November 19, 2025
There’s no such thing as a 1000-year event. Not anymore. Climate change has put a stop to that.
Mother Nature can unleash her fury anytime she wants. She’s a volatile beast. In the women’s lib movement, Mother Nature would top the list.
So, it’s just a coincidence last the recent weather bomb occurred 50 years after the ‘big blow.’ Many Mid Canterbury residents will recall the nor-wester from hell that struck the eastern South Island on August 1, 1975.
Officially it was a twister that began in the upper reaches of the Rakaia and Rangitata Rivers and tore Canterbury apart. It damaged buildings, uprooted trees, disrupted communications and roads, stopped trains and caused power outages.
It wasn’t the best day for hairstyles. Bald became beautiful and John Davidson’s toupees resembled a liberated bird’s nest that had spiraled upwards and out to sea.
I was reminded of a good friend, Bruce Warwick, now in care, who lost his hair piece coming off an Air New Zealand plane at Wellington airport. It was wet and windy and Bruce was almost blown skywards. His toupee certainly was.
He called it Charles the Rug, and it flew off his head and cascaded up the tarmac.
Bruce chased it, bringing the whole airport to a standstill. Incoming flights had to circle again because of the crazed man on the runway. Eventually he picked it up but Charlie “was never the same.” It was wet, bristly and full of debris.
After many unsuccessful attempts to wear it, Bruce finally donated it to the local operatic society.
I was working for TV One in Christchurch at the time of the big blow. Our office Holden had just been fitted with power steering, and we set off to film the destruction. Holding the wheel was like steering the Titanic after it hit an iceberg.
I remember the uprooted trees in the domain near the corner of Wills and West Streets. Their roots resembled a large alien bottom and threatened the ducks in the pond. But, as far as I know, they weren’t down in the mouth.
The anus from Uranus was still lying there when I became Guardian editor in 1978, a testament to what happened three years earlier. Later, as a member of the Mid Canterbury Community Arts Council, I commissioned wood turner, John Millichamp, to craft a lectern from one of them, before it became firewood. It was presented to the district council. I don’t know if it still exists.
There’s something cathartic when you can fashion beauty from a disaster.
Two years before the big blow came the big heat. It was an intensely hot day fanned by a strong wind and caused the South Island to boil over.
On February 7,1973, the nor-wester and summer heat saw temperatures rise to over 40 degrees in Canterbury.
Experiencing extreme heat and damp armpits, Ashburton reached the national record of 42 degrees. What an achievement without air conditioning.
But, after about an hour, it was snatched away by Rangiora that recorded 42.4 degrees. Local residents felt cheated.
I was sent with Margaret Moth to a blaze near Rangiora. Margaret, a legendary camerawoman, was like a moth to a flame. She loved them. Her initials were MGM, which stood for Margaret Gypsy Moth.
She only wore black and the make-up she applied on Monday was caked on and touched up all week.
The wind was gale force and I had to anchor her at the corner of a building while she peered around it. The flames came directly at us, but she couldn’t steady herself to film them. She would have been blown away.
With my arms encircling her, Margaret took some incredible footage. That was her skill, she was fearless. At home afterwards, it was difficult to explain that hugging a woman’s back was all in a day’s work.
Margaret went on to become a courageous war correspondent and tragically was seriously wounded and disfigured in sniper alley, Sarajevo.
The film she shot that day was superb. By travelling the world, she became a gypsy, never a moth, more like a butterfly. RIP Margaret.
By Malcolm Hopwood
There’s no such thing as a 1000-year event. Not anymore. Climate change has put a stop to that.
Mother Nature can unleash her fury anytime she wants. She’s a volatile beast. In the women’s lib movement, Mother Nature would top the list.
So, it’s just a coincidence last the recent weather bomb occurred 50 years after the ‘big blow.’ Many Mid Canterbury residents will recall the nor-wester from hell that struck the eastern South Island on August 1, 1975.
Officially it was a twister that began in the upper reaches of the Rakaia and Rangitata Rivers and tore Canterbury apart. It damaged buildings, uprooted trees, disrupted communications and roads, stopped trains and caused power outages.
It wasn’t the best day for hairstyles. Bald became beautiful and John Davidson’s toupees resembled a liberated bird’s nest that had spiraled upwards and out to sea.
I was reminded of a good friend, Bruce Warwick, now in care, who lost his hair piece coming off an Air New Zealand plane at Wellington airport. It was wet and windy and Bruce was almost blown skywards. His toupee certainly was.
He called it Charles the Rug, and it flew off his head and cascaded up the tarmac.
Bruce chased it, bringing the whole airport to a standstill. Incoming flights had to circle again because of the crazed man on the runway. Eventually he picked it up but Charlie “was never the same.” It was wet, bristly and full of debris.
After many unsuccessful attempts to wear it, Bruce finally donated it to the local operatic society.
I was working for TV One in Christchurch at the time of the big blow. Our office Holden had just been fitted with power steering, and we set off to film the destruction. Holding the wheel was like steering the Titanic after it hit an iceberg.
I remember the uprooted trees in the domain near the corner of Wills and West Streets. Their roots resembled a large alien bottom and threatened the ducks in the pond. But, as far as I know, they weren’t down in the mouth.
The anus from Uranus was still lying there when I became Guardian editor in 1978, a testament to what happened three years earlier. Later, as a member of the Mid Canterbury Community Arts Council, I commissioned wood turner, John Millichamp, to craft a lectern from one of them, before it became firewood. It was presented to the district council. I don’t know if it still exists.
There’s something cathartic when you can fashion beauty from a disaster.
Two years before the big blow came the big heat. It was an intensely hot day fanned by a strong wind and caused the South Island to boil over.
On February 7,1973, the nor-wester and summer heat saw temperatures rise to over 40 degrees in Canterbury.
Experiencing extreme heat and damp armpits, Ashburton reached the national record of 42 degrees. What an achievement without air conditioning.
But, after about an hour, it was snatched away by Rangiora that recorded 42.4 degrees. Local residents felt cheated.
I was sent with Margaret Moth to a blaze near Rangiora. Margaret, a legendary camerawoman, was like a moth to a flame. She loved them. Her initials were MGM, which stood for Margaret Gypsy Moth.
She only wore black and the make-up she applied on Monday was caked on and touched up all week.
The wind was gale force and I had to anchor her at the corner of a building while she peered around it. The flames came directly at us, but she couldn’t steady herself to film them. She would have been blown away.
With my arms encircling her, Margaret took some incredible footage. That was her skill, she was fearless. At home afterwards, it was difficult to explain that hugging a woman’s back was all in a day’s work.
Margaret went on to become a courageous war correspondent and tragically was seriously wounded and disfigured in sniper alley, Sarajevo.
The film she shot that day was superb. By travelling the world, she became a gypsy, never a moth, more like a butterfly. RIP Margaret.
By Malcolm Hopwood
