Well, Dover is gone and so am I. This is the final column in a series which I've enjoyed writing and I hope you enjoyed reading.
Feedback has been enormous, and to the 247-odd people who wrote to me in approbation, many thanks. I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply to many of your letters. To the six good folk who wrote expressing dismay at the column, I'm sorry. You can't please everyone. To my regular correspondent and perpetrator of the blue people theory: seek therapy, my friend.
It's been a week of people going. I would have preferred to go the way of Dover, but probably would not have suited either the hat or the portfolio. The reason for his sacking probably makes him the only cabinet minister under a Westminster system dismissed on account of the ill-concealed envy of his colleagues. Personally I am disgusted at Mr Samuels attracting the amorous attentions of a 17-year-old female while in his late 40s, and am writing him a letter of outrage, demanding to know how he did it.
On the subject of suits, I doubt I'd have suited Gary McCormick's latest number either. The suit aside, I'm saddened to see one of New Zealand's few (non-sporting) icons shot on the water by a pack of yapping nobodies.
These latter-day Byrons are rather more circumspect in their treatment of sporting legends for fear of a large, angry and energetic creature breaking all literary convention and whacking them one in the ear.
Sadly, there were buzzards rather than bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover this week. Vultures posing as TV critics fought each other for bloody scraps amid the shreds of gold lame in Gisborne. It's a vicious little country we live in, sometimes. Is it any wonder God doesn't defend it any more? Mind you, God's probably having trouble coming up with the readies for half a dozen F16s or an Anzac frigate himself these days.
Another Kiwi icon teeters on the knife-edge in Fiji, as that country's Army throws a merciless and impenetrable cordon of high tensile coconut fibre around the parliamentary complex. It may all be over bar the shouting, and my local dairy owner, in an unprecedented move, has promised to do so by the time this goes to print. If so, there'll always be a place for George in Dunedin. The traditional home, after all, of Speights.
On the subject of beer, I think I might have one. You get weeks like this sometimes, and it's better to get them over with. A good week to do it. The genome, the very code of life, was cracked this week, I'm told, and we now know almost as much as God. We're very clever possums aren't we?
So, to steal a line from Spike Milligan, "That's it folks!"
I think I might crack a crayfish with Gary in Matauri Bay and go surfing with Dover in Gisborne - or is it the other way round? Either sounds good. Cheers.
* Jon Gadsby can be contacted at jongads@ihug.co.nz
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