Tuesday, September 1, 2015

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.

Monday, August 31, 2015

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.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

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.

Friday, August 28, 2015

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




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.

Friday, August 14, 2015

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.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

I Will Return - by Dita De Boni




I knew it was a conspiracy from the moment John Key put his greasy capitalist money grubbing hands on the pony tail of the comrade-ess sweating blood in the coffee mines of Parnell, carrying food to the elitist swine, oinking and grunting as their snouts swilled at trough. I have been sacked from this column – yes me, the most honest business writer (with a political chaser); the commentator who dares to tell the truth about the fat cats robbing the pay packets of the workers. I am the only scribe who has risked her life to bring the truth to readers on why, in Aotearoa, the gap between the haves and have-nots is widening. As I write this gap has increased by 200 per cent.

But I have been silenced. Shame on those who wield the axe over my words. Censorship is alive and well in this so-called land of freedom of expression and do you know why?

Let me tell you why.

They told me it’s for “financial reasons”: “tightening the belts”, “last one on and all that”. “We love your work but we have to let you go.” 

Do they think I’m stupid? (Do you really want me to answer that? - Ed) This is the real story, so listen very carefully because I will only say this once.  At Wright Communications this was a mantra.

There’s been a conspiracy to get rid of me since I wrote that story condemning women who want the freedom to slutwalk; to wear anything they damn well like. Well they can’t. I’m a lefty liberal  and we say women should look ugly. So everyone who somewhere, somehow is having fun wants me out of here and they have succeeded. They are all tied in it up together – NZ Herald, NZ Government, Murray McCully, Rebecca Kitteridge,  Saudi's (yes they are on to me too, I can hear the pips on my phone), John Key, the owners of Rosie’s Café, Rachel Glucina – all these far righters have got together and used a clever diversion of the Conservative Party fiasco  meltdown but I’m on to it.

Poor sheep. Poor little lambs, flying all that way and no segregated toilets. (They were all ewes, you twit - Ed) Only one team of vets for the whole plane load. The lambs died (mental note, Sumac Cumin Kofta Keema for dinner tonight – yum) so how is Key to explain that away? He won’t have to now that I won’t be appearing on these pages, the most feared business journalist in New Zealand.

Capitalist scum and their running dog mates. Then there’s the small matter of the TPPA and selling our sovereignty (mental note, must buy some of that cheap Australian wine to go with the Kofta – thanks CER). Do these neo-cons even have a mandate to shove this unwanted, big scary hairy deal on to us? Helen Clark would never have considered something like this.

Maybe I’ll go back to writing a Yummy Mummy blog but do it in GCSB code and it will be all secret squirrel and really be attacking business and be an anti-business column with political chaser. (Maybe not, no vacancy while Hill-Cone still here - Ed)

Failing that, if I mysteriously do not appear on Radio New Zealand’s The Panel (surely you mean The Flannel? - Ed) with Jesse Mulligan (Jesse will just have to tell the listeners yet again that I’m married to Ali Ikram) then order the police to arrest all the VRWC in Dirty Politics for my murder and play Barry McGuire’s “We’re On The Eve of Destruction” at my funeral.

Editor's Note - Dita De Boni is the code-hopper of New Zealand journalism. She has appeared in women’s magazines – with her husband TVNZ reporter Ali Ikram who she loves telling radio listeners she is married to (we can’t imagine why). She hops to television. She hops to anti-business journalism then muddles it with political commentary without checking facts. She hops to lecturing the nation on how.

Monday, August 10, 2015

I Don't Have a Penis, Hear Me Raw - by Rachel Smalley




“I am woman hear me whine, in numbers too small to expline”.

Yes I know that’s not how you spell explain but you have to remember I’m writing this the way I say it on the radio, that is, with my nasal accent and I’m being authentic, that is, from a woman’s perspective. I am disappointed. Very disappointed. Disappointed that Radio New Zealand didn’t give Mary Wilson the boot and give me the job instead.

No what am I saying? I am disappointed that they didn’t give the job to a strong capable woman host and instead they’ve given it to yet another white middle-class weak streak of weasel piss, that John Campbell. Now all our primetime radio shows are hosted by middle-class white male men. Is that stating the obvious? I’ll ask Larry Williams. Or Leighton Smith. They’ll know. Or Mike Hosking, just as soon as I’ve written this pile of shite for the Herald.

Where was I? Yes: we need one woman for every man hosting primetime shows for balance, so they can bring their unique and iconic perspective to the interview. For instance, look at Megyn Kelly at Fox News. Do you think Donald Trump would have been able to say what he did, about blood coming out of her “whatever”, if the anchor was a man? No. Mind you, if Fox had hired me for that interview I would have given Donald Trump a run for his money-oh. Yes indeed.

I would have said something like this: “You’ve called women you don’t like fat pigs, dogs, slobs, and disgusting animals. Wimp! 

“I’ll up you on that. I’ve called them heifers and lardos.”

Betcha he would have walked out of the debate right then and there.

We are creating a near-monopoly of male broadcasters in this country and dammit, I just won’t have it. The government should bring in quotas to accurately reflect our society, which isn’t straight, white and male. So every media company should have to employ a host from each of these categories:

1. Lardo
2. Heifer
3. Rachel
4. Blonde
5. Bimbo
6. Nasal twang

All my friends are up for it. “Let’s do it” said Jane Hastings my boss. “What?” I said. “Let’s do what? I’m hetero. I’ve done enough women’s mags interviews I thought I’d made that perfectly clear!”
The worm turned. We never got there. People say I’m “muddled”, call me “sour grapes”, it’s “PC gone mad”. I have no idea why they think I’m stupid and I’m challenging feminists. I’m bringing about change here sisters.

“I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin' arms across the land
But I'm still an embryo
With a long long way to go
Until I make my brother understand” (Ed - apologies to Helen Reddy)

Editor's Note - Rachel Smalley is host of Newstalk ZB 5am to 6am when nobody is listening. And a whole lot of other stuff on her Celebrity Speakers blurb which she obviously wrote from a women’s perspective.




Wednesday, July 29, 2015

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. 

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

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

Monday, July 13, 2015

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. 

Friday, July 10, 2015

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.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

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.  

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

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.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

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.




Monday, July 6, 2015

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.


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. 


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.