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.