KEY POINTS:
All was not well with the Timaru District Council back in 1999. There'd been a restructuring, you see, jobs redefined, positions reconfigured, all that standard managerial stuff, and everyone, especially the chaps in Animal Control, were feeling pretty dejected.
Everyone apart from the folk who'd devised the restructuring and even some of them were feeling a tad gloomy because they'd restructured themselves.
So the CEO at the TDC decided a morale booster was in order and organised a champagne breakfast, without champagne, of course, because the ratepayers would likely regard that as an unnecessary extravagance.
A venue was booked, a date was fixed - a Monday morning late in the year - and a speaker who, in theory, might gladden the hearts of those so recently restructured was approached.
"Could you come down and cheer up the dog chappies?" was the question posed. "Of course," replied the speaker, quickly negotiating a fee roughly equivalent to his latest speeding fine. "It would be a pleasure."
And so the die was cast. And the speaker packed his suit and his toothbrush and all the relevant information his caller had supplied and headed south to Timaru (incurring another speeding fine en route, it should be noted), only to discover, upon arrival in the Riviera of the South, an eerie air of Sabbath calm which utterly belied the reported turmoil in the council's ranks.
Nevertheless, the speaker had been assured the turmoil was real. And instructed that his challenge was to make light of it. Which he duly attempted to do.
Armed only with a takeaway meal of dubious nutritional value and such wits as he had about him, he began writing the all-important morale-boosting speech his client had commissioned.
Now, because breakfast functions tend to start at an inordinately early hour and because the speaker had a pathological fear of sleeping in, he decided it was best to stay awake all night, writing his speech in the inspirational stillness of the early hours.
Which he did, dozing occasionally sometimes upright, sometimes horizontal, but generally getting on with the job. Although, to be fair, there was a second reason for staying awake.
You see, at this particular time in 1999 there was a major event occurring, one that had galvanised the nation and sent many a journalist into hyperbolic overdrive.
Indeed, if memory serves, one of the Herald's own staff had already confidently instructed the powers-that-were to "prepare the tickertape now" because, no matter our opposition, we would be bringing the trophy home.
You've got it. The event in question was the Rugby World Cup. And the signs were looking good. No! They were looking magnificent!!! We only had to do the haka and the damn thing was ours!
Everybody knew that. Including the speaker who therefore concluded it would be a jolly good idea to watch the semifinal (scheduled to end just before the breakfast began) if only because, he reasonably concluded, most of the Dog Control Officers would be doing exactly the same thing and since the restructurees would be basking in the afterglow of a triumph supreme, it seemed sensible for the speaker to share their exultance.
So he watched the 1999 Rugby World Cup semifinal in his hotel room whilst writing his speech and for the first 60 minutes (or thereabouts) everything went absolutely according to plan and the game was in the bag.
Till those [expletive deleted] Frenchmen let it out. The gloom was palpable, the despair immense. And that was just the commentators. The poor old speaker was beside himself. "How the hell are we going to cheer anyone up now?" he raged in his solitary mausoleum.
Half an hour later, as the first of the Dog Control Officers morosely queued for their bacon and eggs, resembling nothing so much as a morbid line of pathologically depressed bloodhounds, his worst fears were confirmed. Heads down, shoulders drooped, they appeared absolutely inconsolable.
And for a time they were. Happily, the restructuring proved less frightful than feared and, one way and another, some cheer was raised, some smiles were shared and everyone went off to work with something vaguely resembling a spring in their step.
But the memory of that fateful day still haunts the speaker. It won't go away. It comes back , raw and painful, every four years. It was there in 2003 - most cruelly confirmed when Carlos threw that pass and burglar Mortlock scored - and it's here now, simmering under the surface.
Blimey, its bad enough having the PM left out in the cold by some Brown joker in Downing Street. It would be unthinkable to have the ABs left out in the cold by some scooty Bleu jokers in Cardiff!!!
So, lads, on behalf of everyone in Outer Roa - all those who've been restructured and all those who're about to be restructured and those who have to speak to them - wear whatever strip you like, play in Daniel Carter's Y-fronts if you wish, play Gordon Brown at fullback if you think he'll freeze the French, but please, please, please, please, please DON'T BLOW IT THIS TIME!!!!!!!!!!
