Freud’s Last Session - (in cinemas)

September 3, 1939. The world is on the brink. A monumental session with two of the greatest minds of the twentieth century over the future of mankind and the existence of God.



Atlas - (Netflix)

A brilliant data analyst with a deep distrust of AI finds it may be her only hope when a mission to capture a renegade robot goes awry.

LISTEN ABOVE

Freud’s Last Session - (in cinemas) 
September 3, 1939. The world is on the brink. A monumental session with two of the greatest minds of the twentieth century over the future of mankind and the existence of God. 
 
Atlas - (Netflix) 
A brilliant data analyst with a deep distrust of AI finds it may be her only hope when a mission to capture a renegade robot goes awry. 
LISTEN ABOVE

Jack Tame’s crisp perspective, style and enthusiasm makes for refreshing and entertaining Saturday morning radio on Newstalk ZB.

News, sport, books, music, gardens and celebrities – what better way to spend your Saturdays?

Jack Tame’s crisp perspective, style and enthusiasm makes for refreshing and entertaining Saturday morning radio on Newstalk ZB. News, sport, books, music, gardens and celebrities – what better way to spend your Saturdays?

Jack Tame’s crisp perspective, style and enthusiasm makes for refreshing and entertaining Saturday morning radio on Newstalk ZB.News, sport, books, music, gardens and celebrities – what better way to spend your Saturdays?

Saturday Morning with Jack Tame

Francesca Rudkin: Freud's Last Session and Atlas

Te Puke has its kiwifruit. Ohakune, the giant carrot. 

Given the extent to which I’ve droned on and on and on and on about it this year, you’d barely bat an eyelid if you were to pull up at my place sometime soon, only to discover I’d erected an ostentatious 7-metre high fibreglass pomegranate in my front yard. 

It’s been a journey for all of us, this pomegranate. 

Truth be told, when my mates bought me a pomegranate shrub as a housewarming gift three years ago, I didn’t really expect it would ever have fruit. I’m not a very handy gardener. The soil at my place is the gluggiest clay. And besides, I’ve never seen a fruiting pomegranate tree in my life, let alone in New Zealand. 

But the pomegranate didn’t just take. It flowered in its first summer. And the next. Just one or two bright-red, delicate, pear-shaped little flowers at the end of its spindly branches. It grew taller, more confident and established. And when my wife asked that I move the tree to make way for a new gate, I waited until late Autumn to give it the best chance of surviving, carefully dug up its root ball and found a spot in the northern-most corner of our property. 

I thought that’d be it. The move would put it back for a few years. But I returned from a week away over summer and could barely suppress my delight. The pomegranate had flowered and the flower had been pollinated. Like a green little tomato perched right at the very top of the tree, my pomegranate had its first fruit. 

Since then, it has been a fastidious operation. Every Monday morning, I’ve fed my plant a combination of citrus fertiliser and worm juice. I’ve fought off ants and other insects whom I worried might be burrowing in and ransacking its lustrous little pearls.  

As summer has passed and the single fruit has grown weightier, I’ve become increasingly concerned about the structural stability of the whole affair. Imagine an orange hanging off one of the weaker parts of a Christmas tree. It felt almost like it might snap off. With the help of our nine-year-old, I took some twine and jerry-rigged a make-shift support. The pomegranate kept growing. 

Having the nine-year-old involved has been a big part of my fun. After all, the reason my friends bought us a pomegranate shrub and not a feijoa or a lemon tree is that my wife is Persian. Pomegranates originate on the Iranian plateau. As much as molasses might be a staple in Ottolenghi recipes, pomegranates will have been a treasured fruit for generations of our children’s ancestors.  

As our single red globe has grown larger over the last few months, the nine-year-old has begun touring visiting friends and family through the northern corner of our property. Here is the basil. Here is the spinach. Here is our family’s pomegranate. 

Outside of the kids’ ancestry and the exoticism of its origin, the simplest justification for our pomegranate obsession is that gardening is fun. Or if not fun, relaxing. I’ve really come to savour it. Even if I’m just weeding or cleaning up dead leaves and scraps, I find if surprisingly nourishing to go outside, chuck on a podcast, and potter about with my hands in the dirt. 

One thing I’ve learnt though is it’s hard to know when to pick a pomegranate. There are YouTube clips and various online explainers, but colour isn’t the only indicator. Shape is even more important. Boxy is good. You can flick it and try to judge the sound. Several listeners have emailed me to warn that although pomegranate plants at their places did manage to grow fruit, the fruit never fully ripened. They couldn’t get it sweet. 

On Monday I finally pulled the trigger. One swift cut, through the stem. The family gathered around the dining table for the moment of truth. 

I sliced through the membrane and oxblood-coloured juice spilled out over the bench. I pulled apart the fruit and scooped the little rubies into a bowl. Together we each took a spoonful. 

“Whatever this tastes like,” I said. 

“I don’t think we’ve yet got a commercially viable crop.” 

We drew the spoons to our lips. It was tart. It was tangy. It was sweet. It was delicious. 

Te Puke has its kiwifruit. Ohakune, the giant carrot.&nbsp;
Given the extent to which I’ve droned on and on and on and on about it this year, you’d barely bat an eyelid if you were to pull up at my place sometime soon, only to discover I’d erected an ostentatious 7-metre high fibreglass pomegranate in my front yard.&nbsp;
It’s been a journey for all of us, this pomegranate.&nbsp;
Truth be told, when my mates bought me a pomegranate shrub as a housewarming gift three years ago, I didn’t really expect it would ever have fruit. I’m not a very handy gardener. The soil at my place is the gluggiest clay. And besides, I’ve never seen a fruiting pomegranate tree in my life, let alone in New Zealand.&nbsp;
But the pomegranate didn’t just take. It flowered in its first summer. And the next. Just one or two bright-red, delicate, pear-shaped little flowers at the end of its spindly branches. It grew taller, more confident and established. And when my wife asked that I move the tree to make way for a new gate, I waited until late Autumn to give it the best chance of surviving, carefully dug up its root ball and found a spot in the northern-most corner of our property.&nbsp;
I thought that’d be it. The move would put it back for a few years. But I returned from a week away over summer and could barely suppress my delight. The pomegranate had flowered and the flower had been pollinated. Like a green little tomato perched right at the very top of the tree, my pomegranate had its first fruit.&nbsp;
Since then, it has been a fastidious operation. Every Monday morning, I’ve fed my plant a combination of citrus fertiliser and worm juice. I’ve fought off ants and other insects whom I worried might be burrowing in and ransacking its lustrous little pearls. &nbsp;
As summer has passed and the single fruit has grown weightier, I’ve become increasingly concerned about the structural stability of the whole affair. Imagine an orange hanging off one of the weaker parts of a Christmas tree. It felt almost like it might snap off. With the help of our nine-year-old, I took some twine and jerry-rigged a make-shift support. The pomegranate kept growing.&nbsp;
Having the nine-year-old involved has been a big part of my fun. After all, the reason my friends bought us a pomegranate shrub and not a feijoa or a lemon tree is that my wife is Persian. Pomegranates originate on the Iranian plateau. As much as molasses might be a staple in Ottolenghi recipes, pomegranates will have been a treasured fruit for generations of our children’s ancestors. &nbsp;
As our single red globe has grown larger over the last few months, the nine-year-old has begun touring visiting friends and family through the northern corner of our property. Here is the basil. Here is the spinach. Here is our family’s pomegranate.&nbsp;
Outside of the kids’ ancestry and the exoticism of its origin, the simplest justification for our pomegranate obsession is that gardening is fun. Or if not fun, relaxing. I’ve really come to savour it. Even if I’m just weeding or cleaning up dead leaves and scraps, I find if surprisingly nourishing to go outside, chuck on a podcast, and potter about with my hands in the dirt.&nbsp;
One thing I’ve learnt though is it’s hard to know when to pick a pomegranate. There are YouTube clips and various online explainers, but colour isn’t the only indicator. Shape is even more important. Boxy is good. You can flick it and try to judge the sound. Several listeners have emailed me to warn that although pomegranate plants at their places did manage to grow fruit, the fruit never fully ripened. They couldn’t get it sweet.&nbsp;
On Monday I finally pulled the trigger. One swift cut, through the stem. The family gathered around the dining table for the moment of truth.&nbsp;
I sliced through the membrane and oxblood-coloured juice spilled out over the bench. I pulled apart the fruit and scooped the little rubies into a bowl. Together we each took a spoonful.&nbsp;
“Whatever this tastes like,” I said.&nbsp;
“I don’t think we’ve yet got a commercially viable crop.”&nbsp;
We drew the spoons to our lips. It was tart. It was tangy. It was sweet. It was delicious.&nbsp;

Jack Tame: The first pomegranate

https://api.omny.fm/orgs/7784f840-c291-422a-924b-ad9000bbad71/clips/1be6dfd2-1e76-4387-9203-b452016a7636/transcript

He’s been described as “the John le Carré of his generation” and a “megastar of the genre”. 

British spy writer Mick Herron has earned millions of fans around the world and delighted critics with his thrilling plots, rich characters, and dry humour.  

He’s won dozens of awards for both his Slough House series, his stand alone works, and his short story collections, and ‘Slow Horses’ and ‘Down Cemetery Road’ have both been adapted to the screen. 

Herron’s on our shores for the Auckland Writers Festival, in which he’ll introduce the latest addition to his iconic series, ‘Clown Town’, set during the height of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. 

‘Slow Horses’ was originally released in 2010, and wasn’t particularly successful, especially when compared to the acclaim both the book, and Herron's work as a whole, now holds.  

Herron told Jack Tame things changed one day at a time, so it doesn’t feel like that big of a difference. 

“It was a low slow process, and it’s one in which, I mean, my part in it has been that every – well, most days, not every day, most days I just sit down and get on with the book that I happen to be writing.” 

“Everything else goes on around me really,” he told Tame. 

He attributes his success to his publishers, the people working in marketing, those who run festivals, and so on. 

“I just respond to invitations and very happily turn up.”  

Over four million copies of his books have sold around the world, but Herron isn’t quite sure what it is about his work that people connect with so much. 

“I don’t intend to investigate it too closely,” he said. 

“It’s a feeling that if I did, I might break something without meaning to.”  

“I just carry on doing what I’m doing and hope I’m doing it right ... I just do what I’ve always done, which is write the novel that’s inside me that I need to write.” 



LISTEN ABOVE 

He’s been described as “the John le Carré of his generation” and a “megastar of the genre”.&nbsp;
British spy writer Mick Herron has earned millions of fans around the world and delighted critics with his thrilling plots, rich characters, and dry humour. &nbsp;
He’s won dozens of awards for both his Slough House series, his stand alone works, and his short story collections, and ‘Slow Horses’ and ‘Down Cemetery Road’ have both been adapted to the screen.&nbsp;
Herron’s on our shores for the Auckland Writers Festival, in which he’ll introduce the latest addition to his iconic series, ‘Clown Town’, set during the height of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.&nbsp;
‘Slow Horses’ was originally released in 2010, and wasn’t particularly successful, especially when compared to the acclaim both the book, and Herron's work as a whole, now holds. &nbsp;
Herron told Jack Tame things changed one day at a time, so it doesn’t feel like that big of a difference.&nbsp;
“It was a low slow process, and it’s one in which, I mean, my part in it has been that every – well, most days, not every day, most days I just sit down and get on with the book that I happen to be writing.”&nbsp;
“Everything else goes on around me really,” he told Tame.&nbsp;
He attributes his success to his publishers, the people working in marketing, those who run festivals, and so on.&nbsp;
“I just respond to invitations and very happily turn up.” &nbsp;
Over four million copies of his books have sold around the world, but Herron isn’t quite sure what it is about his work that people connect with so much.&nbsp;
“I don’t intend to investigate it too closely,” he said.&nbsp;
“It’s a feeling that if I did, I might break something without meaning to.” &nbsp;
“I just carry on doing what I’m doing and hope I’m doing it right ... I just do what I’ve always done, which is write the novel that’s inside me that I need to write.”&nbsp;

LISTEN ABOVE&nbsp;

Mick Herron: British spy author on writing, his success, and new novel 'Clown Town'

https://api.omny.fm/orgs/7784f840-c291-422a-924b-ad9000bbad71/clips/563e2574-d497-424c-a72d-b44c0023c0d0/transcript

What does the phrase “doing the edges” mean to you? 

Most people would think either of assembling the outside of a jigsaw puzzle, or cleaning up and trimming around the edge of your lawn. 

And while Kevin Milne understands the purpose of one of those, he doesn’t quite get why people bother with the other. 

LISTEN ABOVE 

What does the phrase “doing the edges” mean to you?&nbsp;
Most people would think either of assembling the outside of a jigsaw puzzle, or cleaning up and trimming around the edge of your lawn.&nbsp;
And while Kevin Milne understands the purpose of one of those, he doesn’t quite get why people bother with the other.&nbsp;
LISTEN ABOVE&nbsp;

Kevin Milne: Why "doing the edges" doesn't make sense

https://api.omny.fm/orgs/7784f840-c291-422a-924b-ad9000bbad71/clips/a5d8f7ff-b9ae-408d-b026-b44c001d409f/transcript

Francesca Rudkin: Freud's Last Session and Atlas

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