Jim Hopkins: No reason, really, to keep any of our dreary old legacies

COMMENT

Blimey, we're going to have to go like the clappers today. There's a plane on the runway with its engines warming up, me old china, and if this ain't finished toot sweet, Ralph Norris and his merry men will have a very substantial non-refundable airfare to play with.

Mercifully, there's an issue to hand that should offer a fevered scribbler a paragraph or seven. It's not often that the dusty world of law and lawyers hits the front page, but this Privy Cancel bizzo really has the gurus going.

It's certainly a tot hopic down at The Pontificators' Arms - that most salubrious watering hole wherein the commentariat convene for the purpose of imbibification.

As, indeed, Margaret Wilson is. That's Ms Wilson the Attorney-General, by the by, not the Ms Wilson at Ash who gets money from Ms Wilson's Gummint so that she (Ms Wilson) can tell her (Ms Wilson) what we really think about smoking in bars - always provided that she (Ms Ash Wilson) doesn't criticise her (Ms A-G Wilson) in public.

(Thank heavens the Privy Cancel will never scrutinise that little deal, m'dears.)

And rightly so, according to most of those at The Pontificators' Arms where, generally speaking, the general view seems to be generally in line with Gummint thinking.

Mind you, it usually is. For most of the commentariat it just comes naturally.

These prescient souls quite properly argue that the Privy Cancel is a fusty old colonial anachronism, an unwelcome dag on the bum of a bold young nation. We must cleanse ourselves of this outmoded remnant of cultural cringieness, they say.

We don't need ancient institutions deciding our destiny. We don't need doddery old geezers sitting on a woolsack in London. Off with their heads.

Now, this is a compelling argument. Of course, if the "cringe" assertion is taken to its logical conclusion, there's actually no reason to keep any of our dreary old legacies.

We don't really need that soppy old religion someone invented 2000 years ago. We can worship the eco-system. We don't really need that habeus corpus stuff some anal Roman dreamed up. And those French prats with all their liberte, egalite, maternite bollocks. They're toast as well. Along with treaties and all other outmoded ideological baggage we've inherited.

Come to think of it, in a proudly bicultural nation (where the foreshore apparently belongs to ... ummm ... nobody and the Gummint has so much faith in the courts it won't even let them adjudicate the issue) no one in his right mind would bang on about a Parliament that follows the Westminster tradition.

See, when you get down to it, we shouldn't be getting rid of one colonial relic. We should be getting rid of the lot. We should take a leaf out of Tonga's lava-lava, so to speak, and put the great ruler in charge of everything - constitution, media, courts, the whole shebang.

Of course, if anyone were brave enough to do that, they'd want to get rid of the Privy Cancel first.

Which, happily, the visionary Ms Wilson (not the one from Ash) is about to do. Having stitched together the enthusiastic support of its loyal coalition partner, United Suture.

Well ... ummmm ... no, not exactly. Instead, Ms Wilson has the enthusiastic support of ... er ... the Greens who, very recently, passionately vowed they would never support the Gummint unless it maintained the moratorium on GMOs.

Basically, in domestic terms, what we have is a proudly feminist Gummint behaving like the worst kind of randy old male groper.

But the fact remains that's what we've got. When the Gummint's lawfully wedded de facto partner (the blushing Mr Dunne) won't oblige, it's down the road to the old girl-friend (the virtuous Ms Fitzsimons) for a bit of legislative slap and tickle.

"Ahhh, my little organic poppet," murmurs the Gummint, amorously caressing Ms Fitzsimons' tender lobe, "it's time we had a little vote - for old time's sake. What say you, my clean, green sweetheart?"

"Are you still seeing that pious Dunne person?" murmurs the flighty Jeanette.

"But, of course," chortles the frisky Gummint, "we'll be back in bed next week."

"Oh, very well then. Have your way with me, you naughty creature," titters Jeanette, making it abundantly clear she won't be having a cigarette afterwards.

Meanwhile, back at the Gummint's administrative pad, the forsaken Mr Dunne meekly continues to pick up the philanderer's socks and iron the philanderer's shirts. When pressed by the press to express a view, Mr Dunne wipes a crestfallen tear from his eye and, basically, in the immortal words of Tammy Wynette, he Stands By His Man.

"Of course I'm hurt," quavers Mr Dunne. "This is a major constitutional matter, after all, and any change should really enjoy widespread support. But ... sob ... but ... we won't be seeking a divorce. And we won't be bringing the Gummint down. Hey, I've still got the credit cards - and the keys to the car."

And that's the kind of Parliament we have. And that's how our laws get passed. And it is a blessed relief that no bunch of foreign fogies like the Privy Cancel will ever again pass judgment on such conduct - or its outcomes.