What was I Thinking
Martin Doyle
What was I Thinking
By Paul Henry
364 pages
Published by Random House
RRP: $39.99
Reviewed by Martin Doyle
IN a country where none of our media can correctly pronounce the names of either the All Blacks or the Silver Ferns, it always seems odd that we had such a feeding frenzy over the way Paul Henry pronounced the name of an Indian politician, Sheila Dikshit. To many people, the way he said it (like ‘dick shit’) seemed offensive, so many of our newsreaders mispronounced it to make it sound ‘nicer’. As Paul Henry points out in this book, they were wrong; he was right.
He also discusses his comments to the Prime Minister regarding our Governor General. In some ways, both these dramas now seem like storms in a teacup, but they attracted so much heated controversy (and cost Henry his job) that there is sense in revisiting the topic. Henry does it very well, too, and you can hear his voice talking as you read: simple, personal, honest in tone.
Most of the book, though, is like a chatty autobiography. I actually found it incredibly refreshing. I’d gone into it with that image of him chattering like a gormless monkey on TV, but came away with a sense of a humble man prepared to open up about his life, family, and personality.
It’s gut-wrenching to read about his visit back after several decades to the dingy flat he and his solo mother lived in in Bristol, and what he found. There’s something there New Zealand could learn from. The book succeeds in revealing ‘what he was thinking’, and thinks, and it should be compulsory (though entertaining) reading for all members of the lynch mob. They got the wrong man.
By Paul Henry
364 pages
Published by Random House
RRP: $39.99
Reviewed by Martin Doyle
IN a country where none of our media can correctly pronounce the names of either the All Blacks or the Silver Ferns, it always seems odd that we had such a feeding frenzy over the way Paul Henry pronounced the name of an Indian politician, Sheila Dikshit. To many people, the way he said it (like ‘dick shit’) seemed offensive, so many of our newsreaders mispronounced it to make it sound ‘nicer’. As Paul Henry points out in this book, they were wrong; he was right.
He also discusses his comments to the Prime Minister regarding our Governor General. In some ways, both these dramas now seem like storms in a teacup, but they attracted so much heated controversy (and cost Henry his job) that there is sense in revisiting the topic. Henry does it very well, too, and you can hear his voice talking as you read: simple, personal, honest in tone.
Most of the book, though, is like a chatty autobiography. I actually found it incredibly refreshing. I’d gone into it with that image of him chattering like a gormless monkey on TV, but came away with a sense of a humble man prepared to open up about his life, family, and personality.
It’s gut-wrenching to read about his visit back after several decades to the dingy flat he and his solo mother lived in in Bristol, and what he found. There’s something there New Zealand could learn from. The book succeeds in revealing ‘what he was thinking’, and thinks, and it should be compulsory (though entertaining) reading for all members of the lynch mob. They got the wrong man.
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