Sunday Star Times
February 8, 2004
We don't know how lucky we are, mate
by Michael Laws
One of the weird
things about parliament is that an inhabitant's consciousness is almost
hermetically sealed. That nothing outside the immediate political environment
actually exists - it's like you're trapped in some parallel dimension and
watching the rest of the world on video.
I often think that when I see MPs out in direct sunlight and in the public
gaze. They appear physically uncomfortable - as if suffering from some
obsessive-compulsive disorder or under the influence of a very powerful muscle
relaxant. I empathise. I had to develop a post-parliamentary hygiene fetish to
retain that same sense of public bewilderment.
Which is why politicians do the most gormless things at
times. Don Brash gets hit by a lump of mud at Waitangi and instead of
recoiling or going after the offender or even saying (as I would have done),
"My mother will get you" ... he shouts out "Good shot!"
Pick the nerdy kid who got pelted with rotten fruit at primary school.
By contrast Helen Clark took the bring-it-on stance. Although that's easy to
say when you're surrounded by a Swat security detail and Parekura
Horomia is your human shield, blotting out the
protesters' sun. Ironically, it was Tariana Turia who left the marae in tears this year ... classic
proof Maoridom has even more jealous factions than a
Parnell cocktail party.
Frankly, I love these Waitangi Day antics. My exposure to reality TV has made
me appreciate the theatre of such moments but also this country's remarkable
good fortune.
Indeed if we ever wanted proof that this place is truly Godzone
... take a good look at the titillating Titewhais and
the other waddling Waitangi radicals. Their idea of protest is a bit of
jostling, a few verbals and some helpful gardening
hints.
I think the mud thrower was right - Don's comb-over would benefit from some
organic assistance. And then these same few, fierce Maori protesters retire to
the local pub, down a few Tuis, scoff some KFC and
bring out the guitar. We have the most genial radicals on the planet. If you'd
wandered into their company after dark they would have challenged you all right
- to a rendition of Ten Guitars.
Compare with any protest movement anywhere else in the rest of the world.
Separatist movements - ethnic or otherwise - are always death struggles.
Kidnappings, car-bombings, acid attacks, assassinations. They are violent,
pitiless terror campaigns driven by crazed extremists who long ago shucked off
any vestige of humanity.
Not our lot. Sure, they're pissed off. Sure, they get the Diplomatic Squad boys
a bit excited. And sure, there's the occasional drycleaning
bill. But if this is the worst that protest gets - sorry, but I love these
guys.
Although isn't it interesting at what level you can offend people. George W
Bush finally admits he completely screwed up the military intelligence that
justified
And what a tit. I'll tell you this - there is a woman
who has never had implants. And should. The moment
Justin Timberlake removed the leather holding, that right breast headed for the
floor, bounced off her knees and ended up somewhere around her abdomen. I was
horrified all right. Horrified that all the rumours were
true. That Michael Jackson is having a sex-change op and is over-dosing
on the hormones.
Yet there were things at home last week that also gave me a queasy tummy. Like
this trial by media of police assistant commissioner Clint Rickards and two of
his former colleagues. You see, I'm one of those old-fashioned people that presumes innocence until the proof of guilt. I think the law
has gifted us one of the great moral maxims of our time - that neither
accusation nor allegation a criminal makes.
Yes, I do understand there are two issues involved here. First, the allegation
by Louise Nicholas she was gang-raped and sexually abused by three policemen in
Rotorua in 1986. And, second, that internal police procedures
actively dissuaded her from lodging a complaint or pursuing any form of remedy.
The appropriate steps have all been taken. The police are conducting a criminal
investigation, the government a commission of inquiry and there is a long
overdue debate about the independence of the Police Complaints Authority.
The latter is certainly a joke. Any system that allows the police to
investigate complaints against themselves is asking for abuse. But the point
remains. There's this nasty presumption of guilt in all media reports of the
case - the reporting of the allegations hyped to such an extent the public
could be forgiven for assuming the verdict is already in. That it's all over
bar the shouting.
I am becoming increasingly disquieted by media tendencies to trumpet
accusations but toot denials. To go big on allegations but go
quiet on acquittals.
Even the innocent wear some sort of perpetual taint as a consequence. Ironic then that I am venturing from this week forth in the land of
instant verdicts. I've accepted a position as the morning talkback host
for Radio Pacific - a sort of reality TV show for the aural airwaves.
The last host ended up taking an axe to the TVNZ newsroom - now there's a
precedent. I profess that talkback is my one great sin. I love the ideas, the
insight, the insanity, the voyeuristic peep into the craniums of others ... I
can be offended, entertained and informed in the same nano-second.
And while I start on Monday, I already know the opening salvos. Waitangi, Waitangi,
Waitangi. Yeah, but I'll be singing Fred Dagg's
signature tune all the way. We don't know how lucky we are. 0800
309-3099 - for a journey to another dimension.