I’d rather eat the guts out of a live kitten than vote this year. Mostly because I think it would leave a better taste in my mouth.

I have always harboured a healthy dislike for politicians but never before have I been as disinclined to vote for either of the major political parties. National is a do nothing government telling us we have a rock star economy, which might be true for the prime minister and his circle of friends, but I work in areas where deep and serious problems around poverty and social dislocation are all too real and getting worse.

Labour acknowledges these problems but its answers seem irrelevant or gimmicky and not systemic. More than this, all of the parties are just so wholly uninspiring. The recent return of Matt McCarten, Jim Anderton, and Richard Prebble is a tired tip of the hat to the old boys’ network.  A drab testimony to a complete lack of innovative thinking.

One of the problems, I think, is that we hold politicians in too high a regard. Generally we punish people when they do bad things, but I know a heap of crooks who behave in better ways than those in power. Yip, they might sell drugs or rob the odd bank, but only if you’ve never taken drugs or thought about taking money off your bank can you really throw stones.

Flippancy aside, many crimes that take an inordinate amount of focus, pale in comparison to more important problems or debates like child poverty, polluted rivers, the powers of the GCSB, policies without mandate, and the ballooning gap between rich and poor.

Furthermore, when crooks get caught they are punished, unlike politicians. John Banks can quite obviously lie and still prop up a government. The people of Epsom won’t punish his party (they didn’t when Rodney ‘Perk Buster’ Hide was busted for enjoying taxpayer perks) and return ACT to power.

And this is, at least in part, the problem. Most people feel powerless to punish errant or hopeless politicians but when we get the chance to send a message, we don’t. The problem with politics is that it often trumps principles: ‘I’ll concede on this so I can gain on something else’. We see that as ugly, but as voters we do the same. Epsom is proof of that.

We would all be better off in the long term if Epsom sent ACT – and by implication all politicians – a strong message. That being we demand better.

In fact, it’s more likely some other deal will be made that sees Colin Craig get elected. Colin Craig is without doubt an intellectually bereft idiot - one half laughable, the other half offensive. He has more place on the street selling pencils from a cup ranting about the end of the world than he does sitting in parliament.

The irony is, that if I were in those particular electorates, I’d feel like I’d have something to vote for (or at least against). As it stands I don’t feel I do. And I’m not alone. There is an increasing disillusionment with politics. This is often called apathy. The powers-that-be should hope that it is, and not a simmering disillusionment that could go pop.

I believe in voting, I will make the effort to get to the booth and I will vote for my incumbent MP because I find her excellent – but that’s in spite of her party, not because of it. The party vote I will leave blank, presumably adding to the ‘invalid’ result. Or I’ll vote for the Internet Party. Not because I think Kim Dotcom is the answer, but simply because eating the guts out of a kitten is probably not as cool as it sounds.

Mike Bush has today been made New Zealand’s top cop. That he is popular with staff and has been responsible from some important events and initiatives is likely to be overshadowed by some incredible comments he made at a funeral last year.

In April 2013, the then Deputy Commissioner gave a eulogy for former Detective Inspector Bruce Hutton in which he praised the dead man’s integrity. Not to put too fine of a point on it, however, Hutton was a crooked cop and he planted key evidence (a shell casing) in the case against Arthur Allan Thomas for the murder of Jeannette and Harvey Crew in 1970. It seems to me that everyone except the police accepts that Thomas did not commit that grisly crime, which has continued to grip and fascinate the public for decades (Thomas was given a Royal Pardon in 1979).

But even if one believes, and in my opinion you shouldn’t, that Thomas shot Harvey through a louvered window before bashing Jeannette in the face with the butt of his rifle then killing her and dumping both bodies in the Waikato River, one should never condone the planting of evidence. Never. Hutton did plant evidence, and yet at his funeral Mike Bush thought it was “really appropriate” to quote from his file that Hutton’s “integrity [was] beyond reproach”.

Bloody hell.

A public relations blunder? Certainly. More that that? I think so.

For me, this is a perfect example of 'blue vision'. Although I devised the theory of blue vision in respect to gangs and outlaw clubs, it is relevant to situations outside of this. In a nutshell, blue vision exists when police uphold a belief regardless of the evidence against it. The false story becomes ingrained in the collective police culture and they are blind to anything that may contradict it. Police officers with views that run against this perceived wisdom are marginalised and silenced. In this way, the false story is never contradicted and therefore becomes bedrock of police thought.

Within the New Zealand police Thomas is guilty, and inconvenient facts like the planting of evidence are minor issues, pushed from one’s mind in the same way one might swat away a pesky fly. With blue vision this seems appropriate, but to those with clear vision – in this instance the public majority – it looks as it is: a defence of the indefensible.

The police rely on public confidence to undertake their duties and by upholding a crooked cop they erode that public confidence. Furthermore we should expect – and in fact demand – better from our police.

This is not to say I’m against Bush’s appointment or anti-police. I’m neither. Just like imperfection in the police does not diminish the fact that overall the New Zealand police are extremely good, nor should one flaw necessarily soil Bush’s abilities and record. It will mean, however, his judgement will be fastidiously watched. And while I will be one watching, I wish him all the best in the role.


[My discussion of Blue Vision is in chapter eight of PATCHED – and specifically discussed between pp.231-237].


Addition: Here's an interview with Marcus Lush on RadioLive about this topic, if you're interested.

It had been a slow night. There had been little violence and we were disappointed. In the heart of Port Moresby, in a cage, in the back of a police truck and in the heat, we were filming a documentary.

It was a difficult time but I wasn’t planning on instigating a prison break. That’s just the way things turn out sometimes.

Papua New Guinea is a beautiful country with more than 800 tribes and as many different dialects. Its people have faced such rapid development they have been thrust into the modern world while encumbered with primitive beliefs. An unstable political system awash with corruption does not help matters, and violence and lawlessness have become such a problem that on the day I arrived the Prime Minister declared ‘war’ on crime.

Despite meeting some very kind and desperately poor people who treated me beautifully (the Nine Mile settlement had never known a white bloke to hang out alone) the country’s problems are obvious, and we were there to film them. With only eleven days for the shoot and thousands of kilometers to travel we couldn’t waste time. And my idea of starting with two days in a police squad was fast looking like a waste of time.

At the end of the second night we had a couple of domestic incidents and little else (violence against females is endemic in the cities and near universal in the highlands). Back at the Boroko police station where the jail cells are we had a crew meeting. Have we got anything to use? Not really. One scuffle might make the final cut if things all go to hell. We need a release form from the arrested bloke so we can legally show his face on television. How will we get that?

I’ll sort it, I said. I’ll get the release form signed.

The next thing I know a cop is leading me to the cells and opening the door. It was dimly lit and as my eyes adjusted I immediately wondered what the hell I was doing. The main cell was an open area with smaller cells coming off it. The men wandered around freely, but it was crowded. And it smelled. Being surrounded by violent men is one thing, but the unknown is something else. In the darkness, my white skin contrasted greatly with theirs and I glowed like an underpowered incandescent light. I hid the concern from my face, but the heat meant sweat was dripping off it.  

I was put in a small cell with the guy I wanted and the cop left us. Where the hell was he going, I thought. I couldn’t believe it, but I went about my business explaining to the prisoner, who spoke only Pidgin English, that I wanted to put him on the television in England. The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck me, but to my surprise he happily nodded his head thinking that when he signed the form he would be freed. No, no, no I said. I can’t do that. And then he got angry. A silent menacing angry

He began clenching a fist and pointing at me. In a conversation hitherto inhibited by problems of verbal language it was a delightfully clear and universally recognisable statement that he wished to pound my head and body repeatedly with his knuckles. Bother, I thought. It flashed through my mind that being ripped apart in a prison cell in Port Moresby might be the way my journey ends. Bother I thought again.

With a confidence that belied genuine fear, I nonchalantly shook my head and extended my hand to shake his. If he were going to hit me it would be now. He didn’t.  I breathed out and whipped out of the cell to see the cop still in the crowded main area. I signaled I was keen to go, still desperately faking a relaxed approach as the gaze of every prisoner threatened me.

As the cop unlocked the door to the outside courtyard the prisoner who had forever ruined his chances of being on telly silently crept between the heavy exit grill and me. The cop didn’t see the stealth and he continued to open the door. Bang! The guy shot through it. Fuck me, I thought.

The cop lunged forward and caught my fleeing friend by the shorts (which was all he was wearing) and they lurched down entangling his legs. His exposed body allowed three appendages for me to grab. I chose one of his arms and the three of us tussled on the ground. Looking up I saw the entire jail pouring through the open door. At which point I did the only thing a sensible man would do. I ran. With a small head start it now appeared as though I were leading the prison break. This, I thought to myself, was a quite peculiar turn of events.

As I scrambled to the front desk I suggested to the cops that some assistance was required and to the cameraman that I may have inadvertently made some terrific television and pointed in the direction of the melee.

We went back to see the single cop heralding the prisoners back into the jail. Apparently those who had flooded from the cells after the initial break had been from the cop’s tribe and they had happily rounded up anybody they thought was taking the piss. They also beat the living daylights out of the fellow who initially darted out.

My heart still beating, I lit a cigarette, leaned against a wall, and pondered the events of the last 20 minutes. It was indeed a very strange country. It was day two of filming. How the hell could this all be squeezed into an hour film, I thought? And is there a better way of getting release forms?