Wanker of the week.

Winner: John Kerry

US Secretary of State and ex presidential candidate John Kerry tells whistleblower Edward Snowdon to ‘man up’ and come back to America. Reportedly he said it with a straight face. Your author can categorically confirm that Snowden’s response was: ‘Piss off, Kerry, you complete dreaming, out-of-ideas wanker’. 

Honourable mentions: Maori Party leader Te Ururoa Flavell for ticking No when he really meant Yes on Paid Parental Leave; and TV3 for showing the John Banks eating something from his ear (while the fact Banks may be simian is of great interest, let's focus on the case and not unnecessary humiliation). 

Saint of the last seven days.

Winner: Pope Francis 

This Pope is brave, intelligent and humane. The way he balanced his trip to the Middle East was masterful and in a matter of days he shamed the efforts of successive US presidents. Yes, yes, Popey still believes in superstitious nonsense but his actions and attitude in important areas can only be applauded.

Honourable mentions: Kiwi cricketing superstar Corey Anderson for taking the rather novel approach of playing a game of cricket and actually trying to win; Conservation Minister Nick Smith for putting Fiordland before a monorail and potentially saving us from an extremely expensive white elephant; and JustSpeak launching in Christchurch – young, engaged people focusing on issues of crime and justice – great stuff.

don’t stop ‘til we get there, the cat said. his ears back and his tail striking out like a coiled towel.  through the slit of his travel box i could see two eyes and one paw. don’t worry pusspuss, i said. he didn’t move. you hear me, dean moriarty? i said that louder. he meowed. what a trip. his purr took on the purpose of a chainsaw. and the tempo of jazz. he padded impatiently up and down his cage. up. up. up. down. down. down. the forward movement of the car was not enough. he wanted to meet the future at pace. to run headlong into whatever was out there. he began to spit the catnip as winos spit tobacco. big, with lazy purpose. when we stopped for gas, he was asleep. the adventure had been too much. when the future opens up on the road, your whole life can seem like a prison cell. or a cat box. the only adventure now was the twitch of his sleeping whiskers. we arrived and his eyes blinked open. the first hands to grab him were grandma’s. the wizened fingers like broken twigs, just hours from being connected to arms for 95 years. in defiance at the inevitability of death, he bit her. and dropped to the floor. dancing. running. gliding. he sniffed every corner every crevasse. the strange. the unfamiliar. the frightening. finding life, man, finding life! it came in the form of banksy. not the crooked politician. not that manifestation of everything wrong and square. no, it was banksy, grandma’s cat. hissssssssssss meeeeooooowwww communication. listen to it. feel it. run. run. run. the motel’s lights blinkered like the welcome of a relative moderately annoyed by our visit. but the night was a blur of catnip and curtains. the party, the relatives, the groping hands, the claws. the motel. get past the man. sleep. wake. we had to get out of there unseen. the towel that covered the cat cage looked like a towel stealing a tv. hello, we smiled. the motelier smiled back? keep going, the cat said. left behind the crystals kicked up from the kitty litter tray looked like small rocks of methamphetamine. blow their minds. back on the road. always on the road. but the journey was over. back through time to our beginning. pusspuss jumped on his couch. head spinning. what a trip, man, what a trip.



The Twitter and Facebook counters are still either not working or recording at random. Weebly who host the site are being absolutely hopeless.

Many moons ago, I had a column in CANTA the University of Canterbury Students' Association magazine. In that, I always had a wanker of the week and a saint of the last seven days. I miss those guys, so I'm bringing them back. 

Wanker of the week.

Winner: Brendan Horan.

Having a crack at Winston Peter is a popular past time and one that should be applauded and taught in schools, but from Horan it all sounds rather bitter. Whether he stole from his mother to have a flutter on the gee gees or not, he is stealing from the taxpayer by being a lame duck MP.

Honourable mentions: Xhris Xairns, John Banks, drone strikes, and the guy who threw mud at John Banks (I'm in favour of letting the courts sort matters out).

Saint of the last seven days:

Winner: Vicki Buck.

Buck is behind the Christchurch 'Food Forrest' initiative. Extensive inquires can reveal that nobody has any idea what the hell that is, but it appears to be the planting of fruit tress instead of other flora around the inner city. If so, that's a bloody terrific initiative. Furthermore, it will mean drunk Cantabrians can have fresh fruit on the way home after a big night out instead of those microwave chicken rolls from the service station. Saintly stuff, Buck.

Honourable mentions: Brendon McCullum, @PussPussEleven, and the guy who threw mud at John Banks (simply because Banks said something he objected to in 1997. Way to hold a grudge you beautifully crazy old sod).


If bloody Weebly don't fix my Twitter and Facebook counters shortly (it has now been a week) next week's wanker will be rather predictable.

The latest round of polls have given the Labour Party an all too familiar sense of doom. Only a fool would fail to see Labour staring into the abyss.

Apparently, I am one such fool.

Despite some rocky times for the Government of late, principally through some caustic karma returning the way of Judith Collins, National remains overwhelmingly popular largely on the back of our love for John Key. David Cunliffe is such a distant second one might wonder if he’s actually in the race.

Fairfax’s latest leader-favorability poll tells us that Key gained 43 percent positive comments from voters, 30 percent negative and 27 percent neutral or nothing. On the other hand, Cunliffe only got 6 percent positive comments, 25 percent negative and – here’s the kicker – a massive 69 percent of people were neutral or expressed nothing. Nothing. In other words, most Kiwis don’t give a toss about him. And this is where Labour might feel some of that doom.

The one thing that is certain, however, is that during the upcoming election campaign Cunliffe will get something he desperately needs: exposure. Just as minor parties benefit in the lead up to the election when the lens of publicity and public interest widens, so it will be for the Labour leader. And the fact that so many of us hold no views on him means he has a chance to impress.

In recent days there has been some commentary on the fact that Cunliffe needs to be himself and not over-analyse things if he wants to connect with the electorate. Given that, he might take a few tips from his wife. After watching John Campbell’s extended interview with the pair last week, I wanted to vote for her.

But what Cunliffe did really well in that interview was share the stage with his wife. I’m sure the carefully calculated side of him would have screamed for the camera to focus on him. Instead, perhaps because he was at home and disarmed by Campbell’s beautifully bumbling approach, a more relaxed side emerged and it worked for him. Perhaps if he can harness that manner on the hustings he might turn those 69 percent who have no opinion of him into people who like him, and in turn raise the popularity of his party.

Key has no real scope. We know him. Our views are formed. The fact we couldn’t care less about Cunliffe, however, gives him a real opportunity.

The one question that remains then is this: is he good enough?


*Please keep using the Twitter and facebook buttons. They are working but due to problems at Weebly the counters are not recording hits

Despite what was on TV this week, there is no gang merger proposed between the Mongrel Mob and Black Power. There is no plan for a ‘super gang’. What was on 3rd Degree was not a story being reported but one being created.

Calling talks between rival gang members who are trying to bring an end to senseless conflicts – talks that have been occurring for years – a ‘merger’ and the creation of a ‘super gang’ means 3rd Degree have either been led up the garden path, are ignorant of reality, or they are deliberately misleading viewers for the sake of provocation. And given some of the reporting in the programme, the latter is my guess.

At one point it was mooted that this ‘merger’ (which doesn’t exist) was a “carefully timed PR stunt” in the wake of the Mallory Manning murder. That would indicate the gangs contacted the media. No. The media contacted them. And initially they had no story idea they just wanted the gangs. I know because the media contacted me first.

3rd Degree do know stunts, though. The dramatically described “moment of truth” meeting at the Hastings Mongrel Mob clubhouse between Black Power and the Mob was completely manufactured for the show. 3rd Degree set it up.

The best way to break news is to make it, I guess.

In their own realms the gangs have much power, none more so than the Mongrel Mob and Black Power, but they are no match for cunning media. The gangs have been a deep well from which the media has drank for time immemorial. Gangs attract an audience.

Don’t get me wrong, elements of the story were accurate. There are some within the gangs who are looking to have greater communication and cooperation. Respect to them for that. The editorialising was, however, too often grossly misleading. Having some engagement with each other and merging are entirely different things. Furthermore, there is still much more antagonism than cooperation between the decades-long rivals. Super gang? Pure fiction.

I feel for presenter Samantha Hayes. She fronted the show well, but she is reliant on those who construct the programme to set her on the right path. In this instance, that didn’t happen.

When I was contacted by the show’s producer he told me that he wasn’t about the sensational, and that he wanted to do things well. I told him I’d heard that before. He told me he was different to the others.

He sure was different to the others. He was worse.

But hey, it was great telly and that’s all that counts, right?


*unfortunately my website provider had a nightmare and reset the Facebook and Twitter counters. Thanks, though, for making this by far my most read and appreciated post to date.

Last night was the Canon media awards. Journos and drinking. What could go wrong?

The last time I went to an awards function I lost my luggage, my prize money and my mind. My publicist, the police and the Hells Angels were looking for me. I went missing for three days. My lawyer eventually found me.

I went to the Canons with the trepidation of a man who knows the dangers of awards evenings.

I was not there, however, for my considerable genius. I was there as Beck Eleven’s partner. She was up for best feature writer. Her piece on the death of a homeless man was incredibly good. I was a proud plus one.

The head of news at The Press and I warmed into a couple of beers in the afternoon. Wise to get in some drinking before the main event. Don’t want to run on a cold engine, we reasoned. Smart move.

I had a list of people I was looking forward to seeing: Steve Braunias, Giovanni Tiso, Toby Manhire, Anthony Byrt, and David Fisher. I looked around. I saw many beautiful people but none I cared about. I had a drink.

Hilary Barry hosted the event. She told us she was a poor substitute for John Campbell. I like John, the man knows where to get a good Asian soup, but Hilary was great, warming into her role. The journalists continued to drink.

The Fourth Estate always fills me with mixed emotions. The role they play in society is so important. Hold to account politicians and shed light where ordinarily there might be dark. A noble profession, indeed.

The reality, however, is often a mind-blowingly stupid just-out-of-journalism-school sop who writes with the intellectual dexterity of a kid with a crayon.

Not here, though. Line after line of greatness poured on stage; Braunias, Wall, Fisher, Anderson, Cropp, McCrone, McGregor, Taylor, Boyer. One, because the talent was so good and two, because there seemed to be an award for all things known and unknown. Best feature, best multi-media, best photo, best use of lizard in a sentence. Blah blah. The journalists continued to drink.

Then there was Cameron Slater. He won best blog for Whale Oil. If Slater wasn’t such a wanker, we’d probably respect what he does. But he is a wanker. I Tweeted after his acceptance speech: “You could have been graceful. Instead you were a cunt. What a shame.”

The real shame, of course, was that I wrote ‘graceful’ instead of 'gracious'.

The journalists continued to drink.

The pesky awards thing out of the way it was on to the Shakespeare Hotel. A place that has been propped up by Herald journalists for generations. I nestled into a drink and conversation but I could feel a familiar madness creeping in. Time to go home, I thought. The wheels, I feared, may come off. I was a plus one on best behavior. The rest of the night, then, is a mystery.

But the journalists continued to drink. And drink.

Few murder trials in recent history have captured the imagination like that of the Blade Runner, Oscar Pistorius. After a two-week break it started again yesterday.

Much of the intrigue in this case comes not from the facts, but from the manner in which Pistorius is giving his evidence. His emotion has made the court quite the theatre.

It is human nature to read the emotions of others. In the 1960s Dr. Paul Ekman began his famous studies on the importance of interpreting facial expression, a deeply ingrained evolutionary necessity. Furthermore, it’s just interesting.

David Bain’s detached and passive manner raised eyebrows. Just think for a second: if you were accused of killing your family and didn’t do it, wouldn’t you be screaming that at every opportunity? The fact Bain doesn’t (the one time he spoke unrehearsed – at his first trial – he was convicted) may lead one to conclude that he has a terrible secret to hide.

If a somewhat indifferent manner leads people to question innocence, though, the reverse can also be true.  Take the uncontrollable blubbering of Mark Lundy whose grief appeared to affect his balance to such a degree that he had to be half carried around the funeral of his wife and child. Later he would be accused of silencing them with the long arching blows of an axe.

Lundy’s manner seemed all rather faux and turned on, a pathetic attempt to garner sympathy. The public whispered that he must be guilty.

Pistorius is a little different for a couple of reasons. Firstly, unlike Bain and Lundy the basic facts of the matter are unchallenged. Pistorius pulled out a gun. He shot through the bathroom door. His girlfriend was killed. Simple. This is not a classic whodunit. It’s only a question of why.

The other reason this case is a bit different is that the emotion of Pistorius is less and less being questioned. On Radio New Zealand a UK journalist saying she had argued with her editor over the authenticity of the Blade Runner’s tears. The journalist said she was among many at the court who were convinced Pistorius’ emotion was real. It has been reported, too, that the judge has looked moved at times. Yesterday, the first person on the scene, a neighbor Pistorius calls ‘uncle’, testified that Pistorius’ begging, screaming and praying after the killing was not put on.

The man who has spent his life overcoming disability is either as good an actor as he is an athlete, or his grief is very real. I suspect the latter.

One of the curiosities of love in fractious relationships is that it can turn to hate and then back again so quickly. If, in a fit of rage, Pistorius purposefully shot his girlfriend, that doesn’t mean he can’t regret it. In an instant of red mist when he squeezed that trigger he wanted her gone and in every single second since he has wanted her back.  Pistorius could have murdered his girlfriend and still love her.

In looking at Pistorius’ face, then, we may very well be seeing the grief of loss. The loss of a loved one and also the terror of knowing that in all likelihood he will pay for what he did by losing his liberty.

Yeah, there’s no doubt his emotion is real. 

The Hells Angels have expanded. This weekend the Red Devils of Nelson have become a ‘hang around’ chapter of the famous outlaw group.

This move was entirely predictable. The Red Devils’ links to the Hell’s Angels are well known, and having served a mandatory period as an associate group, they have been given leave to wear some identifying Hells Angels insignia. All going to plan, then, in time they will become an official chapter, joining those of Auckland, Wanganui and Nomad.

The Red Devils formed in Nelson in 2009, and their modest ranks were made up of members of the Nelson Bays Motorcycle Club. Apart from their president, a former Road Knight president from Timaru, none had been in an outlaw club before.

The resolve of the fledgling club was quickly tested. Police claimed they were an organised criminal group and infiltrated them with an undercover agent. The arrests stemming from Operation Explorer, however, have never been tested. The forging of documents by police has meant the case is mired in the courts.

While this move by the Hells Angels will undoubtedly cause a stir, nothing much has changed except to expose as a fallacy the idea that police can crush outlaw clubs or gangs with force. While police pressure took some toll on the membership of the Red Devils, those who remained have a steely determination to stay for the long haul. Furthermore, the addition now of the Hells Angels brand is likely to assist in swelling the ranks of those wanting to join.

Cohesion caused by conflict with police is well evinced in New Zealand gang history, and numerous examples are outlined in PATCHED.

For the Hells Angels this history started in Auckland in 1961. Incredibly, this makes the first New Zealand chapter the fourth oldest in the world, and the first to form outside of California.

For years Nelson had just one outlaw club, and no other gangs, that being the Lost Breed. Now it has three (the third being the Rebels who set up shop just less than two years ago). In Nelson, then, we see a microcosm of New Zealand generally.

Four years ago I was suggesting the outlaw scene was in a moribund state but since then it has been expanding rapidly. The scene hasn’t seen such growth since the 1970s. The reasons for this are rather complex, but certainly popular media has played a part. Outlaw clubs, for certain people at least, have returned to vogue.

Brotherhood, booze and bikes. The outlaws, it seems, are back.

* Thanks to those who point it out to me, but ‘Hells Angels’ doesn’t have an apostrophe (a quirk of history).
** The photo is of an early NZ Hells Angel patch.