Jim Hopkins: Let us go forth and lie in unison upon our pristine sands

COMMENT

Uncle Norm's a good bloke. But he's also an irascible old sod. And has been for yonks. Most days when you go round to see him he's as sour as a lemon on steroids. Or as stroppy as an MP in a taxi.

(To the tune: That's Amore)

When the fare isn't there

And you're tearing your hair

That's Somali ...

Sorry about that. Bit of static on the line. Getting back to Uncle Norm, let's just say it doesn't pay to rile him. If you do, he'll look at you as if you're someone from the ARC coming round to get the rates.

So withering is his stare that if looks could kill, Uncle Norm would be a mass murderer. He's been getting worse lately. Maybe it's his age or our age but, either way, getting a smile out of Uncle Norm now is nearly as hard as getting an honest answer out of the Immigration Service. And that's hard. Just ask the Ombudsman.

See, they believe in synchronised fibbing in the Immigration Service. Ask them a tricky question about some suspected terrorist and all the serviettes immediately agree "to lie in unison".

"Which suspected terrorist would that be?" they innocently inquire. "We don't have any suspected terrorists here. Not in Outer Roa. It's against Gummint policy, doncha know."

And that remains the official line until all but one of the unisons and unidaughters stop singing the unisong, having suddenly realised the "lie in unison" comment was simply a jolly jape, a "flippant" folly - the sort of wacky thing you'd say to a cabby late at night.

No wonder Uncle Norm often looks as cheerful as an All Black without a bonus.

To be fair, he hasn't always been like that. There was a time, according to Aunty Eunice, when the old codger was quite cheerful. She's even got a photo of him, down at the beach, with a fag in his hand and a grin on his dial.

But that was back in the 50s, when the closest you got to a customary title was calling the dental nurse "Miss".

It's different today, of course. Today, we realise that customary title and customary rights are vexed and complex issues which the Gummint is addressing in a fair and even-handed manner behind closed doors because it's essential that we don't know what the fair and even-handed solution is before it's been announced after it's been approved by the Maori caucus.

Sadly, this enlightened approach doesn't impress the irascible Norm, who keeps jabbing the faded map on his wall and shouting, "Look at that. It's the Queen's chain, mate. If they pull that, we'll all go down the toilet."

There's no point trying to reason with him. He just says he'll take his bucket and spade and sunbathe at the Beehive if he can't go to Piha.

"The way I see it," bellows Norm, "somebody's trying to take the 'K' out of Kiwi. Pretty soon, you'll have to be a dinkum iwi if y'wanna get any sand up yer bum."

Oh, come along, Uncle Norm, we all say. Be reasonable. The Gummint must liaise with its treaty partner in order to devise an equitable settlement that will not only satisfy you but also Tariana Turia and Margaret Mutu.

"Bollocks," roars the intemperate old geezer.

"The bleedin' treaty's not a constitution, y'know. It only means what the flamin' politicians want it to mean. Remember what happened a couple of months back with the oil and gas. The Gummint just said, 'No. We're not giving it away. Case closed'. And that was it. No negotiations. No meetings. Just no. End of story. If they can say that once, they can say it twice, mush. You bet they can."

It's not that simple, we insist. There are complex legal and ethical issues which must be integrated into a holistic package of inclusive remedies that constructively acknowledge historic grievances while satisfactorily meeting contemporary social expectations.

"Look, son," snorts Norm. "I may be green but I'm not a turnip. You can't be bound today by a document you ignored two months ago. That's bleedin' obvious. It sticks out like an All Black's pay packet. So what we've really got here is simply a wrangle between two groups of politicians, each trying to get the most of the coast.

"But they're not getting my bit of foreshore, that's fore shore. We've heard a lot about people lying in unison this week. Well, I tell you this. If anyone's going to lie in unison, they should do it on the beach. That's the place for unison ...

(Cue violins)

"If our small and troubled nation is to find the fortitude we need to go forward together, we must share the surf that pounds, remorseless, on our shores. We must lie together and enjoy this bonus of beauty, for this is one bonus we must not negotiate or divide among ourselves.

"Let no agents haggle nor hucksters cream a percentage of this bounty. Instead, let us go forth and lie in unison upon the pristine sands that gird our sacred soil.

"And let those who seek a sand grab know this. If y' reckon you've got a claim on my bach, buckeroo, you're talking double-Dutch."

At which point there was a knock on the door and a tearful Harry Duynhoven asked politely for the keys.