Mucking in for the good of the community
The English couple were taking a Sunday stroll round central Nelson, past the cathedral, into the leafy glades, when they heard an intriguing noise. Their ears led them to a bowling club.
Devotees of the graceful game themselves, our tourists descended the path to the green.
A cross-dresser in sparkly grass skirt and eye-bashing Hawaiian blouse was sending down a wobbly shot, trying not to spill the drink in his other hand.
‘‘Well played,’’ cried a man in blue wig and pink bowler hat.
The entire pitch teemed with escapees from the same fluoro loony-bin, laughing maniacally. A fair sprinkling of them would fail a breath test.
Unfit to drive, their drives cannonballed into the ditch. Other bowls sent down the pitch to give jack a feathery kiss, strayed instead into the next-door game for a dalliance.
Wafting over the scene was a retro soundtrack from a ukulele group. They appeared to favour a Le Mans start to their songs, and when they managed to finish in
OUT OF MY HEAD unison, cheers of surprise erupted all-round.
Needless to say, the game that Sir Francis Drake stalled the Spanish Armada for is not played like this in the genteel parishes of Shropshire. Our tourists took a seat.
Some manner of scoring was taking place amidst the mayhem. A clown in baggy pants put aside her ukulele and wandered across the pitch handing out balloon animals.
One of Hieronymus Bosch’s canvases had come alive. The tourists probably thought a hallucinogen was percolating through the local water supply.
Half right. A far more powerful drug bears the blame. This madness had a method – fundraising for Hospice.
Money sanctifies everything, said Quentin Crisp. Money for good causes ups the ante further, granting permission to indulge in the best drug of all – fun.
Games over, the players (sic) and musicians (sic) drifted into the clubrooms for afternoon tea. A back table groaned under a mountain of raffle prizes – enough for 30 draws.
Stronger drinks were recharged and auctioneer Paul launched into the sale of major donations: artworks, resort stays etc.
Laundry from people I’ve never heard of fetched big money. It’s called sports memorabilia, worn by the nation’s finest as they grabbed Commonwealth glory.
A phone bidder from New York was supposedly after one item – drawing a roar from the club members and business teams.
When Val Smith’s medalwinning strip came under the hammer, the hi-tech wizardry was entirely real. Our hometown heroine listened in via smartphone as she sat on a train in Australia. Her garb went for a princely sum.
The auctioneer suffered vision loss halfway through proceedings, unable to see his wife’s arm in the air. This cured itself when he established that the money was coming out of her personal bank account.
The big prize of a mystery weekend away, courtesy of Air New Zealand, went for more than its face value. At the end of the afternoon, a staggering $7000 had been raised for the charity.
Two days earlier, Clifton Terrace School did even better financially at their annual Tea By The Sea, which was thronged with kids, parents, grandparents and neighbours sipping cider, sampling good food, buying homemade cakes, bidding for goodies, and throwing a ball at the target that dumps a bucket of water over a brave soul beneath. (A teacher in the seat always turns the gangliest kid into a sharp-shooter.)
This is gala season. Schools all over the district are throwing parties. Staff and parents roll up their sleeves for some hard graft, families roll up in their hundreds for a good time, and the school coffers swell.
My ex Kay is a teacher. Wayback-when she worked her socks off for Grove St Kindy’s annual bash, and as parents, we mucked in for Central School, blowing up novelty balloons or slaving over a pot of nacho mince.
At the time the kindergartens’ governing body was going cap-inhand to the Government for funds. In the post-Vietnam War climate, the slogan read: ‘‘It’ll be a great day when schools get all the money they need, and the air force has to run a cake stall to buy a bomber.’’
The kindergarten national president argued that pre-schools were the poor cousin in the education sector – but he would hate to see the day when galas were no longer necessary.
What? The man was bonkers. Did he have any idea how hard the troops work for that day of frivolity?
In hindsight, he was dead right. Yes, cake-stall economics are a slog, but along the way the sloggers reap something more precious than the dosh. They forge a camaraderie among themselves, and they create a community around the school (or the club).
They also nurture a taonga on the brink of extinction: family time.
Let’s not forget the businesses who donate prizes so generously. They too become part of that community.
As for the tourists at the bowling green, they needed the comfort of coffee. Happily provided, but club captain Mario refused their money – so they made a generous donation to Hospice, and pocketed one helluva yarn to tell the folks back home.
Hard to imagine sparkly grass skirts and dayglo wigs taking off in Essex country estates, or on the manicured greens of WalmingtonOn-Sea.
Never say never. Permission to have fun is intoxicating.