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Kiwi Examiner

Non-decaf Conservatism since 1710.

Updated: 2016-09-07T21:35:41.883-07:00


China and Such


Yes, we've been quiet for a while.

Latest post on Nixon, no, Key, in China, is up at The Monarchist.

Lux in Tenebris


Rogier van der Weyden, Crucifixion

It is Good Friday today, the day on which the Church whole and Universal celebrates the triumph of the Suffering Christ, His assuming of all human sin and pain in His own flesh, His shaking of the grave and gate of death, His great love for broken Mankind.
We give up our sins, we offer our pain, we look upon the Holy Cross, and live.
And of course, the Usual Suspects in the media get into the crucifying spirit.
A million and a bit New Zealanders are celebrating one of their Highest Holy Days today. So what do we get in the headlines?

"Filipinos mark Easter with whippings, crucifixion"

Of all the things to say today, we must focus on an odd cultic practice in a few Filipino villages, repeatedly condemned by the Church allegedly sponsoring it.


Because it fits into the nice media narrative that Christianity (and particularly the Roman Church) is scarily weird.

Similarly, we have Vatican Criticises New York Times, in which we have a corrupt child-raping Church having a go at the fearless Tellers of Truth in the Liberal Media.

Levada, an American, said the newspaper wrongly used the case of the Reverend Lawrence Murphy to find fault in Benedict's handling of abuse cases.

The horrific case of Father Murphy, by the way, involved the repeated abuse of deaf kids.

A Times spokeswoman defended the articles and said no one has cast doubt on the reported facts.

Except, oh wait, they have.

The Charter of Holy Church from Her Lord is to proclaim Jesus, crucified and risen, judge and hope, desire of the whole world.

In Him was Life. And that Life was the light of men. And the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not....

Got that right.

O GOD, who for our redemption didst give thine only-begotten Son to the death of the Cross, and by his glorious resurrection hast delivered us from the power of our enemy; Grant us so to die daily from sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his resurrection; through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.

Collect for Easter Day, Book of Common Prayer.

Amazingly Cool


Buzz Aldrin took the Consecrated Host to the Moon, and took Communion there.

I poured the wine into the chalice our church had given me. In the one-sixth gravity of the moon the wine curled slowly and gracefully up the side of the cup. It was interesting to think that the very first liquid ever poured on the moon, and the first food eaten there, were communion elements.

And so, just before I partook of the elements, I read the words, which I had chosen to indicate our trust that as man probes into space we are in fact acting in Christ.

I read: “I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in him, will bear much fruit; for you can do nothing without me” (John 15:5).

Take it away, Gioacchino.

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Welcome Lent



Forty days and forty nights

Thou wast fasting in the wild;

Forty days and forty nights

Tempted, and yet undefiled.

Sunbeams scorching all the day;

Chilly dew-drops nightly shed;

Prowling beasts about Thy way;

Stones Thy pillow; earth Thy bed.

Should not we Thy sorrow share

And from worldly joys abstain,

Fasting with unceasing prayer,

Strong with Thee to suffer pain?

Then if Satan on us press,

Jesus, Savior, hear our call!

Victor in the wilderness,

Grant we may not faint nor fall!

So shall we have peace divine:

Holier gladness ours shall be;

Round us, too, shall angels shine,

Such as ministered to Thee.

Keep, O keep us, Savior dear,

Ever constant by Thy side;

That with Thee we may appear

At the eternal Eastertide.


Headline of the Week


"Madonna to have Jesus' Baby"

Something tells me this will not be an Immaculate Conception.

Gone fishin'


We've gone fishin' over the break, but we'll be back.

Fishing is the most perfect recreation God has granted His weary children.

Be Quiet, and go an angling.

Itzak Walton.





God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,

Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day;

To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy;

O tidings of comfort and joy.

In Bethlehem, in Jewry, this blessèd Babe was born,

And laid within a manger upon this blessèd morn;

The which His mother Mary did nothing take in scorn.


From God our heavenly Father a blessèd angel came;

And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same;

How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name.


“Fear not, then,” said the angel, “Let nothing you afright

This day is born a Savior of a pure Virgin bright,

To free all those who trust in Him from Satan’s power and might.”


The shepherds at those tidings rejoiced much in mind,

And left their flocks a-feeding in tempest, storm and wind,

And went to Bethl’em straightaway this blessèd Babe to find.


But when to Bethlehem they came where our dear Savior lay,

They found Him in a manger where oxen feed on hay;

His mother Mary kneeling unto the Lord did pray.


Now to the Lord sing praises all you within this place,

And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace;

This holy tide of Christmas all others doth deface.


God bless the ruler of this house, and send him long to reign

,And many a merry Christmas may live to see again;

Among your friends and kindred that live both far and near—

That God send you a happy new year, happy new year,

And God send you a happy new year.

Shakespeare a Catholic?


We have been occupying ourselves in composing irate letters to the Lord Bishop on the subject of Glynn Cardy and the Virgin Birth (see previous post), but we did notice that Father Longenecker thinks Shakespeare was a Roman Catholic.

read the details here.

The trouble with this thesis is exactly what Fr Longenecker writes about it--there is an awful lot of time in Shakespeare's life we don't know about.

The evidence we have is fragmented--it is likely, based on hearsay evidence, that Shakespeare's father made a Catholic will.

It is true that he went to a catholic minded priest to marry his wife.

It is true that his plays (like Hamlet, for instance) have many Catholic ideas in them.

And it's true Warwickshire was a bastion of traditionalism--accounting for plays like A Midsummer Night's Dream.

But half of England was still Catholic-minded in 1590, if not Papist--that's where the Civil War came from, and half the Church of England is catholic minded still. Distentangling Shakespeare from his culture is problematic on such small evidence as we have--he would hardly be the first son to reject his father's religion.

Shakespeare conformed to the Church of England at several points during his life, and there are lots of plays which seem to have Protestant ideas in them as well (Measure for Measure is not kind to the Poor Clares, or the Franciscans).

Finding signatures saying "William of Stratford" is interesting, but it's rather like having a signature saying "Jesus of Judea"--How do you know it's the famous one?

You can make the evidence say lots of things--not sure you could call our Will a Puritan (in fact, you can't). But gaps and fragments don't lead to much of anything, except an honest "I don't know" because very little is known about Shakespeare's life. Like most people back then, in fact.

Play it again, Glynn



The notorious Archdeacon Glynn Cardy, of St Matthews in the City, where cut price decaying heresies are warmed up like they're new, is in trouble.

He commissioned a billboard denying the Virgin Birth, and put it up on his parish grounds--coincidentally, about a block from the Roman Catholic cathedral.

Cue anger, agnst, paint, solvent, more debate, and finally, resolution.

His exercise in trendy sacrilege (see above) has been defaced by a heroic elderly woman and it will not be rebuilt. The bishop is irritated at the embarrassment, the evangelical and catholic-minded Anglicans are furious.
And the best thing of all?
The whole world has heard this pious fraud deny the Creeds printed in the Book of Common Prayer, the Articles of Religion, the teaching of the undivided Councils, the plain witness of the Bible, in favour of....


At least the old pagans who mocked the Virgin Birth, and denied the purity of Mary had the decency to worship something other than themselves.

No adoring hordes will queue up outside St. Matthews to worship the Spirit Within Glynn Cardy (If you do, watch out for a distinct tinge of sulphur).

No one will write music, or compose liturgy, or praise in choirs of many voices The Great Man, and The Spirit of Joy represented by the warmed-over Archdeacon.

No-one will be martyred, confirming with their death the Sacred Faith of Nothing in Particular.

So, of course, he must continue to wear his clerical collar.

He must continue to preach Progressive Christianity.

Ditch the collar, and he's another half-baked guru, another Amway snake oil salesman, another travelling Salvation Show.

Lose the collar, and you can see him for what he is.

Christ will conquer, Christ will reign


Christ will rule....Alleluia.

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Just because



"Action Man"


(image) This is wonderful.

Defying predictions and doom-sayers, true blue Conservative Tony Abbott has won the leadership of the Liberal Party.

by one vote.

We are not quite sure who to thank for this frabjous event, the soft-liberal-to-the-point of squishiness MPs in the Liberal Party who just could not make up their minds, or the real heroes of the piece, the Liberal Party base.

Ordinary people who called their politicians. Ordinary people who put their wallets away.
Ordinary people who demanded the Party they wanted--that is, one that wasn't Labor's lapdog.

And now they have their man.

God bless the rabble, every one.

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ETS and the Peasants' Revolt


The Australian Liberal Party is in "meltdown" this week over the bungled Emissions Trading Scheme. It goes like this.

Leader of the Opposition Malcolm Turnbull does a deal with Labor to pass the ETS, so that Kevin Rudd can go off to Copenhagen to look like a good global citizen. Having drunk the David Cameron Kool-Aid, he's convinced being Green will play well in urban areas, and with moderate voters.

His own party, which has been long divided between "conservatives" and "moderates" does the maths, and figures out the following things.

The ETS is equivalent to a massive tax
The environmental benefits are uncertain (to put it kindly)
Copenhagen's outcome is equally uncertain (ditto)

And most importantly of all, the average Liberal Party voter, especially in the bush, hates the idea, and wants to hold off.

And they've been saying so.

Ain't that democracy a bitch?

Spooked by their full email inboxes and burning phone lines, the Liberal MP's and significant numbers in the Shadow Cabinet tell Mr. Turnbull to pull his head in.

Mr. Turnbull labels his opponents climate change deniers, wreckers, disloyal crazies, and generally acts like the Sun King on a bad day.

The result?


To the attack come the disloyal peasantry, demanding that the Opposition do its duty and oppose. That horrible rabble of farmers and businessmen and housewives, led by our favourite Mad Monk, and a reluctant standard-bearer press-ganged by the Mob.

This is glorious, it's quite like old times.

We're the first to fix bayonets against rebels in ordinary circumstances, but in these, we've only got two words.

Ca Ira!

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Today is the first Sunday in Advent--and Dr. Swift had the honour of reading the Gospel.

And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring;

Men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken.

And then shall they see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.

And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.

Advent is the season of waiting--we wait for the Holy Child to come (to come is what "Advent" means.) But it is also the season of groaning, the season of birth, the season of trembling.

In Advent, we hear in the readings the massive facts of human evil, of natural disaster, of the four Last Things: Heaven, Hell, Death and the Judgement.

Not fashionable, perhaps. But real.

In a world of tsuamis and terrorism, of child murder and sudden death, in a world of hunger and pain, we so desperately need Advent.

The season to feel our calamities, to repent, to cry out to God for a deliverer, for Someone to help us, to be with us, to aid, comfort, assoil and strengthen us.

And the message of Advent is that He comes.

He comes, and we have hope.

From Death will come Life.

In Judgement, we will have Mercy.

From the old, the decaying, the trembling, will come a Child.

Behold the Man whose Name is the Branch.

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Something about Mary


Dr. Swift is an Anglican of a High Church Evangelical disposition.

We are quite comfortable in the bell-tower to chant our Psalm, to cross ourselves, to kneel at the drop of a hat, and we are entirely in favour of crucifixes, candles, and other such trifles allowed by Elizabeth, of blessed memory.

But at the same time, we find lace on men disturbing. We are quite happy with Latin Mass, but it must be the Latin Book of Common Prayer. And while we deeply admire the Pope, we are firmly convinced that he should mind his own business.

We are in short, good, catholic minded Protestants, c. 1570.

That means, among other things, we are suspicious of Mary.

Mary, idolatrous shibboleth of Polish boot-blacks and Filapina house-maids.
Mary, inspiration of Popish Queens, and odd, Lady Marchmain-like aristocrats.
Mary, prop of bad art, milk-sop milk-maid of sickly piety.

Mary, the plain weird.

But we are nearly in Advent. And we are forced to turn our minds, and our thoughts, to the Virgin Mother of the Lord.

Mary, the simple peasant girl, drawing water for Joachim and Anna.

Mary, betrothed to Joseph, the carpenter, a good man, a solid man--an older man.

Mary of the Magnificat, that soaring hymn of hope that the weak, the poor, the lowly and the broken will no longer be shut out.

Mary, the burning eyed, at the Cross, where the sword pierced her own soul, and her Son's side.

Mary, the mother of the Church, sitting in the kitchen with John Evangelist, and the other Apostles, dispensing wine, stew and advice.

Mary at Pentecost, receiving the devouring fire.

And we find ourselves awestruck. Mary isn't simply a model of virginal sweetness (pace bad art). She is a woman of fire, of faith, of blood, of suffering.

The woman who said "Yes."

Hail, Mary, full of grace.

Yes. Just one little word.

A word for the whole world.

Here's the gorgeous, if sadly rare, Caccini Ave Maria.


Hymn Search II


Our new favourite hymn search continues, and behind Door Number Two we have Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise.

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Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessèd, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, Thy great Name we praise.

Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light,
Nor wanting, nor wasting, Thou rulest in might;
Thy justice, like mountains, high soaring above
Thy clouds, which are fountains of goodness and love.

To all, life Thou givest, to both great and small;
In all life Thou livest, the true life of all;
We blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree,
And wither and perish—but naught changeth Thee.

We really, really, like this one.

Reverence: 10 (utterly sublime)

Theology: 6 (A bit disembodied--Christ came down in flesh, and unveiled Himself to our eyes--steady on with the Invisible bit...)

Musicality: 8 (a good, thumping rhythm)

Scrubbing Capacity: 8 (Un HAS ting Un WAS ting--floor scrubbed in ten minutes. Thurible, maybe not, it doesn't rock enough)

To the Death


(image) The above photograph shows Mr. Hulk Hogan bleeding after a "press conference" in which he had an impromptu brawl with his opponent, for the edification of the watching media.

Watching wrestling, and the cruelties regularly perpetrated on "reality" TV shows like Fear Factor, we give it fifty years before we're back in Ancient Rome and people are fighting to the death.

Lose Christian morality, and the nice things about Western culture, like not exposing your children on bare mountain-tops, and not beating each other to death for entertainment start looking...kinda shaky. Note the blood--or the scripted blood, perhaps, which is in a way worse.

What is good? The Will to Power, Power itself, in Man.
What is bad? All that proceeds from Weakness....

Friedrich Nietszche

Stop bugging me...


Hone Harawira is in trouble.

It appears the Maori Party are not happy with his display of anti-white prejudice, which demonstrates that some of them have functional political antennae.

We are not suprised that, having spent years shedding the image of extreme whinery, and mainstreaming Maori causes like the repeal of the sea-bed and foreshore Act, Dr. Sharples and Mrs. Turia are clearly cross about being forced into a corner by calculated running off at the mouth. Few want the radicalism, shouting and race-baiting days of yore back--except possibly, of course, those who continue to recall the New Zealand Wars with affection (and there are too many, on both sides, including our friend Hone).

The Maori Party are agressively implying that Mr. Harawira will sit as an Independent--or rather, that he's already acting like one.

Suspecting (and in our view rightly) he'd be toast without the label of the Maori Party, Mr. Harawira isn't budging.

It reminds us of one of those rather tragic playground situations--elder brother and sister playing cricket, and trying to persuade little brother he'd really be much happier playing somewhere else, while he wails and throws a tantrum, and insists on being as much trouble as possible.

Of course, tantrums look a little better when they are wrapped in the defence of the marginalised, my people, our tikanga, etc, but tantrums Mr. Harawira keeps throwing.

Little brother never wins in the end--Hone Harawira can take his medicine, pay the money back, submit to Party discipline, apologise (again) for race-baiting, and be re-admitted to his fielding position on the boundary. Or he can sod off for a permanent place in the pavilion.

If I were Dr. Sharples, I wonder which one I'd be hoping for?

O Crux Ave, Spes Unica



ABROAD the regal banners fly,
now shines the Cross's mystery:
upon it Life did death endure,
and yet by death did life procure.

Who, wounded with a direful spear,
did purposely to wash us clear
from stain of sin, pour out a flood
of precious water mixed with blood.

That which the prophet-king of old
hath in mysterious verse foretold,
is now accomplished, whilst we see
God ruling the nations from a Tree.

O lovely and refulgent Tree,
adorned with purpled majesty;
culled from a worthy stock, to bear
those limbs which sanctified were.

Blest Tree, whose happy branches bore
the wealth that did the world restore;
the beam that did that Body weigh
which raised up Hell's expected prey.

Hail Cross, of hopes the most sublime!
Now, in the mournful Passion time;
grant to the just increase of grace,
and every sinner's crimes efface.

Blest Trinity, salvation's spring
may every soul Thy praises sing;
to those Thou grantest conquest
by the Holy Cross, rewards supply.


Lest we forget


In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing,
fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Armistice Day, 11.11.18
Lest we forget.



Abp Cranmer, a blogger of erudition, has a reaction to the Apostolic Constitution, Anglicanorum Coetibus, which is about where we've come down on it.

Cranmer thinks there is an awful lot of fuss being made over the Anglicanorum Coetibus. It will be more honoured in the breach than in the observing, for those in the observing will be so few and far between that the breaches will attract far more attention than a few women priests ever did.

And there is more pleasure in its reading and contemplation than there will ever be in its practice and application. If ‘Ut Unum Sint’ made anything clear, it is that unity is unattainable this side of glory, if only because of the infinite theological variety of Christian nature: God loves symphony, not singularity. The only True Church is the Church Invisible - the 'communion of the saints'. Christ may have prayed that believers might be one, might be united in Him, but an awful lot rests on what we mean and understand by ‘one’ and ‘united’.

Not to mention ‘Catholic’.

And Cranmer finds it bizarre that there are some who are positively wetting themselves with infantile exuberance over the supposed creation of an Anglican branch of the Catholic Church: in case they hadn’t noticed, there has been one since AD597.....

. The doctrinal history of the Church of England asserts that it is both Catholic and Reformed; Apostolic and Evangelical; Prophetic and Protestant. The Prayer Book states: ‘Whosoever will be saved, it is necessary above all things that he hold the catholic faith...’.

Anglicanism is a worldwide universal communion, and repudiates some of the claims of Rome, not least its soteriology, ecclesiology, its unique claim to catholicity and and its understanding of authority. Unless salvation has ceased to be by faith; unless church governance has ceased to be synodical; unless infallible moral authority has indeed been imparted by God to one man, the doctrinal claims of the Church of England, founded on natural law through tradition, reason and experience, have as much validity now as they had four centuries ago.

What he said.

Hymn Search I


We are on the hunt for a new favourite hymn.

For reasons we won't go into, Work for the Night is Coming, Bickerstaff's favourite house-cleaning hit, really won't do any more, not least because it palls with repetition.

We'll be spotlighting the candidates for new favourite over the next few weeks, and behind Door Number One, we have Holy God We Praise Thy Name

Four criteria we examine: Reverence, Theology, Musicality, and ability to swing a thurible or a scrubbing brush to the beat.

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Holy God, we praise Thy Name;
Lord of all, we bow before Thee!
All on earth Thy sceptre claim,
All in Heaven above adore Thee;
Infinite Thy vast domain,
Everlasting is Thy reign.

Hark! the loud celestial hymn
Angel choirs above are raising,
Cherubim and seraphim,
In unceasing chorus praising;
Fill the heavens with sweet accord:
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.

Reverence: 10.
Theology: 8 (pastiche of Te Deum Laudamus)
Musicality: 7 (tune a little complicated)
Scrubbability: 6 (Nice rhythm for a Thurible, not so much a scrubbing brush)

Death wish


Hone Harawira is sorry for his word choice.

He should have referenced "what European colonisers have done" apparently, instead of labelling white men as "mother-fu.....".

One might observe that whatever else "European colonisers have done" they built a country, which Mr. Harawira clearly enjoys taking advantage of in his comfortable armchair on Radio Waatea.

In any case, the gracious apology from the Honourable Member for Te Tai Tokerau lost some of its impact with his next sentence.

"If I should be suspended for swearing, him and his mates should be lined up against a wall and shot," he said.

"I'm saying to Phil Goff `beware mate, beware before you start throwing stones'."

Is this a call for armed revolution? An incitement to race war?


It's an idiot who can't learn one simple word.

European New Zealanders have earned our right to contribute to our country's future. We've earned our right to be here, and just like Maori, the right not to be discounted in debates about the future of our land. The Foreshore and Seabed Bill should go. And so should the chip on Mr. Harawira's shoulder.

Let's hear from the Disney Channel:

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Own Goal


"If you had kept your mouth shut, we might have thought you were clever"BoethiusWe are not sure what we find most annoying about the Hone Harawira saga.We understand he didn't want to stay in Brussels to discuss yoof affairs and multiculturalism with boring Belgians and Eurocrats.Who would?Admittedly, the other MPs in the delegation did their jobs without complaining--we pay MP's to be bored so we don't have to.But still, we don't mind him skipping the pretentious onanism for once--listening to posturing Belgians would tax anyone--and even a disciple of high taxes like Mr. Harawira should be cut a break once in a while.He then told his Leader he was ill, and sloped off to Paris with the missus on the tax-payers dime.Again, one might think, a warmly human fault.The City of Love, Paris in the Winter, the Seine in the rain, the neo-brutalist pyramid outside the Louvre, Stalinist 1970's architecture, lots of Socialists and oppressed minorities to smarm up to.....Who could resist?Politicians, academics, mercenaries, models and whores chase the sun, and we find it difficult to blame them, given the soul-destroying nature of their jobs.But when asked who paid for the escargots, Mr. Harawira replied:"Gee Buddy, do you believe that white man bulls... too do you? White motherf...ers have been raping our lands and ripping us off for centuries, and all of a sudden you want me to play along with their puritanical bulls... "Setting aside the enchanting idea that white men routinely fornicate with their mothers, we note that the basic idea of public accountability is now "puritanical bullsh..." Further, note the aggressive implication that what goes around comes around--the Taranaki Wars thus provide the justification for a free lunch at La Tour d'Argent for the well-fed descendents of the losing side. I put in s...loads of hours and bucketloads of energy in my commitment to advancing Maori, and I am happy to put my body, my freedom, and my personal credibility on the line for that cause. And I don't do it because of the salary, or the political position I hold, or for any other reason than that I believe in fighting for Maori rights and I love doing what I do. Although the perks don't hurt, clearly. This is what is known as A Sense of Entitlement, and it drives ordinary people, including the very Maori Mr. Harawira claims to represent, utterly nuts to spend their tax money supporting it.After a heart-warming but irrelevant tribute to his wife, Mr. Harawira continues, shaking the earth with the force of his eloquence:And quite frankly I don't give a s... what you or anyone else thinks about it. OK? PS and if you want to take this to the press, go right ahead. I answer to my people, not to them or to anybody else.Mr. Harawira might indeed deserve a break (although the accepted mode, we believe, is to put your wife on the New Zealand France Friendship Board (or a real equivalent) before you take her with you on the public credit card). But there's no reason we should have to pay for it. And no reason at all he should react with such a detestable and plain rude sense of entitlement, showing arrogance as pretentious as his politics. He should resign--and speedily, for the honour of his party, and the credit of the country.We wonder whether Mr. Harawira is tired of life--or perhaps of his job? To dare the recipient of the e-mail to release it to the press seems to us very like a kamakaze maneouvre. Although, of course, even[...]

Stupid Songs 50: So in Love


Dr. Swift has often noted the stupidity of the musac industry.

One wonders whether anyone actually reads the lyrics of the songs they publish.

Example Number 50: Cole Porter's So In Love, otherwise known as I'm a Doormat.

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Strange, dear, but true, dear,
When I'm close to you, dear,
The stars fill the sky,
So in love with you am I.

Even without you
My arms fold about you.
You know, darling why,
So in love with you am I.

In love with the night mysterious
The night when you first were there.
In love with my joy delirious
When I knew that you might care.

So taunt me and hurt me,
Deceive me, desert me,
I'm yours 'til I die,
So in love, So in love,
So in love with you, my love, am I.

The unbridled stupidity of that last verse never fails to amuse us--even though Kiss Me Kate is our favourite musical here in the bell-tower, we have never been fans of the kind of woman who gets more slavish and devoted the more terribly she is treated.

Honey, dump the cad and make yourself some tea instead.