Tim Gilbertson
Regional councillor Tom Belford, champion of transparency and open government, ceaseless critic of secret public excluded meetings, refuses to release the emails he has exchanged with Greenpeace and Fish and Game.
To their eternal shame, despite the requirements of the Official Information Act and a clear ruling from the Ombudsman, his fellow councillors voted 5/2 to support his non-legal stance.
Tom and HBRC have acted as unlawfully as a DoC inspired land swap.
But 'tis the season of goodwill so we won't labour the point.
One of the five who voted for this travesty has a law degree, another is an ex-Cabinet minister and a third is the council chairman. None can plead ignorance of the law.
The idea that emails to and from lobbyists are private and their disclosure represents a threat to free speech is laughable.
But we mustn't harp on about hypocrisy. Not at this time of year.
The speculative observer might wonder if a councillor was offered a million dollars to vote in favour of the dam instead of against it, whether that message would remain private and confidential as well.
Sadly, we will never know, as we chew on the mince pies, jingle belling our way round the barbie at the beach.
A reputation once lost is difficult to regain. More so when the guilty party has, for years, been shouting from the roof tops how saintly he is compared to the sinners below.
Enough of that.
Let me tell you a Christmas story about honesty and candour and putting upstarts in their place.
Many years ago my father was the regular Santa Claus at Flemington School near Waipukurau.
One year he was away, so I came off the bench.
Dressed up in long woollen pants, a heavy woollen coat, a thick woollen beard and knee high leather boots on a sweltering summer's day, sweating buckets, I swept in to the classroom yelling "Who's been good this year? Who deserves a present?" throwing in several ho ho hos for good measure.
"ME!!" they shouted back
They were delightful. Their expectant faces turned to smiles of pure joy as they fell all over me in the rush to get their presents from my sack. It was all over quickly since, unlike my father, I didn't demand a kiss from the mothers before the child received a gift. In that era this was regarded as rather amusing. Today Santa would be shot for sexism.
I completed the task and staggered up the hill by the pine trees in 30 degree heat. The senior boys, all unbelievers, chased me all the way shouting "Hey, Father Christmas, where's your bloody reindeer?" Don't you love country kids?
I beat the little swine off by bouncing a few well directed pine cones off their heads and they were soon in full retreat. Another approach to youth discipline that in today's climate would result in arrest for assault and battery.
Being a proud old boy of the school, I knew that being pelted with pine cones, thrown off unstable rafts into muddy eel infested dams, and being periodically rolled in cow manure during bull rush was all part of the curriculum that makes country schools the centres of educational excellence they have always been. And continue to be.
Feeling happy with a job well done, I changed out of my Santa suit and joined the after match. I was introduced to a newcomer to the district.
When she heard my name she said "Your Dad's usually Father Christmas. He's good. It's a shame he couldn't come. The one we had this year was useless."
There was only one possible reply.
"Happy Christmas," I said.
And the same to all of you.