Narcissists And Other Wankers

Narcissist. We used to have another name for guys who showed the same behaviour that Clayton Wetherston did to his various girlfriends before he ended up killing the last one.

Something simple along the lines of a ‘supremely selfish auto-eroticist’.

You know the one. The kind of bloke that competes with his girlfriend instead of just being nice to her and an expert in steadfastly going about making her feel really bad about herself in order that he might feel a little better. I wonder why a young beautiful intelligent girl like Sophie … was attracted to him in the first place and why she ever bothered to stick around. Except – I know. We all know. Young women – irrespective of how ‘bright’ they are, often make really dim decisions about blokes unless they get really lucky or live a very sheltered life.

If I could meet myself aged 20 and the gaggle of ‘bright’ friends at that same age I know I’d want to go quietly out the back and bang my head against the wall regarding the men in our lives. Most of the choices we made back then were blinding in their stupidity if I were really honest. It just seems to go with the territory. Surely young women shouldn’t have to pay for those dumb choices with their lives – yet they often do. Sophie may have done something earth shatteringly appalling like… say her boyfriend had a small willy but I’m sure she didn’t say it 216 times behind a locked door while his mother listened.

In my grand plan to have arranged marriages entrenched in New Zealand law by the time my daughter is 18, I know that if I did a photo line up of nice guys with good jobs and threw a rogue in amongst them – someone who deals drugs for a living or who is a walking train wreck… chances are she’d go for the dog. Then she’d stay with him to prove that she can either a) change him b) turn herself inside out to please him or c) that she was right all along and that underneath all that drunkenness and cruelty he’s a really nice guy. Or maybe her generation will be much brighter than mine was.

Except - Clayton Wetherston supposedly was the nice guy with the good job. Something about the dynamic of the academically successful professor and his talented girlfriend has caught the country in a kind of compulsive obsession but there are plenty of other cases that seem to slip under the waves of stories of violence, never to be heard again. Mairina Dunn may not have had the glittering academic career but we will never know what kind of a woman she would have become because she was beaten to death by a dominating boyfriend at the age of 17. Her mother, Queenie Dunn made the brave decision to have an open casket funeral to show young women the consequences of staying one second too long with a violent man. Nathan Fenton had all the hallmarks of aggression but how do you help young women weed out the nice guys from the nutters especially when they could be dressed as your university tutor? For the little it’s worth – you could tell them this:

Just because he has a great job, a flash car and lots of money does not mean he is necessarily any nicer to be with than the heavy gang member on the run from the police. My Pop always said you judge a man by the way he treats the women in his life not by the car he drives. And he was a mechanic. The older I get, I realise; the righter he was.

If he ever makes you feel nervous, you just feel bad when he’s around or he wants to track your every move – then there’s only one thing to do. Flee. Flee my pretty. Flee.

Sticking with violent or possessive men is not so much an unpleasant walk on the wild side – more like a fast track to passing over to the other side.

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Dear Leader Wayne Brown

I love it when the big boys get petulant. Wayne Brown; Mayor of the Far North, went all hissy and then packed one because apparently Mr. Key doesn’t love him as much as our far more interesting Pacific neighbours. Last week the Prime Minister had Toke Talagi – the leader from Niue, saying that if he couldn’t have his pocket money RIGHT NOW no questions asked, he would go and ask the Chinese Premier for it. Calling in China to be your best playmate in the Pacific at the moment is like the teenage girl telling her Dad that it’s fine if he doesn’t want to give her money… she’ll just go and get some from the local drug lord. Key’s response was surprisingly ballsy to be fair… it was the equivalent of continuing to read the newspaper while the teenager stomps out and then nonchalantly calling ‘don’t come to me crying when you’ve been sold into slavery or you’re working in a P factory for your trouble.’

If it’s not bad enough dealing with stroppy foreign leaders saying they’ll get their new big brother, China, to back them up in the Pacific playground, Mr. Key has now got the Far North Mayor chucking all his toys out of his cot and doing exactly the same thing.

In Wayne’s world, he finds it supremely unfair that Niue has managed to gain about $7000 per head of population in aid. “Imagine what that would do for our roading network!” What he forgot to mention was that Niue has only got about 1,400 people left on it and it has a population growth of -2.4%. Why? Because they’re all coming to New Zealand. And not just from Niue either there are a lot of other islands in the Pacific so we may have to get used to squeezing up and sharing a little if global warming turns out to be more than just a theory. The aid that Niue will receive adds up to a measly mil – hey – our own council signed away a third of that in the time it takes Wayne to spit a dummy, for a group of boys pushing each other round a paddock with spiky boots on. When you’ve got family overseas – helping them become financially independent where they are is a much cheaper option than footing the bill once they’re on your doorstep.

Wayne is master of a wide dominion – much larger he asserts, than the land area of the many islands of the Pacific. Counting land mass and leaving out the messy blue bits is a bit silly in somewhere like Kiribati and I’m no geographer but the Pacific Ocean is a pretty large place and arguably strategically more important internationally than the tip of our fair land. There are also more people living there – about 13 million of them who, unlike the good people of the Far North have no one at all championing their causes. Wayne has concluded that going cap in hand to the Chinese for roads in Kaeo is ‘not a bad idea’ seeing as he has been visited by Chinese people who do love him. Like the Chinese ambassadors who made an official trip to the Far North District Council and the Governor of Lianing Province who officially hosted Wayne there. According to the Far North mayor, the governor of Lianing represents an impressive 42 million ‘subjects’ which makes him a potentially better option than NZ’s central government for getting what you want.

Geez Wayne, getting willing ‘subjects’ in the Far North may be tricky but it’s worth a go.

So here’s my suggestion: Ask the Guv’ for a few hundred million and build a giant canal at Hikurangi. The Chinese are great at canals and roads – and it is all about the roads right? New Zealand will cede the Far North as an independent dominion run by Wayne and administered from Beijing. The Dear Leader (otherwise known as Wayne) could make submissions to himself on how to run his territory on behalf of his loyal and loving subjects (nothing wrong there – not like it hasn’t been done before) and Wayne would maintain ‘unitary authority status’ over his 7500 beautifully tar sealed square kilometres. And then, his work done, he could invite Toke Talagi over for a beer and a catch up.

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Climate change

Climate change.

Wait! Don’t run screaming! If you’re in business or you’ve got a kid and wonder what kind of a place the world might be over the next 100 years you’ve got to have a go at working it all out.

What’s a girl to do? She asks her big business mates, making more than the GDP of small African states by digging up stuff and selling it – they tell her it’s all a big media beat up by the Fundamentalists or Eco-Nazis and this doom mongering is getting in the way of their mining endeavours.

As I enjoy all the benefits of the modern world and I have been lucky enough to have been born on a high volcanic island and not a small low lying atoll they suggest I lie back and think of carbon credits. And so I drive my car to the $2 shop to buy my child more plastic stuff that she neither wants or needs to take my mind off it. Until I remember some of these mates are already trying to buy the rights to dig more stuff up in land that is currently 6 metres under ice. Obviously they know things that I don’t, and then I remember I do know people with houses not only on small atolls but also in Byron Bay – well I did, before they fell into the sea.

So I go and ask my Fundy friends. From them I learn that global warming has already been foretold that we are now in the end days and that it’s just the precursor to the full scale burn up of Armageddon. They suggest I stop worrying about saving the world and just get myself saved and, by the way, their particular flavour of fundamentalism has got family passes to heaven and discounts on all the rides.

This is depressing because I like this world and their heaven sounds like God, Disney and Fonterra got together and made a theme park and I’m not sure I want to go there. Not feeling the rapture, I drive to the beach to collect pipis – before their shells dissolve due to increased acidity in the sea. There I meet some greenies catching and releasing pipis (they’re all vegans now) who tell me that my big business and Christian fundy friends are all eco-terrorists locked in a conspiracy to turn New Zealand into one big dairy farm and that we should raze the cities, wear clothes made from discarded seagull feathers and eat flaxseed and by the way, they’ve confiscated my car and now I have to walk home.

Nobody is making much sense so I decide to go and spend an evening sitting round the fire with Uncle G.

Gareth Morgan would make a great uncle because he is rich and interesting rather than the usual combination of rich, and boring.

Uncle G has done what any other government, multi-national or lobby group has systematically failed to do on what could conceivably be the biggest question to face humanity in the last 5000 years. He’s used his money, not to push his own barrow but to head hunt the best science brains and then referee the ensuing intellectual boxing match.

So what did I learn? Is the Co2 in the atmosphere going up? Yup. Are we doing it? Looks like it – it seems the atmosphere is now testament to our predilection for burning up fossil fuels. Does this mean the temperatures are going to keep going up? Don’t know. Wait and See seems a dodgy verdict but that’s as good as it gets.

What will happen if the Amazon forest disappears? Uncle G will turn it into a dairy farm (the one he currently owns in that area in Brazil gives a 16% return). Should I go fishing while I think about this? No point. Uncle G has already got all the fish, 241 groper I think he said – but he’s a fisherman – who can believe him?

The camps on climate change may still be poles apart but credit where it’s due.
I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do about any of this but Uncle G. has got me thinking – and that’s a lot better than just getting battered by the prevailing dogma of the day.

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Politicians are not allowed to have sex

Politicians are not allowed to have sex. Ever. Or if they do – it should be very far away from the public eye with their spouse – any other variation on this tends to mean they pay – with their jobs. It’s only fair really – nobody’s mind needs to be forced to go there over your first coffee of the day – some things should be sacred. Richard Worth’s political demise was swifthis website will give you a terse ‘this site is no longer operational’ if you go hunting for his side of the story and he was a political liability; only taking his foot out of his mouth long enough to shoot himself in it.

But was his fast entry into the list of the missing in political action really that fair?

I’m not justifying any glorified prostitution racket that deals, Italian style, in sex for jobs for the girls but surely the women could have handled it better too. So his pick up skills may need some work – I don’t know many women who would think a hot date would be waking up to find an ageing work colleague standing naked at the foot of the bed. I know. Some guys would be amazed by this. But where were the women’s keys or security card? How come he had them? And how is it that it appears to be only the male mind that would think that this approach would work often enough to make it worthwhile anyway? When was the last time you heard of Jenny Shipley getting her kit off and wandering round some young thing’s bedroom late at night in the hopes of getting lucky? When has Helen ever sent a smutty text message? Exactly.

Perhaps it’s a cultural thing or maybe they were different times but these women can’t have been at university or at least flatting during the late ‘80’s and early 90’s. Many of the women I know who were, spent their formative adult years booting unwanted half drunk blokes out of their bedrooms. There was usually the repeat offender who thought that being drunk and nude in some young women’s bed might miraculously increase the chances of him getting laid but they were usually fairly harmless and the better trained males in the house could always be relied on to deal with it. And that’s the thing.

If you wanted it to stop you certainly didn’t keep it secret. You made sure you told everyone, including the offender’s Mum, over a nice cup of tea when she came to check out the new flat. The same goes for text messages. Why hold on to seedy text messages and then just delete them? If you are serious about nipping it in the bud – forward them on to his wife. That would surely take all the fun out of it without it having to play through the whole media charade of faked outrage and indignation and protect the public from ever having to know that politicians have sex. Ever.

Which brings me to weddings. Politicians weddings much like newsreaders weddings are not news – only in Latin America where 70 year old despots marry teenage newsreaders and then use the taxpayers money to throw the party. Lockwood Smith seems to be a good Speaker of the House – lets just leave it at that – we don’t need to be confronted on a Sunday morning with his nuptials or who was on the guest list – although that did provide for some light entertainment to mitigate the shock of having to consider once again the private lives of our political figures. What were they thinking having Diane Foreman in the bridal party? Isn’t inviting Miss Gladwrap – herself a serial bride, to a politician’s wedding just a little like asking Hitler to your Bar Mitzvah? Mr. Brash didn’t seem to have been invited. Nope, I hate to say it but the girls seem to have got off lightly in affairs of the heart or political expediency.

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