Most folk will not have heard of a publication called Sport, now 25 years old. Despite its name it has nothing to do with sport, rather the title is consistent with pop groups and the like, of giving themselves silly appellations, usually in lieu of merit.
In fact Sport is a 280-page literary annual, thus it's better described as a book. It publishes New Zealand writers' and poets' efforts, and the reason most readers will not have heard of it is its minuscule 300 sales. But its publisher, Fergus Barrowman, has declared it will have to close because Creative New Zealand, as the former Arts Council now unnecessarily calls itself, has cut its annual subsidy of $5000. That's not a misprint. This publication's life apparently hangs on a mere $5000.
Eleanor Catton, who recently snared $105,000 for winning the Man Booker Prize for her doorstopper novel, plus a great deal more from the sales generated by this success, has condemned this funds withdrawal, as has successful novelist Emily Perkins. "So sad," Emily said, concluding, "It's hard to believe. It's such a part of our landscape."
Like Emily, I'm incredulous about this, only my disbelief is why if it's so sad and so important doesn't she and Eleanor chip in the lousy five grand to keep it going? But, of course, that would be totally un-New Zealand in which a corrupting pervasive culture of dependency and entitlement reigns large. Eleanor and Emily plainly feel no moral qualms in expecting all New Zealanders, who, 300 excepted, have absolutely no interest in this publication, to nevertheless subsidise the 300 who do, to the tune of $10 each, so as to read it.
In financial terms this is trivial. But the same bludging rot permeates all levels of our society. Scarcely a day passes when I don't receive a letter seeking money for someone's private pursuit. Recently, I received one from a small South Island township's bowling club, which town I've passed through briefly once in my life, seeking $50,000 to re-do their greens.
