M.E.G.A. GETS SERIOUS!
WHERE IS THE DAYS BAY PLAN?
WHERE IS THE DAYS BAY PLAN?
Wellington has officially moved from Sky Stadium to HNRY Stadium.
HNRY................... Not Henry................... Not King Henry................ HNRY.
Somewhere in a newsroom right now, a subeditor is already warming up: “There’s a hole in the Bucket (Cake Tin), dear Liza…” The Cake Tin survives. Branding comes and goes. The nickname always wins.
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Meanwhile in Auckland, Eden Park continues to call itself Our National Stadium. Which is bold. Admirable. Slightly territorial. It’s the stadium equivalent of planting a flag in the front yard and announcing, “This is the capital now.”
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Down south, Christchurch’s shiny new cathedral of concrete and steel — One New Zealand Stadium — will open with corporate polish and earthquake-era redemption energy. And Dunedin’s loyal spaceship, Forsyth Barr Stadium, remains the only place in the country where you can watch rugby indoors and still feel slightly seasick.
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Here’s the real issue. Follow the touring maps. International artists increasingly hit: Auckland & Christchurch
And then… board the plane home. Wellington? Sometimes. Dunedin? Rarely.
This isn’t about infrastructure. It’s about ambition. Too many lazy routing decisions. Too many international promoters who look at a spreadsheet, not a map. Too many local promoters who don’t push hard enough, don’t aggregate dates creatively, don’t build compelling tour logic. If you can fly 12,000 km to New Zealand, you can fly 300 more to Wellington.
The public misses out. The regions miss out. The economic ripple vanishes.
And no amount of rebranding — HNRY, SKY, One NZ, or “Our National Something” — fixes that.
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The MEGA Take
Rename it whatever you want. The Cake Tin will always be the Cake Tin. Eden Park will always think it runs the country. Christchurch will sell the future. Dunedin will keep the roof on.
But if the tours don’t land evenly, we’re not a national circuit — we’re a two-stop shuttle. That’s not a branding problem. That’s a backbone problem.
Wellington’s South Coast has always had wind, salt spray and the occasional rogue seal.
Now it has 70 million litres a day of untreated sewage courtesy of the Moa Point wastewater plant having what officials politely call a “catastrophic failure.”
Catastrophic? That’s one word for it.
Locals call it: “throwing shit at the wall and hoping it fixes itself.”
Spoiler: it hasn’t.
Lyall Bay, Ōwhiro and Island Bay have been marinating in what can only be described as civic embarrassment soup. Surfers are checking bacteria levels like they’re studying for NCEA Chemistry.
Café owners are explaining to tourists that no, the smell is not “authentic coastal atmosphere.”
Meanwhile, Wellington City Council, Greater Wellington Regional Council and Wellington Water are engaged in the ancient art of Statement Tennis.
“We’re investigating.”
“We’re monitoring.”
“We’re sampling.”
“We’re reviewing.”
Translation: nobody’s paying anyone a cent.
Businesses along the coast are losing money by the hour. Residents can’t swim. Some suspect seepage is drifting into the harbour too, but reassurance has the firmness of a soggy Weet-Bix.
And the maintenance question? The big one?
Who didn’t maintain the plant properly?
Somewhere between the boardroom, the contractor, the asset manager and the spreadsheet, responsibility has apparently dissolved — much like everything else currently floating offshore.
This isn’t just infrastructure failure.
It’s a masterclass in how to turn a capital city into a case study in “Don’t Swim Here.”
Wellington wanted to be edgy. It didn’t need to prove it biologically.
Ferry Road has the same ingredients.
The only question is whether Council fixes it —
or waits for another apology.
Howard Point was the warning shot.
Ferry Road is the test.
The 2026 FIFA World Cup is heading to the United States, Canada, and Mexico — three countries who currently agree on football and almost nothing else.
On paper: massive stadiums, slick infrastructure, corporate dollars flowing like cheap beer.
In reality: a continental group chat that’s permanently on mute because everyone’s annoyed.
The USA: Home of the Free (With Documentation)
America has the stadiums. It also has visa queues longer than extra time. Between border politics, ICE headlines and the rhetorical fireworks of Donald Trump-era diplomacy (“shithole countries” diplomacy, anyone?), you do wonder whether some fans will need clearance from NASA just to attend a round-of-16 match.
Nothing screams “Global Unity” like secondary screening at Gate 12.
Mexico: Football Passion + Prime-Time News Anxiety
Mexico will bring noise, colour and football worship bordering on religion. It will also bring international headlines that make cautious tourists check their insurance policy twice. FIFA wants carnival atmosphere. Broadcasters don’t want ticker tape about cartels during halftime.
Security budgets are going to look like defence budgets.
Canada: The Responsible Adult in the Room
Canada will run its games beautifully, apologise for the weather, and politely ask everyone to calm down. Unfortunately, it cannot single-handedly stabilise an entire continent armed with maple syrup and good manners.
FIFA: Making the Beautiful Game Beautifully Expensive
And then there’s FIFA, the organisation that can turn a corner kick into a corporate hospitality tier.
Ticket prices are already hovering at “sell a kidney” levels. Hotels have discovered the magic of adding a zero. Airlines will charge you extra for breathing near the tournament. By the time you’ve bought a scarf and a lukewarm hotdog, you’ve basically invested in a timeshare.
“Football for the world” now comes with dynamic pricing.
So… Is It a Disaster Waiting to Happen?
Logistically? Probably not. These are rich nations with big stadiums and experience.
Politically? Volatile.
Financially? Extortionate.
Optically? Risky.
Atmospherically? Unpredictable.
This could be the greatest spectacle on earth — or the first World Cup where the most dramatic moments happen at immigration desks, hotel check-ins and diplomatic press conferences.
The football will still be brilliant.
But the tournament itself?
It’s got “group stage chaos” written all over it — and we haven’t even kicked off.
EASTBOURNE GETS AN EYE IN THE SKY
Good news: the Eastbourne-Bays Community Trust has given HCERT $14,000 for a reconnaissance drone.
Yes, a proper one. Not your neighbour’s toy buzzing over the BBQ.
When the next storm blocks the road or the sea decides to redecorate the coastline, HCERT won’t be guessing. The drone will assess damage, check flooded roads, scout the hills, and help spot anyone needing assistance — fast.
Our 24/7 volunteer legends will be fully trained and certified. No backyard aviation here. This is emergency response with altitude.
Smarter data. Faster decisions. Stronger coordination with Civil Defence, Fire and Wellington Free Ambulance.
Eastbourne now officially has an Eye in the Sky.
Big cities have helicopters.
We’ve got community funding — and propellers.
Right. So apparently history now comes with a receipt.
“Denmark only got to Greenland 500 years ago.”
Which is adorable logic from a country that’s been independent for about five minutes in geological time.
By that standard, the United States should immediately return itself to… well… awkward silence.
If 500 years is too recent to count, then 250 years must be a trial subscription.
It’s a bold new doctrine of international law:
Whoever got there “first enough” wins — unless someone louder wants it.
Greenland, meanwhile, is sitting there like the neighbour with a big backyard, watching two uncles argue about who owns the barbecue.
The absurdity isn’t geopolitical. It’s kindergarten-level.
“If you weren’t there first, you don’t get it.”
Careful. That rule has a long memory.
And history does not do refunds.
History suggests… pack a lunch.
First came the great coaching hunt of the Silver Ferns — a process so long it required hydration breaks, mediation sessions, three press conferences, and a public soap opera. It wasn’t a recruitment exercise. It was a Netflix mini-series.
Now we arrive at the temple of black jerseys — the All Blacks. Normally this is done in a quiet boardroom. A nod. A handshake. A polite leak to the Herald. Finished.
But no. This is modern New Zealand sport. We don’t appoint coaches anymore. We workshop them. We consult. We “take feedback from stakeholders.” We conduct reviews of reviews of reviews.
At this rate the next All Blacks coach will be selected via a six-month nationwide listening tour, a public submission portal, and possibly a Māori ward referendum.
The danger isn’t that NZ Rugby won’t find someone. They always do.
The danger is they’ll accidentally create a reality show:
“So You Think You Can Coach?”
Week 1: Tactical vision.
Week 2: Media resilience.
Week 3: Survive an ex-All Black on Newstalk ZB.
Grand prize: a nation that expects 100% win rate and calm humility at all times.
Will it drag out like netball?
Let’s just say this: if we’re still “reviewing the pathway forward” by Easter, don’t be surprised.
In New Zealand sport, the only thing we rebuild slower than coaching structures… is State Highway 2.
The Wellington Super City conversation is back.
Four councils eyeing merger. One region. One mega-structure. Endless consultants. Fewer local voices.
Which raises the obvious question:
what happens to the Eastbourne Community Board?
The ECB has long been Eastbourne’s official voice — passionately local, deeply committed, and armed with approximately the decision-making authority of a polite suggestion.
It already survived one extinction attempt.
But Super City logic is ruthless:
Big regions don’t like small governance layers.
Efficiency replaces identity.
Structure replaces locality.
Eastbourne risks becoming just another postcode on a regional map.
The ECB probably won’t die loudly.
No drama. No vote. No ceremony.
Just a quiet line in a restructuring report:
“Community boards no longer required.”
MEGA takeaway:
If Eastbourne wants influence in a Super City future, it needs guaranteed representation — not nostalgia for structures designed for a smaller political world.
Chef Gordon Ramswine
The pig with a palate sharper than his tongue. Known for turning slop into haute cuisine and never holding back on a fiery snort of criticism, Ramswine runs the kitchen like a battlefield. His signature dishes? Swine-dine perfection, seasoned with equal parts brilliance and barnyard bite.
Each month he delivers a new and original offering for you to try. If you like the dish then please let us know.
Gordon Ramswine’s Summer Cocktail Special.
By Chef Gordon Ramswine
The Cycleway Mirage
MEGA Feb 2026 Cocktail (summer): The Cycleway Mirage
A bright, coastal highball that starts innocent, then quietly bites back (like a council press release).
Election 2026: Same Arena. Louder Slogans. Hold Onto Your Wallet
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No messaging. No meaning. Just fun.
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