It's time to cancel our repugnant national holiday
Waitangi Day produced its usual hatred, rudeness, and violence against a clearly elected Prime Minister from a group of hateful, hate-fuelled weirdos who seem to exist in a perfect world of benefit provision. This enables them to blissfully continue to believe that New Zealand is the centre of the world, no one has to have a job and the Treaty is all that matters.
I'm over Waitangi Day. It is repugnant. It's a ghastly affair. As I lie in bed on Waitangi morning, I know that later that evening, the news will show us irrational Maori ghastliness with spitting, smugness, self-righteousness and the usual neurotic Maori politics, in which some bizarre new wrong we've never thought about will be lying on the table.
This, we will have to address and somehow apply these never-defined principles of the Treaty of Waitangi because it is, apparently, the next big resentment. There'll be lengthy discussion, we'll end up paying the usual millions into the hands of the Maori aristocracy and God knows where it'll go from there.
Well, it's a bullshit day, Waitangi. It's a day of lies. It is loony Maori fringe self-denial day. It's a day when everything is addressed, except the real stuff. Never mind the child stats, never mind the national truancy stats, never mind the hopeless failure of Maori to educate their children and stop them bashing their babies. No, it's all the Pakeha's fault. It's all about hating whitey. Believe me, that's what it looked like the other day.
John Key speaks bravely about going there again. He should not go there again. It's over. Forget it. It is too awful and nasty and common. It is no more New Zealand day than Halloween.
Our national day is now Anzac Day. Anzac Day is a day of honour, and struggle, bravery and sacrifice. A day on which we celebrate the periods when our country embraced great efforts for international freedom and on which we weep for those who served and for those who died.
I wouldn't take my three great uncles who died at Gallipoli and in France - Reuben, Mathew and Leonard - to Waitangi Day and expect them to believe this was our national day. I wouldn't take my father, veteran of El Alamein and Cassino, there. Nor would I take my Uncle Ken who died in a Wellington bomber, then try and tell him Waitangi Day was anything but filth.
No, if Maori want Waitangi Day for themselves, let them have it. Let them go and raid a bit more kai moana than they need for the big, and feed themselves silly, speak of the injustices heaped upon them by the greedy Pakeha and work out new ways of bamboozling the Pakeha to come up with a few more millions.
When you start doing talkback or any kind of opinion broadcasting in New Zealand you learn that certain groups are loony, highly vocal, highly organised and they never rest. The second looniest are the anti-fluoride crowd. But leave them aside for today.
The looniest crowd in this country, the most irrational and bullying are La Leche, the breast feeding fascists who've become involved in the most bizarre controversy I can remember. Breast feeding is all they think about.
The row actually started with Piri Weepu filming a public health commercial in which he's seen bottle-feeding his daughter who has an allergy to dairy and the message is that she will grow up in a non-smoking house. That was the message, for God's sake. And it's a nice image. Dad, an All Black hero, Maori of the Year, bottle-feeding his little girl.
Many mothers would have appreciated seeing a baby being bottle-fed. Others appreciated that it showed a man involved in an intense part of nurturing baby. One or two mothers came forward this week and spoke about how they've been monstered by bullying women in supermarkets who berated them for buying formula.
Most mothers want to breast feed, I'm sure. No one disputes this. Some simply can't. And in the case of Piri's little girl, she can't handle dairy. But the hysterics saw a man, a bottle and a baby and were about to erupt. Never mind the positives, the non-smoking household, the All Black tenderly feeding his little girl. There was man and a baby and a bottle and it was the crime of the century.
Take it off, screamed La Leche, obviously. And suddenly the segment disappeared. The chief executive of the Health Sponsorship Council, which made the ad, is Iain Potter. Mr Potter says the council received overwhelming opposition to the bottle-feeding clip.
I bet it did. And I bet I know who from. Iain Potter should show some common sense, grow some balls, and learn to stand up to a highly organised band of intolerant people.
Overseas, just to change the subject and keep an elegant internationalism in the column, can you believe Russia's and China's intransigence at the United Nations Security Council on the matter of Syria?
So now Syria will grind on in broken, abject misery for the rest of the year until they shoot the despot.
I can't figure old rat-face Bashir. He must know that he's going the way of Gaddafi, with a refuge in a filthy sewer pipe for a while before the bullet in the head, being towed backwards through the streets to public display in a meat locker.
He's married to a very beautiful British woman, Bashir, a real English rose. One report suggested she and her family had tried to leave Syria last week but the convoy had been seen and turned back.
She must know what's coming. Armageddon is what's coming. One dreads to imagine what they'll do to her pretty face.
Note: This column is subject to a Press Council ruling which can be found at www.presscouncil.org.nz
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