We’d like to thank Bob.
In the darkness of the Covid lockdowns and jab mandates, your work offered hope to Kiwis.
This clip is taken from Bob's live show, Art-Pocalypse
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Transcript:
We had our baby, Roberta.
I was very happy, even though I was no longer sure about the ways of the world she was born into.
What could I do to change things?
Ten years ago, our first daughter, Poppy, was cut out of my wife's body in less than three minutes.
She wasn't breathing.
She was resuscitated, made one tiny noise as I held her hand, and disappeared into intensive care.
I hated myself.
The brain injury she suffered left her with cerebral palsy and epilepsy.
I'd known something was wrong, but I didn't want to be seen as difficult.
I didn't want to seem like a troublemaker.
I should have torn the roof off that place.
I didn't even stand up and speak out.
My reticence almost killed my child, and she will suffer her whole life because of my cowardice.
Watching this tiny, fragile creature battle against impossible odds was truly humbling.
All she knew was struggle and pain, but she didn't give up, even though she had every reason to.
Every force was against her.
I told her that I understood how hard it would be for her to stay with us, but I promised her that if she did, I'd never let her down like that again.
I promised her she'd be loved, and I'd buy her a pony.
I need to buy her a pony.
Something else happened though, that complicated things.
I hated myself.
I hated everything about myself.
I hated my art.
Here was my baby, facing the biggest battle imaginable, and I couldn't help her because I'd spent my life learning how to draw silly pictures of stupid people.
What good was that now when it really mattered?
A dark and terrible force had come to claim my daughter, and I was armed with nothing but a 2B pencil.
All I offered the world was frivolous distractions, fleeting smirks destined to be yesterday's news.
I carried on because I can't do anything else, but I couldn't believe what I did had meaning after that.
Now, Poppy was eight.
I had three children.
She was suffering again.
She hadn't seen a consultant in over a year.
Her mobility was declining.
She was having seizures.
She didn't understand why she couldn't go to school.
She couldn't understand people speaking to her in masks.
I hadn't stopped anything.
It was May 2021, and we were still locked up.
A young mother in our town was paralyzed after the Pfizer jab.
My godmother Judith died ten days after the AstraZeneca jab.
And these injections were going to be given to children.
I was lost in the horror.
Then people started writing to me.
They told me I made them feel they weren't alone.
They said I'd kept them sane.
They told me their stories.
A man said I saved his marriage.
Others found the courage to be with their parents as they died.
A woman planned to kill herself until she saw my couple on the hill.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I wasn't empty-handed this time.
This strange, niche thing that I could do might be exactly what people needed.
It might be what my children needed.
It might be what all these children needed.
Because these malevolent forces are coming for them.
That 2B pencil suddenly felt like a weapon, and it was time to use it.
Bob Moran - The Man With The 2B Pencil