My old school debating chum’s billion-pound pickle
However you define or value achievement, human nature makes us sensitive to the activities of contemporaries.
The progress through life of those we grew up with, of our own age and experience, is of interest. How did they get from A to B? What did I do wrong? How come when they lose their job they get a payout of $12 million?
If I mislaid any of the myriad small tasks from which I eke out a living it would be a swift dash to the Work and Income office, followed by a lean six-week standdown period and compulsory attendance at seminars on how to spruce up your CV, administered by condescending case managers half my age.
The story of Mark Wilson is not entirely a sad one. True, he recently received a pink slip in his in-tray. With admirable British understatement, the Daily
Telegraph referred to his dismissal from the UK insurance firm Aviva as a ‘‘difficult day’’.
Reportedly, Wilson was party to a decision to cancel £450 million of ‘‘preference shares’’. The blunder cost investors ‘‘around £1 billion’’. It sounds like a difficult mistake to bounce back from.
Frankly, I don’t really understand any of this, which is strange, as Wilson and I sat in the same accountancy classes at Rotorua Boys’ High.
If memory serves, our grades were comparable. Mind you, there was that infamous mid-term exam in 1983, when I got 38 per cent. It’s possible Wilson was one of the three students who managed to pass. It could have been the turning point for him.
As coincidence has it, I saw the man who set that exam last weekend – a sprightly 90-year-old negotiating the dance floor of the Rotorua Racing Club like Fred Astaire in his prime. A wonderful human being, if an appalling educator.
To his credit, Jack Murphy always acknowledged his shortcomings. Yet he could claim bragging rights where the great Wilson is concerned.
He taught a boy destined to address the General Assembly of the United Nations. Before Jacinda and Neve made us proud, there was Wilson, making the world’s biggest forum his own, prattling on about sustainable capitalism in the age of global warming.
That was back in 2015. When I first heard about it, I could not help but reflect on our shared past in the Rotorua Boys’ High debating team. I was the first speaker – and, possibly, the captain. Wilson was the second speaker, with my great friend Kingsley Clarke, a fine proponent of the art of rebuttal, bringing up the rear.
We were a champion trio. We took out the much-coveted Jaycee plate, a trophy rather suspiciously made out of wood. A photo exists of the three of us posing awkwardly after the triumph. Wilson looks a man apart, impossibly handsome, his trademark eyelashes – the source of gentle ribbing, especially among his second XV peers – pointing to his appointment with destiny.
There was one debate when I was required to write Wilson’s material for him. It was more exception than rule, but it does make me wonder whether his UN speech was entirely his own work. An uncharitable speculation, born of envy.
If our paths crossed during our time together at Waikato University I cannot recall it. We had always mixed in different circles anyway – he the alpha male, rugby-playing prefect, me the scrawny librarian who was decidedly not leadership material.
I did harbour suspicions his tenure as sports officer on the Waikato Student Union was born of the need to pad the curriculum vitae. Nothing wrong with that. It worked, too: Wilson was declared a ‘‘distinguished alumnus’’ in 2017, a perfect poster boy for a management school whose lustre isn’t what it once was. I’m not sure I’m allowed on the university campus any more, after protesting the arts cuts once too often.
For all the obscene amount of money he was paid, both in annual salary and bonuses, and aforementioned golden handshake, at least Wilson was a believer in a ‘‘living wage’’ for Aviva’s rank and file.
In interviews he talks up concepts like ‘‘cultural diversity’’, alluding to his formative years in Rotorua and Hamilton. I don’t remember him being any more aware of such concepts than the rest of us pa¯ keha¯ students, monocultural in our outlook and social networks, but I guess he met a few Ma¯ ori at the bottom of the ruck.