Another Great Divide

A couple of days ago, Bastille Day in fact, I observed that it was 31 years since the Fourth Labour Government swept into power with a landslide victory. It was never boring, I cheered. Don't remember Labour cheering the 30th last year. Mind you, Cunliffe was in charge and Dagg knows where his head was at.

This year's Labour model appears to be terminally dog-locked to NZ First strategy. Way they're going, I wouldn't put it past Winston to attempt a reverse take-over. There can be only one populist on this pulpit, and the old werewolf knows his pressure points better than any of Labour's front row on the subject.

But you can't run a major party on that platform. The many hands of activism make Labour's light work. That's the crux of labour versus capital right there. You reckon Bob Jones spends his evenings cold calling party supporters to run some lines past them? Nah, fuck that. Here's $25,000.

As last year's electoral returns showed, Labour wasn't exactly getting showered with sponsors and patrons. They were outspent by the Nats and the Greens. Colin Craig even gave them a run for their money, if not in the spend per vote stakes. The unions short-changed the party in meagre donations yet somehow managed to wedge in a union-based leader, president and chief of staff.

So bit by bit, Labour continues to fight in ever diminishing circles, with an inexorably decreasing base to defend. It might yet disappear up its own fundament, sharting on the hard work of Labour luminaries such as Walding, Clark and company whilst doing so.

NZ First's Next Prosser-cution

It is no surprise Winston Peters is reluctant to let Richard Prosser quit Parliament. Horan's already making a mockery of whatever passes for NZ First's List selection process. To lose one MP is unfortunate. To lose two would be careless.

The wily werewolf must be incandescent with rage at his fat-headed sidekick. Every word that Prosser utters is one soundbite Peters isn't using to attack the government, indelibly inking his schtick as NZ's populist conservative.

To think it all started out over a pocket-knife confiscation that wasn't. I have been in similar circumstances with airport security theatre. Like Prosser, I also have vented on the matter. Unlike Prosser, it never once crossed my mind to impugn an entire religion because of it.

Come to think of it, replaying it in my head, so to speak, I wouldn't be surprised if this was Prosser here:

The Auckland Airport security lady, who went into great swathes of busyness checking the specific blade length on my standard issue Swiss MacGuyver knife, was almost enough to set me off into official complaint mode. "I've got into Parliament with that," I said to ignorant response. She needed to consult a bigger ruler, she said. So much for one size fits all, eh.

Some poor bastard and his missus were having similar but different problems with security. They were about as out-of-type for terrorists, domestic or foreign, as Tama Umaga batting for the Black Caps. Still, some trivial slight had to be enquired upon them. Your tax dollars at work.

If it was him, I'm glad I could assist in Prosser's political comeuppance. The really interesting question is which NZ First MP will be the next to go off the reservation. My money's on Andrew Williams or Denis O'Rourke.

Sound of Silver

The 2011 election result officially salutes the continuing rise of the gerontocracy. How else could an old stick in the mud like Winston Peters get 8 MPs? Expect to see more spending cuts across the board under Key 2.0, with the exception of the self-interested silver vote. Their loudmouth champion is back in the House.

Dying away? Yeah right, John.

Down in flames

Is Winston Peters the McCain of net etiquette? Direct mail with websites made with the recipients' names in the address has sent out around the country. Not content with pissing off the Electoral Commission, the police and the SFO, Peters is so desperate for attention, he is risking the wrath of the Privacy Commissioner too.

Will Winston Peters be the first ever NZer to be sued to death?

Donde esta la chopper?

Bad Bad Bad

Have a look at TVNZ7 at 8's interview with Prof Nigel Roberts on the Peters mess:

"By New Zealand standards, I thought we shouldn't have (the Foreign Minister investigated by the SFO). On the other hand, by international standards, it's probably not unusual... But it makes us look tawdry. It makes us look, dare I say it, Third World."

Mocking Winston

They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. `What is his sorrow?' she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, `It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!'

So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing.

`This here young lady,' said the Gryphon, `she wants for to know your history, she do.'

`I'll tell it her,' said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: `sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished.'

So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, `I don't see how he can even finish, if he doesn't begin.' But she waited patiently.

`Once,' said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, `I was a real Turtle.'

These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of `Hjckrrh!' from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, `Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,' but she could not help thinking there must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing.

`When we were little,' the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, `we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--'

`Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked.

`We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock Turtle angrily: `really you are very dull!'

`You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,' added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, `Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!' and he went on in these words:

`Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--'

`I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice.

`You did,' said the Mock Turtle.

`Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on.

`We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--'

`I've been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; `you needn't be so proud as all that.'

`With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.

`Yes,' said Alice, `we learned French and music.'

`And washing?' said the Mock Turtle.

`Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly.

`Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. `Now at ours they had at the end of the bill, "French, music, and washing--extra."'

`You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; `living at the bottom of the sea.'

`I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. `I only took the regular course.'

`What was that?' inquired Alice.

`Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle replied; `and then the different branches of Arithmetic-- Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.'

`I never heard of "Uglification," Alice ventured to say. `What is it?'

The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. `What! Never heard of uglifying!' it exclaimed. `You know what to beautify is, I suppose?'

`Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: `it means--to--make--anything-- prettier.'

`Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, `if you don't know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton.'

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said `What else had you to learn?'

`Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, `--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.'

`What was that like?' said Alice.

`Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: `I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.'

`Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: `I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, HE was.'

`I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: `he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.'

`So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.

`And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.

`Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: `nine the next, and so on.'

`What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.

`That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.'

This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. `Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?'

`Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle.

`And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly.

`That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: `tell her something about the games now.

- nicked from here.

Rodney Returns

There's a cartoon in the Backbencher of Richard Prebble's mad dog persona ripping the flesh off someone's calf. That tenacity to bite and not let go quality. It's good to see Rodney's return to form then, taking on Winston and, possibly, winning.

Colin Espiner gives Rodney his due, going where the big parties are too lame-arse to go (I'm reasonably certain Colin has used my Hi de Hi metaphor for commercial gain without attribution and therefore is fined a bottle of cabernet merlot as retribution).

A rather large penny has fallen after reading Duncan Garner's blog, what with the SFO having powers to open the disused file in the lavatory in the basement with no stairs guarded by a sign that says Beware of the Leopard. The Spencer Trust could be exposed to daylight and then the fun really begins.

You just got my vote, Rodney.

Invisible Ink

After revelations yesterday that Owen Glenn had given money to Winston after all, we handed the No placard to some scientists to examine.



Using single malt spectrometry, scientists uncovered the placard's hidden message:



And how about this: "He turned to the woman but the woman had gone." Spooky or what?

The Werewolf Goes Down

The villagers were up in arms with torches and pitchforks. The werewolf had been cornered in a disused moonshine hut, after biting off more than he could possibly chew. It wasn't so bad in the past, when he took off with the occasional chicken, or the stray lamb or mutton. Doing him in was not worth the trouble.

But now, he'd gone too far. He had crossed the line when he nicked the town baubles. Then he started pissing on people. "The law only applies to mere mortals and not werewolves. Let supine lupines be," said he.

One night, while the woman combed the hair on his back, the werewolf got a phone call. "Start running, mate. The dogs have got your scent and they're coming for you."

"Who is this? Who's coming for me?" said the wolf with a fangled snarl.

"Everyone, mate." says the voice. "They've had a gutsful." The line went dead.

He smelled them before he heard them. Soot and sweat and the cthonic pong of dogs. He heard their yells of disgust, their tales of woe. He turned to the woman but the woman had gone. The people banged on the the doors, smashed the windows.

"Wait," sez the wolf. "Why don't we ban violent video games? Nothing wrong with Monopoly and horse races!"

"You've bent the rules too often!" said one old pensioner waving his walking frame in anger.

"I gave you a SuperGold card!" said the wolf in disbelief.

"Why would I want 10 percent off a water taxi in the South Island, when I can't afford to feed my budgie at home in Greerton?" The walking frame bounced off the wolf's head and into the fire.

Just then, a bicycle courier turned up. "Wait! Wait! I have an important message!" He gets the wolf's paw print and hands him an envelope. The wolf tears it open with his teeth.

"The dog pound has revoked my licence, those good for nothing morons."

A cheer went up amongst the throng.

"But I will go peacefully," said the wolf.

A cheer again.

"To somewhere where my skills are appreciated. I've been made ambassador to North Korea."

A Dolphin flashlight glanced his cheek and into the fire.

Minista Non Grata

Well, Winston's done it this time. Dagg knows, Labour have bent constitutional conventions like Uri Geller spoons this term, but it takes Winston to break 'em. Unlike the invented-for-Winston post of Treasurer back in the Nat government, Foreign Minister bears some responsibility.

While Colin Espiner was ambivalent on which way Winston was gonna go this morning, his bro correctly called it last Friday on Breakfast's Week in Politics segment. It's 2008 Groundhog Day with Winston. Evil hordes of yellow slanty-eyed devils will ransack our manufacturing sectors, rape the mothers of this nation, walk the streets with impunity, steal Kiwi jobs in authentic Guangdong cuisine. You must have seen this Peter Brown moment from W3 by now, surely.

This is all very well and good for a party which specialises in yanking people's xenophobia chain. I do not agree with it, but one has a right to express it. NZ First's leader, no matter how misguided in his logic and naked self-serving needs, can spout whatever he likes to squeeze some votes. However, it is not a position that can be afforded to a Minister of the Crown.

We're not talking Women's Affairs here either, but the onerous position of representing this country abroad; Foreign Minister. It goes beyond the loose collective responsibility of a caucus, beyond the discipline of cabinet decision-making. For good or ill, the Foreign Minister tows the executive line. Always. Lange as PM overrode cabinet to his, and his government's, peril.

If Peters remains as Foreign Minister, continuing to diss the China FTA to all and sundry abroad with "could do better" snarks, he is acting contrary to his oath to protect New Zealand's interests as expressed through the executive and legislature. Worse still, he is diminishing the position of Foreign Minister, losing face to our international peers. He's a joke, we're a joke. Foreign Minster or NZ First leader, time to choose.

Throw him to the Tasmanian Devils

I have been leaked the list of charities that NZ First will be giving the taxpayers the party's $158,000 to:

Crayfish And Shellfish Hunters
Campaign Against Support Hose
Carol's Abode for Senior Hookers
Canterbury Aplasia Sufferers' Helpline

Interview with the Werewolf

Wednesday will be interesting. Winston Peters returns to the country and the peasants are revolting. Well, the press gallery is. Finally. After much prodding and ribbing from the blogosphere. Wednesday is the day that we find out if the werewolf still has it in him. Journos beware. One cannot let one's guard down to this political animal.

For starters, it would help get your facts straight from the get-go. Loose use of figures might be OK for the public, but it takes a steady aim to hit the werewolf where it hurts. The donation is not "$100,000," as Audrey Young is tossing around. It might be, but that bit of gossip is not out in the public domain yet. Retro MP Dail Jones said between 10 and 100K, closer to 100K. That narrows it down to anywhere between 55 and 100K.

The only categorical statements from Winston so far is that he has denied that the cash came from Owen Glenn, and that Dail Jones is completely wrong. Reckon he won't have too much difficulty with either point.