More nice tributes to Bob Jones
John Bowie has a great tribute to Bob Jones, that fans would enjoy reading. One extract:
He could be irascible, infuriating, and absolutely impossible to pigeonhole. One minute he’d be railing against the “tosh” of religious instruction -he once docked his daughters’ school fees to protest it- the next he’d be giving up his beloved fly fishing on the grounds of animal cruelty, lamenting that “they’re bloody well fighting for their lives, of course they put up a fight,” delivered with a desk-thumping gusto that could rattle the crockery
He funded legal campaigns for the wrongfully imprisoned in the Teina Pora case. He supported women’s refuges after being shocked by stories of domestic violence and in particular its effects on children, and handed out scholarships to daughters of refugees who filled his office foyer with hope and gratitude and went on to become doctors, lawyers, engineers.
Those who saw him as a right-wing, racist, misogynist were those who not only didn’t know him, but didn’t get him either. The failed attempts to strip his knighthood for his suggestion of a Māori Gratitude Day reflects on the woeful wokeness that created the emetic and clueless miserabilists who were ignorant of many things, including his work with oppressed and victimised segments of our society, particularly women and children.
He was a person whose generosity to family, friends and causes were many – but recognition for them was verboten.
No naming a charitable foundation after himself. He just wrote cheques and asked for nothing in return.
Tom Scott also shares his memories:
His passing brings back memories of the death of legendary, trail-blazing broadcaster Neil Roberts, another charismatic rogue with a pirate’s charm. The former head of TVNZ died from cancer in 1998. A bunch of us, including Bob, flew up from Wellington for the funeral staying in the same hotel. We gathered the night before in Bob’s suite for drinks. But instead of giving Bob a good listening to we listened to TVNZ chief political reporter, Richard Harman’s moving account of his final hospital visit to his old friend, leaning over his wasted body, pressing his ear close to Neil’s lips to hear his last whispered words. I wish I could tell you what those words were, but Bob, who was in serious attention deficit at this juncture, erupted angrily. “OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, HARMAN! WE ALL LIVE! WE ALL DIE! GET OVER IT!”
Bob’s death, while a shock, was not entirely unexpected – for most of his life he burnt millions of candles at both ends. There was no one else like him and there will never be anyone like him again, proof, if any were needed, that God doesn’t make the same mistake twice.
Definitely one of a kind.