TVNZ Reveals The Host Of The Chase New Zealand
Press Release – TVNZ
Across four prime-time specials, Paul will guide contestants through the ultimate battle of brains as they face off against the Chasers in a thrilling, high-stakes test of knowledge and nerve.
Broadcasting legend Paul Henry takes on the role of host of TVNZ's The Chase New Zealand, bringing his trademark energy and charisma to the iconic quiz show. Across four prime-time specials, Paul will guide contestants through the ultimate battle of brains as they face off against the Chasers in a thrilling, high-stakes test of knowledge and nerve.
Known for his sharp wit and banter, Paul started his television career as the game show host of Every Second Counts on TVNZ, and in 2024 won bronze at the New York Festivals TV and Film Awards for best host for his work on The Traitors NZ.
'I had absolutely no hesitation in saying yes to hosting The Chase New Zealand. What kind of crazy fool would turn down an opportunity to host the most popular game show in the world?
'People might see a slightly different side to me in The Chase, I will really be wanting my teams to win, and I can be enormously charming when I put my mind to it' says Henry.
The Chase New Zealand specials will follow the popular long-running original format, with 16 New Zealanders showing off their general knowledge prowess during the Cash Builder rounds, in the hope of winning a substantial cash prize in the Final Chase.
The Chase New Zealand's premiere will be announced at a later date.
TVNZ commissioned ITV Studios Australia to produce the four-part specials. The Chase New Zealand makes it an incredible 22 countries where ITV Studios' renowned The Chase format is produced.
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‘Out of this world': Becky Manawatu on the Blackball Readers and Writers Festival
Blackball Readers and Writers Festival might be the smallest festival of its kind in New Zealand, restricted to just 50 guests. Writer Becky Manawatu was among them. Festival organiser Paul Maunder sits opposite esteemed guest, award-winning poet and national taoka Tusiata Avia. He describes how she 'burst onto the scene' with Wild Dogs Under My Skirt. Avia grins, and replies, 'Like out of a cake. At a bachelor party, sort of thing, Paul?' The crowd of readers and writers filling every seat in the classroom at Blackball's primary school roars with laughter – and one of the tones for what will be one of the most memorable literary festivals of my life is set. Over her 90-minute session Maunder prompts Avia to read poem after poem, the pair traversing the whenua of her career like giants on a Pacific journey – Paul citing landmarks, pointing to the next destination, the poet animating them. The result is hypnotising. Everyone is here for it. Between poems there's short commentary on craft and writing. Politics. She takes a chance to acknowledge activist and national organiser of Halt All Racist Tours, John Minto, who is among the crowd. In miserable contrast, David Seymour's name comes up. 'Aww, bub,' she says, reading one of her poems in response to his vitriol against her. Afterwards there is homemade baking, including a mind-blowing pumpkin spice cake and a ripper ginger crunch. People spill out of the classroom, make cups of tea, grab feijoas from the box offering them. 'Enjoy those,' one attendee says to me as I fill Avia's purse with fruit. 'They're under threat because of that disease.' Myrtle Rust. The festival is magic, uplifting, of course, but there is – given its theme: the role of the writer in a time of crisis – a sense of urgency. Not even our feijoa are safe. The readers come to hear what we have to say for our roles as writers, and respond to many problems presented by lifting their hands and yelling out – 'So, what can we do? When should we march? Who should we confront?' There's a sense of urgency met with a desire for action. There are calls for bravery, love, compassion and fight in equal measure. Prolific author Mandy Hager offers some practical advice while on the panel examining the writer's role in a time of crisis: Find, engage in, and lean on community; and importantly, make a submission on the regulatory standards bill. 'It's evil,' she says. Journalist Rebecca Macfie calls cynicism lazy and passive. This resonates with the audience. I know this because I'm told so several times by members who think that I said it. I thank those people on Macfie's behalf so as not to make anyone feel awkward. It is, after all, one of the most intense literary festivals I have ever been to. United we stand. A coalescence of all the words said as if they've been dropped into a witch's cauldron. It is a festival virtually impossible to dip in and out of. The conversations come in waves, the next arriving before we make it to shore. The format mirroring the same potent and hypnotising format of Avia's session. Gluing us to our seats, making the seven layers of my own skin lift – ever so slightly – away from each other. Several times over the weekend, in an effort to ground myself, I take the risk of turning my head to watch the rain pattering on the classroom window, and look at the mist covering the forest on the foothills of the Paparoa Ranges. (Will I be told to 'pay attention please, Becky?') We're on a class trip together. Only it's more akin to those from one of my favourite childhood books: The Magic School Bus. Destination: the human conscience – in crisis. I have my five-year-old niece along for company. She's a hero and an emblem. She sits in on almost every session, joins us for each hot meal (lunch and dinner is provided for all attendees, both days) which parades an abundance of potatoes, swathed in butter or roasted. Beans and lentils, creamy cajun sauce. Pork belly. She sits in on a moving poetry reading by Kāi Tahu poet and award-winning musician Ariana Tikao. The event is made by an undercurrent of taonga pūoro pulling our senses further towards the acuity of her kupu. She reads a poem which will be included in her upcoming collection Pepeha Portal. The poem, 'Settling', is dedicated to Palestinian Bilal Saleh who was shot in the chest by an Israeli settler while harvesting his olive trees in the occupied West Bank. The poem asks in refrain and double entendre, 'Is this settling?' Over the weekend my niece entertained herself, listening and tattooing te Rā onto the palms of people's hands in blue biro. Minto sat next to her and pointed out a large mural of the solar system spread across the back of the classroom wall. 'What's your name?' she asked. 'John,' he said. 'Hello John.' She turned to publisher Mary McCallum. 'Mary, this is John.' Paul Maunder played Lego with her on the floor during one session; Tusiata applied lip-gloss onto her lips. Mandy played countless games of trickery with her which involved the hiding of notepads and pens beneath large bowls. Mary brought Gavin Bishop's Hinepau to read to her. The festival moved beyond being a class trip and soon felt more like a noho marae, only by night we were dotted about Blackball in various accommodations. Mary, Mandy, my niece Ariah and I stayed at the Brian Wood cottage. It had a fire, heaters in each room, almost a dozen hot-water bottles, a large claw-footed bath, a bucket to catch pesky drips from the ceiling and a morning view of the hills from the window above the kitchen sink. We found coffee, vegetable soup, bread, eggs, wine. Landfall Journals and a book of interviews on women writers in New Zealand including Keri Hulme, Rachel McAlpine and Patricia Grace, which I read of a night thanks to an auspicious lack of wifi. My niece called it our 'pretend home' in this 'other world.' Several young readers were part of the crowd, which was limited to 50 people. Greymouth High students came flanked by two dedicated teachers. One teenager took an opportunity to admit to the room that fear of failure caused them problems with turning in assignments. I got sad about that, for them. James Norcliffe's session was encouraging and down to earth. The award-winning writer read from his young adult book The Crate in which four teenagers experience the most terrifying night of their lives beside a West Coast lake. Interviewer Katrina Brown said, 'Thank you. We don't read aloud enough to each other. I was taken back to my school days.' Novelist Saige England's session with Ariana Tikao included a microphone debacle which made for a theatrical start. Once resolved, England hauled the bus quickly around the funny-bone bend to share some of her research for her historical novel, The Seasonwife, which examines grotesque colonial violence. 'The abduction of women in the Pacific was rife.' She read correspondence between rich murderers trading in body parts. She told the audience these read like, 'Hey, killed someone last night. I have a head for sale if you are interested.' When buying heads became illegal it just bumped up the price. Later in another session England shared details of her writing life. Up at 4am each morning to begin! She needs a fire, hot water bottle and pets around. 'And I've got my beautiful man. I've gone through my Heathcliff phase, and here I am.' A poem, really. Iona Winter was there. She read a new poem, published in Tarot – a journal of poetry for Aotearoa. The poem 'Confessions of importance' examines her grief after losing her son, Reuben Winter, to suicide. It describes survival in this tino pōuri stanza: Face outward to go in – return to a body that craves sunshine in its bones, when death has rechartered the map of you People cried as she read and continued to cry well after she finished. Poet and novelist Majella Cullinane was beamed in via Zoom to speak about Meantime, her 2024 poetry collection that reflects on the loss of her mother to dementia during the pandemic. I saw people happy, and belly-laughing and people grief-stricken throughout the weekend. They'd come to the school near the foothills of the Paparoa Ranges to seek answers, to close ranks. They'd come to be sure they were not alone in this time of crisis. You couldn't have felt alone, it was a hybrid of class trip (all aboard the geeks, no bullies) and wānaka. The books there were being sold as sort of an afterthought. There was no rushing authors to the tables for sales and signings. After each session there was a strange feeling – almost awkward, in a good way I suppose – of having to carry on sitting together. Kōrero mai, grab a cuppa, a bit of slice and get your arse back in your seat for the next. Back at our cottage one evening I mentioned a woman at the festival who seemed very heartbroken. My five-year-old niece asked, 'Do you mean the woman with the beautiful long black hair?' Āe, tamahine. Tamariki are always listening, always watching. One morning after my car failed to start and we were running late, I ran towards the road hearing the sound of a Blackball's morning traffic – a lone vehicle – and I thrust my thumb out. A silver sports car pulled over. The woman with the 'beautiful long black hair' opened the door. On the passenger's seat I saw evidence of an artist. Wood, feathers, stone, a felt hat. 'Becky,' she said with a bright smile, and wet eyes. She took my breath away and in a flash of silver she boosted Mandy to the festival, while Mary, Ariah and I ambled down Main Road, waiting for rescue. Several minutes in, my niece said, 'We've been walking for hours.' 'Yes,' I said. Maybe we have. I hoped the woman with the beautiful long black hair found something at this intimate and intense festival to buoy her up, some wisdom in the wānaka, a sense of community in a time of crisis. Ngā mihi maioha to the organisers and people of the Blackball Readers and Writers Festival, it was out of this world.
