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Trenchant Vituperation of N.Z. Masculinity

—without editorial blessing

Being a young women extensively travelled who has men men of all types and nationalities, I feel I am well suited to give an opinion of the males of this country. It should be quite clear to any woman with the slightest glimmering of intelligence or fastidiousness that there is something very radically wrong.

The majority are so repellent that one is prejudiced in the first place; only a very few can talk intelligently without being conceited; the rest so nauseatingly egotistical that they would make any self-respecting woman sick on the spot.

The average New Zealand male looks like a cross between Herr Goebbels and the Apeman, anyone having the slightest claim to good looks automatically having spectacles or false teeth. Their mentality varies, of course, but as a general rule conceit is directly proportional to the degree of intelligence and pleasantness of appearance.

But it is when these young men are drunk that words really fail me. Never have I seen more disgusting sights in my life than at one of these New Zealand parties. Never have I seen a more degrading and revolting exhibition than that given by a young New Zealander at a very correct and proper cocktail party a short time ago. Young men in this country seem to go to parties with one thing in mind. Not to meet interesting people, not to talk intelligently, not to dance, but to get through as much beer as is humanly possible, and then to get rid of it all over the floor.

Is it fair. I ask you, that the young New Zealand women should be saddled with these slobbering apes and grotesque caricatures of a God-patterned being? It is very sad indeed to see lovely girls enduring these men. If they—the girls, had ever met men from other countries they wouldn't have anything to do with these youths. They are fundamentally talkers. It provides an outlet for their smutty little minds to be able to indulge in grandiose talk about the more fundamental things of life, but I guarantee you that a German corner boy, age fifteen, could knock spots off our students.

It is a well-known fact among the more worldly women "in the know" that out of eighty-six boys at Weir House only three have the beginnings of a polished technique.

I can't give you any more criticism than I have already, and how you make out depends on you, and you alone. As a bit of vague advice try to combine the charm, low cunning and fatal fascination of the polished German, with the warmth and passion of the Irishman and the tact and Innate good taste of the Englishman. How you make out depends on yourselves alone, and not on what anyone says or does to you.

You're not quite past hoping for . . . but, oh . . . so very nearly!!!