSR. Vera Zvonareva would go on to become the world's second-highest ranked women's tennis player in 2010. And to balance things out, on your birthday the distinguished Irish writer Liam O'Flaherty drew his last breath. One of O'Flaherty's novels had the distinction of being made into a film not once but twice, including in 1935 by the legendary director John Ford. The Informer, a gritty tale of life in Ireland during the war of independence, won four Oscars at the 1935 Academy Awards, including Best Director for Ford. In the music world, and slightly less auspiciously, on the day you were born the 18-year-old Janet Jackson married the 21-year-old fellow singer James DeBarge. (The marriage was annulled the following year). And the number one chart single in New Zealand was One Love / People Get Ready, a re-release of a 1977 single from the album Exodus, which had also topped the charts here. (The 1984 video features cameos from Paul McCartney and a host of other 80s UK popsters). The single was in its final week of seven at the top of the charts, and would be replaced the following week with Two Tribes by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Of course, none of this other ephemera has anything to do with your own entry onto the global stage. Just thought I'd mention it.

Apart from visiting you, the swaddled and wriggling twins, in the birthing unit at the hospital, one of my earliest memories of you was a trip to the Auckland War Memorial Museum, when for some reason I was tasked with pushing your double pram through the highly crowded entry hall, down the flight of steps from the wings. Quite a task if you're not used to handling an unwieldy pram. At the first sign of difficulty you both very sensibly bailed out and proceeded to the exit under their own steam, thereby affording me an early glimpse of the precocious development of your good sense of judgement.

Don't worry about turning 30. Turning thirty is fine. As David O'Doherty says:

'35 is the first disappointing age. Even marketing people realise this, because they've divided our lives into three bits. There's zero to 18, and they're kids and they like brightly coloured things. And then there's 18 to 34, and they're the key demographic that people are supposed to care about. They're the people who feel emotion and fall in love, and take risks and appreciate technology. And then there's just 35 to death. And we like Michael Buble and driving gloves'.

You've got five years to work out a strategy to avoid that terrible fate. Happy birthday!

April 2006, with Nada

Et in Arcadia ego

Oswald Claude Tucker, B.A., born 20 November 1916, died 29 April 2014, aged 97. Far-traveller, late-blooming scholar, champion whistler, Prime Ministerial meeter, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, printer, ambulanceman, VW driver, regaler-in-chief, socialist, fan of Tom Mix (but not Cement), kitchen reader, lion tamer, space traveller, garage tinkerer, lawn mower, garden tender, middle name user. And husband of 70 years.

Claude, 2006

On the 70th wedding anniversary of Gwen and Claude

My grandparents, Gwen and Claude, were married on this day in 1943, 70 years ago. The ceremony was conducted at a little old stone church, St James in Mangere Bridge, which was built in the 1850s. Both were married in uniform, as was the custom of the day, and because it saved a little money, which was scarce at the time.

Claude was listed as a 26-year-old compositor, but he had spent the past three years serving in the Army overseas, mostly with 5 Field Ambulance of the 2NZEF. He had been lucky to return to New Zealand on furlough, escaping the North African desert and the imminent slog of the Italian campaign, and then he was drawn in the lottery for an honourable discharge from the Army in recognition that it was time for the younger men to serve their time. Three years away was quite enough.

Claude had corresponded with his young sweetheart Gwen while he was in North Africa and the UK, and she is listed on the marriage certificate as a 21-year-old with no profession. This is not quite true, because Gwen had enlisted in the services herself while Claude was away, and worked in Auckland in a variety of roles.

Both Claude and Gwen's parents are also listed: the fathers by their profession (fellmonger and labourer), the mothers by maiden name (McCarthy and Powdrill).

In the following years Gwen and Claude moved from their first home together in Waterview to the state house in Onehunga that would be their permanent home together for over 50 years until Claude's move to the Ranfurly Veterans Home in Mt Roskill several years ago when infirmity and the lack of easy access to the house meant he would be better cared for by professionals. In the Onehunga house, distinguished by its atypical sky-blue paint job, now flaking and worn but still vivid, Gwen and Claude raised their three children.

At first the lack of a fridge meant daily visits to the shops at Tin Tacks Corner to stock up on provisions, which went into the cold safe that is still in use in the kitchen. Later a garage was built (which still bears the mark of an unscheduled Mini collision many years ago), and eventually when I came along a white metre-high chain-link fence was added to the front of the property to stop me running out onto the street. The house became a place for children and grandchildren to visit, and for Gwen and Claude to practice their daily ritual of an early dinner followed by washing and storing away the dishes in plenty of time for the six o'clock news. The ancient Shacklock fridge from the mid-1970s still keeps the milk cool in the kitchen, and the busy patterns of the brown carpet still remind visitors that floor coverings can last for generations if you put your mind to it.

All these reminders that nothing ever seemed to change in the house - apart from the one big upheaval of Claude's removal to his new home at the Ranfurly - disguised the fact that by all accounts Gwen and Claude's marriage was steadily building into an institution that stretched across the best part of a century. When they were wed, the world was still at war against Hitler, New Zealand still had 17 years to wait before it got a television service, and the quickest way from Onehunga to Queen Street was by tram.

And at the weekend the small but moderately vigorous clan gathered in the Ranfurly billiard room to commemorate 25,568 days of marriage. There were children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. There was a message of congratulations from the Queen, which I had applied for some months back, plus additional messages of congratulations from the Governor General, the Prime Minister, the Minister of Internal Affairs, and the local MP, which were added to the mix. The occasion was perhaps a little taxing for the guests of honour, but then they do have a combined age of 187.  

The Governor General Rt Hon Sir Jerry Mateparae included a poem in his card, which I thought was quite commendably literary for an ex-military man. Written by local Wellington author Emanuel E. Garcia, it observes:

Why is it difficult to see that love
Depends not on alacrity but most
On kindness' depth and the compounding trove
Of stored affection to restore its host

Gwen & Claude snapped on Queen St.

Ten years after Tony

With Tony & Lynda, Tuscany, Easter 1999

A decade can flit past remarkably quickly when you're not paying attention. The recent release of Martin Scorsese's Living in the Material World doco has reminded us that it's nearly 10 years since George Harrison died (the anniversary is 29 November). But in more personal terms it's also been ten years today since the untimely death of my good friend Tony Gibson. Tony died in Auckland on this day ten years ago due to complications arising from his haemophilia and the bad blood scandal that infected him with hepatitis C. He was only 28.

I first met Tony in Form 1 in my class at what was then known as Manukau Intermediate (now Royal Oak Intermediate), where he would participate with vigour in our rolling, impromptu games of 'sogby' - football with a bit more added physical contact a la rugby - and the ever-popular matches of handball, with or without 'black magic'. Of course he probably shouldn't have been playing rowdy physical games, but Tony didn't let his condition stop him enjoying himself. Rather, he bore the inevitable bruises and bleeds and the ever-present hassles of constant medication with stoic fortitude.

It was clear that Tony was a gifted scholar too, with a quick wit and a talent for imaginative creative writing. He put these skills to good use at school, and I have fond memories of his panache for satire, such as his lyric 'Cruise Missiles Across the Persian Gulf' set to the tune of 'Star Trekkin'. But for us Tony was at his peak in the highly geeky and thoroughly enjoyable world of role-playing games. Tony was a great dungeon master, with a valuable knack for story-telling and the diplomatic skills necessary when hosting a disparate bunch of nerds, and we all enjoyed many quality RPG sessions with him over the years. I was delighted to hear one of Tony's friends speak at his funeral service, observing with real fondness that 'Tony killed my first character', a comment that probably generated a quiet wave of confusion amongst the 'grown-ups' present. Losing your first character is a true RPG rite of passage.

It was always a treat to visit the Gibsons' Hillsborough home and venture down the very 1970s stairs to the converted garage that was Tony's man-cave. Aside from the role-playing, there was also the fun of being exposed to Tony's precocious musical taste through his very grown-up hi-fi. I certainly have Tony to thank for being a huge influence on broadening my interest in music. Tony and his stereo opened my ears to the glories of David Bowie's back catalogue (1971's Hunky Dory is still one of my top-five albums to this day), the chaotic hodge-podge of the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour, and the effortless cool of soul legend Otis Redding. He didn't have quite as much luck with convincing me to like the Sex Pistols though!

In our later years at Onehunga High Tony spent much of his time with his partner and soulmate Lynda, and after leaving tertiary studies they moved together to a great little house in Avondale, which they filled with wine, comics and lovable greedy cats. Like many of us from the class of 1990, Tony had started a Politics degree at Auckland, but he decided to take another course: he ploughed his enthusiasm and know-how into a risky but ultimately triumphant project: he established Gotham Comics in a small shop at the bottom of Onehunga Mall. Now in larger premises further up the hill in the heart of Onehunga, and run by Tony's former acolyte Jeremy Bishop, Gotham is still selling comics to the fanboys and girls after more than a decade, which is more like a century in the cut-throat world of comic retail.

It's been ten years without Tony, and there's been so many events in the intervening years that we'd all have loved him to be around for. He would have loved the LOTR films, for one thing. He'd have come down to Wellington for the Bowie gig in 2004. And there's certainly been no shortage of comic-book movie conversions over the years, some good, some not so good - but we can all agree that Tony would've sized up the market and expertly assisted the new generation of enthusiasts to feed their emerging addictions for the source material... and maybe helped to direct them to other new and interesting works at the same time.

So, in memory of Tony, ten years absent today: there's still no danger that we'll forget you. Let's raise a glass to his memory!

Interview: Jeremy Bishop, Gotham Comics, 20 September 2011
HFNZ: Haemophilia Foundation of New Zealand

Excuse me, I'm having my banana

Claude, 25 October 2011

A photograph to commemorate the occasion of my grandfather Oswald Claude Tucker's 95th birthday today. Born on 20 November 1916 and given the middle name that he would use in place of the unwieldy Oswald, Claude was named after his uncle who left to fight in the First World War five months before he was born, and who died at Passchendaele before Claude's first birthday.

Claude grew up in Ellerslie, and like many others at the time, the family had little in the way of money. He was lucky to secure an apprenticeship as a printer during the Depression due to his high marks. After the outbreak of war in 1939 Claude volunteered to serve in the Army overseas, joining the 5th Field Ambulance in 2NZEF. During the course of the war he was to visit the UK (including England during the Blitz when invasion fears saw New Zealand soldiers diverted to bolster the British defences) and the Middle East including Palestine and Syria (the latter of which I paid a return visit to in 2008, taking in the sights of Aleppo, where he was based for a time). But most of his time in the Army was spent in Egypt. He didn't talk about the business of being a field ambulance soldier and the brutal sights he must have seen as broken men were brought back from battle; instead, he preferred to hark back to the pet lion cub that he and his friends rustled up from somewhere, and the high adventure of the biplane joyride he took over the Suez Canal.

In 1943 he had another stroke of luck, as his was the first number drawn out of the hat for furlough - the chance for some long-serving soldiers to return to civilian life in New Zealand. This enabled him to resume his courtship of Gwen Phillips, my grandmother. They were married in the little stone St James' church in Mangere Bridge in September 1943, and after a few years living in a rented house in Waterview, they moved into their own home in Onehunga, where they've been ever since. They raised three children in that same ex-State house, and there they recently celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary.

While his career was in the printing industry, academic and intellectual pursuits have always been a keen interest for Claude.  This spurred him to find time in his retirement to secure himself a long-cherished university education, when he worked towards his Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology at the University of Auckland, graduating in 1986. In more recent years Claude has been living in a rest home where his various infirmities can be managed, but this hasn't stopped him meeting the Prime Minister, when Mr Key stopped by for a visit.

Only five years short of a century and still ticking! I'm sure most of us would be grateful for that sort of staying power. Well done, that man.        

XXXVIII

Last night featured a quick trawl through the pop memory banks at Soho's Karaoke Box. Highlights included Sam and Tina's heroic rendition of Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girls, which runs Kate Nash's version into a close second, and a stirring group collaboration on Free Fallin' by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

XXXVII

An enjoyable lunch at Marzano in Battersea last weekend to commemorate yet another birthday.  Decent Italian food and the largest gathering of tots and babies I’ve ever seen in one place – Clapham and Battersea being the Nappy Valley of upwardly-mobile Londoners.  By my (admittedly biased) reckoning I can still claim to be a member of the mid-30s club for another six months or so.  After that the plan is to start counting backwards.

A royal garden party

Invitation to Buckingham Palace
Originally uploaded by eT le snap

Having secured an invitation to the royal garden party through the New Zealand High Commission ballot many months ago, I had plenty of time to ponder the logistical issues inherent in attending such an auspicious and memorable occasion. Like for example, what the devil is a Morning Coat? Could I spur myself to buy smart new shoes for the event? And, most importantly, what would I say if I happened to bump into the Queen in the queue for cucumber sandwiches?

As it turned out, a Morning Coat is one of those frightfully smart coats with tails, generally worn with a top hat and weskit, but I was assured by Felix (who had been to the same garden party a couple of years ago) that a conventional business suit would be fine. On the footwear question my natural reluctance to venture into shoe shops asserted itself, and I decided instead to burnish my current work shoes to within an inch of their life. And I prepared a line of conversation relying on my tenuous connection to the former Governor-General, Dame Silvia Cartwright: in a previous incarnation I was the Most Loyal Bearer of the Singular Blue Pencil used to sign Orders In Council.

As I was arriving from Victoria the closest entrance to the Palace grounds was the Grosvenor Gate, where cheerful policemen welcomed the smartly-attired guests inside to walk down the winding paths through the kempt arboretum to the vast lawn facing the Palace’s west (rear) terrace. The view of the neo-classical Palace is impressive, and I enjoyed its relatively modest scale – unlike the grandiloquent palaces of Versailles or Schloss Schonenbrun, this looks like a proper (if stately) home where real people reside.

The attendees were a mix of the great and good of the UK and beyond, and the apparent paucity of colonial accents led me to reflect on my good fortune at having secured a ticket. While most of the hundreds of attendees wore conventional formals, there were plenty of uniforms around too, with a healthy sprinkling of military types both young and old, from guardsmen to Admirals. Some Canadian airmen sported uniforms and peaked Glengarry caps that were highly reminiscent of the Tracy brothers in Thunderbirds. There were a few other varietals, such as the red-gowned bishops who disgorged from the Palace and spread over the vast lawn like a rapidly-expanding sea of affable, genteel, tea-drinking blood. And the oddest look of the day was the contingent of scout leaders who took the uniforms policy a bit too seriously and turned up with their woggles and scarves. I shouldn’t mock though – it was very English.

The ladies opted for slinky dresses and heels, and followed the style instructions that came with the invitation: ‘Day dress with hat, or Uniform (no medals). Trouser suit may be worn’. After the recent rush to Ascot this was another chance for women to dig out their hats and fascinators for public display. Fascinators are an odd concept, but the ones I like are those that look the silliest: a miniature pixie-sized hat, pinned at a jaunty angle to a woman’s hair, either to make it look as if her headgear has mysteriously shrunk in the wash, or to give the impression that she had recently mugged a leprechaun and stolen his chapeau.

The wide, well-kept lawn was bounded by refreshment tents – yes, cucumber sandwiches, no crusts! – and as the garden was so large there were two band tents, one by the Palace and one by the ornamental lake. Because they were hundreds of metres apart, the assembled military bands in each tent took turns to play popular tunes like James Bond movie themes, with each band hoisting a red and white flag when they were playing and a white one when they’d finished, as a signal for the other band to start up again.

Then it was 4 o’clock, time for Her Majesty to emerge from the Palace. The guests formed long human avenues radiating out from the Palace to the Royal Tea Tent, and the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh proceeded down these avenues, stopping to greet and chat with selected guests and interesting types in the crowd. In the hour or so it took the Queen to reach the spot I was standing in, the pike-bearing Yeoman of the Guard in their bright red uniforms and the tightly-furled-umbrella-wielding Gentlemen at Arms with their Eton accents and impeccable politeness encouraged the crowds to give the Queen plenty of space and to avoid crowding in.

A senior Gentleman patrolled the crowd in front of the Queen’s path, jotting down a few key details of the guests that had been selected for a personal chat with the monarch. This enabled him to break the ice when the Queen arrived a few minutes later. One of the Gentlemen at Arms, whilst deploying all their public-school charm to persuade the crowds to move back a little, mentioned that while he and his colleagues all carried smart City-businessman umbrellas (perhaps from James Smith & Sons?), they knew better than to open them until the Queen had opened hers, and that as Elizabeth was a hardy monarch, she required a proper downpour before she did so, so it paid to expect a damp top hat if there was rain about. (As it happened, while the dark clouds glowered and there were a few drops, it stayed dry and warm).

Soon she was nearby, perhaps five metres away from my second-row spot. She wore a smart dress and jacket in a colour that may or may not be cerise (I’m pretty vague on couture, me). The thing that struck me about seeing the Queen this close was that she really looked like she was enjoying the occasion and seemed to relish the conversation. This surprised me a little, given how long she’s been performing the role and making small talk with strangers. Good on her – and I suppose it must be nice to feel like everyone’s pleased to see you! There was certainly a polite press of guests to gain a good view of Ma’am as she greeted and chatted.

Soon she and Prince Phillip had retired to the Royal Tea Tent where a small crowd of selected guests mingled with the royals. For the rest of us, the serving staff dished out traditional lemonade and tasty Welsh icecream. After an hour or so the Queen and her party departed, which was the cue for the band to play God Save The Queen, as a signal that the garden party was coming to an end. Along with many of the other guests, I took the opportunity for another walk around the gardens, and spotted the Palace staff counting and polishing the gold tea service used in the Royal Tea Tent as it lay on the lawn behind the tent.

Finally, it was time to amble up the steps on the west terrace and enter the Palace to make our way to the front gates. The walls of the few rooms we wander through on our way out are lined with rare sets of ornamental porcelain, antique carriage clocks, and marble statues in the Graeco-Roman style. Each wall also displays several paintings of the British and European nobility, with a healthy scattering of Prince Albert portraits acting as a reminder that Victoria reigned here for over six decades. There is a great attention to detail at work here – the fireplaces each sport an oval of cardboard in the grate, with its top edge snipped to resemble curling flames.

After emerging into the central Palace courtyard the hundreds of guests make their way out the front arch to the east side of the Palace, which faces the crowds gaping through the railings at the stock-still Guardsmen in their bearskin hats. It’s truly a rare experience to be on the inside, emerging as one of the fortunate few who have received the generous hospitality of the garden party at Buckingham Palace.

Otene's first birthday

On sunny Saturday an impressive crowd turned up at Sam's mother's house in Purley to celebrate the first birthday of baby Otene. Or should I say 'toddler Otene', because he is zippy both on his feet and crawling now. What seemed like half the babies in London turned up with their parents, but their behaviour was exemplary and they comported themselves in a uniformly cute fashion. Otene enjoyed all the attention, grinning toothily when Happy Birthday was sung to him, and it goes without saying that the birthday cake baked by Sam the night before was Very Popular Indeed.

XXXV

Last night there was an enjoyable gathering in Soho to commemorate my 'halfway to 70' birthday. (Sounds pretty scary when you put it that way, doesn't it?). Ten of us dined at Canela, a little Portuguese cafe, and then a a deputation went on to Karaokebox in Frith Street, which is cheek by jowl with the trendiest Soho nightspots like Bar Italia and the Groucho. In our private booth we had an entertaining singing session, which harked back to the halcyon days of the admittedly more rustic charms of the Taste of Korea booths in Willis Street. Felix excelled at her favourite, the Spice Girls' 'Wannabe', while Deb & Jude also did sterling work on Morrissey's 1988 classic 'Every Day Is Like Sunday'. My noble pals indulged me by letting me attempt a Bill Withers number while only possessing approximately 3 percent of the actual soulfulness of the singer himself. They also sat stoically as I fulfilled my long-held ambition to murder the legendarily stratospheric David Bowie vocalisations on the outro to Lou Reed's 'Satellite of Love' ('Satelii-ei... of Looooo-OOO-ooo-ooove...').

Thanks to all who attended for a fun night out on the town!

My littlest flatmate

Baby Otene, aged 3 1/2 weeks




Baby Otene (aged 5 1/2 weeks) & family

At Crispin Square

Last night I was joined by a few London pals to commemorate my birthday with some post-work drinks at Scarlet Dot, a bar in Crispin Square behind Spitalfields Markets. Afterwards we went to one of the many curry houses in nearby Brick Lane for some tasty dinner. The restaurant we chose offered 30 percent discount plus a free drink each, which is fairly standard for the cutthroat world of discounting in Bangla Town!

Here's a picture to prove to a doubting public that it all really happened.



Left to right: Richard, Fiona, Steve, Felix, Gavin and me.

Farewell drinks at the Matterhorn