Mike's Minute (transcript) - by Mike Hosking

I see The Desperate Hyperactive Collective of Bonkers Housewives On Facebook have called me out over my Mike’s Minute earlier this month when I gave big ups to the Carter Couple for calling in the lawyers over photos taken without their knowledge and published in Women’s Day. "The anti-Mike Hosking"? Pfft.  Well thank heavens for that really, it means she thinks I am the opposite of being as mad as batshit.

As I said I did the same once over my children and I never took ‘it can’t be won’ for an answer I won the case all the way and all the big shot legal beagles now tell me it’s case law cited all around the world and used by celebrities, some even more famous than me when they want to protect their children from the glaring lenses of the paparazzi.

But the Desperate Hyperactive Collective of Bonkers Housewives On Facebook – oh hell my time is precious let’s just call them DHCBHOF, it’s also easier when your brain runs as rapidly as mine does and your mouth works on overtime I mean to say that’s what I’m paid megabucks for – took umbrage at my saying in particular that the women’s mags are vultures that prey on people for profit. 

Well they are.

Why get all weepy peepy about that? Unless you read this stuff for breakfast lunch dinner then after tennis cocktails then when you’ve picked up your little spoiled darlings from school? The DHCBHOF also got together on a thread – so I’m told I never stoop so low as to read this sort of thing, too busy you know what with my radio show, television show, cleaning the Maserati – and opined it was wrong for me to say one negative thing about these women’s magazines because my wife – yes my wife, writes for them. One of them. I don’t know which one, wouldn’t have a clue don’t allow them into the house. Rubbish. Only read Shakespeare myself – “A horse, a horse my kingdom for a horse!” except the car salesman silver-tongued me into a trident marque instead. Maybe the prancing horse next time.

Always fancied myself as Richard III.

Where was I? Oh yes, DHCBHOF. My wife. She can do what she damn well likes, write for whomsoever she likes. Nothing to do with me, so long as I can boot the damn arse out of whoever she likes. Boot so hard the sole imprints of my winkle-pickers will be branded on the arse cheeks of those magazine mastheads. As someone famous said. Can’t remember who that was so it can’t have been as famous as me. So you get my point don’t you – just because my wife writes for these people doesn’t mean, by the strange twisted non-logic of these DHCBHOF that I am biting the hand that feeds me, as they say.

Hilarious. Biting the hand that feeds me. Darlings, whatever my wife does for those publishers would never bring in enough to feed the hypothetical fleas on the backs of the hypothetical mice that might eat the hypothetical crumbs that might drop from the table at which we eat, if we eat at home. I say that because we never drop crumbs from our table. We are perfect.

So the point the DHCBHOF miss was children have rights. They don’t choose celeb parents. They have the right to be left alone – whether they are the offspring of Dan Carter or Nigel NoMates. I went all the way to the highest courts in the land to prove this and my case is cited by law lords all over the world (Ed - Yes we know, you keep telling us).

So just because DHCBHOF posts pictures of their own children all over Facebook or Instagram ad nauseum – own choice, accept that, no problems, each to their own, free country – that doesn’t mean we all want our own little brats to be admired and gooed over by all and sundry.

Anyway, there is no room for kiddy-pix: it’s all about me.

Editor's Note - Mike Hosking is taking over New Zealand media. All journalists turn green when his name is mentioned because he is eternally optimistic. He refuses to look on the dark side and never runs with the Press Gallery pack. For that reason alone he deserves a Canon Media Award – Courage in the Face of the Enema. 

The Soap Box - by Barry Soper

There should be a law against rich people going into Parliament it’s just not a good look with all these ordinary kiwis queueing up to buy a house in Auckland or a holiday house on the waterfront at Omaha and then they can’t because some former Forex trader who decides he wants to be Prime Minister has thought he’d always lead the country right from when he first dated his meek and mild and ever loving little wife has already paid top dollar for them and you can bet your sweet house in Hill Street if you used to own one that he wasn’t wearing his outfit bought from Williams & Kettle.

So we now have the rich prick boy who is still wet behind his ears but the son of the Prime Minister frolicking around the sands and the rocks at their American paradise with his bimbo girlfriend in her short short shorts and some kind of ear-splitting music in the background and you can bet this didn’t get paid for out of a paper round and running errands for the neighbours because where these elite come from the neighbours don’t even step next door to admire the Goldie paintings.

The point I’m trying to make in case you’re wondering is these are no longer the children of the Prime Minister when they start wearing slices of orange and apples and strawberries instead of clothes and pink hair so they are fair game because they don’t have student loans interest free courtesy of the rest of the country which they are struggling to pay off and it’s not a good look to be living in Paris when other poor struggling artists in Auckland at Elam can’t even buy their own home because the city is over run with Chinese.

It’s all Michele Boag’s fault. The political technocolour dreamcoat, then National's anointment queen, phoned him after the millennia parties and through a Dom Perignon haze, he thought he was hearing things. The shrill voice was telling him to come back home, give up his international lifestyle, and become our Prime Minister

Don’t accuse me of the politics of envy I go to Bali on a scooter I know luxury I’ve got a devoted wife I know what fizz tastes like too and don’t tell me I don’t know how to write good grammarly either because I’ll go all red in the face and my voice will go up an octave or three.

I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been in the Press Gallery longer than anyone. I can remember back further than you, John Armstrong. I can remember when Duncan Garner and Guyon Espiner were in the Press Gallery so don’t tell me I’m going senile.

I met the new Northland MP today – he looked vaguely familiar – Mr Peters I think his name is. He smelled familiar too, sort of smokey. He called me Squeaky and said: “Nowlookheregetouttamyway” and “WhydonchagettadecentsuitSonny?”

Mumble, fffftt, errrggh. I remember a lovely Prime Minister she never mocked my voice she said she’d love to have a high-pitched voice. What was her name? Heather? Hazel? Hilary? I just called her Mummy.

Editors note - Barry Soper has been a New Zealand political journalist for longer than he can remember, and has been featured regularly on radio and television. Currently, Soper's main role is political editor at Newstalk ZB. He is easily excited, more-so now he is married to Heather du Plessis Allan, a woman of shameless self-promotional abilities. Earlier this year, in Indonesia, Barry metaphorically ‘punched the shark’ when a cop who tried to bribe him. Well done Bazza

Green Goddess - by Wendyl Nissen

Hello, me again, the Supportive Wife, eco gal, Stand By Your Man, Eternally lovely Person.

Now. If you want to get those windows sparkling clean and save the Planet at the same time, because we do want to be Eco Friendly don’t we, because This Government, and that Silly Man John Key the Ponytail Puller is doing nothing about it, then do I have the answer for you? Yes I do. The last time I gave birth was 16 years ago and I have all these unused sanitary pads lying around, with sticky on one side so here’s what you do. You attach the sticky side to your hand, and rub, rub, rub all over the windows in your lovely wooden villa and there you have nice clean windows, then you can donate the pads to the poor.

Most families I know are struggling to cut costs, like us, so here’s some more of Wendyl’s helpful hints for cutting the monthly bills to clothe the family and look smart at the same time!

1. You can make a stunning dress out of chux biodegradable multicloths. I buy the giant size and stitch them all together, and they just waft around, multicolours, hanging off the waist area – think new age hippy and you’ll get the general idea. Easy!

2. Stuck for warm trousers? Easy! Sew up the neck of those old jerseys and Far Out! You have yourself a pair of skinny jeans except they are warm and made of wool. Eat your heart out, YSL! Do we recycle, or do we recycle?

3. Finally (in the haute eco department) stop paying huge prices for underwear – it’s a rip off and contributing to climate change. You want to save the polar bear? Here’s how. Wait outside your local hospitals – private or public – and when they remove the surgical waste, just burrow through until you find those surgical panties they make patients wear when they go into theatre. Honestly, such dreadful waste! Only worn once and then tossed away! No wonder Mother Earth is dying under all this crap!

Reader Letter of the Week:

Dear Wendyl, My husband has been sending poetry to his press secretary Rachel. He admits this was ‘inappropriate’ but says no sexual relationship took place. Should I stand by my man? Helen.

Dear Helen, If this is the third time he’s a real dick. However, anyone can live with a dick head if it means fabulous holidays in Venice, and not putting your kids through the shame of being raised by a solo parent. On the other hand you could bugger off and slap him with revenge in the divorce settlement (These days it’s called dissolution, and most women would say it’s rightfully hers - Ed). Whatever you decide, Charlene, my thoughts are with you. Truly. Really. Honestly Mary, I mean it.

Next week a recipe on how to make a pie out of all those lentil-eating mice getting fat in your pantry, plus Scotch-Thistle wine made easy!

Editors note - Wendyl Nissen is the most famous Green God in the world and wrote a book which sold thousands of copies to a single buyer. She stands under, on, and by her man Paul Little and wrote a column for a year publicly supporting him. Many wondered why he needed this. Together they once wrote a sex column about p**** during sex which was so disgusting readers almost vomited, but it was later pipped by a column about pulling an egg from a chook’s bum.  David Cohen once wrote a story about Wendyl alleging she added the l to her name; that she was originally Wendy. He did not say if it was pinched off her hero, Russel Norman. 

I am The Ruminator - by David McCormack

I am The Ruminator
And I don't know where I stand
A Twitter denigrator
Another stroke of my hand
Today I think I am a champion
I try to hold my farts
But I know the game, you'll forget my name
And I won't be here in another year
If I don't behave like a tart

I am The Ruminator
And I've had to pay my price
I know all things at first
I criticise others twice
Ah, but still they come to haunt me
Still they want their say
So I've learned to rub the bump in my pants
I let 'em rub my neck and I call them a deck
And they go their merry way

I am The Ruminator
Spewing sarcasm round the world
I dream of palaces
And in my mind laid all kinds of girls
I can't remember faces
I don't remember names
Ah, but what the hell
You know it's just as well
'Cause after 36 thousand tweets
It all becomes the same

I am The Ruminator
I bring to you my tweets
I'd like to spend more time on twitter
I can't remember the bleats
No, I've got to meet expenses
I got to have a whine
Gotta get those fees for my PR agency
And I'd love to stay but there's bills to pay
So I just don't have the time

I am The Ruminator
Twitter is my show
You've must have heard of me
My blog has been mentioned on the radio
Ah, it takes me weeks to write a post
They are the best moments of my life
It was a beautiful blog
But it ran too long
If you're gonna have a hit
Best it not be shit
So they cut it down from TL;DR

I am The Ruminator
The idol of those my age
I want to make all my money
When I go on the stage
Ah, you've seen me in the papers
I've been in the magazines
But if I go cold I won't get sold
I'll get put in the back in the discount rack
And get all grump and mean

I am The Ruminator
And I don't know where I stand
Another twitter denigrator
And another stroke of my hand
Today I think I am a champion
I try to hold my farts
But I know the game, you'll forget my name
And I won't be here in another year
If I don't behave like a tart.

Editors Note - David McCormack is Lord Sutch on a little read blog called The Ruminator.  His greatest supporter is intellectual giant Dita de Boni who has donated an anonymous sum to him on Givealittle.  David's career has gone from Internet NZ to his natural home of wasting his life in PR. He joined Twitter in January 2013 and has amassed 36,000 tweets, an average of around 40 a day which is not bad for someone working on company time.  David's career has suffered many setbacks, the most terminal being that for someone trying to be ironic and funny he is just not very amusing.

The Daily Blog – Read The Other Side of the Story - by Martyn Bradbury

My existence is a hateful one.  Here is a list of things that I hate and therefore you should all too.

- Whaleoil
- David Farrar
- National
- John Key
- Simon Lusk
- People richer than I am
- Immigrants if they are richer than I am or vote National
- Homeowners
- America
- Australia
- England
- Religion
- Radio NZ
- Rodney Hide
- Labour
- ACT
- Large corporations
- Small corporations
- The corner dairy
- Bankers
- Lawyers
- The System!!!
- Cactus Kate
- The Police
- Judges
- Dissenting comments people on Daily Blog
- Mediaworks
- TVNZ
- Mark Weldon
- Bob Jones
- Pebbles Hooper
- Rachel Glucina
- Duncan Garner
- Heather du Plessis-Allan
- Matthew Hooton (unless he is paying me)
- Carrick Graham (because he doesn't pay me)
- Cameron Slater
- Pete
- Rich old people
- Don Brash
- Jordan Williams

And don't forget I hate Cameron Slater because he is New Zealand's leading merchant of hate.

I hate happy and I don’t care about making sense but when shit hits the wall over these perverts and right wing hairy trolls it makes my mouth twitch and that’s what happened when another one of these stupid pretend journalists opened her stupid mouth and spit on the poor so now that Pebbles Hooper has resigned well it’s at least something she did that Bob Jones didn’t have the guts to do from the Herald (Yes he did, please try and keep up Martyn - Ed).

My mouth tries to go up at the corners when these stupid girls yes Rachel Glucina another pretend journalist she was fired I know she says she was head hunted but shit what the hell does that mean she should be taken over the the self-destructing Media Works where they fell at their feet when told by John Key to fire John Campbell the only real journalist in the mainstream media who held this right wing fascist bunch of pricks in the government to account.

Do I care that my blogging is said by the right wing fascists that it doesn’t make sense ? Nah I just shout, SHOUT I SAY, shout louder at people, that’s why they call me Bomber. I can throw a rock, rocks. I just throw at people. I love nothing better than to rark up the mobs on the Twitter and we hound these girls like that most hated person in New Zealand Pebbles Hooper spoiled little right wing neoliberal post-Rogernomics that’s what you get for deregulation all trying to tell Greece what to do it’s racism. 

TV3 trying to get Heather Duplicity but she turned them down for the seven pm at night slot (Oh please  – keep up, she accepted the job and ‘seven pm at night’ is tautology you thicko - Ed) and Duncs to save their image but they’ll need more than these two dummies sorry Duncs but you know what I mean the whole channel will self combust under the weight of that Weldon who is just Key’s bitch and Julie Christie I mean what the hell does she know about television and making documentaries she should come and see some of the reality shows I’ve done hanging around dark corners in the outskirts of Auckland I know only my aunty and a cousin watched them but it’s the quality that counts.

They gave me that name Bomber and I wish it was stronger I could be called Eruption or Volcano or Richter 12 that is the worst Earthquake you can have because it would crack the planet in half and destroy the world I would love to destroy the world. I hate pretty girls especially if they’re called Pebbles or won't do as I say.  Bitches. Most especially when they get more publicity than me for saying horrible things. The Listener called me “the most opinionated man in New Zealand” so how dare this young ingénue come along and upstage me?

Fashion design is for the middle class all the middle classes should be annihilated when we rule the world when we have guillotined all the ruling classes after the revolution we will do away with fashion design and everyone will have to wear the same grey suits with mandarin collars. That’s original. (Eh? - Ed.)

The only person I like is Kim DotCom I did his stuff for him I could tell you about it but then I’d have to kill you. KDC for Supreme Leader, The Dear Leader we will all have to call him.

Rachel Glucina, Mike Hoskins, John Key, Pebbles – all will be marched to the gulag.

Editor - Martyn Bradbury has never left University.  A full-time loser in the world of commercial TV and radio he runs The Daily Blog where seems to be sponsored by a few of New Zealand's Unions despite none ever admitting they've given him a cent.  When not writing more hateful blog posts, Martyn is thinking of more ways to be paid by Matthew Hooton.  

Taking Out Whaleoil, My Evil Plan - by David Farrar

Planning world domination.

Last week I was resting in my lair thinking of Everest counting out in my dreams all my neatly piled foreign currencies then I woke up as I was re-living the most amazing moment of my life.

Election 2014 and National had won. I picked it. A romp. John Key stood on the precipice of history and what did he do? Thank Whaleoil? Judith Collins? Nah he thanked ME!  Not only that he gave me the best PR I could ever receive - he called me "the best pollster in New Zealand". My leading client, the best moment. We were on the phones what it seemed an eternity those previous months. I calmed John down as I fed to him various policy ideas based on my polling.  

I thought my life couldn't get better but after those midnight texts and calls from "anxious John" to "creative David" this was the best.

It was a bleak moment when the book Dirty Politics was released. I mean here I am, New Zealand's best pollster, centre right doyen and that prick Hager gives me ONE chapter. One fucking chapter!!!!   And Chapter NINE! I even went to the launch and signed books for the adoring fans. Nothing. Well there was something - Cactus Kate, Simon Lusk, Whaleoil and Carrick Graham expelled me from the VRWC for that. Again.  All their work was Chapter Eight and I was jammed between that and a chapter on Sex Scandals. Sex scandals that everyone knows I had absolutely nothing to do with at all, I mean I don't mind taking the rap if I actually did get a leg over but there was NOTHING!!!

I should have at least had a chapter that extolled the virtues of my evilness beyond the surface. Hager made me sound like some wanna be lothario. Who the fuck does he think he is? I know all about him. The lies, smears and all his private life. It is in my filing cabinet where I keep the bodies. The GCSB told me all about what Hager does at home alone when he thinks no one is watching, the Jenny Shipley and Ruth Richardson videos from their time announcing budget cuts and the large tub of Vaseline with the mask. I have the pictures and I'm waiting for the right moment to release them.  The one on budget day for the Mother of Them All will ruin him. It will make him more of a laughing stock than Peter Davis. Hager mistook Vaseline for liniment and ended up calling John Minto around (on his landline of course as he has no cellphone) to clean up. 

If I move I would need the entire staff of Crown Relocations Wellington to come and help lift those bodies. So heavy are they. Unlike Whaleoil who keeps them online for the world to hack (how dumb was that incompetent goon?), my files are my currency. They are kept under lock, key and 12 digit alpha numeric password under the floor double downed with my bed over top. No one is going to get at my precious.

I still get along with every National PM. As they should. When Murray McCully is long gone ensconced in Charlie Wilson's office girls in Washington I will not only be the next McCully I will be the next Boag.

Everyone has looked at my weight loss, it's a diversion. The real work is happening behind the scenes. I am planning world domination commencing with taking over The Standard. No need to hack those losers, that is another diversion. They tried to plant staff inside Curia. Well I have infiltrated their systems with a new blogger. They won't know it yet but one day that "new blogger" will strike and post material that shows Whaleoil is actually a Labour plant.

You see that's the genius of my plan. The closer Whaleoil, New Zealand's leading blogger cuddles up to Labour by attacking John Key, the closer I get to the ultimate truth.

Whaleoil is actually a Labour plant. And has been all along, bought and paid for by Union cash.

It will ruin his ratings among the right wing Whaleoil followers and install me back as not only New Zealand's number one pollster but New Zealand's leading blogger!!!

Editor - David Farrar is well regarded as New Zealand's sneakiest political operative. Not only does he have a nationally regarded polling company, he spends his spare time letting NBR take his work as their own, appearing on The Huddle and much to the chagrin of his right wing friends - The Panel. David is often expelled from the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy (VRWC) for acts of treachery. One of the latest being writing nice things about James Shaw and Kevin Hague.

The Last Column - by Bob Jones

This will be my last column for the Herald. Ever. It’s bloody outrageous the way the media behave these days. 

Editors are liars. Take that Shayne Currie. He’s a likeable enough chap but he’s a Catholic and a journalist so he’s congenitally unable to tell the truth. Every bloody time I handed in my column I said now don’t you alter one single word. Oh no we won’t, we won’t and then what happens? Oh we just had to change the word negro because it’s racist.

It’s not bloody racist. Look it up in the dictionary. It’s a word for christ’s sake. I’ll give you bloody racist. Then they tell me it doesn’t comply with the Herald style book. Well what’s that got to do with anything?

So I quit. They’ll regret it. My columns were read more than any other piece in the whole bloody paper including the whores’ personal ads. That’s the truth. 

Nobody reads that wet Brian Rudman’s columns that’s for sure.

Tell you what, all those wets who hated my columns and wrote comments every week, all those Gandalfs and You-Know-Its-The-Truth and all the others, what are they going to do all day now I’m gone. What do you think these poor old buggers do with themselves, hunched over their computers waiting and waiting for something to come along so they can write in and grizzle? I don’t know.

They’ll be fat. Fat girls. The whole street is full of fat girls. Except if they’re Asians and the only trouble with Asians is they can’t spell. The one time my secretary typed a letter without making a spelling mistake I put a sign in the foyer. I do all my own filing. Have to otherwise I’d never find anything again. But I tell you what I look after my girls, they all have their own offices, nice big offices and they all get paid well. There are no stunning looking New Zealand girls, especially in the provinces. They’re all fat . Why do you think that is? Huge beasts lumbering along the street yabbering away into their cellphones. It’s outrageous. Fucking outrageous.

What do you think of this Key fellow? Is he a bit of a nut? He can’t even speak properly. (Eh? Speak up I can’t hear you, you’re mumbling. No I’m not going deaf.) He’s got all these fat girls around him – that woman what’s her name, the tart from West Auckland, and that Judith woman now she should never be back in Cabinet let alone get her hands on Justice again after what she said about the Bain case that was fucking outrageous. The woman’s an idiot.

I don’t drink anymore. And I don’t smoke. Just the pipe. The wine was killing me. Fucking outrageous. So I stopped completely. These days, it’s just a low-alcohol beer, or a Harvey’s Bristol sherry, just the few. I don’t miss it. I don’t like going out anyway, all those endless speeches going on and on, people mumbling in a corner, talking Maori.

It’s fucking outrageous. Even Deborah Coddington started talking in Maori I mean, who does she think she is? Fucking outrageous. I’m sick of it. Sick of it.

I don’t even go to the boxing any more. It’s not boxing it’s just a fucking spectacle with these bimbos in bikinis. Yelling and screaming. All these women throwing themselves at me, proposing marriage. 

I’ve got enough children already. 

Fucking outrageous.

Editor - Everyone knows who Bob is which is why we never should have let him go. He’s modest, thinks sunglasses are the height of sophistication in accessorisation particularly when worn on heads, always wanted to be a flight attendant, punches journalists for fun, and breeds like the proverbial rabbit.

My Sunday Column - by Judith Collins

Who would want to be the MP for Papakura? Since 2002 I have put my life on the line every time I walk from my office to the debating chamber. I have left my home and family to live with people who are violent bullies, and I’m just talking about Katie Bradford and Brook Sabin. I live in constant fear for my life, and then everyone starts to suspect you just because you’re friends with Cameron Slater.

Silly behaviour from other people. 

I’m as mild as milk. That’s why I’ve got enemies. I’m the nicest person imaginable. I don’t hurt anyone, you can tell by my smile. Babies go into raptures of singing when they see me smile.

Someone gave me this silly name, Crusher. Not my idea but I tossed my lovely blonde locks, and pursed my bee-stung red kissable lips, and ignored that. So what if it stuck? Just more bullying from those in my cabinet who are jealous of me and wanted me sacked. 

Yes they got me sacked. They think they got me sacked but actually I resigned to take the wind out of their sails. It was a very difficult time for me but I was very brave, only breaking down when confronted by that Rottweiler interviewer, the investigative Rachel Glucina. Yes, that was tough but she did catch me in an off moment, snacking on chockie chip bikkies, hokey pokey bikkies, date scones and a glass of savvie in the Koru Lounge. Nice to escape the plebs occasionally, before I have to face the queues at my beloved electorate office again.

The Woman’s Weekly said I couldn’t have done it without my husband. David Wong Tung. Yes that fooled everyone. Now he’s too scared not to take the rubbish out daily, even if he was too much of a wimp to speak out and take the rap when his companies were dropping me in it with their stupid photos posted all over the Internet. 

Hah. I showed them though. I got that Adam Dudding licking my boots. “ No desire to lead the party whatsoever” what a scream! Noticed how JK’s been looking a bit peaky lately? Softly, softly catchee monkey – old Chinese trick: just chop hair into the soup. Do I feel bad? No siree, he’s got that mousey Bronagh to look after him when he’s invalided out and I step over his pathetic little carcass with my fat little feet stuffed into my red stilettos.

Then things are going to change around here. 

No more police having to apply for stupid warrants for starters. 

Justice Wanker Collins indeed throwing that whole Explorer case out of court. The man doesn’t deserve the name Collins let alone being on the bench! When I’m PM, Minister of Police AND Minister of Justice the police will be armed with Kalishnikovs, flame throwers, and whatever else their little hearts’ desire so they can just charge into these gang headquarters and annihilate the entire scene. Sherman tanks, that’ll show ‘em! Then those wimps in the Press Gallery will have to come up with a moniker better than Crusher! Yessss!!!! Hunt ‘em down, stalk ‘em out, don’t shoot til they’re wetting their pants, showing the whites of their eyes and sobbing for mercy!

Ahh I love it. 

David Wong Tung! I need more grapes peeled, and you can stick the broom up your arse and sweep the floor while you bring them to me.

My Sunday Column - by Phil Goff

Words fail me 

Again.

Curmudgeon - by Karl Du Fresne

Finally the time has arrived for me to sign up for the National Superannuation.

I put in my teeth, got out of bed, put on my brown carpet slippers , and shuffled down the hallway after telling the wife to stop shivering, we can’t afford electricity, she can just light the coal range. I went to the telephone and lifted up the receiver.

“Working?” I asked.

Nobody answered so I turned the handle and gave a long ring for the exchange and asked to be put through to Social Security.

I waited and waited and waited. I fell on the floor and lay down for a while. I got up and tried again. 

My saintly wife came along. “You silly old bugger,” she said. “You can’t do it like that anymore.”

“Do I have to make a toll call?” I asked. “Bother it. That will cost me quite a lot since it’s not after 6pm”. 

What the hell, I thought, I’ve paid my taxes all my life, the government can pay for the call. So I rang again and said, “Tolls please, I’d like to make a collect call.”

I waited and waited and waited. I fell on the floor. I got up and tried again.

My wife came along and said, “You silly old bugger. If you’d been alive in the 19th century you would have opposed women getting the vote. I suppose you still send out Christmas cards.”

As a matter-of-fact I do. I like those long closely typed letters where the typewriter punches out a hole instead of a c, and you tell everyone how well your grandchildren are doing. I think everyone else loves receiving them too, don’t you? They always read them several times over; never just throw them in the bin.

I went outside and tried to start the car. It wouldn’t go so I got out the crank handle, stuck it through the grill in the front and tried to crank it up. That didn’t work either. It still wouldn’t start. They don’t make these cars like they used to. When I was a young lad growing up in Waipukurau, you could ride into town standing on the running board without holding on, and the policeman would just ride past on his bicycle and look the other way. 

Everything is moving much too fast these days. When I was a young cadet reporter writing about crimes I was too reverential to even look the magistrates in the eye. We tipped our hats, called them magistrates then. Actually we called them sir. And we wore suits and ties, and shined our shoes even underneath where the soles were leather. And we wore clean underwear in case we had an accident and had to go to hospital. Today I see young reporters wearing anything to court, even sparkly trousers and black shirts with white tee-shirts showing. And they need haircuts. 

And if we were overseas reporting on a war zone, we were actually in the war zone, dodging the bullets as they whizzed past our ears, or gave us little holes in the lobes. These days they just get the footage from some big multinational media company, then stand in the Auckland newsroom and call themselves a foreign correspondent. 

Everything has gone to pieces in the world of journalism. They have it too easy now.

(Please wait while I put carbon paper between three pieces of paper, then insert them behind the roller in my typewriter, and type the next paragraph. I have to take this into town to send to Shayne by telegram at the Post Office because my telex machine is not working today.)

I kicked the car in the guts and got out my zimmer frame to go into Masterton to Hedleys book shop and asked for Alec. They said he’d passed on years ago. Nobody told me. I like a good funeral. Some young whippersnapper called David Hedley is now in charge who’s apparently friendly with The Beatles. Gah. What’s wrong with Burl Ives? I told him I’ve been advised to buy a book that everyone is talking about called Face. Apparently I would like it. 

Harrumph. We’ll see.

Editor -  Karl Du Fresne is a freelance journalist stuck in the Wairarapa region of New Zealand. In the presence of Greenies he boasts he walks to work each day - he paced it out and it is about 15 metres. Karl writes about all sorts of stuff: politics, the media, music, wine, films, cycling and anything else that piques his interest - even sport, although he's not a New Zealand bloke so cannot absorb as if by osmosis. He's been in journalism longer than Heather Du Plessis- Allan has been born and like many journalists just makes things up as he goes along. He has never won any journalism awards.

The Real Story - by Heather Du Plessis-Allan

Right so anyway about this new job. It has been a hard road for this sister I can tell you that much.

The 10 step plan started late last year when the NZ Herald asked me to do their "youth" column. Now I've been married longer than most people but that doesn't mean I'm not fresh and hip. Damn it.

Despite the pay, I took the column and the bull by the horns.  Here is my Story. 

1. First up a column about how I don't want kids

A superb idea as it primes any employer to know I'm not going to run off and have mini-Me's or mini-Bazza's.  It shows stability and that I am not going to put up with any of the sh** our sisters have to when they run off and have children.

2. Column about how much I don't want to live in Auckland.

Or more to the point how I can't afford to live in Auckland on my current salary. I know they want me there. This will up my pay demand without even needing to ask.  Whinge about the mortgage and Wellington house prices, nothing better for the framing of The Story.

3. Column about how small my house is

Big hint to Barry here.

4. Arrange campaign that Campbell needs to be hosted by younger presenters.

I confused that dimwit Martyn Bradbury into thinking I turned the job down! His credibility is now shot so am free of one less vile bile spewer on Twitter and the blogs.

5. Have meeting with Jennings at the Bolton Hotel

My best strategic move yet as was bound to be a complete disaster. Everyone meets at the Bolton and someone of course was going to notice us. If not then I had already slipped $50 to the reception to make sure this "unfortunate" meeting outing occurs.  To find the boss there having his own secret meeting was the icing on the cake and dutifully "leaked" by the nice Bolton staff as well.

6. Write column about how female directors are paid less than men.

I will slip in how I too could be paid a lazy $4m if I chose the right career. Back in the Christian commune in South Africa they said I could do anything I wanted with my life. I assume CEO of ANZ was what they were thinking.  And for good measure another column about equal pay. Bugger TVNZ.

7. Aim to have a lesser male with me as co-presenter.

That Garner is a dickhead. I mean he won't last long. He has already taken up crusade journalism. He's whinging about state housing being cold while I'm saving sheep and exposing McCully. I mean who is going to do better out of this?  New Zealanders like sheep more than they like state housing tenants.

8. Dodge angry female colleagues

They are all haters the sisters. They will congratulate me then behind my back already be looking to axe me. Write column about trolls. And yes I'm writing it for the bitches I work with. You all know who you are. Yes the ones who are Barry's age and have bitched about me for years, now all sucking up pretending they are happy for me.  They are not, they are miserable and it is cracking me up.  Surviving them is only as bad as one day in the Christian commune, I shall survive.  I shall survive.

9. Women's magazine

Yes I've already had the engagement and wedding in there. Easy.  One phone call.

10. Charm offensive everywhere.

Be pleasant and charming absolutely everywhere, like every comment on Facebook, be nice to the trolls. Even extra super nice to Barry.  I apologise profusely for the quote early on:

"She says she's looking forward to catching up with Soper during the day, but it when it comes to gathering news, the competitive du Plessis-Allan will not think twice about scooping her husband".  Oops sorry honey.

Cheers mate with my new pay packet I can buy you a house in Auckland now.

And that is the real Story.

Editor - Heather du Plessis-Allan is a thirty something year old trying very hard to avoid growing up. So far it’s working, except for the husband, the mortgage and the proper job. Since moving to central Wellington, she’s doing all she can to act more metropolitan than a girl who grew up down the road from an onion field outside of Auckland. When she’s not writing for the Herald on Sunday, she’s a political reporter for One News and an interviewer for TVNZ’s Q+A programme.  Is soon to defect to Mediaworks to present Story and no doubt face the wrath of every John Campbell supporter in the country especially Hamish Keith and Russell Brown if she actually ends up being fabulous.

Today I am Embarrassed that Queen Elizabeth is Our Head of State - by Audrey Young

I have not felt that in the past 21,645 days she has been monarch. Long may she reign over us.

But to learn today that she shared a smile with the public at Ascot makes me cringe.

It is one of those stories that denigrates her and her office.

But to learn about it just as she is about to present the Ascot Gold Cup to herself makes it utterly mortifying. It denigrates the occasion which has taken on a quasi-spiritual dimension.

The only thing funny about it are the inventive little clips appearing on YouTube.

Clips of Elizabeth calling the Queen Mother “Mummy” weren't particularly smart either.

The sharing-a-smile story is already spreading around the world.

We've already had Aussie radio stations calling our office to talk, delighted to be able to put the boot into someone else's Head of State. Just because they’re a republic and we can’t even make up our minds.

Tony Abbott has made two visits to New Zealand this year, in February and earlier this week, and Key scrubs up very well next to Abbott.

I haven’t seen Key in his Speedo’s, but I have a good imagination. I’ve got a brother. I expect The Queen would look good in Speedo’s too.

She is confident, eloquent and clearly comfortable in her role, so comfortable that she loves testing and breaching boundaries.

It is all a matter of fine judgment.

"Going too far" is not part of Elizabeth's deliberate trade-craft as a Queen.

She does things ordinary people might do but that have shock value because she is Queen; such as wearing matching hat and gloves; asking people in crowds if they’ve come far; hamming it up with drag queens at the Big Gay Out (I think the drag queens mistook her for one of them - Ed); and telling UN ambassadors about how Philip once asked a driving instructor in Oban how he kept the natives off the booze long enough to pass the test. .

That's why we were not amused when we viewed the clip on the website this morning, we all knew it was true before we got the Queen's confirmation and apology.

Sharing a smile is just stupid.

Editor - Audrey Young is the New Zealand Herald’s political editor, a job she has held since Barry Soper was in nappies. She is responsible for the Herald’s Press Gallery team. She first joined the New Zealand Herald in 1988 as a sub-editor after the closure of its tabloid rival, the Auckland Sun – they all ran away because they were terrified of Audrey. She’s sometimes called Aunty Audrey, but it’s not a term of endearment.  She switched to reporting in 1991 as social welfare and housing reporter. She joined the Herald’s Press Gallery office in 1994. She has previously worked as a journalism tutor at Manukau Technical Institute, as member of the Newspapers in Education unit at Wellington Newspapers and as a teacher in Wellington. She was a union nominee on the Press Council for six years. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. She thinks smiling should be banned. Believe it or not, she’s a friend of Bob Jones.