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Sir Bob Jones
nopunchespulled.com
When Stuff announced the closure of The Sunday News, I was stunned to learn it was still in existence.
In its heyday decades back, it was famed for its pervading sleaziness, beatups over trivia and fictious sensationalism, for which evidently there was a market. Because he was a boxing enthusiast, I knew one of its top writers, albeit only by his pseudonym as for fear of embarrassment he absolutely refused to reveal his real name to anyone.
I made the front page once in 1990 with the bold heading “GIVE BACK THAT TITLE BOB”, referring to my knighthood.
The accompanying exclamation for this was that one of their always anonymous sleazebag writers had run across an account I’d written about going to Naenae College in the 1950s (mis-named as it’s not actually in Naenae) and praising the terrific education I received, thanks to some outstanding teachers.
But significantly, I also attributed this to the pervading lawlessness, characteristic of a new school, for as with civilisation generally, it takes time to establish routines and rules. These have the negative outcome over time, of descending into an oppressive, layer upon layer bureaucratic nightmare, crushing individuality and people’s entrepreneurial spirit.
We’ve witnessed this in New Zealand over my lifetime and for the first time in our history, have a political party, namely ACT, successfully fighting back.
So in writing about this all-important near anarchial spirit then at Naenae College I cited an absurdity, prevalent across the land.
This was how our Tuesday afternoons were given across to bloody military training.
Halfwit soldiers came from the army and all the boys were made to march up and down in the army issued uniforms, learn to dismantle a Bren gun and so on.
I was one of four non-participants, the other three having pacifist parents who had written demanding their exemptions.
My objection wasn’t pacifist based but, instead, personal dignity. There was no way I was going to subject myself to this crap so I burnt my uniform in our home garden incinerator.
On Tuesdays, initially I hung out of upper floor windows bellowing “Attention”, “Quick March” and so on to my schoolmates lined up in the quad below. The goofy soldiers complained so a truce was reached which I happily agreed to, namely I would stay out of sight reading while everyone else marched up and down being bellowed at.
When the army chaps demanded my uniform back I gave them a cardboard box of ash from the incinerator.
Anyway, the school magazine showed a sense of humour in its page devoted to this army nonsense. At the bottom it listed names of boys with military rankings of the lance-corporal ilk and, finally, my name as a deserter. This epitomised the then prevailing cavalier spirit.
So too a few years later when we had three months’ compulsory military training for all 18-year-old boys, although no such indignity for girls.
I duly received my call up order and replied saying I wouldn’t be coming as it would be an unhappy experience for both the army and me should I do so, thus not in either party’s interest. They sent me a conscientious objection form to fill in. It was not a conscience issue so I ignored it.
Then one day I came home to find two young soldiers standing in our kitchen with my mother.
“We’re here to arrest you,” one muttered. I saw red and said “OK start arresting then,” banging my fist into an open palm.
My mother, always polite but a natural maverick, intruded, “You’ve heard what he said so off you go” and off they galloped and I heard no more.
Such behaviour would be impossible today after six decades of ever increasing regulations and controls covering every tiny element of our lives.
Anyway, it was this account that gave the Sunday News rag their twisted rationale that I should give up my knighthood through my declining to participate in silly soldier boy rubbish both at school and with the three months’ army nonsense. These, in fact, were sensibly scrapped nationwide not long afterwards.
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