Saturday, November 07, 2009

Doust does Groote

Henri Van Groote

Recently Jon Doust was hired by the Australian Parliamentary Association to pretend to be a South African new-media expert. Jon was introduced to the assembled politicians from both Federal and State Parliaments by the Speaker of the WA Legislative Assembly, his old mate, Grant Woodhams.

Van Groote had to deliver a 10 minute speech, then join his co-panellists, Chief Political Editor for the West Australian, Robert Taylor, and Program Chair of Journalism at Murdoch University, Dr Johan Lidberg.

The panel then took questions from the floor, which included one from Phillip Ruddock, who Van Groote, unintentionally, insulted.

On completion, once the ruse had been revealed to the audience by Grant Woodhams, the panel left the podium and joined the politicians on the floor of the house. Van Groote, now revealed as Doust, approached Ruddock to thank him for his interaction. Ruddock began to question him about South Africa, revealing that he had relatives near Van Groote’s home town of Port Elizabeth.

Something like the following conversation then took place.

Doust: Phillip, I’m not really from South Africa.

Ruddock: You’re not?

D: No.

R: Where are you from?

D: Bridgetown.

R: Where’s that?

D: It’s a delightful little town south east of Bunbury.

R: So you’re not from South Africa?

D: No.

R: But why the South African accent?

D: Because it is funnier than the accent from Bridgetown. Have you heard the accent from Bridgetown?

R: And it seemed so natural.

D: Thank you.

R: (blank stare)


Here is the full text, including Van Groote's introduction.



Henri Van Groote was a journalist in South Africa for over 30 years, working for major newspapers such as the Cape Argus and the Financial Mail.

Five years ago he left the Mail and Guardian in Johannesburg to form his own new media company called communiforce.

Since then he has concentrated on forming teams of new media specialists who can develop content packages geared up for a rapid response to emerging issues.

These days Mr Van Groote lives in Port Elizabeth and is in WA visiting relatives, one of whom is a Parliamentary Officer. He willingly stepped in at the last moment following a cancellation and we thank him for that.

Please welcome Henri Van Groote.


First and foremost one would like to express appreciation for the invitation to speak at your national conference of parliamentarians.

In addition, it is also an honour to be on a panel with two such distinguished media identities to discuss the media revolution.

Many of you will no doubt be aware that times are still somewhat troubled in one’s homeland and the issue of social media is of continuous debate, particularly among those of us who inhabit it.

The statistics have not yet been finalised but there is a general consensus that the majority of South Africans who regularly participate on social media platforms are of European origin and from the high socio economic groupings, and, to a lesser extent, members of the Indo European and multi-racial communities, once again, from the high socio economic groupings.

Be this as it may, the fact remains that all of them engage the wider global internet community.

Which brings me to a major point.

And that is, that so much of the animosity to the new media is, so much ado about nothing.

Many of you no doubt, given your places in the history of this state, and other states within this commonwealth, are students of history.

One of the great leaders in the western world was a man called Caesar.

He was also a great orator and a pretty good writer.

If you cast your imagination back to the great man addressing his troops before battle, you will see a vast horde with what appears to be a small man standing on a platform.

He has no public address system.

He has no massive tv screen.

What he has is suitably positioned parrots, men with good voices who, upon hearing what he says, then repeat it to the cohorts in their area.

And so on, and so on, until the entire horde has heard his words, although rarely from the mouth of the man himself.

This, one would like to submit to you, is nothing more than an ancient version of twitter.

Caesar speaks, and one tweeter twitters to the next tweeter.

That is all that twittering is, folk parsing on information to other folk who haven’t heard it yet.

Some of it important.

Some of it interesting.

Some of it, most of it, padding.

But if you are not tweeting on twitter, you are not in the game.

And if you are not tweeting on twitter, you are a twit.

Then, of course, one must also consider Facebook, YouTube, MySpace, bing, xing, flicker, Linked In, msn, Skype, Tweaker, Tribe, Wink, Wonk, Wank.

Sorry, there should be one called wank, but that would probably cover most of them.

And, finally, of course, blogs.

Wank, by the way, was also the name of a computer worm that attacked DEC computer systems in 1989.

Wank, or Vunk, but spelt wank, is also the name of a German mountain close to the Austrian border.

It has a cable car system called the vunkbahn.

And a webcam called, of course, the vunk webcam.

All this information one gleaned from the internet, in particular, Wikipedia, which many have referred to, also, as a social networking site.

Having said all of that, let one say all of this, that what is taking place in South Africa is not that different from the rest of the industrialised world.

It is a well known fact that a large proportion of twitter users belong to the generations x and baby boomer.

And these folk are, in general, in a higher socio economic group than the generations y, or the lot that follow them, the so called millenniums.

But, be that as it may, it is crucial that you people, involved as you are in politics, in endlessly campaigning for re-election, that you harness all the new social media, including twitter.

All the top people twit, or have people twit for them on their behalf.

If one is to be honest in this forum, in the hope that such news might not leave this facility, one may admit to twittering on behalf of prominent South African politicians with a need to put their views to a certain segment of the voting market place.

Of course, it is to be recognised that when one twits, one is twitting to one’s followers and if one is a politician, then one will have followers who will twit on and on and on and, either early in a twit, or later in a twit, it will be picked up by other media, such as radio, television and the press.

Among those we know who twit are Kevin Rudd, Barack Obama, Jacob Zuma, Nicolas Sarkosy, Silvio Berlusconi, who, one understands, mainly uses it to pick up girls.

One’s next major und crucial point is that the new media is also satisfying innate needs that all of us have but, of course, innate needs will manifest themselves in new ways, in new worlds, among different generations.

You are all, one has no doubt, familiar with Maslow, Abraham Maslow, the American psychologist who created a hierarchy of needs.

Those begin with our very basic need for food, shelter, sleep, sex.

Then our need for safety, security, then belonging and love.

Then esteem and, finally, self actualisation.

For all of us in this room, we have no doubt satisfied the first two: We have eaten; we feel safe in this facility.

The third is also crucial because one has never met a politician, even though often condemned as thick skinned, or cold hearted, one has never met one that did not have a deep need to be loved.

Not necessarily to love, but to be loved.

The fourth Maslow need, self esteem, is irrelevant. Politicians, naturally, have an excess of it.

And finally, self actualisation, is out of the question. There is no time, no need, it’s a lot of pockycock.

For those in the modern world who fully inhabit the World Wide Web, most of these needs can still be satisfied, often without leaving the house.

For example, water comes from a tap. Breathing seems to happen without even thinking about it. Pizza can be delivered. And sex, well, that can be left to the individual concerned.

What is now clear is that content is a very saleable item and you might be interested to know that one’s business is currently supplying content to 16 politicians in the English and Dutch speaking worlds, for their various internet sites, including twitter.

It is not possible, of course, for people such as Kevin Rudd to do all they do and do twitter. Although given the word on Mr Rudd and his obsession with control it is quite possible he is his own twit.

One does not provide all the content oneself, naturally, one has a small team that works as a unit for each client project.

We do have one very clear policy guideline with regard to working for political clientele: we will never support two clients in opposition to each other.

For example, if one was to provide content for a member of the Labor Party here in Western Australia, one would not take on a client from the Liberal Party.

But one could take on a member of the Liberal Party in South Australia. One one is not saying one would, or would want to, or that one has, but that one could, if one had not already taken on a member of the Labor Party, not that one has, or would want to, in that state.

In conclusion, let one remind you all that basic humans needs are still to be satisfied in this modern, electronically connected world, and that social media platforms such as twitter are essential in your package highlighting your suitability for continued representation of your individual electorates.


Stats:

Kevin rudd – 500,000 followers

52 fake Rudds on Twitter

June 2009 – 44.5 million people hit twitter

Pear analytics, a US data collection company, studied 2000 tweets for 2 weeks and decided that the tweets included:

40.55% pointless babble

37.55% conversations

3.6% news

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Check this out

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

APPLES!

My 2009 crop of garlic

We all know that over 90% of all garlic consumed in this country is imported from China.
That leaves 10% to split between Mexico, Argentina, and our own growers.
It's an insult.
Of all crops, there could hardly be an easier one to grow: you prepare a bit of soil, you stick a clove in with the pointy bit up, somewhere around Easter, you keep it moist until the rains come, then you harvest somewhere in November.
Yes, it is labor intensive.
So what?
Too many of us are not labor intensive enough and our bulging waistlines are testimony.
Next on the list is apples.

A Granny Smith from my brother's farm in Bridgetown WA

They are supposed to keep the doctor away.
If we don't grow them ourselves we can no longer be sure.
Many Australian growers are already spraying too much on the trees, around the trees, under the trees, but we have some controls, some security.
Speaking of which, security concerns a lot of folk. Next time you meet such a folk, tell them there can be no greater security for a nation than the ability, the willingness, to produce its own food.
Then ask them where they buy their vegies.
In particular, their garlic.
Not only where they buy it, but where it is from.
Apples grow well in the colder bits of this vast land, in particular the colder bits of New South Wales, Victoria, Tasmania and West Australia.
I grew up on 30 acres of Granny Smiths.
She sustained me, nurtured me, kept me alive and romantically attached to seasons.
In primary school some folk called me Little Johnny Appleseed.
It was apt.
At a 30 year school reunion, an old mate said: "You know, one thing I remember about you, Dousty, you always had an apple."
I reached down into my back pack and removed two apples.
We ate and laughed.
Don't allow this to happen, this invasion of apples.
Lobby your local member of whatever variety.
Tell them we need to grow our own.
But before you speak, hand the bastard a locally grown apple.
To catch-up on the possible invasion, go here http://tiny.cc/RHIFQ

Sunday, October 04, 2009

Another Sunday

Here I am, in Albany, my home, for another couple of days. But not for long. The city, Perth, beckons.
It doesn't beckon with a seductive "come on, call me, don't be shy, call, now".
Nuh, it beckons with a necessary "hey, I've got the money and you ain't making any down there, so come on up, get it, then go home and chill".
So I do.
I drive up, fly up, get up whatever way I can, do the gig, grab the money, rush home, chill a bit, hit the beach, run hard and surf like an aging man who wants to be 16 again.
Not an emotional, spiritual or intellectual 16, or even a physical 16, but be able to do what I could have done with a 16 year old body, but with the little knowledge I have gleaned between then and now.
Is that too much to ask?
Over the last two months I have pounded the streets of Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne to push "Boy on a Wire", been all the way to Kununarra for the Kimberley Writers' Festival, Geraldton for the Big Sky Writer's Festival and back home for Albany's own Sprung Writers' Festival.
No surprise I'm buggered.
And the book will be reprinted over the next week or so.
And this week I will fly to Perth again.
And the week after that.
The week after that? Probably.
I'm fly in fly out.
I'm running short on carbon credits.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Laugh Resort Comedy Room turns 20

Yes it does.
And here's a letter I have written to the organisers of a huge night on the 16th of September.
Why?
well, they invited me to help them celebrate.
Unfortunately, I won't make it.

Dear oh dear,

We didn’t know what we were doing, but we did it.

All those names that have gone on to be, well, the same names.

And all those names we have forgotten, yet we still talk about that gig, that night, that bloke, and the women who threw the chair before public indemnity insurance was an issue.

Were they the best years of my life?

No.

But two weeks ago when I caught up with Ray Matsen, now head writer for the ever ebullient Rove, that was all we talked about, the old days.

And we both looked like we’d had a few to talk about.

These days he lives in Melbourne and runs a pack of lean, fast talking, comedy writers.

I live in Albany and write books between beach running and body surfing.

Oh, to make money I catch planes to where it is.

Laugh Resort, 18 years old.

Wow.

I’d love to be there.

Sorry I’m not.

But keep inviting me, because when we all get to 20, I’m coming up for a week.

My love to those who remember me.

To those who don’t, huh, you’re not alone.

Peace, laughs, and longevity

Jon Doust

And

George Gosh



Friday, September 04, 2009

A new blog ... just

This blogger is limping.
He's just returned home to Albany, jewel of the deep southern tip, with a small, irksome virus from Melbourne. He thinks he caught it on a tram.
Here's what happened:
I'm on a tram. Everyone is coughing, sneezing, blowing.
I stand alone, surrounded by humanity, all sizes, all types, all hard up against me, but not really hard, kind of soft but tense.
The tram is full. There is no room left.
It stops. there are three people standing, staring.
One says: Sardine time.
I laugh. I laugh alone.
The three plunge forward into the tram with no room. We all shuffle, ever so slightly, and they fit.
I am amazed. My mouth opens, then closes, because I remember the coughing, the spluttering, the sneezing, the blowing, the sniffing.
Too late, and a tiny virus molecule entered my system.
When home, I recover quickly, being of a resilient, mountain goat breed, and so I go running and surfing.
The very next day I collapse in a mountain goat heap, full of bleat and almost coughing. I don't cough. I recover quick, but every since my lungs have found breathing somewhat changed.
The tram world is not for this goat. He loves a tram, but not every day, not at peak crush and full of sardines.
To all those who embrace the tram world, may your neighbour cough the other way and may your tram be always half full, or empty.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Not another book?

You may not have noticed but I have written a book. Not only have I written one, it is now available in bookshops, stacked right alongside other books written by other people.
Yesterday I visited a local well-stacked shop with a new young friend. He went straight to the science fiction section and bought one book and got another book free. Then, perhaps a little embarrassed, he asked: “Where’s your book?”
I showed him. He picked it up, flicked a few pages, and put it down.
We separated. He went back to sci-fi and I went over to history to search for something different about Rome, or Athens, or Isfahan, one of those great ancient cities from which great empires ruled what they thought was pretty much the entire world, expect for the bits ruled by the other great empire next door.
While there a woman approached me: “I’m sorry, you can’t even hide in a bookshop, but now I have seen you I must ask if you would sign this, please?”
She held out my book. I slapped it from her hand and screamed: “How dare you!”
No I didn’t, I took the book, smiled, introduced myself to her two sons, signed, smiled, and wondered if I should make a habit of standing in a bookshop as though trying to hide?
Boy