Chippies
So I want find out if making a list of the things I want to eat once This Whole Thing has passed is a good thing or a bad thing.
I’m worried that it may just make everything feel worse because I’ll be thinking about something I can’t have. Until I know for sure I’m just limiting my greedy thoughts to hot chips because I have always spent a lot of my time thinking about hot chips and I figure the damage may already be done there.
Hot chips with sauce, hot chips with aioli, hot chips with mayo; shoestrings, steak cut fries, hand-cut chips (ohhhh Southern Fish Supply's chips are THE BEST) sweet and tangy kumera fries. Then – my favourite, bittersweet category – thinking about chips of the past: the potato skins with satay chicken you used to be able to get at the Strathern Inn, the double-cooked hangover wedges with salsa the cooks used to make me at the restaurant I worked at in Dunedin every Sunday (and Saturday and some Fridays and once a Tuesday but that’s not important right now. Side bar: I can’t remember if I ever told you this but the barman used to make these amazing hangover-erasing milkshakes as well that I later found out were magical simply because they had a shot of vodka in them).
And I know I can make chips myself. I can risk life and limb and drag out mum’s old deep fryer (interesting how old furniture is “vintage” and “chic” while old appliances are “dangerous” and “an accident waiting to happen”) and do triple-cooked bla bla chips and they will be lovely and everyone will say “Wow, these are amazing, everything you do is amazing, you look like Linda Evangelista".
BUT. Chips are more than chips. They’re a phone call. An affirmation as you look over the menu (“Oh I’m fully getting a side of fries, don’t you worry”), my hands-down favourite substitution (what kind of maniac has mashed potatoes at a restaurant?) and the savior on those days when nothing goes right and you look at what you’re supposed to be cooking for dinner and you push the EFF-IT button and ring your local fish and chip shop – and then there’s that perfect moment in the car on the way home, when you sneak your hand into the hole you’ve poked in the wrapper to let out steam and you pluck out a chip - too hot but so beautiful, sparkling with perfect tiny crystals of salt – and your hand is bathed in steam and you pop it in your mouth and do that thing where you blow in and out while the chip sits burning your mouth and you’re like “this is what Trent Reznor was singing about when he wrote Hurt”.
Okay so I think I’ve answered my own question.
I’m worried that it may just make everything feel worse because I’ll be thinking about something I can’t have. Until I know for sure I’m just limiting my greedy thoughts to hot chips because I have always spent a lot of my time thinking about hot chips and I figure the damage may already be done there.
Hot chips with sauce, hot chips with aioli, hot chips with mayo; shoestrings, steak cut fries, hand-cut chips (ohhhh Southern Fish Supply's chips are THE BEST) sweet and tangy kumera fries. Then – my favourite, bittersweet category – thinking about chips of the past: the potato skins with satay chicken you used to be able to get at the Strathern Inn, the double-cooked hangover wedges with salsa the cooks used to make me at the restaurant I worked at in Dunedin every Sunday (and Saturday and some Fridays and once a Tuesday but that’s not important right now. Side bar: I can’t remember if I ever told you this but the barman used to make these amazing hangover-erasing milkshakes as well that I later found out were magical simply because they had a shot of vodka in them).
And I know I can make chips myself. I can risk life and limb and drag out mum’s old deep fryer (interesting how old furniture is “vintage” and “chic” while old appliances are “dangerous” and “an accident waiting to happen”) and do triple-cooked bla bla chips and they will be lovely and everyone will say “Wow, these are amazing, everything you do is amazing, you look like Linda Evangelista".
BUT. Chips are more than chips. They’re a phone call. An affirmation as you look over the menu (“Oh I’m fully getting a side of fries, don’t you worry”), my hands-down favourite substitution (what kind of maniac has mashed potatoes at a restaurant?) and the savior on those days when nothing goes right and you look at what you’re supposed to be cooking for dinner and you push the EFF-IT button and ring your local fish and chip shop – and then there’s that perfect moment in the car on the way home, when you sneak your hand into the hole you’ve poked in the wrapper to let out steam and you pluck out a chip - too hot but so beautiful, sparkling with perfect tiny crystals of salt – and your hand is bathed in steam and you pop it in your mouth and do that thing where you blow in and out while the chip sits burning your mouth and you’re like “this is what Trent Reznor was singing about when he wrote Hurt”.
Okay so I think I’ve answered my own question.
Bob willis, Elton John, and a six in the loo
I remember a balmy evening sitting on the windowsill of our childhood home in Christchurch listening to something rather wonderful echoing through the quiet streets.
Elton John was playing at Addington and here were me and my bro David, the luckiest kids in the world, getting to hear him for free.
But the memory doesn’t conjure Crocodile Rock. It makes me think of cricket.
It makes me think of Bob Willis, legendary England fast bowler, who died today at just 70.
The cricket memory – which seems implausible in hindsight – is of going to the toilet at Lancaster Park (I must’ve been busting to have risked missing any of the action) and a six being hit by Lance Cairns, and (the far-fetched bit) the ball ending up rolling down a spout from the roof into the loo.
Did this happen? Or is it imagined. Makes a good yarn, so let’s say it did.
I check the cricket stats and sure enough, NZ played England on February 18, 1984 in Christchurch. Lance Cairns did hit a six, in a typical innings of 23 off 26 balls, after coming in with us at 5-44 chasing 188. We made 134.
The Elton concert was the following night – apparently he had scheduled his concerts to be able to follow the England team around on its NZ tour. England had played Fiji in two one-day games prior to coming to NZ.
Some members – mainly Ian Botham it seems – spent a fair amount of time hanging out with Elton. A couple of England players were accused of smoking weed while on tour in NZ. Hence it was dubbed the ‘Sex Drugs and Rock’n’Roll Tour’ by the UK tabloid journos.
So long Bob, I will always remember you bustling into the wicket, with a bowling action not unlike a slightly wonky windmill.
Elton John was playing at Addington and here were me and my bro David, the luckiest kids in the world, getting to hear him for free.
But the memory doesn’t conjure Crocodile Rock. It makes me think of cricket.
It makes me think of Bob Willis, legendary England fast bowler, who died today at just 70.
The cricket memory – which seems implausible in hindsight – is of going to the toilet at Lancaster Park (I must’ve been busting to have risked missing any of the action) and a six being hit by Lance Cairns, and (the far-fetched bit) the ball ending up rolling down a spout from the roof into the loo.
Did this happen? Or is it imagined. Makes a good yarn, so let’s say it did.
I check the cricket stats and sure enough, NZ played England on February 18, 1984 in Christchurch. Lance Cairns did hit a six, in a typical innings of 23 off 26 balls, after coming in with us at 5-44 chasing 188. We made 134.
The Elton concert was the following night – apparently he had scheduled his concerts to be able to follow the England team around on its NZ tour. England had played Fiji in two one-day games prior to coming to NZ.
Some members – mainly Ian Botham it seems – spent a fair amount of time hanging out with Elton. A couple of England players were accused of smoking weed while on tour in NZ. Hence it was dubbed the ‘Sex Drugs and Rock’n’Roll Tour’ by the UK tabloid journos.
So long Bob, I will always remember you bustling into the wicket, with a bowling action not unlike a slightly wonky windmill.
My prized possession - rob and bill
My prized possession is a Rob Muldoon and Bill Rowling salt and pepper shaker set.
I found them at the Riccarton Markets in Christchurch in the mid 1990s and they’ve taken pride of place on the flat/kitchen windowsill ever since. I think they cost about $4.
I love their quirkiness, and the fact that there was actually political merchandise in the 70s and 80s.
Muldoon unsurprisingly is the pepper shaker – famous for drunkenly announcing a snap election in 1984.
The fiery, gnome-like PM was a fearsome politician, and while I was just nine-years-old when he went down in the 1984 election, he is one of our most famous political characters – basically running the country like a communist state. Kinda weird for a National Party PM.
Rowling on the other hand was thought of as being about as interesting as a bowl of salt. He had political substance in many ways but lacked charisma.
It was Muldoon who pulled out the big guns in the 1975 election when he defeated Rowling – including the famous Dancing Cossacks TV ad.
I’ve often wondered who made the shakers – assuming (hoping) they were one-off political merch.
Alas, it seems they were not one-offs – apparently they were produced by a subsidiary of Lion/NZ Breweries. They date from 1981. They featured in a 2009 exhibition called The Cabinet Makers in Wellington.
They also appear in the occasional salt and pepper shaker collection news story (I mean who wouldn’t want to collect shakers?).
Do they have any value? Well, they are priceless to me – and hopefully they’ll remain on our family’s windowsill for a while yet.
Things I love about Plunket
I love that Plunket will put your car seat in for you. I remember putting James’ car seat in and actually crying and becoming so enraged when the seat belt kept sliding back that I fantasised about getting a craft knife and slitting the seatbelt slowly down the middle and then waving the craft knife around the car as a warning to all the other seatbelts. But this time I just went and saw the nice car seat lady and she installed it in about 5 minutes. No crying. No knives. I didn’t know life could be this way.
I love Plunket because you can help with the Plunket collection and get to have a perv at your neighbours’ houses.
I love Plunket because there is a totally cruisy Plunket group that I belong to and I don’t have to go and have coffee mornings and be passive aggressively competitive with other parents, we just turn up at the bike park or the play gym once in a while and let the kids go nuts.
I love Plunket because my Plunket nurse never laughs at me when I brag about my kids. I say “I think Rory is a genius and very musical he can totally sing, he’s going to be a singer” and when I read the notes in the Plunket book when I get home it says “Enjoys music.”
I love Plunket because as a second time Mum I don’t have to have regular visits unless I want to and that makes me feel like I’ve totally got this even though I have this week fed the baby chips from KFC and also sticky date pudding and when James was at the same age he had never even had sugar.
I love Plunket because I told my Plunket nurse about the fact that Rory has eaten things we never would have dreamed of giving James and she laughed and said good.
I love Plunket because I know I am a totally lucky mum with a great support network but I still had to be taught to ask for help when I needed it. And because of amazing women like my Plunket nurse, I learned how to ask for help, and that asking for help didn’t mean I was failing as a mum, it meant I was being a better mum.
And when you are a new mama your heart is so big and raw you feel the pain of every other mama, the young mamas and the lonely mamas and the hurting mamas. And it helps knowing that they all have their own Plunket nurse firmly in their corner to help them on this precious pathway, as Plunket nurses have done for generations.
My Plunket nurse’s name is Janeen. This is my love letter to her.
I love Plunket because you can help with the Plunket collection and get to have a perv at your neighbours’ houses.
I love Plunket because there is a totally cruisy Plunket group that I belong to and I don’t have to go and have coffee mornings and be passive aggressively competitive with other parents, we just turn up at the bike park or the play gym once in a while and let the kids go nuts.
I love Plunket because my Plunket nurse never laughs at me when I brag about my kids. I say “I think Rory is a genius and very musical he can totally sing, he’s going to be a singer” and when I read the notes in the Plunket book when I get home it says “Enjoys music.”
I love Plunket because as a second time Mum I don’t have to have regular visits unless I want to and that makes me feel like I’ve totally got this even though I have this week fed the baby chips from KFC and also sticky date pudding and when James was at the same age he had never even had sugar.
I love Plunket because I told my Plunket nurse about the fact that Rory has eaten things we never would have dreamed of giving James and she laughed and said good.
I love Plunket because I know I am a totally lucky mum with a great support network but I still had to be taught to ask for help when I needed it. And because of amazing women like my Plunket nurse, I learned how to ask for help, and that asking for help didn’t mean I was failing as a mum, it meant I was being a better mum.
And when you are a new mama your heart is so big and raw you feel the pain of every other mama, the young mamas and the lonely mamas and the hurting mamas. And it helps knowing that they all have their own Plunket nurse firmly in their corner to help them on this precious pathway, as Plunket nurses have done for generations.
My Plunket nurse’s name is Janeen. This is my love letter to her.
Phil's nearly-new Christmas
Charity shops and second-hand stores are becoming a more prominent part of the retail scene – so how hard would it be to commit buying only ‘nearly-new’ Christmas presents?
My initial foray into the St John and Hospice second-hand shops is not particularly encouraging.
While they stock all manner of great things from baby toys, to books, to kitchen implements and retro gems, finding a Secret Santa present for someone approaching 30 weeks pregnant proves tricky.
My rules are that presents have to be bought at a shop – so no TradeMe.
The pros and cons of committing to a ‘Nearly New Christmas’ soon become obvious.
When I tell Sarah, she replies: “I don’t want anything… I grew up with second-hand presents”, or something to that effect. She calls her dad, to tell him the grim news, and he apparently delights in the nearly-new ethos.
My other thought is that we run a communications company, and sometimes it’s our job to promote goods and services for our clients.
Is this a bad look? Am I snubbing retailers by not spending my money on shiny new stuff? I console myself that Christmas shopping at charity shops is a laudable pursuit, and I'd still be spending locally.
As I shop, I'm having visions of disappointed looks on people’s faces as they unwrap my 'one-careful-previous-owner presents'. The aim was to avoid this by finding things which look brand new, and which are at least vaguely desirable.
And if it all goes pear-shaped, well, they can always throw the presents on TradeMe the next day.
Then an email arrives from my brother in England. What do the boys want for Christmas? This presents a big problem. It’s proving hard enough to find nearly-new gifts for family at home, let alone for three youngsters on the other side of the world.
Again, I consider flagging the whole thing. I’m reminded by Sarah about the possibility of people reclining in horror when they are told their gifts have had a previous life and owner.
I meander on with the idea and my persistence pays some dividends with a visit to Habitat for Humanity’s vast Glengarry store. I consider purchasing a horse-themed fireplace brush, shovel and poker set (the one in the pic up top), for my father-in-law, before wisely walking away. I manage to pick up a set of largely blemish-free knee-pads for James.
I head to Windsor on a birthday present purchasing mission and have it in my head that there’ll be loads of posh stuff at the charity shops there.
A nearly-new book on foods for fussy children and an apparently unruffled neck scarf embolden my resolve.
Staff at the shop tell me plenty of people shop for Christmas presents at their store. A lot of people are buying clothes cheap online and if they don’t fit they just donate them to the shop rather than sending back. The perils of online shopping eh.
The biggest impediment to my nearly-new Christmas mission is time. I simply don’t have enough to go through all the charity shops with a fine-tooth comb. The quality of stuff on the shelves is amazing, but it might be a bridge too far, unless your family has decided to shop second-hand for Christmas.
It’s Christmas Eve, or the day before perhaps, and I relent and hit the bookshops. My nearly new Christmas effort has largely been a failure, although there is that lovely scarf which will make a great secret Santa present.
As I wrap it, I look closer and notice some small holes. I think about the person unwrapping it and ponder the possibility of profound disappointment at being given a holey scarf. Anonymity would have to remain in place.
I toss it in the back of the wardrobe and wrap up a goat’s milk soap and some fudge which had missed the present bus somewhere along the way.
Sarah loved her book on fussy eaters. Ultimately, it was the only nearly-new thing that made the Christmas cut. Sorry love.
My initial foray into the St John and Hospice second-hand shops is not particularly encouraging.
While they stock all manner of great things from baby toys, to books, to kitchen implements and retro gems, finding a Secret Santa present for someone approaching 30 weeks pregnant proves tricky.
My rules are that presents have to be bought at a shop – so no TradeMe.
The pros and cons of committing to a ‘Nearly New Christmas’ soon become obvious.
When I tell Sarah, she replies: “I don’t want anything… I grew up with second-hand presents”, or something to that effect. She calls her dad, to tell him the grim news, and he apparently delights in the nearly-new ethos.
My other thought is that we run a communications company, and sometimes it’s our job to promote goods and services for our clients.
Is this a bad look? Am I snubbing retailers by not spending my money on shiny new stuff? I console myself that Christmas shopping at charity shops is a laudable pursuit, and I'd still be spending locally.
As I shop, I'm having visions of disappointed looks on people’s faces as they unwrap my 'one-careful-previous-owner presents'. The aim was to avoid this by finding things which look brand new, and which are at least vaguely desirable.
And if it all goes pear-shaped, well, they can always throw the presents on TradeMe the next day.
Then an email arrives from my brother in England. What do the boys want for Christmas? This presents a big problem. It’s proving hard enough to find nearly-new gifts for family at home, let alone for three youngsters on the other side of the world.
Again, I consider flagging the whole thing. I’m reminded by Sarah about the possibility of people reclining in horror when they are told their gifts have had a previous life and owner.
I meander on with the idea and my persistence pays some dividends with a visit to Habitat for Humanity’s vast Glengarry store. I consider purchasing a horse-themed fireplace brush, shovel and poker set (the one in the pic up top), for my father-in-law, before wisely walking away. I manage to pick up a set of largely blemish-free knee-pads for James.
I head to Windsor on a birthday present purchasing mission and have it in my head that there’ll be loads of posh stuff at the charity shops there.
A nearly-new book on foods for fussy children and an apparently unruffled neck scarf embolden my resolve.
Staff at the shop tell me plenty of people shop for Christmas presents at their store. A lot of people are buying clothes cheap online and if they don’t fit they just donate them to the shop rather than sending back. The perils of online shopping eh.
The biggest impediment to my nearly-new Christmas mission is time. I simply don’t have enough to go through all the charity shops with a fine-tooth comb. The quality of stuff on the shelves is amazing, but it might be a bridge too far, unless your family has decided to shop second-hand for Christmas.
It’s Christmas Eve, or the day before perhaps, and I relent and hit the bookshops. My nearly new Christmas effort has largely been a failure, although there is that lovely scarf which will make a great secret Santa present.
As I wrap it, I look closer and notice some small holes. I think about the person unwrapping it and ponder the possibility of profound disappointment at being given a holey scarf. Anonymity would have to remain in place.
I toss it in the back of the wardrobe and wrap up a goat’s milk soap and some fudge which had missed the present bus somewhere along the way.
Sarah loved her book on fussy eaters. Ultimately, it was the only nearly-new thing that made the Christmas cut. Sorry love.
- Please feel free to flick me some comments on this post – did I cop out too easily? contactus@mccarthymc.co.nz
she's back!
Check out Sarah's marvellous radio rant and remember to tune into The Hits every Tuesday morning for another edition of 'All Over It'.
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Pregnant, and almost over it
Company director, artiste and mum of one (soon to be two) Sarah McCarthy shares some late-term pregnancy views with the world.
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when i grow up i'm gonna be an extreme sportswoman
I have a fear. Not the impending destruction of my area, not the impending total lack of sleep, not the impending, inevitable nip slip at Zookeepers while trying to impress a client and breastfeed at the same time, but a fear of becoming an extreme sportsperson.
Now, I am aware that this doesn’t make any sense.
It began when I realised that I didn’t care how much it hurt, I wanted to have this Monkey the old fashioned way – out the front door rather than through the sunroof, as I’d had to use the sunroof last time.
And so when those two blue lines appeared on the stick and I’d stopped screaming and apologizing to the wine glasses all I could think about was how I’d get to dig in and give it another crack and finish the job. I would think this with grim satisfaction, like someone in a gritty action film after they destroy a perfectly good small city.
How this has mixed itself up in my head with unwittingly becoming an extreme sportsperson is a mystery, but you’re listening to a woman who has woken up the last few nights in a row with the plot to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban running through her head. I’ll wake up and my brain says “Finally! You’re up! So anyway, Ron breaks his leg being dragged down to the shrieking shack by a big dog” and I think aah. This is why I used to drink.
I suppose I’m concerned that all this gung ho, push it out, the gas is enough attitude will translate to going for long walks once the Monkey gets here, as I am seriously finished with being a big waddly article that gets a sore leg like an old person if I stand up for too long. Then from walking I might start trotting and then jogging or yogging I’m not entirely sure how you pronounce it. And then before you know it I’ll be doing the Speight's Coast to Coast and drinking bone broth and throwing tyres over the house for fun, instead of drinking wine and falling off of barstools. And looking after my children, of course.
I’m worried that for me, activewear will be more than just a pair of tracky pants with sauce on them, an that one day I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll be wearing leggings with a pink and purple star system on them, fluoro running shoes and a hoodie, my hair in a messy bun that doesn’t look like I slept in it and I’ll be just glowing with rude good health. Glowing with it.
And I’ll start posting inspirational things on the Facebook and then doing hot yoga and liking it and sweat will be something to be achieved, rather than endured and hidden. And instead of watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey I’ll not even watch the telly, I’ll just be using my blender and putting pictures of chia seed bhudda bowls on pinerest.
Have a great morning everybody!!!
Now, I am aware that this doesn’t make any sense.
It began when I realised that I didn’t care how much it hurt, I wanted to have this Monkey the old fashioned way – out the front door rather than through the sunroof, as I’d had to use the sunroof last time.
And so when those two blue lines appeared on the stick and I’d stopped screaming and apologizing to the wine glasses all I could think about was how I’d get to dig in and give it another crack and finish the job. I would think this with grim satisfaction, like someone in a gritty action film after they destroy a perfectly good small city.
How this has mixed itself up in my head with unwittingly becoming an extreme sportsperson is a mystery, but you’re listening to a woman who has woken up the last few nights in a row with the plot to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban running through her head. I’ll wake up and my brain says “Finally! You’re up! So anyway, Ron breaks his leg being dragged down to the shrieking shack by a big dog” and I think aah. This is why I used to drink.
I suppose I’m concerned that all this gung ho, push it out, the gas is enough attitude will translate to going for long walks once the Monkey gets here, as I am seriously finished with being a big waddly article that gets a sore leg like an old person if I stand up for too long. Then from walking I might start trotting and then jogging or yogging I’m not entirely sure how you pronounce it. And then before you know it I’ll be doing the Speight's Coast to Coast and drinking bone broth and throwing tyres over the house for fun, instead of drinking wine and falling off of barstools. And looking after my children, of course.
I’m worried that for me, activewear will be more than just a pair of tracky pants with sauce on them, an that one day I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll be wearing leggings with a pink and purple star system on them, fluoro running shoes and a hoodie, my hair in a messy bun that doesn’t look like I slept in it and I’ll be just glowing with rude good health. Glowing with it.
And I’ll start posting inspirational things on the Facebook and then doing hot yoga and liking it and sweat will be something to be achieved, rather than endured and hidden. And instead of watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey I’ll not even watch the telly, I’ll just be using my blender and putting pictures of chia seed bhudda bowls on pinerest.
Have a great morning everybody!!!
A crafty solution to Invercargill's vibrant search
We're huge fans of a zesty pale ale here at McCarthy Media and Communications.
In fact, we think a lot of the world's problems could be solved sitting round with a glass of room temperature Panhead Supercharger (or the like) in hand.
We recently went to a Panhead-tasting evening at Invercargill's Level One (which has a very nice range of craft beers) and marvelled in an evening of malty, hoppy deliciousness.
Our host for the evening, Big Kev Downie, gave out the sobering statistic that craft beer accounted for just 2% of beer consumption in New Zealand, while accounting for 13% of revenue.
So, not many people are drinking craft beer, but the margins are good - because it's quality, and not pigswill.
The pleasing thing is that people's palates are changing, and more and more are enjoying the elements of a good beer - whether it's the raspy punch of some hops, the warm embrace of malt or something altogether more exotic like the sourness of a fruity beer.
We like to do a bit of research (just a little bit), so checked out the 2% figure - and according to the ANZ the craft beer market actually accounts for 15% of beer consumed in NZ (up from 9% three years ago).
The difference in the figures may come down to the definition of craft beer - as some of the big breweries have their own "craft beer" labels, such as Boundary Road, but are not really (in our opinion) craft beers. Maybe someone wiser than us can elaborate.
Craft beer and culture have a lot more in common than a consonant.
The craft beer market is symbolic of a more mature and discerning society in which people are less accepting of mediocrity.
And that's where craft beer can play a major part in adding vibrancy to Invercargill.
Look at Wellington, or any other city where the craft beer phenomenon has exploded. There's little bars and big bars, but they all seem to have one thing in common - they offer something more than some sugar-laden lolly water optimistically labelled as "beer".
The beers and the breweries each have a story - some of the micro-breweries have their own bars - but regardless, an independent spirit helps make the places great. The beer becomes part of the conversation rather than some mindless mood enhancer, glugged down without a thought. (Yes, we know Panhead's been bought by Lion, but the marvellous thing is another Panhead will pop up, and Lion would be silly to mess with its winning formula).
We're hoping great things are on the way - imagine if the city had a reputation as a hub for micro-breweries and brew pubs to complement the pioneering marvellousness of Invercargill Brewery
The world, New Zealand included, is marching on in terms of hospitality trends, and Invercargill has as much opportunity as anywhere else to embrace the craft phenomenon and the vibrant cultural benefits it brings.
In fact, we think a lot of the world's problems could be solved sitting round with a glass of room temperature Panhead Supercharger (or the like) in hand.
We recently went to a Panhead-tasting evening at Invercargill's Level One (which has a very nice range of craft beers) and marvelled in an evening of malty, hoppy deliciousness.
Our host for the evening, Big Kev Downie, gave out the sobering statistic that craft beer accounted for just 2% of beer consumption in New Zealand, while accounting for 13% of revenue.
So, not many people are drinking craft beer, but the margins are good - because it's quality, and not pigswill.
The pleasing thing is that people's palates are changing, and more and more are enjoying the elements of a good beer - whether it's the raspy punch of some hops, the warm embrace of malt or something altogether more exotic like the sourness of a fruity beer.
We like to do a bit of research (just a little bit), so checked out the 2% figure - and according to the ANZ the craft beer market actually accounts for 15% of beer consumed in NZ (up from 9% three years ago).
The difference in the figures may come down to the definition of craft beer - as some of the big breweries have their own "craft beer" labels, such as Boundary Road, but are not really (in our opinion) craft beers. Maybe someone wiser than us can elaborate.
Craft beer and culture have a lot more in common than a consonant.
The craft beer market is symbolic of a more mature and discerning society in which people are less accepting of mediocrity.
And that's where craft beer can play a major part in adding vibrancy to Invercargill.
Look at Wellington, or any other city where the craft beer phenomenon has exploded. There's little bars and big bars, but they all seem to have one thing in common - they offer something more than some sugar-laden lolly water optimistically labelled as "beer".
The beers and the breweries each have a story - some of the micro-breweries have their own bars - but regardless, an independent spirit helps make the places great. The beer becomes part of the conversation rather than some mindless mood enhancer, glugged down without a thought. (Yes, we know Panhead's been bought by Lion, but the marvellous thing is another Panhead will pop up, and Lion would be silly to mess with its winning formula).
We're hoping great things are on the way - imagine if the city had a reputation as a hub for micro-breweries and brew pubs to complement the pioneering marvellousness of Invercargill Brewery
The world, New Zealand included, is marching on in terms of hospitality trends, and Invercargill has as much opportunity as anywhere else to embrace the craft phenomenon and the vibrant cultural benefits it brings.