Brian Rudman: Brit fantasy to Hollywood action spin

Those Americans certainly know how to kill a mood. Here we all were wallowing in a week of nostalgia when suddenly, wham bam, Osama is dead, cowering in his final moments from the wrath of God US style behind his wife.

Or so says a White House spokesman.

On reflection, perhaps, in this "Now" world, Osama is such a yesterday's man that he fits quite easily into the world of nostalgia. Osama who? No doubt that's why the US spin machine is so keen to paint him as a cowardy custard, hiding behind his wife's skirts when American Justice swooped down.

As spin goes, I think I prefer the harmless British fantasy that two billion people - or just under a third of the world's total population - tuned into the royal wedding last weekend.

For me, the nostalgia began, New Zealand-style, with two ageing politicians, both past their "best by" dates, seeking reruns of last century's fights in a bid to revive fading careers. In Hone "Heke" Harawira's case, nearly two centuries - he wants a rematch of a scrap dating back to 1840.

A few months back, one of Mr Harawira's supporters at last weekend's launch of his new party tried to explain his motivation.

Academic Margaret Mutu said that many Maori "still feel a lot of hate, distrust and there's still a lot of hurt [about what] the Pakeha did to us".

Both Mr Harawira and Don Brash picked a bad week to dig up the past. Across the seas, our old imperial masters, now reduced to putting on ye olde costume drama on the grand scale, were all primed up to demonstrate how a trip down memory lane is really produced.

The local monarchists are talking up the widespread interest in the royal wedding here as a victory over republicanism. As one of the republicans, I would argue that beyond all the attractive glitter, the fascination was in the alien, antiquated nature of the monarchy that this event highlighted.

From the peasants who were graciously allowed to sleep in the streets for days beforehand to catch a glimpse of their betters trotting off to the ceremony, to the strictly hierarchical way the toffs patiently turned up at the Abbey to take their pews. Common celebrities and helpful tradespeople were bottom of the heap and had to be there at the crack of dawn, following, in strict time bands, up through the class hierarchy, diplomats, foreign royals, the minor British royals in mini-buses, and on to HM herself.

Then the upper crust of England all belted out that great 19th century imperial hymn, fantasising Britain as the new Jerusalem. The whole show has been compared to a Hollywood extravaganza, which is a bit mean.

This was a piece of imperial theatre that the Brits have been fine-tuning for centuries.

But theatre is the key word. And British. And quaint.

Almost as quaint as the gaggle of comics who popped on my television on Sunday on the NZ International Comedy Festival Gala, trying to outdo each other with the use of the F-word. American host Arj Barker started it and for the next two hours it became the word of the day. We heard it with an English accent, in Strine, in Kiwi, in American.

When I was a kid, the F-word really was the nuclear weapon of the boyhood vocabulary, so scary that you posted a lookout at the door before daring to search for it in the family dictionary. Those were the days when a swear word really made an impact.

I felt a little sorry for the comics, trying to shock and scandalise with a word that, like the aforementioned politicians, has rather lost its impact.

Perhaps they should have tried "rooted" - or should I say r**ted instead. Personally, I'd never regarded this R-word as high on the shock list for swear words. Not until Sunday morning on Nat Radio when Dianne Bardsley, director of the NZ Dictionary Centre at Victoria University, was discussing interesting usage of words associated with the Christchurch earthquakes.

She was more than happy to discuss "munted" but coyly couldn't bring herself to announce another word that she said had gained a certain currency as a result of the shakes. The professional lexicographer was in a quandary. As the official collector of words, she had a duty to reveal what was going on, but as a delicate flower, she wasn't going to say it out loud - not on Sunday morning wireless anyway.

So she compromised, and spelt it out, letter by letter: ROOTED. It took a moment for host Chris Laidlaw to summon up the courage, or work out what the letters spelt, before he spat it out.

Oh well, there's always Osama.