I asked you not to tell me that, Chief

The people behind this blog aren't the same as those who lodged Code of Conduct complaints. In fact, we agree with some of the Committee's findings, as you're about to read. But we're not prepared to sit idly by and let anarchy reign, either. And since the Fourth Estate in Wanganui isn't so much a toothless tiger as a whipped pussy, this blog will keep an eye on things. More than one eye, in fact. So, in the best traditions of "Get Smart", let's begin our analysis, shall we?

Max: "Don't tell me Laws actually has a point now and then?"
Chief: "Laws does have a point now and again, Max.
Max: "I asked you not to tell me that, Chief."

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When the good burghers of Wanganui placed their voting forms on their lace-tablecloth covered dining suites and marked their "X" next to the name of Diva of the Ditch (the ditch being, of course, the murky waters of the Whanganui) they presumably knew exactly what they were getting. And if they didn't, well more fool them.

They voted in relatively large numbers for someone who convinced the last Council he had anything to do with that it needed to survey it's citizens. Somehow or other, the survey was undertaken by a company in which the Diva's then missus had a pecuniary interest. Somehow or other, cheques were signed by one "Antoinette Beck", a mysterious chanteuse whom no one ever actually met and who, when it came time for some accountability, had vanished to foreign parts. Or so it was said.

While this excrement storm whirled about his coiffure, the Diva endeavourered to cover the other end of his person by telling porkies to Parliament. Now, while this has in fact become the raison d'etre of that establishment, you're meant to restrict your lying to within the agreed boundaries - your policies, the actual effect of your policies, your coalition intentions... that sort of thing. If you tell fibs about something as grubby as your earnings, well, people might start asking awkward questions about all the other fibs that get told.

So, with much smearing of mascara, and only at the strict insistence of Winnie, the Diva took a dive.

Then there was the secret contract to work for the Great Leader, which both parties denied till the comings and goings of a shadowy lycra-clad figure to Winnie's office were revealed to be none other than the Diva himself (Jenny Shipley was another suspect, but it was quickly realised that the sight of her in lycra would have burned out the eyes of any witnesses). The Cone of Silence had sprung a leak.

The mere presence of the Diva was enough to erode Winnie's support to a level requiring the pollsters to calculate a margin of error to the margin of error. Thus that backdoor foray into politics quickly ended in tears, as so many of the Diva's such ventures seem destined to do.

Then there was a book or two (available now in the remainder bin of your local bookstore, right next to the Richard Simmons cookbook).

Then someone in the meeja had the bright idea of hiring the Diva to write opinion columns. Much as he may wish he was, Dorothy Parker he ain't, but regardless of the prose quality the assignment is to write opinion. Once, when newspapers pretended an interest in something greater than the goings-on in the Big Brother House and the latest haircut of an English footballer, opinion did need to be backed up by fact. But not any more. Thus, columnists can attempt to draw attention to themselves with silly ranting about book-burning, for instance, and not be brought to heel by their editors, who are too busy searching the newswires for the latest nipple-slip shot of some footballer's wife who used to be a mediocre pop singer.

And do we really have to explain talkback radio? It's the job of the host to steadily lower the intelligence level to a point where the terminally unemployed or elderly, the bitter and housebound are motivated to call. You don't hear universities advertising their MBA courses do you? You hear that stuff squished from bumble bees can cure your impotency and that shining bright lights on your head can make your hair grow. And you expect the host of such a programme to keep to facts and spout logic?

The Diva had these jobs before you denizens of the ditch ever employed him. Perhaps compulsory reading of said columns and being strapped to a chair and subjected to an hour or so of loopy ranting ought to have been compulsory before making your "X", but it wasn't. So you either knew, and marked your "X" anyway, or didn't - in which case it's still your fault.

It may well be the Diva's behaviour in the spotlight suggests that of a monkey keen on exploring the artistic possibilities of it's own excrement, but he was chucking it about when elected.

So what did the complainants expect when they whinged about some of what he was throwing around? That the Committee would order him to give up his livelihood? That they'd be appointed some sort of Editorial Committee, to make sure every opinion accorded with their own? Or perhaps that he'd be fitted with one of those training devices whereby every time he made a naughty statement, they could press a button and deliver a shock to some tender part or other?

Like it or not, when he's not being Mayor and not talking about events in Wanganui, it's nobody's business, really, other than those who choose to waste their coin on a third-rate newspaper or rub themselves with squashed bumblebees and thus support Radio for the Intellectually Inadequate.

And the fact that more than a few of the comments he makes in that capacity suggest a lack of suitability for the job of dog catcher let alone Mayor, is just tough. You had plenty of warning.

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