From this report on Stuff about his book telling Macsyna King’s side of the Kahui twins case:
She did not trust journalists but wanted to tell her story, he said.
So that settles the question whether Wishart considers himself a journalist.
She did not trust journalists but wanted to tell her story, he said.
In the blue corner: Lord Archer of Weston-super-Mare, better known as Jeffrey Archer, squillionaire author of bestsellers like Kane And Abel and now The Fourth Estate. Facing him, Denis Edwards, bracing himself to ask the £10 million question, “Who writes your books, Jeff?”
[. . . ] we are left in a general state of obstructed agency (see Sianne Ngai’s fantastic Ugly Feelings) and have become increasingly tethered to a form of sociality shaped by a congerie of negative affects (fear, paranoia, anxiety, envy). As Lauren Berlant has persuasively written, it is the supine affective charge of aspirational normativity with its increasingly “recessive” and “underperformative” modes of being that have come to characterize our current age of austerity.
I hope to have more to say about the assembling and composition of alternative subjectivites in a future post.
“I have decided to withld the vast bulk of matel that I found, because I absolutely agree that as the law stands, everyy New Zealanr should be free to conibute to politl pares witht fear of their name being made public,” he said.
I have decided to withhold the vast bulk of material that I found, because I absolutely agree that as the law stands, everyday New Zealanders should be free to contribute to political parties without fear of their name being made public.
The finest mind in the academic world conceived this ad, but it was his secretary who took two and a half hours out of her day to collate his angst-ridden ramblings, phone the LRB and pay for it with her own money. He’s basically looking for an affair with a twenty-something idiot tart who needs good grades. I’m looking for a better job, a decent pension package, and a man to 50 who’s great in bed and doesn’t make condescending comments about every damn book I read. Man, 57. Or his secretary, 43.
In Burwood, one Brooker Ave resident, who was too upset to speak, was trying to clean silt out of his lounge from the 1pm quake when the second one struck.
Anyway, as things turned out, everyone but the trolls had a good time at Queer the Night, while the iwi rushed in to assure everyone that the taniwha was a metaphor, thus saving the trolls the discomfort and contortions of attacking pakeha media for mocking indigenous beliefs which the trolls themselves could not possibly hold, whilst at the same time trying to remember where the macrons go. But tomorrow is another day, with new opportunities to be offended on Internet.
Escalator Huffers. This is my name for people who charge up escalators as though they’re climbing Mt Everest and, because it is often difficult to overtake on an escalator, reach the step behind you and stand there huffing angrily because you’re not plowing up the escalator like you’re a bison in heat and there is an attractive lady bison standing at the top fluttering her bison eyelashes at you.
Do not, ever, believe the numbers you are given for the costs of copyright breaches. They’re all, sadly, lies.
There was deep embarrassment within Labour Party circles this morning over the breach, which could prove compromising to some of its donors, particularly any public servants or others in sensitive positions who have supported Labour’s “stop asset sales” and other campaigns.
General quiet clapping, which is quite appropriate, though understandable grumbles about having only three fiction finalists . . .
there’s a groundswell of dissatisfaction about the list of only three books for both the fiction and poetry awards. Five, why can’t there be five? That way more books would get their time in the sun . . .
I do however feel especially sorry for this panel having had their fiction and poetry short-lists confined to three titles [ . . . ] Let me say again – two non-fiction categories with five short-listed titles in each category, fiction and poetry short-lists confined to three titles each. Where is the fairness or logic in that?
Fiji and Tonga warships have confronted each other in an escalating quarrel over two lonely reefs 1500km north of Auckland.
The Falklands thing was a fight between two bald men over a comb.
Whether he possesses a bottomless capacity for self-delusion or simply breathtaking cynicism, Sepp Blatter’s performance at a press conference earlier this week was beyond parody. Asked whether recent corruption allegations meant that the governing body of the world’s most popular game was in crisis, the Swiss 75-year-old president of FIFA, replied: “What is a crisis? Football is not in a crisis. We have just seen a beautiful Champions League final with Barcelona, with fair play. We are only in some difficulties. And they will be solved inside our family.” Mr Blatter’s attempt to link the sublime skills of the European champions with the moral squalor of the outfit he has run for the past 13 years was true to form. His uncontested re-election (after the removal of his only rival, Qatar’s Mohamed Bin Hammam, amid bribery charges) a couple of days later for a fourth four-year term was depressing for anyone who cares about the “beautiful game”.
No one can make you laugh, and if you are a woman born in Melbourne in the late 1930s no one should be so sadistic as to try.
With the anecdotal sparkle and accurate animus of a moralist who never flinches from naming names, Pryce-Jones arraigns scores of men and women – Beatrice Webb the cleverest, Doris Lessing the most smug – who have, for a variety of motives, embraced barbaric causes at the expense of common decency. [. . . .]
Celebrities jostle each other in order to show deference to shits and charlatans in alien costume. [. . . .] Sir Charles Trevelyan was living on a 13,000 acre estate, its gates decorated with the hammer and sickle, when in January 1939 he told Stalin that he “owed his ascendancy to the confidence of a free and democratic people”; Joseph Needham, Master of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, fawned on Mao; Christopher Hill, Master of Balliol College, Oxford, said that Stalin’s Terror was “non-violent” and to the end of his distinguished, duplicitous life queried whether the Gulag ever existed.
But if this really is the condition of England, then, as my mother overheard an Australian airman say as he looked up at a barrage balloon during the war, “They should cut the ropes and let the bloody place sink.”
When eaten as is, most spices and herbs are acrid, irritating, numbing. And the chemicals responsible for these sensations are actually toxic. The purified essence of oregano and of thyme can be bought from chemical supply companies, and come with bright warning labels : these chemicals damage skin and lungs, so don’t touch or inhale. This is precisely the primary function of these chemicals: to make the plants that produce them obnoxious and therefore resistant to attack by animals or microbes.