Blog description.

Accentuating the Liberal in Classical Liberal: Advocating Ascendency of the Individual & a Politick & Literature to Fight the Rise & Rise of the Tax Surveillance State.

Liberty and freedom are two proud words that have been executed from the political lexicon: they were frog marched and stood before a wall of blank minds, then forcibly blindfolded, and shot, with the whimpering staccato of ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ resounding over and over. And not only did this atrocity go unreported by journalists in the mainstream media, they were in the firing squad.

The premise of this blog is simple: the Soviets thought they had equality, and welfare from cradle to grave, until the illusory free lunch of redistribution took its inevitable course, and cost them everything they had. First to go was their privacy, after that their freedom, then on being ground down to an equality of poverty only, for many of them their lives as they tried to escape a life behind the Iron Curtain. In the state-enforced common good, was found only slavery to the prison of each other's mind; instead of the caring state, they had imposed the surveillance state to keep them in line. So why are we accumulating a national debt to build the slave state again in the West? Where is the contrarian, uncomfortable literature to put the state experiment finally to rest?

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Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Diets, Dieting, Tax Havens, Space Craft, Elon Musk v. Steven Joyce.



… there is inevitably that mistaken value arithmetic they apply of a long low-calorie life being better than a happy one.

* * *

$1.5 billion invested in a tax haven will ultimately benefit all of us; $1.5 billion into the black hole of upgrading IRD’s computer system is part of the system destroying us.

* * *


I don’t diet ... directly. I love food, I love booze, I’m carrying more weight than I should - 6 foot 3, 104.4 kgs, bodyfat index 29% - but I’m fit enough to enjoy life by dint of walking Daisy dog twice a day and kayaking. Though I walk and kayak because I enjoy walking and kayaking: there’s nothing better for uncluttering the mind than a ramble, and regardless, if you have a dog you have to, that’s the deal with dogs.


However.

Mrs H sometimes hears the little voices of the advertisers in her ear saying diet - if I think about it, there’s a pattern around springtime - meaning stints of dieting, and worse, because alcohol contains the main source of sugar we ingest, sobriety.

Because Mrs H diets from time to time, unfortunately, I diet by proxy.


Tiresome caveats. 

Don’t jump to subtweeting I diet by proxy because my wife is a slave waiting on me hand and foot and I can’t cook my own meals; we are equal partners in the kitchen, as we are in business. But Mrs H controls that room during the dieting stints, because I refuse to be the cause of my own unhappiness, I can’t be trusted near the fridge or the pantry at trying times like this, and I don’t know the liturgy of each new diet ‘attempt’. Mrs H’s odd foray into dieting further has nothing to do with any comment I have ever made on weight or appearance, because I never have (never will); Mrs H is as much dieting for perceived health benefits as for self-image, and regarding the latter, to me she’s gorgeous - merely a personal body shape preference, (not a value judgement), I like zaftig figures and find catwalk stick skinny unattractive.

No, my dieting is strictly for what is called in the Income Tax Act 2007, natural love and affection, a spousal support function, (well, truth be told, I don’t get a lot of choice, I’m simply told ‘we’re dieting’, but play along with this I’m getting to a point).

Anyway.

Thinking back over the last two weeks, there have been patches of diet-centric conversation leading up to the three saveloys that appeared on my plate for lunch this Friday, rather than the normal four. The trouble is talking about dieting is like talking about death: my survival instinct quarantines it to a hypothetical level and I never think it’s actually going to happen to me. And that in spite of the fact diets have come and gone before: I suspect I've blanked those dark periods out, (other than the lemon detox of ‘09; some life experiences are so bad they become hardwired; I won’t tell you how I know every pattern in the tiles on our toilet floor.)

So, we have entered diet and sobriety, nth iteration, from Sunday through Thursday; I’ve negotiated by treaty, sorry entreaty – I’m not proud of myself – Friday wine night, and Saturday night martinis (albeit I reckon Mrs H was wanting to lose those so she could remain pure of mind, while imbibing all the same.)

Still.

At least dieting under one of Mrs H’s regimes is nominally, in theory, hah-bloody-hah, voluntary. Unlike dealing with the tax state which brooks no choice, and no negotiation. I’ve been reading yet another Arrogance of The Healthy in England wanting the fat tax, the sugar tax, the life-sucking tax, because when these wowsers get the ear of politicians there is inevitably that mistaken value arithmetic they apply of a long low-calorie life being better than a happy one.

Well bugger off with that.

No official, certainly not the state, has the right to make that judgement on my life. I choose happiness. I try to be Zen and not hate, but these academic authoritarian food-denier types are bloody hateful.

I’ve written on the wowsers plenty of times, including the French judiciary which is trying to destroy the French wine industry, though for this post understand that if my happy self happens to die one year earlier than otherwise, it will be irrelevant, because the happy self will be dead; if the second lifers have it right I’ll be flapping around in white light, or as most probably the case, insentient worm fodder, (if the Christians are right, I’m screwed). Better, the happy self is statistically more likely to die quickly through a heart complaint, than the long lingering death quite possibly awaiting the life-denying dreary long lived sod, denying himself those things that would’ve made his life happy.

While talking happiness, unless something comes along first, let me use this post to advertise how my next full post will be a fourth literary ramble in the form of a classical liberal critique of our literature, taking its lead from the current curmudgeony around the New Zealand Book Awards. I’ll apologise for its content beforehand, here.

And so, Tax Havens.

Much of this blog concerns how our free Western democracies carried from the get-go the seed of their destruction: the ability of politicians to tax.

Forget GCSB and NSA, the tax state cannot allow a private life outside the surveillance of bureaucrats, so there being no freedom without privacy, the tax state was the end of a free society before it began: that’s indisputable.

With our freedoms and right to be left alone long gone, the tax take of the tax states have become so huge our economies are disintegrating. The evidence is everything you read about a cot-case Eurozone which is rotting to the core, and this just in from one of the many US based investment rags I receive via email:

Dear Concerned American,

The walls may feel like they are closing in on American business owners and taxpayers. A tax system that is both maddeningly complex and punitively steep has forced some of our most iconic brands to incorporate overseas and has convinced some Americans to renounce their citizenship. As political hostility toward the successful increaseswe now must contend with new laws designed to keep us from finding relief, either at home or abroad. The persistence of enormous budget deficits, the shrinking pool of actual taxpayers, and the growing ranks of those receiving support from the Federal government means that the vice will likely continue to squeeze harder on those who write the checks.

But just when it looks like there may be no escape, a window has opened that presents a unique opportunity. Successful Americans need to know about the island of Puerto Rico, which some are calling "America's Tax Free Zone." The tax advantages offered to American businesses that incorporate in Puerto Rico, and to private citizens who live there at least half the year, may seem too good to be true, but they are very, very, real.


Let those who worship at the Church of Dependency have few fears; IRS will be doing everything in their God-like powers to ensure the open window of Puerto Rico is closed, those viewing through it hassled, harried and cajoled.

I don’t use tax havens, and wouldn’t even if I had the money (read my disclaimer at bottom of page please): diets aside, life is short, I don’t want to spend any of mine fighting a hapless war against our ruthless tax state with its punitive penalty system that kills - currently incidences of self-harm up alarmingly - and is impossible to beat because it makes the rules. But hats off to those individuals who foolishly do, because tax havens are the last havens of a freedom ethic from which the Free West, founded on the peace and prosperity brought and bought by capitalism, were born, and by helping to starve our tax states of funding, are hastening their destruction under the hubris of the rampant statism that has won the day, again.

Although.


One point about tax havens. They’re little written up in the business press, and remain almost solely the purview of an airhead sensationalist editorialising in the Green-Left-Liberal MSM – with full literary irony, such an editorial view is called Progressive: here's an example, the editor of The Dominion Post. The complaint of such writers is there’s ‘all this money sitting in tax havens doing nothing.’ That's doublespeak for this money is inaccessible to governments for growing welfare states, and thus is doing society no good. Rot. Is it to be believed these rich pricks are letting their capital earn no return? That money is doing more to keep our cost of living down, is seeding more start-up ventures, more innovation that will better all our lives, than Steven Joyce and his commissars ever could.
 
Why is Steven Joyce forcibly extracting tax from successful firms, stultifying their progress by stealing their most accessible investment capital, retained earnings, to shield from tax (subsidise) those firms he - total amateur - picks in the lottery of his head as future winners? (And no matter how he spins it, he's using the tax take to play crony favourites.) He's doing so because he knows taxes destroy innovation and drive business to lower tax jurisdictions, but thinks himself too important - he's a politician - to admit the Truth: the innovative economy is best fostered by lower tax to all and him keeping his grubby hands off it. He’s Nero fiddling the country’s books as Western economies burn.

Why is almost every container ship in a New Zealand port, freighting us the products we require for survival, and our high standard of living, registered in Cayman Islands or Panama? Because they are tax havens: look at Panama:

The Republic of Panama is a presidential independent, sovereign state. It is well known as one of the most developed international business centers. Panama has the fastest growing economy and the largest per capita income in Central America.

And:

No income, dividend and capital gains tax for income received outside of Panama. Therefore, Panamanian corporations (Sociedad Anonima) are widely used for doing business and holding assets outside of Panama.

Look around your home, in your fridge, your pantry, the car in your garage, the stuff in the fuel tank, the productive assets at your place of work including that tractor: now add world taxes onto the cost of those for freighting them in ships outside registration of Cayman Islands or Panama and see what that does to your house budget and your job prospects.

As Sam Morgan has wisely argued on Twitter, Joyce and his cronies can’t pick winners, only the market can. The market is the best intelligence and allocation system we have unless and until politicians like Joyce come bullying in with their thumping oafish mitts and destroy it. In a free market bad ideas are liquidated quickly, their losses not socialised by governments  scared of the next election result. In a free market good ideas, innovation that raises the standard of living of all of us, are funded by money voluntarily invested (including from tax havens), and winners are rewarded by consumers choosing to buy their products or services. That's the voluntary, prosperous society.

I reckon the tax takes and the welfare states are now so massive even tax haven money cannot stop the economic collapse (currently) occurring, but perhaps it also seeds hope that when Western states undergo the final economic collapse, minarchy and a free market system will arise from the brutalised societies, rather than outright tyrannies.

$1.5 billion invested in a tax haven will ultimately benefit all of us; $1.5 billion into the black hole of upgrading IRD’s computer system is part of the system destroying us.

This.

The above is in the same manner that space is finally starting to be commercially open to us, via the rockets of private enterprise, now the tax take of the US police state is required to merely feed itself, and tend to the millions of dependents it has created within itself.

Elon Musk is doing more to progress mankind in the Space Age than any Progressive who would tax business, enterprise, entrepreneurship, our living standards, back to the Stone Age.

Whatever.

Did you ever think you’d live to see the day that American citizens felt to be free they had to renounce their citizenship? Americans?! The difference between a welfare state and a totalitarian state, as a great philosopher once said, is time. The West is well past halfway down its road to our serfdom. In fact we’re so far progressed, our taxes pay academics to advise the Fortress of Legislation in Wellington, of what we can and, mainly, can’t eat; and don’t assume that advice is not about to be taken. Stock up on food and booze.

If you think some of this excessive, possibly, but judgement is a hard thing at the moment, you see … I’m starving, possibly hallucinating. In the novel I’m writing, now progressed to 115,000 words, I’ve just had Karl Marx run over by a Fulton Hogan truck in Christchurch. Imagine what a great place the world would’ve been had that happened; it would certainly be more populated.

Truth.

The only diet that’s ever worked for me was the cigarettes and coffee diet I did full time through all of my twenties. In every way this diet, and the lifestyle with it, was perfect.

Wind clock forward thirty years.

Unfortunately along with the diet - awful timing - comes hard work. As usual, I've been too slack enjoying life the first half of this financial year, so posts will be slowing down as I catch up with the day job. But watch out for my next post, there's something amiss with our literature, its state funded body of work having lost its subversive gene ... Literary Ramble IV, coming soon.



Thursday, October 9, 2014

Why This Government Urgently Needs to Pick Up Maryan Street’s Euthanasia Bill.


The answer to my question posed in the title is because self-determination of the manner and means of one's death is an individual’s basic right. But unfortunately politicians follow a dreadful pragmatism, rather than a principled view toward our freedom, so let me provide it.


The most important debate to be had over the next three years in the pursuit of individual liberty was Labour MP Maryan Street’s Dying with Dignity euthanasia bill. I am gutted that Maryan did not get back in last night as that means her bill is dead, with little likelihood the social conservatives in National will look at opening this essential debate. In a time when the Chief Coroner is trying to change the death certification process in order to catch out humane doctors over-prescribing pain medication to bring on early death in judged circumstances, this issue becomes urgent.

In this post and this post to Dr. Mark Peterson, Chair of the New Zealand Medical Association, I explained how the NZMA’s position against euthanasia is based upon a contradiction, or a conceit, rather, and as such, is an irresponsible, dangerous (for doctors and patients), ethical mess. That contradiction is NZMA opposing legal euthanasia, yet with that stance ‘justified’ by dint of the back-street provision they cite of it being ethical for doctors over-prescribing pain killers to keep pain at bay, even if to an extent that might hasten death, despite no threshold or certainty is provided as to what 'over-prescribe' or 'hasten' means. Incredibly on an official level it's the ‘we don’t need euthanasia legalised because it already unofficially occurs’ nonsense. This stance also draws the inference, repugnant to myself, that it's Dr. Peterson and his colleagues who know best and get to decide the circumstances of a death; that the decision over a dignified exit is not up to those dying.

Such a mealy mouthed wording, and professional arrogance, in a matter that concerns all of us at the most poignant part of our lives, dying, is as offensive as it is preposterous. Especially in light of the fact such over-prescription is set to be denied doctors by our Chief Coroner, Judge Neil MacLean, who wants to change the death certification process so that doctors doing precisely this are found out, presumably to face the full force of the law. This means two cruel things: first, those humane mercy releases that do now occur under compassionate doctors in hospices and hospitals will stop; second, pain remediation regimes for the terminally ill will become more conservative, which only means one thing; more pain for the terminally ill.

Forget the ethical and philosophical issues here, this is intolerable and needs fixing by this government as their first item of business; and I repeat by the government, not by private members bill with that insane lottery known as the ballot, but by means of responsible government legislating an essential freedom that should by right be available to all, just as it is in many Western jurisdictions.

Dr Peterson never replied to my second email pointing out the consequences of the Chief Coroner’s current course, and I put it to him, here, that if the haughty NZMA were to poll its members, as their UK equivalent did, I’m sure they would find also their doctors would come to the same majority decision that such a basic freedom is up to we individuals of society, not the medical profession: at the very least, the NZMA should butt out. (And noting that the basic freedom of dying with dignity should never be up to a majority vote:  human rights don’t work like that, for they are inalienable.)

If I can’t convince this National government in this, then if the MPs care to take six lousy minutes of their time, perhaps 29 year old Brittany Maynard can. Brittany has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour, and has moved to one of the five American states that allow assisted suicide so that she can die with dignity, in the arms of her husband and mother, on 1 November coming. There is nothing more important this government can do over the next three years, than pass legislation under which the terminally ill in New Zealand can have the same chance at dignity, and a death without suffering, moreover, death on their own terms; please, show some humanity.

"I can't tell you the amount of relief that it provides me to know that I don't have to die the way that I have been told that my brain tumour will take me on my own," Maynard said in the video.

"I will die upstairs in my bedroom that I share with my husband, with my mother and my husband by my side and pass peacefully with some music that I like in the background," she said.





Wednesday, October 1, 2014

The Bone Clocks - David Mitchell. Approaching Fifty and Other Crises.



Commuters sway like sides of beef and slump like corpses: red-eyed office slaves plugged into Discmans; their podgier selves in their forties buried in the Evening Standard; and nearly retired versions gazing over west London wondering where their lives went. I am the System you have to beat, clacks the carriage. I am the System you have to beat. But what does ‘beating the system mean? Becoming rich enough to buy one’s manumission from the daily humiliation of employment?’


David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks



I have to say, manumissioning from the day job is the carriage I've been hitched to for a while, though I'm pondering the ticket price. I’ll be 49 years old this month, and instead of a growing contentment there is a growing disquiet, and the demise of a learned laziness I was hoping to retire to. Minutes ago I was sitting on my balcony in the Mahau interrupted from reading The Bone Clocks by a pod of dolphins noisily muscling their way up the Sound in the swift, tight spear formation they use to get somewhere purposely, a fact I never knew about dolphins before buying here - they’ll frolic randomly back down, fed, in two hours, or thereabouts - but in truth for too long I’ve not been able to read a book for and of itself, or watch a movie, without that pressure weighing against my mind that time is running out, and I should be doing something toward immortality. How pompous. Let’s compromise at what my mum would say, something worthwhile.


It's an unquantifiable loss how amongst the walking wounded from the first forty eight years, has been unlearning how to lose myself in a narrative outside my own; be it book or movie, and at this stage of my life when I've afforded finally a cinema room with a six metre screen an earlier iteration of myself would've been fulfilled by. I’ve replaced contentment, and nonchalantly watching the scenery go by, with an agitated-mindfulness that won't leave me alone no matter how much I try. Truly, without wanting to sound like a Shakespearean theme, sorry mum, I think the distraction here is mortality: and it's mine ...


This post is de-railed, already, I think, and I'm mangling a metaphor more than dear old Chris Trotter does. I'll shunt this to a siding and change track.


The System; did I - will I - beat it, at least? What does 'beating the system mean?'


As I've written in the blog before, I’m over the day job – never was a career man - and while endeavouring to complete it each day competently, still hope after many years of ludicrously long hours, to whittle the client base back enough to take four, perhaps five months off a year, in preparation for the reign of my early fifties, with the dream having been to then talk to Mrs H more, and pursue my private projects that do/did mean something – as in, something worthwhile. The plan was to work the System hard for the first half of life, so I could take the second half off, outside the System, doing my own thang. However that’s where a systemic problem has revealed itself; systemic because unfortunately everything connects.


I’ve never understood people who don’t have an abiding passion which gives their life meaning, and through that, hope. Having same is why early on I was so easily able to kick out the crutch of religion, sit still for long amounts of time, and daily put the System to the back of my mind while yet getting on with(in) it. For me the passion has always been a future-self writing books: no matter what the circumstances, there was that image in my mind, held out and held up, hope, but by the end of my forties, an age where many authors have done their best work, I’m not even close to being published (perhaps never will be). Correction, there was twice in Landfall, but time has long since rubbed that out. No, it’s not the ever shortening, ever quickening rail before me to be usefully used that worries me, I'm not scared of hard work; it's the unpublished, unwritten, track record stretching behind that can't be traveled again, and the fear that past performance does indeed indicate future performance, meaning my future dreams were only ever that: imaginary, as I lack the necessary talent, at worst, or at best deferred the spark too long as the System ground me down. But same result. Although look at me writing as if no time is left: I'm only turning 49, that's the new ... well, for those of us a drink a bit much, the new 48, at least. There is time enough, there has to be, I just have to be more mindful of those distractions the System throws up to destroy focus, energy, and joie de vivre, such as politics, which is ultimately, in a System where collectivism has won the day, and we're more than my lifetime away from the necessary revolution or collapse required to save the day, a pointless pursuit for an individual anyway.


And set all that aside, regardless, today I should be able to just sit and enjoy this bloody grand novel  The Bone Clocks, I've worked hard enough to earn that, and it's what I want to do, while looking forward to a movie this afternoon, given the weather is thankfully closing in – there’s been too much nice weather lately that I was supposed to be ‘making the most of.’ Trouble is, I shut my book twenty minutes ago, left the dolphins and the kayaker madly trying to catch them, leaving a jerky trail of diamonds in his wake, and went inside to sit here, this desk, writing this ruddy blog entry, and I don’t know what that means any more than I can tell you what the System is I’m trying to beat. Or was. Perhaps I did beat it, as much as one can do, via the day job, and now the problem is just me.


But everything connects.


David Mitchell is 45 years old, The Bone Clocks is his sixth novel: bastard.


In The Bone Clocks David uses three images I've written into a novel in progress, currently progressed to 112,000 words, meaning I can't use those images, or two of the sentences involved which are almost identical. It's not about legality so much as uniqueness. Three; how could that be? Utter bastard.


Anyway, this's too hard, it’s martini night tonight, praise be to merciful Bacchus, to wilful forgetfulness, and to not dropping out, because ...



If I have doubts that you beat the system by moving up, I damn well know you don’t beat it by dropping out. Remember Rivendell? The summer before I went up to Cambridge a few of us went clubbing at the Floating World in Camden Town. I took Ecstasy and got off with a waifish girl wearing dried-blood lipstick and clothes made of black cobwebs. Spidergirl and I got a taxi back to her place: a commune called Rivendell, which turned out to be a condemned end-of-terrace squat next to a paper recycling plant. Spidergirl and I frolicked to an early Joni Mitchell LP about seagulls and drowsed until noon when I was shown downstairs to the Elrond Room where I ate lentil curry and the squat’s pioneers told me how their commune was an outpost of the post-capitalist, post-oil, post-money future. When one asked me how I wanted to spend my sojourn on Earth, I said something about the media and was bombarded with a collective diatribe about how the system’s media divides people, not connects them. Spidergirl told me that ‘Here in Rivendell, we actually talk to each other, and share tales from wiser cultures, like the Inuit. Wisdom’s the ultimate currency.’ As I left, she asked for a ‘loan’ of twenty pounds to buy a few things from Sainsbury’s. I suggested she recited an Inuit folktale at the check-out, because wisdom is the ultimate currency. Some of her response was radical feminist, most was just Anglo-Saxon. What I took from Rivendell, apart from pubic lice and an allergy to Joni Mitchell that continues to the present day, was the insight that ‘outside the system’ means poverty.’


David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks.



Given radical feminism has now been brought up, and not by me, I'll apologise for this post being all about me. To your health, slavery and dissatisfaction, I hold up by podgy love handles for your inspection, and raise a toast to my Middle Ages …


Sunday, September 21, 2014

My Random Unstructured Thoughts on NZ’s 2014 Election.


The result was a lot better than some scenarios might have been, but we still have socialist, big brother state government that is more dangerous than an outright Left win as it’s in the guise of a party professing to believe in small state, limited government. 


The most important debate to be had over the next three years in the pursuit of individual liberty, was Labour MP Maryan Street’s Dying With Dignity euthanasia bill. I am gutted that Maryan did not get back in last night as that means her bill is dead, with little likelihood the social conservatives in National will look at opening this essential debate. In a time when the Chief Coroner is trying to change the death certification process in order to catch out humane doctors over-prescribing pain medication to bring on early death in judged circumstances, this issue becomes urgent. I am still sure, although Maryan has denied it, Cunliffe pressured her to pull her bill from the ballot pre-election, an occurrence I’m sure Maryan herself now regrets, and I wish she could have been persuaded to have run with it, even if it had meant fighting her leader.


A heartfelt thank you to Labour MP Kelvin Davis for actually going against that same leader early in this election in taking the fight over Maori seat Te Tai Tokerau  to that abomination of hard-left/1% dirty politics, the Internet Mana Party, and ultimately obliterating them from the political map of New Zealand. In Davis, Labour surely have their most viable option for future leader.


While on the Maori Seats, I wrote a piece last month against the libertarian dogma of one-law-for-all in New Zealand and supportive of Maori self-determination. In that I stated the Maori seats only make sense in the context of Maori identity, not within the Left’s class war where the ruling ethic must be no self-determination allowed any group or individual. Maori Party leader Te Ururoa – wish I could spell that without looking it up each time – Flavell recognised this in his party’s Relationship Agreement – not coalition - with National, but was unfortunately punished for it by Maori voters who gave all but one of the Maori seats to Labour thus consigning their votes, with their hopes, to oblivion. I am glad that National will talk to the Maori Party, and personally hope they give Maori Affairs to Te Ururoa, so Maori continue to have a voice at the table where decisions are made. If Maori had given Maori Party seven seats, imagine the further influence they would’ve had.


The Greens found, again, the country doesn’t believe child poverty, or poverty per se, can be solved by growing the welfare state, but rather by dealing in the causes of poverty, particularly the cycle of dependence that has been grown on the state. Ahem, self-determination.


Thank you New Zealand voters for making Winston Peter’s irrelevant over the next three years.


Thank you New Zealand voters for keeping the xenophobic, authoritarian Conservatives irrelevant for the next three years, although this morning no commentator is giving Colin the congratulations he deserves: 88,000 votes *is* a remarkable feat.


This morning’s interview on The Nation between Patrick Gower, Jamie Whyte and David Seymour was a perfect example of how a cynical MSM operates to exact its hatred of Libertarian politics. Patrick, who had been monotonously grilling his two victims over the disadvantageous scenario of leader Whyte outside Parliament, looked Seymour direct in the eye and asked an unrelated policy question, Seymour began the answer to be interrupted by Patrick saying ‘why doesn’t the party leader answer that’, redirecting the camera to an obviously confused - because he wasn't asked the question - Whyte, so trying by deceit and malice, actually, a school boy level trick, to set ACT up as incompetent where it isn’t. Whyte has valid complaints at the treatment he received by too many journalists, putting the answers they wanted into his mouth, or letting their inner child loose to write some infantile articles and tweets on various pronouncements from him. Normally I like Gower, but this was showmanship, not interviewing.


The Twittersphere was repugnant abundant with the Left wondering why the Left vote  collapsed, given Hager and #dirtypolitics. This is my answer:















This Labour/Green wannabe government would’ve been dreadful: in his paid piece on NBR, editor Nevil Gibson sums up well the Left’s problem:


Labour and the Greens, with partial support from New Zealand First, pinned their hopes on defeating National with populist policies of nationalisation, price controls, higher taxes, increased minimum wages and curbs on immigration, investment and property purchases.


They all signalled major changes in monetary and economic policy that would have been detrimental to business and the country generally.



With that, thank goodness it’s over, I’ve been getting bored with my own blog. I’ll continue on politics from time to time, I’m built that way, but back to the odd book review and, well, life, pieces as well. Plus I’m almost finished a novel I’ve spent the last four years writing in every spare moment I can crib late night and early morning: it is probably unpublishable, (albeit I’ll try the traditional route), but I may soon post some discards. For the rest of today I’m reading David Mitchell’s new novel, The Bone Clocks; I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.