This morning I was taking part in a focus group relating to the culture within an organisation I’m involved with. Said organisation is very monochromatic and primarily made up of people much like myself – middle-aged, white, male. In this session, many of my colleagues opined that our organisation is inclusive, diverse and safe. I piped up, asking them to look around the (virtual) room and pointing out that the monochromatic nature of the attendees was a pretty good indication that it was none of those things. As someone who would like to consider himself an ally to those who don’t feel represented, I thought it was my place to say those words.
So it might come as a surprise that someone who considers themselves a proponent of a more inclusive world should also mourn the loss of one of the individuals in New Zealand least focused on these topics, Bob Jones.
Bob Jones is dead, and with him dies a particular kind of honesty that once had a place in public life. He certainly wasn’t the last blunt man in New Zealand, but he might’ve been the last one people couldn’t cancel, mute, or ignore. It’s easy now to list his controversies, his court cases, his provocations. But what matters more is what those things pointed to: a man utterly unwilling to pretend. Bob Jones lived without the mask most of us wear.
For decades, Jones said things you weren’t supposed to say – about politics, about race, about work, about gender, about almost any sacred cow put in front of him. He didn’t hedge. He didn’t workshop. He didn’t wait for the wind of opinion to blow before he spoke. He simply said what he thought, and then stood there, watching the fallout, arms crossed and with his pipe firmly placed between his lips.
And it wasn’t just for effect. Jones didn’t provoke to build a brand; he provoked because he didn’t see the point in lying. He had no interest in being liked. What he wanted, it seemed, was clarity – and that meant saying what others only muttered behind closed doors. His honesty wasn’t always elegant, in fact it was rarely so, but it was never insincere.
This made him dangerous in today’s cultural landscape. We’ve entered an age where language is endlessly polished, intentions pre-cleared, and opinions passed through five layers of PR. Jones wrote like a man alone in a room with a typewriter and no filter. Because that’s exactly what he was. Whether blogging or in interviews, his prose was short, sharp, and unbothered by the consequences. He said the things that everyone else’s lawyers advised them not to. He was the epitome of an angry old white man, but arguably for more defensible reasons than most.
Of course, plenty found him offensive. He expected as much. There were court cases. Boycotts. Open letters. He kept going. Jones knew that being provocative and being wrong are not the same thing. Sometimes he was wrong – bluntness isn’t a shield from critique. But he never committed the cardinal modern sin: pretending to believe something because it was more polite.
And that’s the real loss. It’s not just that Jones had controversial opinions. It’s that he was unapologetic about having any opinions at all in a time when public figures increasingly deal in vagueness, in signals and nods and euphemisms. He said things straight. And while the content of his opinions could (and should) be debated, the way he expressed them had a kind of integrity that’s vanishing.
His brand of candour is not just unfashionable – it’s becoming culturally unacceptable. Today, provocation is equated with cruelty, and bluntness mistaken for hatred. Jones was rude, often. But not malicious. And he understood something vital: that discomfort is not harm, and that society needs people willing to make us uncomfortable if we ever want to tell the truth about ourselves.
In many ways, Bob Jones was a throwback – not to a better time, but to a rawer one. He came from an era when people didn’t need permission to speak plainly, and didn’t confuse civility with silence. He didn’t ask, “Will this get me in trouble?” He asked, “Is this true, and is it worth saying?” That calculus made him a pariah to some and a breath of fresh air to others.
His death should make us ask whether our culture can still tolerate people like him – people who don’t speak the language of apology, who don’t run their thoughts through focus groups, who aren’t trying to be palatable. Because without voices like his, we may be left with only the acceptable, the pre-approved, the branded and the bland. And with that vacuum, we make space for neo-fascists with evil ulterior motives.
Bob Jones never wanted to be a role model. He’d probably scoff at the idea. But in his obstinate, irritating, provocative way, he reminded us that free speech is only meaningful when it includes speech that makes us bristle. That truth, when it’s spoken out loud, often sounds like a slap. And that sometimes, the only honest thing left to say is the thing no one wants to hear.
Say what you will about Bob Jones. He always did.
