Chris down at the Cossie: A long time between drinks
Prime Minister Chris Hipkins says he loves popping down to the club on a Friday night to chat to the locals, but some of them tell Virginia Fallon a different story.
Trish Greenogh and Gladys Cooney are dancing up a storm. A respective 72 and 92 years old, the pair are moving to a karaoke country song sung by a man in a neon shirt. On the wall above them is a screen displaying the number 59; a lucky person with the corresponding ticket has just won a raffle.
Taking a quick breather, Cooney says she’s here six nights a week. This is her place; her people and it feels just like home.
‘‘I’ve been coming to a club ever since I was 14; back then I used to dance with the American soldiers.’’
Aotearoa’s new prime minister was just a few days into the job when he let slip with one of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets: the inarguable allure of New Zealand’s Cosmopolitan ‘‘Cossie’ clubs.
‘‘I love going into the Cossie Club on a Friday night, having a beer and just listening to people, and listening to what they are talking about,’’ Chris Hipkins told an interviewer.
‘‘You can have a massive week in politics and you go to the Cossie Club and realise they didn’t have any idea that any of that was going on because they are focused on their daily lives.’’
Following myriad references to himself as ‘‘a boy from the Hutt’’, the Cossie comments from the career politician certainly got plenty of Kiwis talking.
While some accused Hipkins of trying to further paint himself as just an everyday bloke – albeit one now leading the country and earning nearly $500,000 a year – others wondered either what on earth a Cossie Club actually is, or whether they still existed. They do, and at the prime minister’s local, someone’s just won a meat pack.
Upper Hutt Cosmopolitan Club manager Grant Gaskin doesn’t want to talk about his famous patron but does mention the photos of Hipkins at the club currently doing the rounds were taken a long time ago. ‘‘He’s not a core of the club; that’s people like Gladys.’’
Although there are about 6500 members on the books, tonight’s a quiet one. Next week the member’s prize draw will jackpot to $2500 and because you have to be here to win it, Gaskin says it’ll be packed.
But right now a few hundred people are socialising to the karaoke backdrop; another 80 or so are playing Housie in a conference room, while in the club’s new restaurant dozens of diners tuck into their meals.
And it’s here that the allure of being a member of this not-soexclusive club is immediately clear.
A two-ingredient toasted sandwich costs $5; a 200g steak meal is $25 and a serving of bangers and mash $14. Kids’ meals are $9 while a house wine is $6.90 a glass.
The pint of Speight’s is on the house, but would otherwise have cost about $7.
‘‘We try not to sell ourselves on cheap booze and food,’’ Gaskin says, ‘‘but when we ask members what they want it’s always cheap booze and food.’’
Those members, by the way, pay a one-off joining fee of $20, then $3 a month. As well as the food and drink, they’re offered a fleet of courtesy coaches to pick them up and drop them home and numerous ‘‘clubs within the club’’, ranging from wine appreciation to theatre; scrabble to snooker.
‘‘Ultimately it’s about being a community place that anyone can come and feel safe and welcome . . . yes, even journalists.’’
‘‘Cosmopolitan Club’’ is the new name for what used to be called the Working Men’s Club that emerged in England’s industrial areas from the mid-19th century, providing recreational and educational services to wellmannered members.
Aotearoa’s first club opened in Dunedin in 1874 and three years later clubs were founded in Wellington, Napier and Greytown. By 1896 there were at least 12 across the country, according to Te Ara – The Encyclopaedia of NZ.
Subscriptions were low compared to those of gentlemen’s clubs and there were strong disciplinary expectations against drunkenness and disorderly behaviour. There were debates about admitting Mā ori, and for a time the Kaiapoi club barred them.
During the 20th century, along with those of the Returned and Services Association (RSA), the clubs provided both a way around alcohol prohibitions and an alternative to mainstream businesses.
When West Coast pubs raised the price of beer in 1947, three workingmen’s clubs sprang up, while the Riccarton club was opened in 1954 out of ‘‘dissatisfaction with the service
. . . at the local watering hole’’.
The ‘‘workingmen’’ title was taken seriously. Women began to challenge the ban on their membership in the 1960s, and in 1965 the Canterbury club was the first with a charter including both genders. In 1969 the Tinwald Workingmen’s Club was the first established operation to admit women, later renaming itself the Tinwald Club.
The Whangamatā Workingmen’s Club refused women’s membership in 1974, with some members saying it was ‘‘the last bastion of man’s independence’’. When women were admitted three years later, some of the men apologised for their earlier stand.
So it was out with the ‘‘workingmen’’ name and in with ‘‘Cosmopolitan Clubs’’, which then became the Cossies. Upper Hutt was a surprisingly late starter, only allowing women to join in 1994.
Mike Cassidy, manager of Mā ngere Cosmopolitan Club, says despite their long history and remaining popularity, the clubs have fallen off the radar of modern New Zealand. These days there are about 350 clubs, many having amalgamated with the RSAs, though are often thought of as ‘‘old people places’’, if they’re thought of at all.
That’s why he isn’t surprised Hipkins’ comments have left many perplexed, saying that Cossie Club awareness all depends on which region, or even suburb, you’re from.
‘‘In South Auckland, they’re based on where the freezing works were back in the day. Clubs are traditionally in the lower socioeconomic areas where normal people live normal lives.’’
And patronage is growing. Cassidy has lately been signing up about 11 new members a week and expects that to grow, just as the average age of members has dropped from 57 to 46 years.
The club’s a break-even sort of business; any profits go back into the facility with a mind of how best to benefit the community. An upcoming movie night for kids is just one example of how everyone is welcome.
‘‘We have all sorts coming here, five politicians were in the other week. We solved the problems of the bloody world that day. Actually, that reminds me that the bastards still owe me.’’
Back in Upper Hutt, facilities manager Gavin Bannatyne is pointing out all the entertainment lined up for members over the coming months; live bands are particular favourites and a couple of major community fundraisers happen every year. Ultimately, this is a place where normal New Zealanders can enjoy each other’s company, he says.
‘‘You can be anyone who does anything for a job and here you’ll find a whole lot of people just happy to be together.’’
There’s no sign of the new prime minister among the friendly folk enjoying the karaoke; nor has there been a reply to the invitation to join me here for a beer.
But on the way out, a couple of members beckon me over to their table.
‘‘Make sure you tell the truth,’’ the woman warns, ‘‘Chris Hipkins hasn’t come in here for years.’’
‘Ultimately it’s about being a community place that anyone can come and feel safe and welcome . . . yes, even journalists.’ GRANT GASKIN