Requiem For New Zealand

Requiem For New Zealand continues on from End of The Golden Weather

Duncan Stout

Brian and Jane

Who built the house?

David Tamihere

The 1984 movie 1984

Nobody reached for a telephone

Animal Farm: a fairy story

All you can do is teach it

Greed is good

Maori oral history

Goodby Pork Pie

William Fox

A week in The Windy City

Its ugliness is part of its essence

The Great Lock Down

The browning of New Zealand politics

The warrior gene

Co-governance

Our lost narrative

Donald Brash

The Duchess meets the Maori

Shrek the sheep

King Tawhiao and Winston Peters

Nicky Hager and John Key

Holidays in Woke Land

My vaccination pass

Effeso Collins RIP

Henry Lawson among Maoris

Duncan Stout

In the 1990s, I set out to write a middle twentieth century kind of novel. As my German girl friend said. "You only read the books of dead authors." I settled on an imagined son of the New Zealand Premier and Chief Justice Robert Stout. I would have to call him Duncan Stewart named after a television script writer who had given me unique encouragement for my writing. Robert Stout was a New Zealand founding father, suitably almost completely forgotten about by the globalised New Zealand people. I worked out in my busy head, that Duncan would be born in 1885. He would serve as a surgeon in the New Zealand Expeditionary Division in World War One. He would become nationally distinguished and esteemed. He would serve as Chancellor at Victoria University in Wellington, and would survive into the late 1960s. I completed the first chapter, and then discovered I could go no further or got bored with it. I threw the manuscript into the rubbish tin. Then I thought better about it, and rescued it. I turned it into a short story. Retired Chancellor of Victoria University Duncan Stewart attends a University reception to welcome the Federal Republic German Ambassador. The University guests encounter Vietnam war protestors that include a young man who boasts over a megaphone, they were the youth who would take over the world from the foggy old. Duncan smiles indulgently that one day they too would be old and foggy. After the reception, Duncan returns to his Ashton Towers apartment. He invites outside the tower, an old Communist. Duncan had hated the sight of him every week, distributing his Communist newspaper. Now Duncan feels indulgent for his past, and invites the Communist to his apartment for a chat. Inside with sherry and cakes, they reminiscence about their lives in New Zealand. Duncan notes he and the Communist are both dinosaurs. Duncan belongs to the past generations of middle class men who cognitively built New Zealand. Show men and opportunists are replacing them. The Communist belongs to the past generations of workers who manually built New Zealand. Machines and guest workers are replacing them. Both a little tipsy and a little senile, get up to dance the Charleston. Duncan falls and has a stroke. He wakes up to find himself in an old people's home. Outside his window, a carriage and horses transport elegantly dressed young people. Duncan reaches down to seize his flaccid penis. He discovers it has returned to a small boy's. Duncan asks his nurse to hitch his horse and carriage so he can return home.

I sent the story to the New Author's Short Story Mobil competition. A few weeks later, I glanced at a newspaper article about the short story competition. I blinked there was my name Lloyd Gretton of Hamilton in its shortlist sent to be judged by author John Fowles in England. Uniquely for New Zealand , the competition was initially submitted anonymously. White obscure males had as good a chance as anyone else. The self anointed lesbian head of Waikato University's School of Education who had said to me she wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole, now was calling me the author. I had lacked the presence of mind to say to her. "I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole."

Later I was surprised to find out there was a Duncan Stout, son of Prime Minister Robert Stout. He was born in 1885 and served as a surgeon in the New Zealand Expeditionary Division in World War One. He served as Chancellor of Victoria University and died in 1979.

As I am not a conman, I am not making any of this up. This phenomenon happens to me rarely. People not in the psychic scene say I am psychic. My sister in law would enthuse that I was the only person who was right about the Vietnam war. I had correctly predicted to her in 1972 that the war would end in 1975 after a two month offensive by the Communists. I had based that prediction on the Thirty Years War but I don't know where the two months' prediction came from.

A few years later, an old guy living in a caravan park on a sickness benefit told me he at an early age had resolved to be a car mechanic. His mother said, "No son of mine will be a grease monkey". Then out of the blue, the old guy said. "I am the grandson of Duncan Stout."

Duncan Stout figures in a profile in Wikipedia. He was not cross linked to his father, Robert Stout. I cross linked them, enthusing if I did not do so, the New Zealand academics who leave no omission in cross links for women and Maori would never do so.

Brian and Jane

I first met Brian and Jane in Ponsonby in Auckland in 1976. This era predated Ponsonby's gentrification. Cheap lodgings formed a floating population of students, Polynesian workers, hobos, derelicts and ageing hippies. Brian and Jane were itinerants from Australia in their early twenties. Brian was a bearded intellectual of the Jack Kerouac fashion, Jane was organic. They were vegetarians as vegans were called in those days. They arrived at our Ponsonby slummy dwelling from a notice at the University Campus. They appeared as meek gentle loving people. We accepted them as house tenants. Having settled there, they quickly became a loud and noisy presence. Brian detested parties and remarked before the start of one. "There is no blood yet but I see it in the people's eyes." He said to me once. "When are you going to drop out of University? Every student I meet soon drops out." True to form, I dropped out at the end of the year. To rub shoulders wth Brian was to descend into the abyss. Brian was quite puritanical and destroyed a pornographic poster as "bad taste".He declaimed against the ugly soullessness in Auckland housing. However, he spoke of the friendly helpfulness of Aucklanders.

I went with them a few times into the countryside to take part in a gardening in a commune. Brian was terribly excited and would shout, "Air! air!" as we left the house for the garden. After an hour or two in the garden, they would sit in a bored fashion in the van.

When Brian was not working at a construction site, Jane would make vegetarian dishes in the kitchen, and Brian would sit at the kitchen table, smoking weed and ranting on his existentialist thoughts. Or he would stay silent and stare mouth open with fixed deranged eyes. To me in the barren environment of an Arts Degree, this was fascinating. Aristophanes comes to life in Ponsonby.

One evening, after a convivial time at the local pub, he took part in a music rap at our house. The performers complained his rhythmic clapping was distracting their rehearsal. He refused to stop. When these yuppie precursors stopped performing and demanded silence from him, he exploded into a cutlery smashing, wall banging rage. "For weeks, we have had to put up with your meat eating aggression! Now you will see vegetarian aggression! I love you man, I love you, I love you all! But I will smash your faces in if you don't stop eating meat!" Matthew, Katie's boy friend before she left him for Kelly, tried to remonstrate with Brian with a reasoned argument. For a moment Brian was lost for words. Then Brian leapt up and raised his fists above Matthew's head. "You're fucked! shouted Brian.

A youth in 1978 who heard about Brian's man comments, asked. "Is he a queer?" The youth was completely ignorant of the hippy life style and patois. It was already ancient history.

Brian was nostalgic for the 1967 Summer of Love. He wanted every year to be 1967. But he was a child at a Catholic school in that momentous year when millions believed that Dionysus would reign and King Cadmus would be beheaded. Instead in the next year, Bobby Kennedy in his hour of triumph would have his head shot off. At the end of that year, Dad in the guise of Richard Nixon would restore apparent sanity. In August the next year, the Charles Manson gang would dispel any more reigns of Dionysus .

We threw Brian and Jane out of the house and a vegetarian household was found for them. The same violent event happened at a party at that place. They were thrown out of there and drove away in their van up into Northland.

Five years later, I met Brian again in Auckland. Jane had vanished. Brian scarcely remembered that earlier sojourn in Auckland. Brian was now a hobo, awaiting with dread and depression a prison sentence for drunkenness and assault.

At that house after Brian and Jane had departed, I took part in throwing into a cold bath a stupid with drink young man. We thought it was hilarious when he started shivering. An old hippy took him into his care. Looking back as a mature adult, I realised he might have died of hypothermia and I and others would have been charged with murder. The Court would probably have settled for man slaughter as we were middle class young first offenders. After many years of imprisonment, I would be an author confined to New Zealand and obsessed like Dostoevsky and Anne Perry with crime detection and punishment. School hardly teaches the practical lessons of life. Such as the cause and affects of hypothermia. The economy demands a population of ignorant risk takers to fill the employment of clinics and justice. So that they can pay tax to fund the politicians and bureaucracy so they can fill the employment of more clinics and justice.

A Maori whare (dwelling) illustration in 1840. It seems to be fastened by metal nails from European trading.

Government House, the dwelling of the Governor-General since 1910. The Maori woman above might have lived long enough to view it.

Who Built The House?

In 1995, I enrolled in one University Paper at Auckland University. I attended classes but did not sit the exam. The course was analysing Pacific Languages to find their proto languages. I could never grasp the point of it. It seemed like counting the angels dancing on a pin. Still that was better than a Queer Studies paper aspiring movie makers enrolled in in America to use all of a College's student resources. They never attended a single class and were suitably failed at the end of the College year. Western higher education, called tertiary education in New Zealand, has come a long way since Arnold Toynbee.

I made use of a student room with word processor aids. Word processors were the transition between type writers and desk top computers. I had no more than a vague idea about the internet. Columbus loomed over my horizon as goblins. There I fortified with type writer skills wrote the first draft of my children's novel now on Amazon as J.B. In Charge. Each day, I passed by a closed office with a notice pinned to its door. It said to paraphrase." You stole someone's house, the owner said to you. 'You can have half my house and we can live together. Come on. What would you say? " I took that as an allusion to European settlement in New Zealand. I read it and ignored it for several days. I knew its source was a sour literary quote from History Professor Sorrenson, of reputedly Maori descent. As I recall it from the 1981 University set edition book, New Zealand History. To paraphrase. "After the New Zealand land wars, the two races lived together, even cohabitated together. But the Pakeha had got hold of the house." Pakeha is the Maori word for the whites. Then I began to get irritated. When no one was in the vicinity, I wrote underneath."Who built the house?" A few days later, I noticed the office door was open. The occupant had returned. The notice was still there to be read by passersby. Then a few days later, the notice disappeared. No one said anything in my hearing. I prided myself, the notice author had thrown a challenge, and I had answered it. Then I remembered. If I had not replied. It would still be there. Such was the docility or apathy of Kiwis before tribalism bit them on their property values, and public services.

I am sure the author of the notice challenge was a very nice helpful white young woman. But the history of her country she knew nothing about. Her challenge was not: "History is just one thing after another. So we should kumbaya with the indigenous." She sincerely didn't know anything how New Zealand evolved from neolithic culture before European contact to all the complexities of a first world modern country. I would not dare do this now. I would fear CCTV surveillance, and being hunted down for "hate speech". My work den is now my bedroom and three computer devices. All my friends with the exception of an old mate from 1976, are in cyberspace. I prefer them there because all my social relationships fade out or end in disaster. You might note I immediately assumed the trope that the notice writer was a young white woman, a woke snowflake as we would call her now.

David Tamihere: Monster Or Martyr

A relative of mine said. "David Tamihere is innocent but I am not losing any sleep over him." I knew through the media about David's infamy years before the mystery of the disappearance and deaths of two young Swedes in the North Island bush. The pioneers coined the New Zealand forests, bush to conceal their terror. of the primaeval. They struggled to build towns and laws in the bush, not to play Hansel and Gretel.

Someone on Slack in my workplace wrote. "Does Tamihere belong to the human race?" That was startling. I am sure the writer was white and bold or naive. Whites in New Zealand will not say what they really think if they are thinking at all above anecdotal impulses. They are either the world's most deep people or the world's most shallow. However Maori outlaws do seem to stir up atavistic hatred beyond their particular offending.

In 1989, Swedish tourists lovers Sven Hoglin and Heidi Paakkonen disappeared while tramping on the Coromandel Peninsula. In December 1990, David Tamihere was convicted of murdering them and sentenced to life imprisonment. He was released on probation in 2010. Tamihere was convicted on three prisoners' testimony of confessions by David. David has always maintained his innocence. In November 2023, a newspaper disclosed that detective John Hughes boasted that he "nailed {Tamihere} by making up all the evidence".

David admitted he had stolen the Swedes' car in the bush. "He had gone bush while a fugitive from a charge and later conviction for home invasion, kidnapping for six hours. and rape of a woman.. He declared in the trial for the murder of the Swedes. "I am a thief. I am not a murderer."

In 1991, Sven's body was discovered but no sign of Heidi. Sven still carried a watch that David was supposed to have stolen which was crucial evidence to convict him. After Sven had been dispatched to a forensic laboratory, it was reported that he showed the injuries of multiple stabbings.

Detective Hughes was known for his rough practices and had the nickname of the planter for his reputation for planting incriminating evidence.

Occam's razor says. The Swedes got lost in the bush after their car was stolen. They wandered for a while. Then Sven left Heidi in search of rescue. They both perished of deprivation. Corrupt Crown action desecrated Sven's body to continue to detain David and exonerate themselves. However that does not explain Heidi's possessions including her folded jacket were found in the bush. The young lovers disappeared in early April, The folded jacket suggests Heidi laid it there in the heat of the midday Autumn sun and her own desperate exertion. Then they wandered off looking for water and got lost again. That night, Heidi became sick from hypothermia, and Sven left her to tramp seventy three kilometres before he too laid down and died. A bush incompetence not too surprising for young Swedes from a land of snow and ice. David is now a harmless old man. In his years of imprisonment, a number of innocent people were likely spared from injuries or death.

That appears to be the Crown's final verdict.

The 1984 movie 1984

In 1984, I was a student at Massey University. The seeds of our present dystopian age were being sown there. I recall a class of Social Work students. The Junior Lecturer had just published a book lauded by the local newspaper. Men, she wrote, exercised their control over women by their professions, including medicine. The book annoyed me as it stood unchallenged. I had no doubt if the author encountered a gynaecological problem, she would find the most expert male surgeon. My mother and others went under the scalpel of a woman surgeon and endured for the rest of their lives chronic pain. I didn't doubt this was the fruits of this Lecturer's ideology. Surgeons like bulldozer drivers require a male precision. Because medicine is a prestigious academic occupation, this incompetent woman surgeon was employed but not female bulldozer drivers.

The Lecturer I view now as the usher of the anti-Christ. She worked like a charm. An official report that now a minority of households were the family unit filled her with immeasurable satisfaction. Her household when I visited it had one husband, no children, and a multitude of cats. The last I heard of her she was a Dean at Massey University.

The social worker students were a hard boiled lot. I suspect some are now in high positions, working furiously to sabotage the Luxon Government. I recall one remarking in class, she likes to take a boiler maker home sometimes.

A Maori girl gave her seminar of her experience undergoing surgery. She said no allowance was made that she was a Maori. I wanted to say, "In that case you should have gone to a Maori traditional healer". Instead I mildly said. "Last year, I went into hospital and had general surgery. Was it different for me?" Rather to my surprise, the Lecturer motioned to the Maori girl to reply. She assured us it was different without explaining.

Then the class all female except me and another male, went into that female squirming stuff about gynaecological issues. The issue of women is gynaecological. The issue of men is anthropological.

I said. "My female doctor snapped at me when I asked her if my medical issue made me sterile. She said, 'I should know that it doesn't'."

I recall only one thing from my school Biology classes. You breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Carbon dioxide is a poison. That teaspoon of knowledge kept me mask resistant in the Jacindastan era.

The Maori student said. "I wonder what that was." Then all the female students broke out into giggles. The lecturer glanced at me and went red. She hastily changed the subject.

This is a true story.

I saw this movie 1984. I wasn't overly impressed. In 1984, they decided to make a movie killing from the novel 1984 with an old has been star and boozer Richard Burton. He came out of his villa in Haiti after a celebratory dinner party with Baby Doc. In 2017, there were showings all over America as a warning about Donald Trump. Hatefest echoed in all the cinemas. That sounds very ironical now.

Nobody Reached For A Telephone

Senior journalist, John Roughan wrote ruefully several years ago. When the Labour Party in 1984, announced to the press gallery, their policy reform to extend the Waitangi Tribunal's investigative powers back to 1840, "Nobody reached for a telephone. Why didn't we pick up on that one?" In those pre-Covid years, journalists supplied their business email addresses. I emailed him. "I and a few other New Zealanders knew the implications. But New Zealand journalists are a bunch of idiots as are most other New Zealanders." He didn't reply. He customarily did reply.

My comment was a bit unfair. I found out later. The politicians implementing the reform were startled at the vehemence of its letter responses. The old racists were coming out of the woodwork. The old racists were mostly old timers who liked Maori but understood the hazards of entrusting history to tribalists. Tribalists can be delightful with their imaginative and self boosting story telling but are Orwellian when their narrative rules the State.

Kiwis' chief failing is their habit of slotting everything into boxes instead of conceptualising. Back dating the Tribunals' investigative powers back to 1840 was "a Maori thing". 'Window dressing" as the Attorney General put it. In an urban legend, the new Prime Minister said, "I am just a two penny lawyer. But might this cause problems?" The Attorney General replied. "I am a Constitutional Lawyer and I can assure you it won't." The Prime Minister picked up his pen and signed the Order in Council to make this law. New Zealand's fate from a progressive Democratic Western country into an Orwellian tribal State was sealed at that moment. Or if not that, as an Ulster State.

The date of the sealing was December 9 1985. Tribalism started to take over New Zealand on that day. All the Kiwi pundits slept through it. The Waitangi Tribunal by Royal Assent became the Star Chamber to investigate New Zealand history from its foundation on 6 February 1840 as British territory. On that day December 9 1985, I stood on a roadside and stared at the faces of the people wizzing past me in their cars. "Do any know or at least fear it?" I contemplated. I concluded no. I felt the same sorrow I feel when I see a sheep truck on its journey to the freezing works. I had considered posting a letter to the Prime Minister. With my unusual powers of persuasion, I might have induced him to pause his pen. Enfeebling the new law I doubt was possible. The Waitangi Tribunal has always considered its findings the oracle that all Governments must obey. Left to contemporary tribal issues, that appeared to work out quite well. The Waitangi Tribunal made up of tribal elders had been set up in 1975 and Kiwis had not heard of it or treated it as "a Maori thing". But now its investigative powers would extend to the entire land territory of New Zealand, and later to its lakes, sea coasts and its air. Now unless the Luxon Government can check it, to career promotion, public services and rain water. This was the era of snail mail and I never got around to writing the letter. In 1984, smirking Kiwis told me, "Don't bother we don't need you", when I tried to warn them from my education as a Classicist and New Zealand History historian. I well knew how advisory bodies become overwhelming State institutions where there is mob rule and passion behind them. I recalled the Roman Tribunal of Plebs that learnt to overwhelm the Senate, itself initially an advisory body to the Roman Kings. But the Kiwis would have laughed their heads off and ridiculed me for such a warning. Now they are beginning to grasp it but it is likely too late. There is a saying. "Hoisted by their own petard."

On October 9 2020, the day after Auckland stage two lock down, I ventured out to the Auckland Central Library. When Auckland was full of masked sheep, I boycotted the city. With real sheep, I would have ventured out but human sheep was too much. In the library, social spacing had gone and few were wearing masks. I read Hansard Second Reading of the 1985 Treaty of Waitangi Bill. The National Party Opposition, the born to rule Party, were saying very pertinent things about this new bill. Winston Peters prophesised it would revive the conflicts of "one hundred years ago and more". The National Party had been the Government from 1975-84. They had had many an ear full and a guts fill from these windy tribal leaders. However with the same vacuous and misplaced empathy of the Labour Government with Covid -19, the Labour Government sailed the Ship of State into a perfect storm on December 9 1985. I then read through the New Zealand Herald of December 10 1985, the day after. The country should have been in uproar. The front page headlines were job losses at a flax mill and a dog heart transplant. Buried inside that newspaper was a cryptic reference to Church and charity groups organising to educate the pakehas (white people) on the history of the Treaty of Waitangi. Spell check always changes Waitangi Tiriti to waiting trite. I doubt many attended the work shops. They were not then obligatory. Pundits now say the Treaty of Waitangi Law December 9, 1985, is the most important law to be passed by the New Zealand Parliament. The foundations of the New Zealand Constitution were made by the British Parliament. The leaders of the British Parliament were wise statesmen. The leaders of the New Zealand Labour Government on December 9 1985 were hucksters and degreed idiots.

The new Labour Government turbo charged by its neocon fifth column were desperate to put through Parliament its State Owned Enterprise Bill. This new Act would create the royal anal screwing from State Owned Enterprises. Except for their CEOs, we have all felt buggered and raped by them. Dissidents in the Labour Caucus who remembered Labour Party history were holding out. So the Maori electorate members were promised the Waitangi Tribunal would be given these investigatory powers back to 1840. The Tribunal had no expertise in history beyond lived experience and tribal lore or bull shit. New Zealand historians had no status in the country except in academia. Some of them must have worried but stayed silent for career promotion. Or they were ignored as old racists. The new Government met the tribal leaders who charmed hem with their "dignity" while they most likely had dollar signs and promotions in their heads. Tribalists don't make the difference between lucre and mana.

As early as 1984, there was the coming together of two apparent opposites, globalism and tribalism. Maori tribalism is the unresolved issue in New Zealand history. It cannot be resolved without turning the country into racist Statelets that would parallel the worst consequences of disintegration of national States. As regards globalism, tribalists are babes in the wood. They are also useful idiots and fifth columns.

Animal Farm: A Fairy Story

Animal Farm: a fairy story was the sub title for George Orwell's original publication in 1945. The Soviet Union was then an ally and the villain needed to be made a fable. Orwell's left wing publisher Gollancz saw it as betrayal of socialism. Orwell had it published by a Trotskyite publisher whose wife threatened to leave him if he published it. She could see how the book would be exploited by conservatives. Orwell's bitter experiences in the Spanish civil war had made him fervently anti Stalinist Communist and indulgent to the Trotskyites. Orwell's participation in the Spanish civil war stirred my youthful imagination. Now I view it with disgust. He threw a hand grenade into a Franco soldier's trench and the soldier groaned and cursed. The man was likely a peasant trying to support his family. The feminists applaud Orwell there but do not forgive him for making a pass at an unmarried woman who later still single got pregnant to someone else.

I was described by my teacher in my standard three school report as immature for my age. I had grown up at Hicks Bay on the North Island East Coast and had that year moved to nowhere land in the Gisborne district. I was in the unusual situation of completely naively reading the book. I totally trusted the pigs. I missed the whole point. The scene of the dogs "tearing out the throats" of the sinning animals completely startled and shocked me. I kept wondering why did the animals confess. Their crimes were unknown and most were very trivial. In New Zealand on 26 February 2022, about fifty thousand people rushed to the Covid testing clinics with in most cases no symptoms at all or just colds and aches. At the top of every New Zealand Herald online edition there figured The New Zealand Vaccine Tracker 90% Project with a telethon type chart to "Let's vaccinate New Zealand by Xmas". If diagnosed positive, people were imprisoned in their homes for ten days. Their other home dwellers were imprisoned for twenty days if they tested negative. if they were diagnosed positive in that time, they were imprisoned for another ten days after that. A few very unlucky people would be under house arrest for thirty days. For many people house imprisonment must have been hell. If they were correctly diagnosed positive, they had an illness that mostly was now no worse than a head cold. If ten days why not ten years or permanent as is normal with viruses? That should be left to non corrupted doctors not to politicians and software developers. Was this not Animal Farm? The population that did not educate itself rushed under the noise and sights of terror and beguilement to have their throats torn out by their Government for their sins, real, trivial and imagined. Doctor Bloomfield was the pig tyrant. Napoleon. Jacinda Ardern was Squealer.

In Animal Farm, no pig, nor donkey, no dog nor goat came forward to confess. They could read even though in the goat's case barely. The horses did not confess. They could not read but had horse sense. The cat was sly and disappeared. The police dogs with blood in their mouths attacked Boxer the huge cart horse. He knocked them away with his hooves and held one down. But under order of Napoleon, he released the howling dog. Boxer was politically stupid and was eventually sold to the knackers.

In 1906, Bernard Shaw published his play, The Doctor's Dilemma. Bernard Shaw after a bout of smallpox forswore all medical practitioners and adopted a clean life style. He lived until the age of ninety four. He wrote somewhere. "If the Crown hangman was made Judge, Jury and executioner, not a neck would be safe in Great Britain." In the Doctor's Dilemma's preface, he wrote, "All professions are in a conspiracy against the laity."

In Doctor's Dilemma, the medical doctor is Doctor Bloomfield Bonington. In Shaw's description of him, "cheery, reassuring, healing by the mere incompatibility of disease or anxiety with his welcome presence. Even broken bones, it is said, have been known to unite at the sound of his voice."

All You Can Do Is Teach It

Some decades ago in a world of Cold War verities, I was sitting in a railway carriage, reading a Penguin book Seutonius' The Twelve Caesars. I noticed a woman looking me me in an irritable way as if I was committing an anti social act. She suddenly said. 'Are you a University student?" I wasn't but to get rid of her, I nodded. "What are you going to do with your degree?" she asked. Again to get rid of her, I shrugged. She smiled with enormous satisfaction.

If she had encountered me in Albert Park in Auckland, standing under a tree, reading Virgil, in its original Latin, she would have had legitimate reasons to be concerned about my health. In civilised countries, that might be called Dantesque. But the best we can hope for in New Zealand is a person can read a Classics book without public molestation. I think now with international travel a common practice, that can be done.

When I entered Victoria University in 1974, I thought studying Classics was cool. Then I was within a day or two put right. Classics was redundant, the Classics classes were slashed down to handfuls. Classics was always spoken with a sneer. At my high school in Gisborne, the last student to take sixth form Latin was subjected to humiliation by her classmates and the teachers that left her in tears. Latin was dis-established a few years later. In that era, the notion of professional education was dissolved completely. All subjects were made optional and equal except for vocational classes for the mentally disabled, A decade later, New Zealand had a Government led by a man who appeared to have received his education from a music group Peking Man and lawyers' tricks. The two went well together.

One went to University in New Zealand to get a ticket to the New Zealand middle class, and hopefully make lots of money. In the humanities subjects, Anthropology was the fashionable subject. The teachers wore shaggy long beards, and their students always seemed horribly bored. Not surprising as what is there to be exited about a bone in the desert? I would have thought Cleopatra on the Nile was much more interesting. It baffled me why the bone was such a social attraction and Cleopatra so passee.

Now I am not so naive in international politics and ideology. The Universities by 1974 were coming out of a giant hang over. They had become embroiled in the street rebellion against the Vietnam war. They won. But like the University drop out in the novel and movie The Graduate, where was there now to go? The University teachers showed by their demeanour and side remarks they did not value their subjects except as a meal ticket. The Graduate part two has not been been made. Benjamin would have gone flipping hamburgers, and finally gone back to College to be a dull cynical teacher. The girl would have left him for a rock star. The hippy author of The Graduate did publish a sequel titled Home School which has vanished without trace. Three more decades passed before creative radical minds could move into cyberspace. Both Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk are scholars. Mark identifies as Augustus Caesar. Elon bought Twitter in a foolhardy impulse to restore Western freedom.

The Classics in 1974 was identified with Enoch Powell. His Penguin translation of Herodotus' Histories was a set book in Classics Departments. Reference to the name Palestine, is censored out of his translation. Classics became mixed up with his Rivers of Blood outburst. The barbarians with shaggy long beards were at the gates. Anthropology was identified with the Leakey family and the commonality of all cultures.

Referring back to my high school. When Maori parents began to push for Maori language and culture for their children, the school rushed to bring it in. A Marae was built in the school grounds. If the school girl had been Maori, the school would have rushed to support her in her sixth form Latin. My high school now has had for some years, thriving Classical Studies.

One Of The Teachers

This is a 1991 Waikato School Of Education class photo. It had changed its name from Waikato Training College the year before. It was now a Department of Waikato University. National socialist in the morning and cultural marxist in the evening me am on the far right in centre row. Island girl with her legs stretched out in front was my femme fatale I once challenged her. We were at a seminar in the University Marae. We were divided into groups of three for teacher discussions. She went into a spiel how the Palagi (white) teachers put down the Maori and Pacific Island students. I asked her to give an example. She couldn't. I then said, "You shouldn't make accusations when you can't back them up". Then the bitch stood in front of the seminar and declared. "Lloyd said, 'Maori and Pacific Island students fail at school because they are lazy'. "I was startled at her brazen lie and asked the third person in our group to confirm I did not say that. He was sharper than me. He said,"I would rather not say". My prospects as a teacher in New Zealand ended at that moment. A decade later I found teacher employment for the next twenty years in South Korea, Mongolia, Iraq and China. So New Zealand's loss was their gain. From my experience as a student teacher, I did not think Polynesian students were lazy. Most were hard working. At the end of the semester year, the Island girl said, she thought the other students would be negative to her. Instead she found everyone supportive. I assumed she included me. My fatal mistake was to challenge a tribalist on their mana. Not only did she say that lie but she seemed to utterly believe it. She wasn't on the same mental wave length as me. My wave length built civil societies. Hers built unending feuding and utu. In prisons it is well known, that when political prisoners and criminals mix, the political prisoners sink to the level of the criminals.

There is diversity in this image above. Ten are brown and ten are white. One is a white Maori. One is between brown and white that is me.

I learnt the teachers' conspiracy. Win every confrontation if you can't avoid it, and never admit weakness. Never rat on other teachers, never say or do anything that might bite you later. I completed the teacher training year wishing to be a teacher.

In that same year 1991, I lived in a hostel which had a large number of halfway house ex mental patients. I concluded after experience, the ex mental patients were mostly saner than the tutors at the School Of Education. The ex mental patients were at least recovering mad men and mad women.

Greed Is Good

When the scribblings of academics become the slogans of the greedy and ill mannered. The counterpoint of The Oppression of the Working Class which became the excuse of thieving perennial striking wharfies, and tangata whenua the excuse of bullying Maoris.

I watched a video documentary of the New Zealand 1996 Wellington electorate Parliamentary election. Rather uncannily and unintentionally, it resembled the1987 movie Wall Street. In both movie and documentary, the only cell phone is a gadget the size of a walkie talkie. In both, the privateers (pirates) manipulate to win the desired result. In the New Zealand documentary, the right wing Government colludes with a small neocon Party made up of ex Trotskyites to get the neocon leader "mad dog" Prebble into Parliament. The victory of Prebble brings in on his coat tails several more fellow Act MPs. In this way, the very unpopular right wing Government continued. The National Government twenty years later used the same cynical undemocratic tactic with the Maori Corporate Party, Te Pati Maori, to stay in power. A young woman bar tender says wistfully in the documentary that she supposes that is democracy but she has lost her ideals. Parliaments are not actually democracies but by endlessly repeating the lie everyone believes it. They are at best a shadow of democracy and at its worst as here the inverse.

Democracy as practised in the West is all but open fraud except for rare moments as in the 2008 uprising in Iceland. The rich and privileged always win in the end. If they are deposed, another rich and privileged class replaces them. The people never have the tenacity and time to always get their way.

There are two unintentional significant happenings in the New Zealand documentary. There is a fire in the street during election night. The Neocon Act Party say they are not interested in the fire, only in the election. They are consumers and tax payers, not brothers' keepers. The Labour Party candidate boasts to a Party gathering, that the "Christians are now dog tucker". The circus mob in ancient Rome felt the same. Left and right join in hatred of Christians.

Parliaments came out of the Anglo Saxon revival in the early and middle nineteenth century. This created a popular movement of the Chartists to restore the Anglo Saxon Councils of elders the Witan to petition the Sovereign and pass decrees. Voting in Parliaments depended upon the economic and social status of householders. The progressivism and less inequality in New Zealand brought in one person one vote for British citizens in 1893. Electorates in Democracies have been shamelessly manipulated ever since into the common destitution of today. One person one vote elections have been tolerated because they are a safety valve against social unrest, and no profound reform is possible because no Government can stay popular for more than a few elections. Public institutions remain entrenched in the Medieval Courts and Guilds as Deep State has determined there they will stay. The Public do not know that all their property and even their lives belong to the Crown as in the time of King Arthur.

As Maori oral history recalls Maori in 1840s.

As Western science photography recalls Maori Hemi Pomare in 1840s

In 2010, I emailed a revisionist History Professor in Auckland.

"I read in the New Zealand Herald online site this morning a piece about Ngati Whatua history in Auckland in the 1840S. It said Ngati Whatua had no idea that their land sales permanently displaced them from their land. That is very surprising as land sales had been going on in New Zealand for more than a generation.

One reference particularly caught my eye. It was written that Ngati Whatua in the 1840s in Auckland were required to wear on their right arm a scarlet identity cloth. Do you know anything about that? I have never heard that before. Reference was then made in the article to the Jews' identity patch during World War Two.

I am very interested in your thoughts on the scarlet patch. I can't imagine it being implemented myself. I was thinking more of the practical grounds. however if it is not immediately squelched, it will be framed into an atrocity story and you would hear about it every day and every night. No doubt eventually a Bob Marley type song."

The Professor replied

"I read with disbelief the statement about the armbands. It seems to be that if anyone says that something happened in the past, then it is deemed to be true. Fighting against this is like trying to hold back the tide. I have even witnessed people making up evidence for a Treaty claim. I could not believe what I was hearing. My approach has always been to rely on documentary evidence wherever possible.

Anyway, hopefully informed people will see through these fanciful tales."

In 2013, the Professor wrote.

"The armband story is puzzling. There may be some evidence for it."

New Zealand academics writing on New Zealand history remind me of the health inspector in the final scene of the 1978 remake movie. Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.

I knew actor Kelly Johnson the standing larrikin character in image above. He once took me and others on a ride in his vintage car. He declared he would crash the car unless Lloyd sang a song. I burst into a spirited rendering of If Ever I would Leave You. Another night, he out of the blue invited me to go with him and his girl friend Katie Brockie to a Fellini movie. He must have felt I was lonely. He and Katie were legends in the Auckland professional theatre scene. Katy had been a child television star. I never heard her talk about that and I found her recently on Facebook. She is now huge and described herself as Twice Vaccinated Living In Wellington. Kelly became a defence criminal lawyer in Northland. The same region where the plot in this renegade movie starts.

Goodby Pork Pie debuted in New Zealand in 1981. It was a road movie in the Smokey And The Bandit genre. The New Zealand public went to view it as a patriotic and curiosity act. I laughed uneasily that the boys in the Kiwi movie industry were taking us for a ride on the tax payers' dime. My mother said she wasn't happy about Mum, Dad and the kids coming down the road on the other side. I felt it would end in disaster as unchecked high spirits always do. It did. A remake in 2014 led the actor playing the larrikin, Maori of course, to receive brain damage after practising the car's stunts.

I said Maori of course, because Maori now dominate the New Zealand entertainment scene. entirely meretriciously, so I should live up to my principles and not complain.

The 1981 movie debut predated in that year the Springbok tour. You could call the movie, the swan song of the white people of New Zealand. I recall in the large cast, only one Maori actor, a taxi driver bit part. I only noted him because I knew him personally. The rest of the cast were all white. All the characters with Kiwi abandon, roam over the country from Northland to Southland, South Island Invercargill. New Zealand was a white country full of wild ex colonial boys and girls. Hardly anyone considered it like that. There were a few academics who considered New Zealand still colonial under the thumb of the British. But the few who noticed them considered them intellectuals who in Kiwi parlance talked shit. In this instance I agree with mainstream Kiwi opinion. New Zealand was then and still is the very antithesis of colonial and British.

I recall New Zealand in the time period that spawned Goodbye Pork Pie. It was a land that beneath a heavy handed authoritarian personality, there lurked irrepressible larrikin road characters who if they thought at all, thought their rosy world would never end.

Being myself of a shady colour and at the time scruffy appearance, I copped it often from the New Zealand bureaucrats and police. Homosexuality received lengthy prison sentences and so the social and entertainment scene was dominated by flamboyant gays living furtive double lives. That gave them an edge now lost when conservatives and policemen joined the Pride parades.

All shops except dairies and petrol stations were legally closed in the weekend.The near entire population worked all weekdays, and then retired home to watch television. The final scene in Good Bye Pork Pie is a police raid on a household to the accompanying theme tune of the New Zealand serial, Close To Home. Katy was the child star in Close To Home. In the weekends, the people moped or did house hold chores and waited for life to begin again on Monday. The cities seemed dead in the weekends. 1981, the year of Goodby Pork Pie and the Springbok tour, was also the year after the shops began to re-open on Saturday and urban life after several decades of hibernation began to re-awaken. For all my complaints about New Zealand, I would not want to return to Presbyterian New Zealand pre 1981.

Perhaps because they had to show they were tough too on law and order, the Labour Party tended to be more severe than the National Party. Labour was the voice and dreams of the labouring people who knew exactly what to do with larrikins and gays. National was the national voice of the born to rule Party. It was in this era that The Rocky Horror Show was composed by a Kiwi expat in London and quickly became cult viewing in New Zealand. The Hollywood theatre in Auckland gave up on movie diversity and just showed unending reruns of The Rocky Horror Picture Show with its audiences performing the roles.

Highly likely, both the Rocky Horror Show and Goodby Pork pie were an allusion to the porky contemporary Prime Minister, Robbie Muldoon. Robbie perhaps gave the best verdict on Goodby Pork Pie. He enjoyed watching it. It was just a road movie.

Wikipedia in line with paid Kiwi movie critics, earnestly and in self parody calls it. "The New Zealand coming of age movie."

William Fox, New Zealand statesman and four times Premier

In the Auckland City Art Gallery, there is a reference to the Fox Glacier being named after him. The reference could not forbear a sneering reference at him. In like manner, the other half of the country cannot forbear a sneering comment at a liberal arts education. The two New Zealands engage in unending hatred and contempt of each other. The tik tok generation appear to have no prejudice at all. The last hope lies in the aps.

I knew the author Peter Walker. He, Kelly Johnson, Katie Brockie and I shared a villa in Saint Stephens Avenue, Parnell Auckland. A villa in Saint Stephens Avenue became in another age, the abode of John Key. Peter was writing a novel, I was told. Was it a prelude to The Fox Boy? However New Zealand was mercifully spared from one more State funded New Zealand novel. The Fox Boy won universal British and New Zealand acclaim as a history about cultural appropriation, blah, blah, blah. Actually it is a very fine book, and I am proud of Peter. In the same year, I performed with actor and artist Jim Vivieaere, another resident in the Saint Stephens villa, in the 1977 Auckland University club production of Merchant of Venice. Jim started his University studies as a medical student. He is quoted in Wikipedia, he found it difficult to fit into the "white upper middle class confines of med school". Knowing him, he would have received every encouragement at the medical school. But damming the white man is now obligatory in art circles. In academic circles too. The first female medical student in New Zealand had body parts thrown at her. That was a ritual every year by  medical students on freshmen. It would have been sexist not to. The incident is duly recorded in her biography as male bigotry and its context omitted. The feeling of disgust may have taken over objectivity by the female academic historian. Or being honest might have damaged her career prospects. Jim was an adopted Rarotongan. He said he did not know whether to feel angry or sad that Lloyd had dropped out of University. It was only then I realised people were sorry I had dropped out. They had neglected to express their pride when I had dropped in. My mother met Jim and Peter in her emergency dash to Saint Stephens Avenue. She said to me," I met a beautifully spoken Islander". Peter said about my stage performance. "You were brilliant on the stage but terrible in the toilet." Globally famed Glass art designer, John Croucher, and actor and China entrepreneur David Mahon also lived with us at Saint Stephens Avenue. I used to consider we paralleled the intellectual circle around Seneca in the Court of Nero. The problem was not that I was wrong but that I was too right.

Te Ara online records. "Ngatau Omahuru, the son of Te Kraere and Hinewai Omahuru of Nga Ruahine in Taranaki was kidnapped sic by colonial forces in 1868 during the New Zealand wars at the age of six. He spent three years in a Wellington hotel before he came to the attention of Premier William Fox and his wife Sarah. Though Ngatau's parents were still alive, the Foxes informally adopted the boy and renamed him William Fox. He became a law clerk and travelled back to Taranaki on legal business. He was reunited with his family and later resettled there. He continued to remember Sarah Fox with great affection."

Peter was considered a witty scholar at Saint Stephens Avenue. I recall he seemed to be mostly focused on the resident cat. In New Zealand, it is always bad form to show off your erudition. Only once I recall something deep. He said he was once with others smoking weed. Into his mind, there flooded images of Ancient Mesopotamia. I gasped. I recall that happening to me while looking at an illustrated book in the Wellington Public Library. Are we fellow Hebrews?

I found out today John and Jim have died. John in respectable seventies, Jim in sixties before his superannuation. Such news both saddened and alarmed me about the grim reaper.

The image is William Fox in his white upper middle class confines.

How in the same 1860s era, Maori tribesmen dealt with children caught up in a war.

Khandallah Wellington 1972

A week in The Windy City

In 1972, I had a week holiday with my grandmother and step grandfather in Wellington. I generally did not get on well with my practical fussy grandmother. However this time we got on swell. Maybe that was because she had ill grandfather full time. I recall once, I heard a whisper from my grandparents' bedroom. Whisper, whisper. Eh. I pricked up my ears. Whisper, whisper. Eh. Whisper whisper. Eh. I said, should we tell Lloyd to stop waving his arms around! No no no no.

For that week, I wandered around, frequenting the public library, the museum to see a Latin American Indian exhibition, a movie, the Stage show Hair, the Court House, Parliament, I returned to Gisborne, sombre and wiser.

I now understood the slogan of the contemporary Progressive Youth Movement. "Your rich man's justice." I visited the magistrate's Court. I expected a lawyers' feast. Instead, all I saw was an attendance crowd of frightened down trodden mostly young people, and mumbling police and an old mean Judge. No one was having a good time although there were moments of potential humour. My education had been that the law bestowed British liberty. Now I understood that was only for the rich who exploited its loop holes to dodge the consequences of their bad behaviour. The law for the middling and poor was to control them. In the last few decades, the slogan has been changed to "Your white man's justice." That linguistic change just suits the rich fine. Their media appropriated it from nearly forgotten nineteenth century conflicts. I said nearly forgotten, like the memory pain from lost limbs.

My grandmother's brother said contemptuously, "The gas house" when I said I would visit Parliament. I watched from the balcony, men, lounging, nose picking, reading the newspapers, bursting into catcalls. I had thought Parliament was the House of Democracy and earnest debate about the public issues. I left the Parliament building, feeling embarrassed among the crowd at the betrayal of the people's hard earned money. Back in Gisborne, I tried to sooth my unease by reporting my day in Parliament as a burlesque.

I loved the museum exhibition. Ancient cultures simultaneously so humanly familiar and so remote. I loved the movie, set in the South American jungle. I loved Hair although I didn't know what was going on in the dance sequences. The Court House and Parliament have kept their sour taste. Both belong to the English eighteenth century of the Squirearchy memorialised in Tom Jones. Only now. political hucksters and old mean Judges have replaced the Squires. The down trodden exploited poor have remained the same.

1972 was an apotheosis year in New Zealand. A silver haired lawyer, John Marshall was Prime Minister for that one year. He would exercise each working morning by walking alone to Parliament. The Wellington crowds either ignored him or viewed him as a walking museum piece. He was known as gentleman Jack for his right wing diplomatic skills, and his smiling genial way he advocated capital punishment. But rumblings portended the future.

Footnote: I also attended a Wellington Town hall protest meeting about the planned 1973 Springbok tour of New Zealand. An elderly Indian gentleman was the guest beside a beaming Trevor Richards. The meeting convinced me political agitators were quite normal and pleasant. In Gisborne, I only knew of them as stirrers and Commies. A Maori, the only non white person there I recall, made a fiery speech about racism. The Indian replied to laughter that he was a mixture of every ethnic group that came into India. The HART (Halt All Racist Tours) people spoke of the Maori behind his back as a nuisance. In this instance, Yuval Harari was wrong that human affairs are shaped by what is said behind people's backs.

"Its ugliness is part of its essence. For what it is saying is 'Yes I am ugly, and you daren't laugh at me', like the bully who makes faces at his victim." - George Orwell

Between 1840 to 1890, the Crown in New Zealand waited with bated breath at the outcomes of Maori gatherings. After 1890, when constables arrested the Secretary of the Maori King at the Maori capital Pukekawa, the Crown's power over New Zealand seemed absolute. Then in 1984, the Lange Government began to make the Waitangi Tribunal the Inquisition for Maori Crown relationships from the foundation of New Zealand in 1840. Like the Plebs' Tribunal in Rome, an advisory body took over the Government without a spear thrown nor a shot fired. Now in 2024, the Government waits with bated breath the outcomes of Maori assemblies. Back to the Future. As a Classicist and scholar of New Zealand history, I in 1984 did not doubt this would happen. But as usually happens with sooth sayers, it took much longer than I thought. As Lenin said, "Sometimes nothing happens for decades, and sometimes decades happen in days". Revolutionaries in 1917 put shabby Lenin in a suit and the German Empire gave him a train ticket to Saint Petersburg.

21 April 2020: At home alone in Auckland in the great lock down.

If Bill English was Prime Minister in December 2019, the Danaans might not have been able to infiltrate Troy by hiding in the wooden horse. He might have immediately quarantined everyone coming into New Zealand and banned assemblies. Bill led the largest elected Party after the 2017 election. He and his National Party were bullied into resigning by the Maori leaders of New Zealand First. Bill should have said, "If you want to depose my Government, you will under Westminster rules have to do it in Parliament". But Bill was a gentleman from the pastoral South Island plutocracy. The rough tactics of North Island politics was too much to countenance. Anyway, the media, rooting for Labour's Jabcinda Ardern, would have interpreted that as a Constitutional crisis, and the Kiwis would be no wiser about Constitutional issues.

The Danaans are now in the city and cannot be eliminated. Jabcinda should be credited for saving many lives by her panicked shut down of the country, when she was bought the woeful news the Danaans were out. But she had dallied so she could share her favourite activity, a crying fest in a hijab with Moslems.

I enjoyed much of my time in the great lock down. I walked on public roads that had not been so empty and air fresh for one hundred years. The Government for several months sent me a weekly payment of eight hundred and fifty dollars. The Government and my wife to my great annoyance cancelled that. I each morning read a story from Decameron. How refugees from the plague settled in a country villa, told each other very cynical stories and drank and ate the fruits and roots from the soil. I had a dream of a comet that was imminently going to crash and destroy earth. I woke up briefly in a panic.

The browning of New Zealand politics.

Brown is as its kindest description, the colour of earth. In the last two decades, Maori politicians have, at least in flash, taken over New Zealand politics. In New Zealand, the antithesis of white supremacy, anyone above retarded of any ethnic background and colour can succeed in politics. Since MMP in 1996, they can be list Parliamentary members and not even know how to address a public meeting.

Until the United Kingdom abandoned its Commonwealth for Europe, the New Zealanders without apology thought themselves British. Up until the 1980s. it was generally thought far fetched that a Maori could ever be Prime Minister of New Zealand. People considered Apartheid might come to New Zealand. They might turn out to be right but the inverse of what they thought.

Maori from elementary school are given favourable attention. Every talent short of criminal they may possess is fostered to public acclaim. Their egos and confidence are boosted. The opposite for the white people who are subjected to endless criticism and mockery. Any expressions of self pride or even stating objective positive opinions about themselves are instantly abused and subjected to ridicule. With white females it is somewhat better. They flaunt their talents too but they are appreciated only by feminists. A Maori politician, Shane Jones, says he bases his oratory on Cicero's speeches. He is by far the best orator in New Zealand and his eloquence clearly shows the influence of Cicero. If a white politician had said that, he would have endured public ridicule for weeks and likely be sarcastically nicknamed Cicero. The white New Zealand population have learnt to publicly shrivel up unless they choose to stick to social media dissent. The WEF are working furiously to abolish that.

Maori politicians are earthy and gutsy. White politicians are bland and apologetic. They daren't raise their heads. In the last two elections, I have voted for Maori led Parties. Previous to then, I have been overseas since 2001 and have not bothered to vote. They make up a third of the New Zealand Parliament, about double their proportion of the New Zealand population.

The two politicians above are Jami-Lee Ross and Simon Bridges. In 2018, they engaged in a Maori fight. As everyone familiar with Maori know, that is no prisoners and Queensbury rules. Jami-Less got so upset that he taped his conversations with his National Parliamentary leader, Simon Bridges. He exposed what we should have known. The New Zealand Parliamentary politicians are likely entirely hucksters and crooks. They are the only class that can take your money without contractual agreement. That has been the case since Income tax was introduced in 1890. They are to making law and policy what policemen are to law enforcement.

Jamie-Ross after vicious text messaging by a white female Parliamentary member considered suicide and was admitted by police into a mental hospital. He later led an anti vaccine mandate and "conspiracy theory" Party in the 2020 election. Their proportion of the vote was one percent. With the wisdom of another ex lunatic, Janet Frame, he declared his former Party, the National Party, a cult.

I considered Jami- Lee was moved by altruism to expose the corruption in Parliament. I have now found out since 2022 he has owned and operated an escort agency in Auckland. At least he did until March 2023. It still operates. It has been accused of dangerous, sleaze and noise pollution practices. Earth unless cultivated turns into mud or desert.

The warrior gene

In 2006, a New Zealand geneticist let slip his theory of a "warrior gene" in the majority of the Maori people. The doctor has a Maori family, and had for many years won prestige for his work on genetic factors in Maori health. He would have considered this holistic medicine. But he crossed a red line into genetic racial behaviour. The response showed the then customary Maori leadership dignity. They did not threaten to kill his children. but he was completely publicly silenced.

A report by a Maori biochemistry scientist Gary Hook attacked Lea's conclusions on technical detail and political implications. His report said. "Maori are not borderline psychotic, retarded, hyper aggressive, depressive, anti-social impulsive suicidal risk takers."

Journalist Kathy Mark reported In a September 11 2011 article in the New Zealand Herald. Mongrel Mob gang initiation ceremonies in New Zealand include drinking urine and faeces from a gumboot. This just might not be as bad as it sounds.

Not only Maori carry the warrior gene in New Zealand. I think I do too and it is a national trait. But with Maori, it has a ferocity and grossness that has stereotyped them as the once were warriors of the tribal and colonial eras. For the rest of us Kiwis, it is more a worrier gene. It comes out of a society that has mostly lost its cultural bearings.

The North Island is now becoming too dangerous for the poor to live in. The country's established population is steadily shrinking as Kiwis depart to richer and safer countries. Maori nationalists are becoming bolder and the resistance against them is growing stronger. The resistance is led by warrior gene Maori.

Co-governance

First there is the soft soap. The acid comes later after the fait accompli. A Ngai Tahu representative in 2021 let slip when he compared the international sale of New Zealand's public resources to the transfer " co-governance" of water resources from Crown ownership to Ngai Tahu. Anyone who has lived in a Maori district knows what happens when there is "co-governance". The person with the biggest mana or the bully takes over. Civil society and critique are not their fortes. Ngai Tahu may lack an antifa as they are in the South Island. So they have to tread cautiously with weasel lawyers and circuitous words. Democracy in the North Island may be a lost cause. In 1984, steps could have been taken to stop the new Labour Government. I tried to warn but did no better than Winston Smith.

If Hamlet was a compulsory school subject in New Zealand, the Kiwis would remember Hamlet as an idle spiv, talking shit. But they would remember with immense satisfaction the grave digger. He did useful pioneering work in a laconic way. When the Kingdom of Denmark was usurped, they wouldn't work out what was going on and would be baffled what happened.

International ownership of public resources screws New Zealand. But it is still a public resource they are operating. Iwi ownership is cloud cuckoo. It is officially called, "non territorial". The Iwis do a haka and a waiata. Then they appear to think they own the public resources. The actual management is left to professional business managers when it is successful. The Iwis pay no or minimal corporate tax, and have no civil liability. It is a glorious scam and some Iwi leaders have become very rich, and everyone else has to pay them off. But no one influential dares say anything publicly because that would be racist and also dangerous.

In about 1980, I spent an evening with my artist girl friend Jenny in an Auckland up market restaurant listening to a Kiwi explaining how he dug out a tree trunk. There was poetry in his rendering. We joked about it later. But I commiserated that is how New Zealand was established. Diggers not poets as Samuel Butler supposedly wrote after several years' sojourn in Canterbury. If New Zealand was in South America, the digger would be a revolutionary talking all evening about the revolution. In the mid nineteenth century, there was a spirited settler demand for home rule in New Zealand. But that has been all forgotten about or abandoned as academic trivia. I was going down that road but my application to do an M.A. was declined. I have a good idea that a woman academic went behind my back to sabotage me. It spoilt the feminist narrative. That was thirty years ago. As political commentator Chris Trotter wrote, no one in new Zealand under fifty five knows anything at all about New Zealand's historical development. Thirty years ago, the under fifty fives were under twenty five year old empty vessels waiting to be filled. Their neglect and now complete ignorance of their own history is putting the Kiwis into their own grave yard. Most of them lined up to take the killer vaccine because Jacindastan and Doctor Bloomfield told them to do so.

I recall the old local lady of our rural district looking straight through me while greeting my two brothers. I at the time was at University studying Classics. So I guess that was her comment I wasn't doing anything "useful". I respected "useful" studies. They didn't respect mine. Now decades later, white society in at least in the North Island is on a road to nowhere.

New Zealand is geographically so distant from its cultural wellsprings in Europe that they seemed then to most Kiwis alien and irrelevant. In the English novel, Glittering Prizes, the Oxford Arts Under Graduates spend their first University holiday in Rome. I spent my first University holiday in a mill and a garage. The Kiwis loved that. I was learning about the "real world" which is in in real countries just the lower middle class. Now I was contributing to society. Now they are perplexed and frightened by the speed of events taking away their birth rights.

Our Lost Narrative

Let's face it guys. We have lost our country to Asia and Polynesia. We were an outpost of the British Empire and you never even tried to put an alternative narrative in its place instead of grovelling to money and political convenience. Heidegger would have said, for power and prestige, the white people in New Zealand did everything wrong. The Maori people did everything right. Spengler wrote that societies that do not give themselves a narrative, suicide. Most of you would think Spengler is a spa pool.

Donald Brash

If it were a work of fiction, it would be a master stroke that the instigator of the white back lash in New Zealand be called Doctor Brash. Brash is the perfect name for the brash white population that now are motivated to fight Maori claims. They are practical but most have no intrinsic feeling for history at least pre twentieth century New Zealand history. Their families came to New Zealand after the Maori wars and so they have no family history to counter attack. Exceptions are Mr Ansell and Mr Hall. The former is a sharp wit and a "Democratic" purist. The latter is a descendant of a New Zealand Premier and a gentleman and a scholar. Most of the white back lash are not racist in an ideological meaning. They just look back to New Zealand fifty years ago.

If you read local New Zealand histories covering racial inter-reactions in the 1840s-60s, you find the same stupid, aggressive and greedy tribalistic things coming through as today. The historians of mainstream history are of course all left wingers, not able to be published otherwise, but their reporting of local events requires them to be objective. Except for history devotees, the white population do not read these local history books. Maori aren't interested either except for making land claims. The beneficence of Julius Vogel draws a blank with both whites and browns. The indifference to their own political history makes the pooh New Zealand is in today.

The Duchess Meets the Maori

The Duchess of Cambridge meets the Maori cultural officer for the New Zealand Air Force. The world is laughing at New Zealand. In the 1980s, this mooning in front of the Prince and Princess of Wales got the cheeky Maori fellow arrested for obscenity.

Shrek the sheep

The New Zealand Prime Minister, daughter of a Waikato farmer, meets Shrek the Sheep. She said Shrek the sheep was good company when asked why she met him rather than the Maori foreshore marchers. While the developing world strives to learn the English language, they strive to lose it and are likely replacing it not with Maori but with grunts. There are a few beguiled among them I hope will grow out of it. Unlikely though having got the nationalist bug because that is how they get te moni from the Government.

I tried to awaken the New Zealand people to a Trojan horse in their midst. I would have as effectively lectured to real sheep. The notion that historical events in New Zealand outside their own experience had relevance was incomprehensible. I studied a University degree New Zealand history and became aware how the cultural Marxists were distorting and at the street level lying. In New Zealand since at least the 1960s, there has been lost a comprehension of a University and professional culture. The tribalists have had a sixty year generational head start. They have been very clever. Contrary to popular myth, Maoris read books.

King Tawhiao and Winston Peters

I had a dream in 2016 that the Maori King Tawhiao was an airplane pilot in 1901. He flew his aeroplane as a hobby. I investigated and found out there is no record of King Tawhiao as a pilot. I recall in my dream feeling uneasy and guilty. That would be construed as if not racist at least insensitive. Other people believed it as an act of faith. That would make me look bad socially, be career damaging or even cause loss of employment. Such a thought in New Zealand would be considered subversive to biculturalism. but I could not stop myself denying it because that is how I was brought up in New Zealand in the middle of the twentieth century.

Winston Peters is the idol of elderly white middle New Zealanders as their champion against an alien contemporary reality. Winston is now a septuagenarian. Both he and the Maori King like toxins. As with his namesake the English Winston, will his finest hour come yet? Both Winstons were petering out joke ex finance Ministers. Both the King and Winston have a certain cruel destiny look about them. King Tawhiao made catastrophic decisions late in life that destroyed an independent Maori State. The king was reduced to pictures on tea towels.

My comment in Facebook on King Tawhiao as a pilot got this response from an elderly Maori lady. "Yes! In His Time he probably flew in His Spirit World as in There Time Maori Traveled! Spiritually which was Normal too Traveling in there Times! So Didn't need an Aeroplane at All.

I can Still Hear my Dad Talked about these Things As Seen His Grand Uncle Marotaua Sort Slated his Side & he Disappear!."

It is lovely to have in New Zealand alternate realities. But hers doesn't fly.

Nicky Hager and John Key

John Key former New Zealand Prime Minister and Goldman Sachs merchant bankster above. Nicky Hager activist journalist below. Both have their family origins in the émigré Viennese Jewish community after the Anschluss. One can conjecture they knew of each other as children in the New Zealand Jewish community. John attended Synagogue services as a boy. Nicky whose Viennese paternal side were Christian likely had little contact with the Synagogue. But the pain of family refugee status must have disturbed both. There is no documented evidence Jews were made to clean the streets of Vienna, except for a propaganda photograph of street cleaners. But the Holocaust images and stories I assume they took in with their mother's milk. However, they learnt opposite lessons. John how and why to be a reptile. Nicky how and why to be a whistle blower. I heard John on Youtube twice at a press conference refer to the Christchurch earthquake as "man made". Nicky's arguably most famous exploit is exposing the New Zealand army in Afghanistan as psychopaths. They have been officially investigated for killing six Afghans in a village in an utu reprisal for a New Zealand soldier's death. No one in the New Zealand Defence Department tried to stop the killings or whistle blew afterwards. Nicky, it is reported, built his house and lives like a hermit. John cannot reportedly hammer a nail and is a multi millionaire who has retired to Hawaii. They are arguably the two most important individuals in New Zealand history since 2008 when John became Prime Minister. John for turning New Zealand into a millionaires' Paradise and igniting racial conflict for divide and rule. Nicky for being the Godfather of Jacindastan. One thing these two characters have in common. Their loyalty to the native country New Zealand appears to be nil. The pen is mightier than the sword. Or was it the normal electoral cycle that deposed the John Key cabal?

Holidays in Woke land

This was the only public display I saw of the 2021 Anzac Anniversary. I am sure New Zealand nurses did splendid things. But as with the navigator Tupaia eclipsing Cook, I as a grumpy OK Boomer am getting tired of this bias. She who writes the history shapes the future. The world in drag.

"Sentence first verdict afterwards," said the Queen of Hearts in Alice In Wonderland. "If you explain, you lose" is its contemporary sentiment. The difference is. The former was a children's fantasy book. The latter shapes reality.

Everywhere I go in urban Auckland, I see posters and images of the Shangri-La land of LGBTQ and Aotearoa. I scarcely see a white male image. The few I see are distinctly stupid. It is a gloriously smiling happy land that ironically recalls the images of New Zealand in 1950s photographs. The sun always shines. No one is impatient or tired.

All opening hours of the Auckland Central Library have a giant ground floor video blaring all the above and the evil deeds of white men. Recently, there was one about slavery. Patrons were taught the white men treated their black slaves worse, much worse than their indentured white servants. That was broadly true. But nothing about the white people ended slavery as an international practice and fought a civil war about it. That slave markets still exist today and are practised only by coloured men. When the library opens in the morning, there is a blaring of welcome entirely in Maori. The people who built the library built it in English. A poster of an historical exhibition gave prominence to the 1835 Maori Declaration of Independence as New Zealand's only Declaration of Independence. True but the convention that signed the Declaration was instigated by the British Resident and never met again. Provincial Day, presumably because the Provinces were built nearly exclusively by white men and white women, is not commemorated. I am sure most of the people propagandising this are nice relatively educated people. None or very few have had to labour by the sweat of their brows or design building and roads. But behind them, driving them is something vey sinister and tribal. The things they propagandise were once ironical or amusing. Now they are State propaganda enforced by the same monsters injecting us with the killer vaccines.

As an example is the story of the Maori woman Hini Te Kiri who tended to the wounded British soldiers at Gate Pa. The point about the story was the irony of Christian compassion by a "savage". I have read a boast that the Maori tended to the wounded enemy while the British army left their enemies to die. The British army in the nineteenth century had a regular supply of surgeons who tended to all the wounded after a battle.

The Sovereign's birthday is likewise ignored in Auckland library displays. I suspect the library Tsars would prefer to vomit than show displays of the Royal family. Easter holiday also seems to be ignored. Christmas holiday is confined to displays of the pagan Christmas tree. Nothing about the Nativity. The Satanic Halloween day gets huge publicity. One sometimes just has to laugh.

In the early 1980s, the precursors to the Wokes went to find out the political opinions of Maori people in Gisborne concerning the Treaty of Waitangi and related issues. They were disturbed and disappointed to find they did not watch the six o'clock television news. On that magic conjuring reality hour, most were watching the American sit com, Difff'rent Strokes. I had an altercation with a Maori woman over the TV choice of news or Diff'rent Strokes. She won of curse. Now I admire their wisdom. Diff'rent Strokes was about two Harlem black kids who become foster children with a wealthy white New York American family. They were savvy and made their way good humouredly on the issues that daily affect people of all races. The children did not wear tattoos, or physically fight but aspired o be middle class. That was an era where there was a common television culture. Now gone which is both good and bad. These days we all create our own alternative realties via our aps.

"Where's your pass, boy?" Aotearoa New Zealand in 2021 imitated South Africa in the 1950s. It says here, "Expires on the 29th of May". I heard on December 2021, Jacindastan shortened the vaccine pass expiry time from six months to four months. As I had feared, my pass vanished from my smart phone. My second and final vaccination made me ill for several days. When I went to two supermarkets on the twenty third of December, everyone except one person was wearing masks. Security guards would pounce on you if you weren't. However despite the large crowds, I did not see a single person show their covid pass or tracing. If someone in a shop was later diagnosed with covid, everyone in the shop would have a miserable isolated Christmas season. According to Ron Paul, a qualified medical doctor, the RNA testing is so so unreliable that anyone tested deeply enough would show covid. This makes covid testing ripe for political skullduggery for election purposes and frightening parents to jab their children. The South African doctors who diagnosed the Omicron covid variant were surprised at the global official and media reaction. They said it was not an emergency. It was basically people, mostly children, coming to their clinics with runny noses, coughs and upset stomachs. It had become a virulent cold. I suspect that was a reaction to the vaccines. It was a sign that covid was at its dying stage. Merciful nature with its healing powers of immunity stepped in and saved us from the wicked politicians, media and doctors. That is the normal two year cycle of a virus as with the Spanish flu.

My vaccine pass declared, "cannot be used for international travel". So it was not trusted outside New Zealand. That made it a New Zealand security document not a medical document.

On February the Fourth 2022, the globally famous professor of nursing studies, Doctor John Campbell on YouTube spoke of New Zealand's covid strategy. "New Zealand is taking a very moderate tempered approach to the virus while completely ignoring the nature of the virus. As soon as you get some Omicron spread in New Zealand, it's not going to say. 'We had better wait for the Government.' It doesn't make any sense to me at all. No cognisance at all of the nature of the virus."

On 26 May 2023, New Zealand journalist Heather du Plessi-Allan broadcast on Newtalk KZB. "They've (the Labour Government) got a rubbish track record in the last five and a half year.s" She went as far as she dared to rubbish the entire Covid regime. Her words resounded in Kiwi ears and minds through radio and text throughout New Zealand. The establishment was in "limited hangout". Five months later, the Government swung in the general election.

Effeso Collins RIP

I was told in that seminal year 1981 that I was an "old Tory" except in dole bludging being one myself. I accepted the critique. When opportunity at last came knocking in 2001, I opened the door and for twenty years I was an English teacher in Asia and the Middle East.

I don't share the deceased Effeso Greenie politics. I have a natural horror of the rough and unruly having been close to them myself. I shuddered at Effeso's call for free buses for everyone. I imagined them serving as homeless shelters. I am glad this big hearted man lost the Auckland Mayoralty to Mr Fix It. However, everyone professes to like and respect this Samoan. His big heart may not have been able to sustain his Covid-19 vaccinated and boosted body under the strain of carrying water containers in a Charity children's race.

Effeso was a community leader for South Auckland. This reposted tweet drawn from his South Auckland experiences of community unemployment bears quoting. The unemployed are under political and administrative attack as has ritualistically happened after a right wing election victory.

" If you can work you should work" is ableist AF and also ignores that people know what work best for them, their families and communities. Instead of sanction we could have proper support for people to enter secure work instead of tick-box exercises. Benefit sanctions must go!"

The unemployment rules remain based on a pre 1974 economy of mass secure employment where it was said the Prime Minister knew the names of every unemployed person in the country. It has been the case since the 1970s that the unemployed by taking short term work are deprived of several weeks of secured income. It is normally not in their economic and social interests to take legal employment. Some might say they should not take advantage of Government pay out. As the Thatcherites discovered to their chagrin, their ideological lack of community altruism also extended to their lower class enemies.

The unemployed are also helped by an administrative bureaucracy that if it doesn't come naturally have absorbed Stockholm Syndrome. They have to confront the unemployed face to face and above all want a quiet life. When I went to the State Agency Work and Income to assist me to get to China to a teaching position, I was astonished to receive a free air ticket and a week or two of continuing State support in China. The agreeable Korean employment official filled in the document and the senior official glanced at it and signed it. I left the office and made a quiet and quick departure to China. When a few months later the Minister of Employment found out about free air tickets for the unemployed, she immediately blocked them. I stayed working in China for the next nine years.

As regards unemployment, right wing New Zealand' Governments' barks are a great deal worse than their bites. Mass unemployment in New Zealand is fifty years old. The assembly chain mindless labour has been replaced with cognitive demanding skills. Factory employment normally requires personal motorised transport which requires capital. One rarely just walks or takes a single short bus or train trip to work.

The cruel system in America of throwing long term unemployed on to the streets and charity, does not fit the Kiwis' intrinsic sense of justice and compassion. As has been written in the Panama Papers by a New Zealand National Prime Minister. "All New Zealanders are at heart socialists." He got around the leak by insisting he was a socialist too. As socialism with a small s he was about right.

However mass long unemployment does get a lot of public grumbling. Unemployment now has the average time length of thirteen years. Like school truancy, that means there is large mass of citizenry who for two generations have scarcely been in legal employment at all. Two generations of families in such dragnets as South Auckland have fashioned a whole way of life out of State supported unemployment. Andy Capp the Northern England "lay about" cartoon character has not worked since his creation in1957. He worked out a life option of permanent dole. But Andy is a football player and the life and soul of his community with his loving hard working wife. He epitomises the Whiggism of Northern England. The common complaint is he is a free loader on other people's work. Andy might quip. He is a subsidiser of his city businesses and community. As Gareth Morgan the reptilian economist once wrote before his reincarnation as a fan of North Korea. To paraphrase. New Zealand towns are concentration camps filled with economic refugees. The best solution was a box of matches. Effeso Collins might have replied. "I keep a clean tongue. So should you."

Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson was Australia's most popular author in the nineteenth century. He was a people's and bush author. He visited and worked three times in New Zealand. His visit in 1897 found him school teacher employment at a Maori school. Maori schools were designated Native Schools and focused on teaching their students to be loyal British subjects and workers. From that few months' experience, Henry wrote his story, A Daughter of Maoriland. Maoriland was the popular name for New Zealand in Australia. It conjured images of the romances of the South Seas. The protagonist character was August, an adolescent Maori girl student. The source for his literary creation was a Maori girl bilingual in Maori and English. But white societies gave the Natives no status for that talent which they commonly lacked themselves. Henry wrote in irony. Romantic Maori tales were well established since the middle of the nineteenth century. But his Maori maiden August is described by Henry as a brooding thief with "about as much animation, mentally or physically as a cow". She connives with her relatives to chronically steal from the school teacher's home. My Communist Uncle Harold taught at Maori schools. He was well versed in Maori culture but would remark his female high school students should be taken out and milked. By the late 1960s, such comments were deeply shocking to white liberals who had not personally encountered Maori in their way of life. W. H. Pearson in 1968 wrote a left wing analytical book Henry Lawson Among Maoris to explain Henry's "failure" to understand his Maori neighbours and his live in Maori girl domestic. Henry could have written a story about a hard working and studious Maori girl student but that would have been dull copy. My parents who lived in Maori districts in the 1950s and 60s complimented the story for its realism to their own experience. They were also full of respect for hard working Maori women and girls. Henry Lawson was not pushing a political agenda. He just wanted good literary copy out of his personal experiences as a people's author.

In the post Jacinda Ardern era, the white and Maori societies are in collision like the white school teacher found himself with August. Which will win out? A Western society or tribalism? Tribalism has had a sixty year head start when the liberals covered up and denied Henry's and other writers' racial experiences.