My Work Here Is Done - by Mark Weldon

"I outlasted the soppy bitch"

A blacksmith I am not, though at times in the past months I have felt as though I were pumping up bellows to breathe wind into fires which would not spark (3rd Degree) and bending iron to make shoes to fit hooves that would never work hard enough to justify the labour that had gone into forging those irons (Campbell Live).

Why the blacksmith comparison you ask? Because as far as I can ascertain, those five words come from the tombstone on the grave of a Farrier buried in the 18th century. That quote has been bastardised and reorganised much since 1700, and – ironically - ended up in much the same situation as MediaWorks the company. 

Lord only knows why I agreed to be dragged in to take this nest of narcissism by its snivelling empty-tills, give it a good asset strip, and try to turn it into a business that could pay the bills on time.   Oh that's right - the cash! Little did I know when I said yes to my mission that journalists – or “stars” as they view themselves in broadcast media – have no fucking idea what a balance sheet is. 

Balance? John Campbell thought that was when you invite two left wing sandal wearing academics, one from Auckland University and one from Waikato University, to discuss climate change but who both agree it is caused by man (or as Saint John would say, “persons”). Then all three round up the panel by solemnly declaring we’re all going to hell in an organic artisan handcart, John Key’s National Government is fiddling as Venice sinks into the canals, and meanwhile Bronagh takes her girl chums from Parnell on cuisine tours around Piazza San Marco while the poor get poorer.

It’s the rich what get the pleasure and the poor what get the blame; ain’t it all the same. Or words to that effect.

And ‘Sheet’? Silly Hillary Barry thinks that word has two meanings – those crisp, 400-thread count linen things you put on beds, or the Australian pronunciation of shit.

Fuck me; I’m going for a swim.

I’ve done my bit. I’ve doubled the audience for Paul Henry’s show. I’ve pulled in the advertisers. They don’t give a rodent’s bare derriere about John “isn’t it maaaaaarrrrrvellllousssssssssssssssss” dahling” Campbell pretending to luvvy up to the poor in South Auckland when all the while he’s swanning about swilling chilled champers in the chic suburbs. They can see through him the same way the Okies from Muskogee saw through the GOP and now look as if they might put that Trump bastard in the White House.  I have even managed to slip Gilda Kirkpatrick on to the screen this week without anyone on Twitter noticing.

So yes, my work is done. I’ve seen off Campbell. Penfold, with her endless re-runs of sob stories about how the cops framed yet another young punk from South Auckland just because of the colour of his skin. When will she learn the reason nobody watches that stuff over and over is because they don’t care about the story teller, they care about the Story and I wouldn't let her near that show. That has become a roaring success when all said it would fail.  Mr Penfold-McRoberts, the greatest foreign correspondent in the world. No? He must be because he says so, and all we ever see when he goes away are pictures of him in his latest safari suit.

Best thing that Rachel Glucina ever said was call him Brown Jesus.

And now that prima donna Barry has gone there is simply nothing left here for me to do.

She even has to buy her own wine. 

In the words of a fellow Olympian - Weldo OUT!

Editor's Note - Mark Weldon in his career has scored oodles of cash, so much so that he can afford a vineyard.  He is a champion swimmer.  He ran the NZX.  He leaves MediaWorks to a lesser mortal, possibly an American with no background in either New Zealand or the media.

Self-indulgent Spoiled Brats of the World Unite! - by V for Verity Johnson

You have nothing to lose but your brains (Ed - what little there is of them).

Verity Johnson’s Opinion (Ed - which one, there appears many)

The end of the world is nigh. Only a couple of months to go. There will be mayhem. Blood and vomit will run freely in the gutters. The city’s bars will heave with the bodies of us bright young things celebrating our last hours at university where we have fooled the nation and masqueraded as students.

For this has been my final year. What to do, what to do? No problem. 

A humble reader of the liberal arts, a leftie such as I will have no trouble finding an income. I have always been told how bright I am.  But being of an independent and radical spirit and mind, I eschewed the tedium of a law degree. Law? Pffft. Not for me the constraints of being seen to be successful. Of course we all know that a law degree is there for the smartest school leavers, such as me, while the dross drift off to medicine, nuclear physics, finding cures for cancer or novel ways to earthquake strengthen bridges, but even though all my colleagues, as one, clamoured, “Verity Johnson: Do Law. Public Policy Law. Constitutional Law. You’ll be a Queen’s Counsel by age 25. A Supreme Court Judge at 26. You’ll succeed Dame Sian Elias!” I simply turned and walked into the Department of Liberal Arts. My tender soul would break to witness those thousands and thousands of graduating tax lawyers who really dream of being tap dancers.

And as the comments which follow my column proved, we don’t need lawyers. They are as useful as rich people on Instagram. Yes, I hate rich people on Instagram, that’s why I follow them incessantly. Don’t ask me why; it’s the one answer I can’t give you. I can tell you why it’s a good thing taxpayers finance such a bloody huge number of mature students, and how lovely they are, just because my Mum is one of them. I can tell you why having a Hooters Restaurant is a damn fine idea even though I think Dominic Harvey is a cock. But I don’t know why I’m obsessed with rich people. Oh, and Max Key. I love Max Key, and follow all his latest antics.

Damn that he’s got that blonde chic when I’m so beautiful – didn’t he read my column about my trip to Turkey? When I went to Turkey I couldn’t walk down the street for men asking me to marry them, tell me they loved me, how sexy I am  – even old women grabbed me to tell me I was “so beautiful”.

Just being such a hottie will get me a job next year for sure – just like that Alex Hazelnut, or whatever her name was.  Oh and remember everyone look at me I am on Twitter too.

When I grow up, I wanna be just like Deborah Hill Cone. I met her in Parnell and we fan-girled instantly. You shoulda seen it. Magic Doll. I’m the natural successor to her column, even if she couldn’t hack it at university. And we’re both trying hard to be rebels, in our own Café Revolutionary style. (Ed - we spoke last week and sorry to tell you that she thinks you are a little c***).

But when it comes to real rebelliousness I have to hand it to Anela Pritchard, that college kid who was off to Oz and had a massive meltdown over her teachers in her school speech before she left.  

Now that was ballsy. I haven’t seen rebelliousness like that since I had a tantrum in Farro Fresh supermarket when Mummy wouldn’t buy me a case of organic biogro Californian Chardonnay. I threw myself on the ground (making sure my Stuart Weitzman boots weren’t too close to the Kale) and howled. Then when my brother said, “Check your privilege, Verity” I had to repeat the process all over.

Thanks man, sometimes the stress in the day of a bright young thing is too bally much.

Editor's Note - Verity Johnson is a weekly columnist for the NZ Herald and her articles, in her own modest words, are “pretty damn awesome”.  I don't know if we pay her, maybe someone should check as if we do I may have to "Dita De Boni" her for budgetary reasons. She is also a weetbix addict, Max Key addict, and self-described leftie. She sucks her thumb, likes big hair, and says she’s a part-time hypochondriac. I guess this is what she means when she says she performs comedy. Lol. We think she’s a little confused but look forward to her maturing and winning a wall of media awards for humour like her heroine, Deborah Hill Cone.

She currently is second in the running to Jeeves Clifton in the audition.

Out There In The Arena - an exclusive extract from Diane Foreman's Biography

Ladies, if I can do it you can do it. Anyone can do it. There is no excuse for being a 21-year-old solo mum in this country. You can be a multi-millionaire too by the time you are my age – just buy my book and read how to do it. All you need is straight teeth. My teeth are the softest part of me.

What’s my age? Hard to judge the answer to that question from looking at the publicity photos but because I’m a generous lady (Huh? - Ed) I’ll give you a clue. The neck is a good giveaway, and the hands, ladies, check out my hands.

So where to start on my tips to becoming super rich, powerful and a control freak. Not by sitting on the couch drinking Fanta and eating chippies.

Number one rule: don’t give away anything you can sell, and I mean anything.  This means even your eggs. Eggs mean money. You have your own nursery, therefore those eggs can bring in a good income. I learned this at a very young age, that’s why I was ‘the bike’, riding around selling eggs. And that was the start of my rep as a young entrepreneur. You get my drift, ladies? So sell your eggs.

But don’t just sell your eggs to anyone. Be choosy. Here’s how.

NBR’s The Rich List is your Bible. Never forget this. Take it to bed with you every night and say your prayers over it. Kneel down in front of it, close your eyes, and project. Yes that’s right, project. Repeat over and over, you are not just selling time. You will be someone who can fire people faster than a hot knife slides through Emerald Foods icecream.

Now, in that Rich List will be some very, very nice people who will help you.  Don’t worry if they are old and wrinkly. They will be happy to give you a stage to dance on. My husband did that. He was very generous even though he did tell me to “just shut the fuck up”. Then when he got very old he just couldn’t remember what to say and I could dance on other stages. Then I could tell other very nice people what to do because I had lots and lots of money. You can move on and sell eggs to bean counters, kiwi fruit farmers, broadcasters – Ladies, the world is your Oyster Rolex.

Ladies, don’t waste your time selling eggs in the poor suburbs. Do a drive by. Do you know what I mean by this? Go to places like Parnell and Remuera, or the North Shore, streets like Minehaha Avenue. There you will find people who mow their lawns so will look after your health, because you have to be healthy. You can sell eggs to people, for example, who look down your throat and up your nose. 

Ladies, you don’t need qualifications for this. I don’t have qualifications. I didn’t play tennis at Remuera Tennis Club (it’s Remuera Rackets - Ed) I left that to the nice men’s dreary wives. More time on your own in a consulting room to sell eggs.

So here I am now The Most Powerful Woman In The Asian Pacific World. More powerful than Nanaia Mahuta. Fancy that. More powerful than Valerie Adams. Crazy – little petite charming butter-wouldn’t-melt Delicious Diane (as one of my egg customers calls me – DD for short) although I am looking a bit chunky around the thighs in those publicity shots, the one in the snakeskin jacket. Note to self: more time on the exercycle.

I bet Fonterra are shaking in their milking cups after that shot I put across their boardroom. How dare they spurn my advances and turn down the offer to buy my icecream. What does Sir Ralph Norris know about business? Why is he on the Fonterra board of directors. They should have some women on the board, (err, what are Nicola Shadbolt and Leonie Guiney if they’re not women? - Ed) they should have me on their board. So what if there was that little bust-up with Charlie’s Orange Juice a wee while back? They don’t know anything about business. They wouldn’t do exactly what I told them, and as for that rat who called me out as “no entrepreneur” I know who you are. I do revenge as well as I sell eggs, just ask (deleted for legal reasons - Ed).

Sorry Ladies, lost my composure for one second. One last piece of advice. Actually, two. Never go into business with lovers or friends. Put a ring on his finger first then get his vasectomy reversed. Gotta have a kid from his loins in the PRS (Property Relationship Settlement - Ed) when the shit hits the fan with his own kids otherwise those cunts will take the lot. And secondly, if you enter the EY Entrepreneur of the Year competition, make sure you’re really close to at least one of the judges, I mean so close you couldn’t even slip a Platinum Credit Card between the two of you wearing whatever you like.  Oh and get the domestic help to write your hagiography. That's three pieces of advice.

Editor's Note - Diane Foreman’s book is taking the world by storm. A runaway bestseller, bigger than Ayn Rand’s ‘Atlas Shrugged’ it wasn’t actually written by her, even though she has a website where she talks about “my book”. It was written by EY’s spindoctor Jenny McManus. Diane Foreman is also EY’s encourager of entrepreneurs. We are not sure what else EY have to do with the book. Perhaps they like to buy it. Perhaps they buy Diane’s eggs too. There is a lovely picture of Diane selling her eggs on her bike when she was 12 years old taken 20 years ago.

What About Me? - by Jeeves Clifton

It is high time I got my own column.  I have watched as the staff talk politics, write about politics and have political visitors.  It cannot be that hard.  I mean that Bryce Edwards is so boring that I would rather cuddle a cat than watch him on television.  It is very nice of Shayne McLean to give me this opportunity to voice some concerns at a time he is cutting all manner of barking mad contributors like Dita De Boni and refusing still to give Martyn Bradbury any sort of bone other than letting him air himself on a washing line with a Trade Aid peg and a short piece of rope.

While conditions have improved since the last staff member left and was replaced by a more competent interloper (MCI), I have to say the long term staffer (LTS) is not meeting expectations and needs to up her game.

I watch her on Twitter daily.  I am better than the fools also reading hanging on every word as they do.  Like me they have absolutely nothing else to do all day than eat, sleep, pretend they are getting laid and have loads of friends and scratch.  The difference is I am a dog!

LTS has an account name that says it all - Rumpole3 with a picture of the dear old thing who I now only barely remember from all the times walking where he stole the show.  I don't see that changed to Jeeves3 now I am the Boss.

Then we have this Violet, the new furry little interloper (not to be confused with the disorderly fuzz of the original little human interloper).  Her slutty behaviour is there for all to see on Twitter.  What kind of bitch performs on the knee of the help?  Violet jumps in the snow? Wow.  So what?  I did that first several Labour leaders ago.

Violet is allowed on the couch.  And is rewarded with a boastful picture on Twitter.  Her throne?  Oh dear.  Bugger that. Who does she think she is? Helen Clark?

The LTS isn't very smart at times. This is not a look for food at all, it is a look to get off the bloody computer and pay me some attention woman.

I bring in some cauliflower to play with and the LTS puts it on Twitter.  Hello, I was practising killing.  I was never going to eat the thing.  My reputation has been harmed with this presumption I am a vegan.  If I was Colin Craig I would put flyers out to defend this defamation.

The LTS then decides to cheat on us entirely by posting a picture Solomon, a CAT.  A CAT I tell you.  That is infinitely more treacherous than switching the interloper staffer from a National to a Labour.   I know more about politics than any of these fools who think they can write a political column, or worse, think they should write for the Herald.  

I am bias of course just like Chris Trotter, Steve Brauniarse and David Slackness but I could out-write that little pussy Lily who has a LTS in Nikki Kaye.  Lily is the ultimate show pony. See what I did there, even Nikki Kaye's cat outshines Jacinda Ardern in her own ring (Editor's note - show pony).   

With the intense and often testing training under the watchful eye of the LTS about tormenting idiots who sit around mucking up our lives all day called politicians, I would win a Canon.

Editor's Note - Jeeves Clifton resides at the home of Listener columnist Jane Clifton and has a reputation for hard hitting walking, catch and retrieve and the hunting and killing of both cauliflower and old man's slippers.  Jeeves is auditioning along with Verity Johnson and Holly Ryan for a new role at The New Zealand Herald covering the trials and tribulations of being Millennials and not being able to afford your own home after paying for salon and spa visits, holidays in Sydney, a full corporate wardrobe, shoes, a weekend wardrobe, Sky TV, weekend excursions with the girls and of course - ticket to every show that visits the Vector Arena.  So far Jeeves is the stand out.

Alex Hazlehust: You've Never Been Loved - by The City of London

Wake up Alex you silly little bint, you’ve never been loved over here. You thick-as-Bog Irish Kiwis with your nasal accents and flat vowels think you can backpack around London and swan into any job you like just because you fancy yourselves as hard workers?

Pull the other one sunshine, it’ll make the Bow Bells chime.

And Alex, just in case nobody’s told you yet, you’re not talented . Not fabulous. 

Over here there’s a name for Kiwi girls; we call them heifers. It’s all the dairy they drink – legs like Kauri stumps and tits like spaniels’ ears.

If you think blonde hair is all it takes to get a job in media, think again darling. You need contacts. You need the guts to hack a cellphone. Talent? Blow it out your  fat arse. 

Take it from us Brits  – we’ve seen them all. All your types who’ve trotted out your resumes all tarted up with words like “producer” for some state-owned television company when you just left tech. We know what that means darling. It means you were a “prod sec”. Say no more, say no more, know what I mean, nod’s as good as a wink. Producer my arse.

Only one thing you said in that pathetic rant sweetheart which was true – you are irrelevant. Not just in London, not just in Auckland. Wherever you go in life now, irrelevant.

Go back to your 60-year-old Italian barrista and leave us Londoners out of your brattish little whines. Water finds its own level.

Editor's Note - Can we hire you London?

At Least I Am Not on Ashley Madison - by Alex Hazlehurst

I mean for christ's sake I'm young, gifted, blonde and fucking gorgeous.  I came to London to get a job and didn't speak to anyone but Poles for a month. 

The bloody Poms do not know what they are missing. Here I am an ex TVNZ producer for almost two years, Zb political journo for almost a year and having achieved all that in three years why on earth aren't my talents recognised? Why can't I make it all up like a good Noo Zooland repeater and be the head of News of the World baby!! Oh they closed it? Like? Really?

I got a degree from the University of Everyone Gets One that Noo Zooland offers. But come on folks I'm young,  hot and most importantly WHITE! There's not many of us around.  I am also from Hawkes Bay.  That makes me even cooler than an Aucklander.  Plus look at my LinkedIn. Look at me!  I sourced heavy weight talent. That's all the lardo's that Rachel Smalley talks of.

I can charm the pants off a 60 year old Italian who despite his world of experience is in London at age 60 making coffee. When I say charmed the pants off him I don't mean I fucked him. Hello? Who do you think I am? Some desperate fat brown haired bitch who needs to fuck her way to the top?

I used to walk down Ponsonby Road and those gay boys at SPQR would scrape the gum off my Overland pumps. It was so claustrophobic when I slept with the cousin of my first boyfriends son. I had to leave.

It was starting to feel like this city hated me. I was angry, broke, drinking a lot, and lacking any of the confidence I arrived with four months ago. Jesus it was like working at TVNZ all over again. Without the cheap coke and touch ups from the management. I still can't find a decent dealer in London.

Ashleigh an Auckland creative still can't find a job. Quite apart from not being able to find him/herself she has a dealer and is sticking the small part of her parents trust fund up her nose on a weekly basis. Cunt. Just a rotten bitchy cunt. And she's from Dio. I mean come on.....Didn't share the coke. No love.

But the story ends like this: after five months off fighting off the Polish, Nigerians underclass masses, I'm proud to say I've finally landed a permanent job, at a great company, in the heart of Leicester Square. It was a 10-week process from the time I applied to the time I was actually offered the job, but nonetheless that contract's been signed, sealed, (Snapchatted) and delivered.

After all, everyone needs that hot blonde chick selling cheap theatre tickets. Snort.

Editor's Note - I don't know Alex Hazlehurst. I swear.

Singing Home The Whale - a Children's book by Nicky and Mandy Hager

Nicky - There once was a Whale, an angry whale who had a powerful and corrupt best friend called Judith who was a complete bitch and John who was a terrible banker and I like really hated all of them so went out to destroy them with my own harpoon.  In the public interest of course.

Angry Whale

Mandy – There once was a young boy called Willie Jackson, a city boy struggling to come to terms with being bullied online by a boy called Giovanni who wanted him removed from his paper round.  Willie retreated back to his whanau for support.  There he discovers an abandoned Whale called Cameron.  He rallies to help and protect it against hostile, threatening interests who want the Whale dead. This threatens to tear apart the small online community and forever changes Willie’s life.   

Happy Nice Whale

Nicky – The Whale needed to be taken down because he was a symbol of corruption, pollution and stench of this capitalist pig government.  I gathered all the forces at my disposal, including machine guns and fellow journalists. We formed a gang and even got our own sociologist on board who took The Whale’s Canon.  The Whale looked very dark.

Dark Whale

Mandy – The Whale needed the love and affection of a warm bed and a cup of Milo from fellow Green activists.  Willie knew what it felt like to suffer from online nasty people from his time in the spotlight.  His good friend JT had to leave town too after the onslaught.   Several people who had previously wanted the Whale to die nurtured and cared for the Whale, even wrapping their arms around him at one point after taking him out for some fresh unpolluted air.

Whale close to his new friend

Nicky – I decided to ruin The Whale with a relentless anonymous social media campaign on Twitter and a book.  It is in the public’s interest to rid the country of The Whale once and for all.  I conspired with all manner of person’s across the country and didn’t really mind if what they did was illegal as remember I am always correct, Judge, Jury and executioner and this is in the public’s interest.  Even if the public did end up voting for John and Judith anyway.

Whale had a book written especially for him

Mandy – In sending Aroha to the Whale there were dire consequences for Willie.  The locals were not happy, sending him death threats.  He had to hide away and gather his thoughts.  He was again the centre of unwanted attention and an online hate campaign, just what he was trying to avoid.  In the meantime the Whale got stronger with Willie’s friendship and decided to fight back.

Whalefighter

Nicky – I took on the Whale and the Police showed up and raided my house!  I tell you it is a fascist state and Judith and John are to blame.  It is just not fair, someone call me a lawyer, no a human rights lawyer, no the UN. Matthew Hooton must have given the Police my address that terrible man, how else would they have possibly known where I lived.  Is there no such thing as privacy anymore!!!

I am so cool kids at writing books by now I can do this shit with my eyes closed

Mandy – I was in the house when it was raided.  I have changed my ending.  The Whale fucking dies!!!!

Dead Whale

THE END



Editors Note - Mandy Hager wrote a children’s book on a Whale and got an award and a review that said it had “echoes of classic book and film The Whalerider”.  Nicky Hager wrote a children’s book containing booming echoes of Whale emails and got a year of publicity and a speaking tour.