Now as my old man has already flogged my paper and the story isn’t online, perhaps a good question to kick off with would be why there is no policy in place for handing out grants (I can’t recall exactly what she said, but Cllr Dean was asking the question on the front page of the fish n chipper today).

Another good one might be how paying for the Buskers Festival quite fits with this worthy goal:

The Invercargill City Charitable Trust aims to provide welfare services to the people within the Invercargill district

Unfortunately I’m going to be at another insomnia cure, the Southland club rugby forum, but hopefully the Big Nipper will record it for me…..

…the Invercargill City Council also believes in transparency and open government…

Before last week, I had never heard of Billy Cundiff.  If anyone had asked me who he was I would have guessed a B-movie actor.

I found out all about him as the Baltimore Ravens missed their chance to go to the Super Bowl.  Playing against the New England Patriots, the Ravens found themselves with an opportunity to tie the game and send it into overtime with just seconds to go.

Step up Billy Cundiff, the Ravens’ designated kicker.  His job was to take a 32 yard shot at goal from out in front.

He has a career strike rate of nearly 80%.  He has also played for nine different NFL teams in 10 years (hmmmm).  Anyway, the ball came back, Cundiff ran in, and pushed it well to the left of the posts.

I watched it and thought “poor bastard” and headed back into the office.

Then social media feeds exploded.  His facebook page had such gems as “you should shoot yourself but you’d probably miss’, lots of references to sexual stuff, and one person saying he was waiting outside Cundiff’s house.  It got even worse, with the Ravens’ own online store selling Cundiff’s jersey with the the note “this will be delivered…to the house to the left of yours”.

Now Cundiff signed a $15 million five year contract last year, so while he will be down on it, the moment will eventually pass.  But the ferocity of the fan response left me speechless and a bit smug.

I talked to a mate about it and mentioned how it made us look like good sports.  He interrupted me and reminded me of the outpouring of hate after the defeat by France in the 1999 Rugby World Cup.  Players were threatened and abused, coach John Hart was spat on at Addington, and things got very out of hand.

We then went through a list and discovered we may be the worst losers in the world after all.  We can’t let it go.  Whether it is the All Blacks or some other poor unfortunate who happens to have got our hopes up only to dash them with a less than impressive performance (hi, Michael Campbell) we take it badly.

The advent of the internet and social media makes it worse, as things people would never say to someone’s face get spewed anonymously online.

Rugby players, to choose the most obvious target, get well paid to do their job.  But with that comes a public microscope that can be harsh and unforgiving on performance or lack thereof.

The emotional involvement of those watching doesn’t help either.

Passion can easily become hysteria.  Some of us forget that these guys aren’t going to save the world, create a vibrant and growing economy, or solve our law and order problems (some of them, in fact, add to our law and order problems).

They are just sports people.  They’re no more momentous than any movie star, and certainly don’t have the importance of say, your local GP.

Sport is a wonderful thing.  It can stir the spirit, put you on a high, or teach you a lesson.  As much as I love all (OK, nearly all) sport, it is not a panacea.  It is entertainment, and just like other forms of entertainment, some of it you are going to love, and some of it you aren’t going to enjoy so much.

The key is to remember that is all just a game.  Not life or death.  Unless you’re Billy Cundiff and that guy really is outside your house.

Normally I delete them straight away as $2 million hardly seems worth the effort.  To paraphrase the words of Manchester United genius George Best, I’d spend a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars and the rest I’d just squander.

But this joker, Mr Koloko, wants to give me 10% of $21 billion US.  Now that’s worth looking into.  I could buy Invercargill for $2 billion and have enough left over to concrete the whole place and turn it into a roller disco.  Where do I sign up?

East Tay Street is dying slowly.  It’s a badly kept secret that Outdoor World is about to be subsumed into H&J Smith’s mothership in Kelvin St, leaving a rather large hole in that side of the street.

An extremely large hole that could be a decent two-storey art gallery (been to the City Gallery in Wellington? – its floor space wouldn’t be much bigger on a floor by floor basis). Now Bob Each Way Boniface and One Trick Pony Ludlow will be dead against this.  They will say staffing costs will be enormous. (Fit out costs could be met by the gracious donation from the Smith coffers).

But here’s an idea.

Move the City Gallery there too.  Using their staff with a SMAG oversight role.

Now before Mrs Ferns of the Southland Art Society Council discovers the internet and gums me to death, this makes sense.

City Gallery gets a spot.  SMAG gets to do fixed and rotating displays of their collections.  H&J Smiths gets the naming rights to the Southland art gallery.  And Tay Street gets an attraction other than 17 year old beneficiaries rooting or fighting outside Living Space.

Tell me it’s a bad idea.