A Man Who Bakes Brownies, Rides Model Trains and Begs Coins to Help Abused Women Ain’t Ever Going Be an International Terror Chief – The True Life Tale of Little Chris, Julie, Jacinda and Me (First Published 10 August 2017)

I know Chris Hipkins, the New Zealand politician who’s got right up

If you’d told me it was sneaky Stuart Nash or crafty Annette King of the bovver boy Clayton Cosgrove who was the c*nt who colluded with Puffing Billy’s boys to bring down the jackass Barney Joyce I would have believed you without even thinking about it, for each of the three have got a long list of form, and Nash in particular would slit his own mother’s throat if it’d win him a bit of publicity and some kudos within the party that might help him advance a step closer to his imaginary destiny as Kiwi PM.

But little Chris Hipkins the ranga from Rimutaka? The man-boy who looks like a little kid’s doll and has a personality softer than play dough? Hippy starting a trans-Tasman war with an old boiler who thinks she’s hot from across the Nullabor?

No way! Little Chris doesn’t start wars.

He bakes chocolate brownies….


And rides miniature trains….


And plays park cricket …..


And helps little brown disadvantaged kids….


And goes trekking with Jacinda and a gay guy named Grant and a former ACTU media hack called Clare Curran….


And on weekends he volunteers and collects money for women’s refuges….


Little Chris Hipkins doesn’t spark inter-Anzac incendiary blazes, or start New Zealand – Australia cross-border wars.

He’s one of the good guys: a thoroughly decent, absolutely genuine, real nice fella in a profession filled with snakes, and I can say that hand on heart and from first hand knowledge and experience because Hipkins is a very close mate of one of my closest mates in NZ and I had a fair bit to do with him back in my Aetearoa days, both socially and on a professional/political level.

In fact I’d venture to speculate that with the exception of any of Little Chris’s Aussie-transplanted family members, I am perhaps one of the only people in Queensland from outside the political mud wrestling industry who is acquainted with Hipkins on a first basis and has sculled pints of crap Kiwi beer late on a cold Wellington’s winter evening with him in the harbor side apartment I’d swindled as part of a skilfully negotiated salary deal that was known to one and all as ‘The Mansion by the Sea’.

So believe me when I tell ya sportsfans that Chris Hipkins is both a stand-up guy and a 100% right gee, a flame-haired do-gooder without an ounce of deviance in his body or a gram of pretense in his soul, and a chap who under no scenario ever invented would be ever for but a single second be living in a glass home..

Julie Bishop does though – live in a glass house that is – and she bloody loves it too,  because she can see her reflection anywhere in the house she looks, and she looks everywhere, and doesn’t she just look so goddamn good, and hot and sexy too. Just ask her, she’ll tell ya.


Julie Bishop at the top of her game, tugging the cords of the alcoholic blonde Stephen Fry lookalike Boris Johnson and imagining that somehow she’s changing the world by tying its tit-leering local leaders into knots

She won’t tell Jacinda though.

Nup, that young tart with the movie star looks and the big white teeth and the a la naturally upright tits can get f*cked says our Jules in the Clown.

Not of course due to any concern that the sex-oozing little wrong side of the ditch sl*t might show Jules up for the dragon that she really is rather than the whip-wielding, spike-heeled dominatrix wet dream that desperate influential old blokes in advertising with cocks pumped full of Cialis popped ‘cos they can’t get it up imagine her to be.

Don’t be so bloody stupid sportsfans.


The hottest soon to be PM, bar none. Shame that she’s more bent than Oscar’s tent pegs.

As if that kiwi slapper of a former Mormon who hangs around with lezzos like Helen could hold a candle to a Miss Business Australia beauty queen like Jules. Perish the thought and wash your bloody mouth out with soap Vladimir, or Jules won’t work with you any more either.

Or she wouldn’t if she still could anyway.

Breaking news readers: the Ballistic Bishop Assault on the Beehive is nothing but absolute and utter bullsh*t, and the exact opposite of what you are being by sleight of slippery hand crookedly conned into believing it seems.

It’s a bloody good conspiracy theory and a spin that seven thick heads still entitled to vote because they’re on bail and yet to be sentenced might fall for, but the simple fact is that Julie Bishop’s Norman-Bates channeled bitter vitriol is just totally contrived.

Little Chris Hipkins didn’t ask a question about Barney the Bampot from the opposition benches in the Beehive because he was trying to undermine a hanging on by a thread Australian coalition government.

He did it because he desperately wants to become part of one, and guess what?


Out of nowhere – other than of course in Archie’s meticulously detailed ‘Report to the Small Rooted Kiwi Circle of Salaried MP Clowns Still Left Sitting on How to Turn it all Around in Three Easy Steps Code-Named Caesar, Anthony and Cleo-Bloody-Patra’ – Hurricane Jacinda’s blown into town and knocked the hitherto certain to be re-elected Tory Government down and into the Marlborough Sound, and in a turn of events that in his wildest imagination he could never have envisaged  all of sudden Little Chris Hipkins has got a bloody big sniff of actually living the dream.

In the blink of an eyelid Lady Labour J has reglued the Red Sea and is walking atop its waters, and all Little Chris and his red rosetted (yes sheep shaggers seeking election to public office still sport them) mates need to do is ratchet a couple of thousand more disinterested punters in a land of non-compulsory voting over the indifference line and forward to the ballot box and the Lost and Not Expected to Be Found For Decades Ark of the Obsessed Political Junkie’s Covenant – also known as Government – will in a crazed result that will be dissected and over-analyzed by wanky intellectuals for the better rest of the next century be theirs.

And, in a land of many islands that ritually join together in national outrage on the annual anniversary of the Great Wide Brown Land Disgrace devised by the ever-since universally despised faux-pretender of a cricket captain Greg Chappell that will forever be known as the Underarm Bowl, what better way is there to drag two thousand votes out of nowhere than to go the bash on a half-witted Australian and show him up to be a pontificating, hypocritical clown?

That’s all my little mate Chris Hipkins did in parliament the other day, and in one of those crazy unintended acts of fate bloody smart he’s proved in doing it too, because the snapper Julie Bishop’s bitten hook, line and sinker at a blood-stained bait that was never really there, and the whole of the Land of the Long White Cloud knows why exactly why the self-adoring Lodge obsessed strumpet’s done it too.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret.

Hurricane Jacinda’s caught the New Zealand National Party Government and its hapless born to rule but don’t know how leader Bill English sitting on the dunny with his pants down reading the Baby Sheep With Slit Throats Stock and Sale Guide, and the egomaniac silver spooner’s been in such a spin ever since that he doesn’t have a clue how to pull them back up and in desperation the scared little lad who never really grew up has started crying and screaming out for mummy.

Mummy heard her baby’s cries, and spooked by the prospect of a major trade partner starting to ask hard questions about hard sold as absolutely fabulous but in reality totally fatuous free trade agreements, Mummy came.

Enter Julie Bishop, the woman who was called to public office and self-adulating public prominence not to build, but to trough, root and destroy.

Finally her destiny has arrived. Soon Labor/Labour governments will rule across the waves, and the whole world will be wanking over front page pictures of a big-toothed, dyed raven-haired princess who the adoring inhabitants of a few shit-poor shaky isolated islands at the end of end of the earth will forever regard as their own.

Just over the waves in the land of plenty a punter drinking pilsener in a pub that was once a homo’s haven, home and haunt will turn to his same-sex partner and ask the man he’s loved since he was seventeen if he remembers that juiced-up Judas-eyed enemy of marriage equality bee-arch named Julie Bishop, and his better half will turn and gaze languidly into his life-partner’s loving eyes and reply


Who indeed?

No-one really at all.