Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Painted out of the room, I had already painted myself into a corner of.
Maybe I just want a million likes
It takes a strength not to want that
That I've begun to lose.
I have a broken heart. I'm told, I've read that there is no
Avoiding this and that in fact it is the mark of adulthood, manhood maturity
To carry a scar.
Maybe this is the place to do this I don't know.
Last week I got a letter from art dealer Peter Mcleavey, encouraging me in his sweet way, to carry on.
I once left his living room to get a cup of tea, and he told my partner that I was his biggest mistake.
That he should have and will now offer me a ten year contract, that I was the real deal.
Apparently he was a big fan of the 'Beneficiary's Office'. I heard he bought one of my upside down
shopping bag works at a fund raiser for a gallery I helped start on his beloved Cuba st.
He told me that he loved my work but couldn't sell it. I tried to not let the crack in my soul show on my face.
More recently, my revelation and subsequent public fall, from my heroes of a miss (well) spent art youth. Their pond sucking scum action of taking the money while being silent about their role as public University employees, has me painted out of the room I had already painted myself into a corner of. Even radical friends with publication, White Fungus gave me the too hard basket treatment, while the usual standards are promoted with healthy air time, multiple page spreads. God dam it I got Roger Douglas, shadowy god father of NZ's free market to publicly comment on the remnants of NZ's democratic state art vs. capitalism. That was worth more.
I was wrong to expect more and struggle to live by, to my own words, live with less. I don't know,
how to continue to participate if what is wanted from me is not what I am offering. Nine years ago I vowed to participate by existing, despite the reasons not to. And by invitation alone had thirty showings in five years, years when I was mostly unemployed, on the benefit. years I openly declared that I was a working for the public artist. My last most recent public show invitation, a year in the making cast aside in an afternoon exactly like an unwanted child's drawing. I was aborted. In a town of poor people, ruled by a tiny elite club of rich people, the gallery doesn't even bother advertising locally, pond scum.
This morning I awoke sitting in New Zealand's pond scum. Nothing moving, just the thrashing arounds of mis guided activity, all tied already to the nose of a truck that left a year ago, decades, just following through. Collecting points. I'm a fool to want more, more is what I will get. How to get less of this. Profound comments please, rack them up below.
Fuck
It takes a strength not to want that
That I've begun to lose.
I have a broken heart. I'm told, I've read that there is no
Avoiding this and that in fact it is the mark of adulthood, manhood maturity
To carry a scar.
Maybe this is the place to do this I don't know.
Last week I got a letter from art dealer Peter Mcleavey, encouraging me in his sweet way, to carry on.
I once left his living room to get a cup of tea, and he told my partner that I was his biggest mistake.
That he should have and will now offer me a ten year contract, that I was the real deal.
Apparently he was a big fan of the 'Beneficiary's Office'. I heard he bought one of my upside down
shopping bag works at a fund raiser for a gallery I helped start on his beloved Cuba st.
He told me that he loved my work but couldn't sell it. I tried to not let the crack in my soul show on my face.
More recently, my revelation and subsequent public fall, from my heroes of a miss (well) spent art youth. Their pond sucking scum action of taking the money while being silent about their role as public University employees, has me painted out of the room I had already painted myself into a corner of. Even radical friends with publication, White Fungus gave me the too hard basket treatment, while the usual standards are promoted with healthy air time, multiple page spreads. God dam it I got Roger Douglas, shadowy god father of NZ's free market to publicly comment on the remnants of NZ's democratic state art vs. capitalism. That was worth more.
I was wrong to expect more and struggle to live by, to my own words, live with less. I don't know,
how to continue to participate if what is wanted from me is not what I am offering. Nine years ago I vowed to participate by existing, despite the reasons not to. And by invitation alone had thirty showings in five years, years when I was mostly unemployed, on the benefit. years I openly declared that I was a working for the public artist. My last most recent public show invitation, a year in the making cast aside in an afternoon exactly like an unwanted child's drawing. I was aborted. In a town of poor people, ruled by a tiny elite club of rich people, the gallery doesn't even bother advertising locally, pond scum.
This morning I awoke sitting in New Zealand's pond scum. Nothing moving, just the thrashing arounds of mis guided activity, all tied already to the nose of a truck that left a year ago, decades, just following through. Collecting points. I'm a fool to want more, more is what I will get. How to get less of this. Profound comments please, rack them up below.
Fuck
The accident of day
There's always going to be cops
bothering me, sometimes we are polite to one another, remembering the point of the job
is not to be mean.
There's always going to be dictators, fascist figure head symbol swopping hidden anal delights
there's going to be the sweet liquid of my lover on my fingers
you can't pretend the role doesn't exist. All powerful child dellusion existed
once out of the box there's no going back
You thought it, it existed and at some point some ones done it before\it'll be done again
There's always going to be war, business is war, waged by banks to build walls between that and that, to extract the fee for exchange, stamp fear on one side so the other is more desirable, other people now what ever language they speak speak the language of money, we are strangers no more.
Tragedy, erects its tent in the wind and becomes a sail pulling the whole wedding party into the sea. No language for the accident of day, the poverty of an imagination silencing the intimacy of expression invented out of necessity, the need to talk, stranger walking along side me, where we lie down on the summit of understanding or a true exhaustion.
should we not listen to our superiors, our betters
the rich
have you not been exemplary in your attempts to teach us the way that it really is
the reality principle of material wealth, there written in the wall between us
your display rich person, looking around, I'd say lacked effort, an iota of imagination, a total abundance of inefficient systems that if ever recognized for the job they are doing would be shut down immediately for the bold stupidity of their conscious evolution
look down at your chest, imagine removing part of it, how could you, think of taking off an arm, in the name of peace, cut off your arm, deny that the right to exist. Take off your arm and say "now you no longer exist". I can't do it, not for peace not for anything. I can't ask the devil or the war lord, rich shit sucking arseholes to die. I will
instead point them out, and talk to their best selves
so that we may work together. All of it has to exist, but the way that is up for grabs
bothering me, sometimes we are polite to one another, remembering the point of the job
is not to be mean.
There's always going to be dictators, fascist figure head symbol swopping hidden anal delights
there's going to be the sweet liquid of my lover on my fingers
you can't pretend the role doesn't exist. All powerful child dellusion existed
once out of the box there's no going back
You thought it, it existed and at some point some ones done it before\it'll be done again
There's always going to be war, business is war, waged by banks to build walls between that and that, to extract the fee for exchange, stamp fear on one side so the other is more desirable, other people now what ever language they speak speak the language of money, we are strangers no more.
Tragedy, erects its tent in the wind and becomes a sail pulling the whole wedding party into the sea. No language for the accident of day, the poverty of an imagination silencing the intimacy of expression invented out of necessity, the need to talk, stranger walking along side me, where we lie down on the summit of understanding or a true exhaustion.
should we not listen to our superiors, our betters
the rich
have you not been exemplary in your attempts to teach us the way that it really is
the reality principle of material wealth, there written in the wall between us
your display rich person, looking around, I'd say lacked effort, an iota of imagination, a total abundance of inefficient systems that if ever recognized for the job they are doing would be shut down immediately for the bold stupidity of their conscious evolution
look down at your chest, imagine removing part of it, how could you, think of taking off an arm, in the name of peace, cut off your arm, deny that the right to exist. Take off your arm and say "now you no longer exist". I can't do it, not for peace not for anything. I can't ask the devil or the war lord, rich shit sucking arseholes to die. I will
instead point them out, and talk to their best selves
so that we may work together. All of it has to exist, but the way that is up for grabs
Beneath my eyes, over my nose
It's annoying that the ghost
The goat bays have within the sound
The distinct sound of the word
No
Billy goat, should be shot
Pissed on face, yellow crusted hair
Become completely disillusioned
Then the truth will reveal itself.
No
Fading into a goat baying sound, crying for help
Separated from its family
No
It's said succinctly I can hear him
It hurts to call his name
The pain
Go around land making up stories
That carve themselves out of the air
in the space you are
the life
in the hills air and sea
in the hills air and sea
see your life
make it a story someone else
would want to listen to
use styles you'd like to perpetuate.
An old man told me that I was an artist
And an old woman
Because they saw me, I was freed from the need of
A particular art skill, like a trade.
No I didn't mean for it to be this way
I have had this belief where I should feel an overwhelming inadequacy
I have been more than adequate on more than one field
It's easy to see who is good in battle
Who is good at work
They are the ones who are fighting on all levels everyone
In an incredible dance of peace.
Moving like an Akido knower, smooth fluid in time
laying down my foes, ground ward, more real than staring up at the suns stars
I end up in an acetic desert by default
The last standing I am driven to where no body lives
handed the task now of now talking to fellow outcasts,
those that have perspective
and can deliver it, well sustained. I can barely see them.
Where are the self destructive professors with a penchant for death
As a friend that they refuse to not appreciate.
I wear a veil, the kind that belly dancers are known for
Metal beads shimmer in a rhythmic sway suspended
Beneath my eyes, over my nose.
A distracting false set.
My eyes huge under a night sky bright
The goat bays have within the sound
The distinct sound of the word
No
Billy goat, should be shot
Pissed on face, yellow crusted hair
Become completely disillusioned
Then the truth will reveal itself.
No
Fading into a goat baying sound, crying for help
Separated from its family
No
It's said succinctly I can hear him
It hurts to call his name
The pain
Go around land making up stories
That carve themselves out of the air
in the space you are
the life
in the hills air and sea
in the hills air and sea
see your life
make it a story someone else
would want to listen to
use styles you'd like to perpetuate.
An old man told me that I was an artist
And an old woman
Because they saw me, I was freed from the need of
A particular art skill, like a trade.
No I didn't mean for it to be this way
I have had this belief where I should feel an overwhelming inadequacy
I have been more than adequate on more than one field
It's easy to see who is good in battle
Who is good at work
They are the ones who are fighting on all levels everyone
In an incredible dance of peace.
Moving like an Akido knower, smooth fluid in time
laying down my foes, ground ward, more real than staring up at the suns stars
I end up in an acetic desert by default
The last standing I am driven to where no body lives
handed the task now of now talking to fellow outcasts,
those that have perspective
and can deliver it, well sustained. I can barely see them.
Where are the self destructive professors with a penchant for death
As a friend that they refuse to not appreciate.
I wear a veil, the kind that belly dancers are known for
Metal beads shimmer in a rhythmic sway suspended
Beneath my eyes, over my nose.
A distracting false set.
My eyes huge under a night sky bright
Monday, January 27, 2014
Flesh Spirit Surfer - Tao Wells
Tao Wells, Untitled. Chalk on Black board paint on fiberglass surfboard. From the show "Space Jam, 1996" Gambia Castle, Auckland. New Zealand. 2009Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Someone and someone were down by the pond Looking for something to plant in the lawn. Out in the fields they were turning the soil I'm sitting here hoping this water will boil When I look through the windows and out on the road They're bringing me presents and saying hello. Singing words, words between the lines of age. Words, words between the lines of age. If I was a junkman selling you cars, Washing your windows and shining your stars, Thinking your mind was my own in a dream What would you wonder and how would it seem? Living in castles a bit at a time The King started laughing and talking in rhyme. Singing words, words between the lines of age. Words, words between the lines of age.
Act 1
Palace of the Countess of Coigny Servants are preparing for a ball. Carlo Gérard, the majordomo, is filled with indignation at the sight of his aged father, worn out by long years of heavy labor for their noble masters. Only the Countess' daughter Maddalena escapes his hatred, since he is besotted with her. Maddalena jokes with Bersi, her mulatto servant girl. Gérard notes Maddalena's beauty. The Countess rebukes Maddalena for dallying when she should be dressing for the ball. The guests arrive. Among them is a priest who has come from Paris with news about the poor decisions of King Louis XVI's government. Also among the guests is the dashing and popular poet, Andrea Chénier. The soirée begins with a "pastoral" performance. A chorus of shepherds and shepherdesses sing idealized rustic music and a ballet mimics a rural love story in stately court fashion. The Countess asks Chénier to improvise a poem but he refuses. Maddelena, on a bet with friends, tries to get Chénier to recite a verse, but he refuses her also, saying that "Poetry is quite as capricious as love." This wins Maddelena's bet, which was to get Chénier to say "love". Her laughter draws the Countess' attention, and Maddelena explains. Chénier now becomes angry. He sings of the suffering of the poor, ending with a tirade against those in power in church and state, shocking the guests. Then he hails Maddelena's beauty and proclaims that love is the soul and life of the world. Maddalena begs forgiveness. Maddelena and Chénier leave together. The guests dance a gavotte, which is interrupted by Gérard and a crowd of ragged people who ask for food. Gérard repudiates his service, and throws his livery at the feet of the Countess. She orders them all out, and comforts herself by thoughts of her gifts to charity. The ball continues as if nothing had happened.
Act 2
Café Hottot in Paris, during the Reign of Terror Bersi, now a merveilleuse, chats with an incroyable. Is he a spy for Robespierre? An "observer of the public spirit," he says. Bersi asserts she has nothing hide as "a child of the Revolution". A tumbrel passes, bearing condemned prisoners to the guillotine, mocked by the crowd. Bersi leaves. The Incroyable records that she was with the blonde woman he is looking for, and that Chénier is at a nearby table. Chénier's friend Roucher enters. He reminds Chénier that he is under suspicion for his association with disgraced General Dumoriez, urges him to flee, and offers him a false passport. Chénier refuses: his destiny is love, and he awaits a mysterious woman who has sent him letters. Roucher sees the last letter, and dismisses it as from a prostitute. He persuades Chénier to take the passport. A procession of revolutionary leaders passes, including Robespierre and the former servant Gérard, who enters the café. The Incroyable reports to him about the blonde, whom Gérard has been seeking, saying that she will come to the café that night. Bersi returns, and pleads with Roucher to keep Chénier there. She leaves for a dance with the Incroyable. Roucher persuades Chénier to leave, but the old woman Madelon tells Chénier to wait for a woman called "Speranza" (Hope); all leave, except the Incroyable, who returns and hides. A hooded woman enters; it is "Speranza". She uncovers herself, and Chénier recognizes her as Maddalena. The Incroyable leaves to tell Gérard. Chénier and Maddalena proclaim their love in a passionate duet. As they prepare to leave they are discovered by Gérard. Chénier sends Maddalena away with Roucher, and then wounds Gérard in a swordfight. Believing he is dying, Gérard warns Chénier to flee from the wrath of the prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville, Chénier's enemy, and asks him to save Maddalena. The Incroyable returns with soldiers and a crowd, but Gérard tells them that his assailant is unknown to him. All blame the Girondists.
Act 3
The Revolutionary Tribunal The sans-culotte Mathieu calls on the people to give money for the army of the Revolution, but they refuse. Gérard, who has recovered, enters and renews the appeal. A blind woman comes in with her grandson, whom she gives to be a soldier of the Revolution. The crowd disperses, and the Incroyable reports to Gérard that Chénier has been arrested in Luxembourg, and Maddalena will come for him. He urges Gérard to write down the charges against Chénier for his trial. But Gérard hesitates. Alone, he muses that his Revolutionary ideals are betrayed and he is still a slave: formerly of the nobles, now of his own lust. Finally desire triumphs and he signs the indictment in a mood of cynicism. The Incroyable takes it to the Tribunal. Maddalena enters to plead for Chénier's life. Gérard admits that he had Chénier arrested to control Maddalena. He has been in love with her since they were children, is now a powerful man, and will have his way. Maddalena refuses: she will shout her name in the streets, and be executed as aristocrat. Maddalena sings how the mob killed her mother and burned the palace, how she escaped, and how Bersi became a prostitute to support them both. Chénier was the force that gave life back to her. So if Chénier's life must cost her body, she will yield to Gérard. Gérard is moved by her love for Chénier. He searches for the indictment to cancel it, but it has already gone. A clerk presents the list of accused persons, including Chénier. Gérard promises Maddalena he will save Chénier. A crowd of spectators enter, and then the judges and prisoners. One by one, the prisoners are hastily condemned. When Chénier is tried, he denies all the charges, and proclaims his honor. Gérard says he falsely accused Chénier, but Fouquier-Tinville takes up the charges himself. Gérard defies the Tribunal: justice has become Tyranny, and "we murder our poets." Chénier embraces Gérard, who points out Maddalena in the crowd. The Tribunal condemns Chénier to death, and he is led off with the other prisoners. Act 4 St. Lazare Prison Chénier awaits his execution with Roucher, writing verses of his faith in truth and beauty. Roucher leaves, as Mathieu sings the Marseillaise outside. Maddalena enters with Gérard for a last meeting with Chénier. Maddalena:
bribes the jailer Schmidt to let her change places with a condemned noblewoman. The lovers meet and both rejoice in their love and their coming death, which they now face together, Gérard hails their bravery and devotion, and leaves to make a last appeal to Robespierre. As dawn approaches, Schmidt calls their names. They go to face the guillotine joined in love.
Palace of the Countess of Coigny Servants are preparing for a ball. Carlo Gérard, the majordomo, is filled with indignation at the sight of his aged father, worn out by long years of heavy labor for their noble masters. Only the Countess' daughter Maddalena escapes his hatred, since he is besotted with her. Maddalena jokes with Bersi, her mulatto servant girl. Gérard notes Maddalena's beauty. The Countess rebukes Maddalena for dallying when she should be dressing for the ball. The guests arrive. Among them is a priest who has come from Paris with news about the poor decisions of King Louis XVI's government. Also among the guests is the dashing and popular poet, Andrea Chénier. The soirée begins with a "pastoral" performance. A chorus of shepherds and shepherdesses sing idealized rustic music and a ballet mimics a rural love story in stately court fashion. The Countess asks Chénier to improvise a poem but he refuses. Maddelena, on a bet with friends, tries to get Chénier to recite a verse, but he refuses her also, saying that "Poetry is quite as capricious as love." This wins Maddelena's bet, which was to get Chénier to say "love". Her laughter draws the Countess' attention, and Maddelena explains. Chénier now becomes angry. He sings of the suffering of the poor, ending with a tirade against those in power in church and state, shocking the guests. Then he hails Maddelena's beauty and proclaims that love is the soul and life of the world. Maddalena begs forgiveness. Maddelena and Chénier leave together. The guests dance a gavotte, which is interrupted by Gérard and a crowd of ragged people who ask for food. Gérard repudiates his service, and throws his livery at the feet of the Countess. She orders them all out, and comforts herself by thoughts of her gifts to charity. The ball continues as if nothing had happened.
Act 2
Café Hottot in Paris, during the Reign of Terror Bersi, now a merveilleuse, chats with an incroyable. Is he a spy for Robespierre? An "observer of the public spirit," he says. Bersi asserts she has nothing hide as "a child of the Revolution". A tumbrel passes, bearing condemned prisoners to the guillotine, mocked by the crowd. Bersi leaves. The Incroyable records that she was with the blonde woman he is looking for, and that Chénier is at a nearby table. Chénier's friend Roucher enters. He reminds Chénier that he is under suspicion for his association with disgraced General Dumoriez, urges him to flee, and offers him a false passport. Chénier refuses: his destiny is love, and he awaits a mysterious woman who has sent him letters. Roucher sees the last letter, and dismisses it as from a prostitute. He persuades Chénier to take the passport. A procession of revolutionary leaders passes, including Robespierre and the former servant Gérard, who enters the café. The Incroyable reports to him about the blonde, whom Gérard has been seeking, saying that she will come to the café that night. Bersi returns, and pleads with Roucher to keep Chénier there. She leaves for a dance with the Incroyable. Roucher persuades Chénier to leave, but the old woman Madelon tells Chénier to wait for a woman called "Speranza" (Hope); all leave, except the Incroyable, who returns and hides. A hooded woman enters; it is "Speranza". She uncovers herself, and Chénier recognizes her as Maddalena. The Incroyable leaves to tell Gérard. Chénier and Maddalena proclaim their love in a passionate duet. As they prepare to leave they are discovered by Gérard. Chénier sends Maddalena away with Roucher, and then wounds Gérard in a swordfight. Believing he is dying, Gérard warns Chénier to flee from the wrath of the prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville, Chénier's enemy, and asks him to save Maddalena. The Incroyable returns with soldiers and a crowd, but Gérard tells them that his assailant is unknown to him. All blame the Girondists.
Act 3
The Revolutionary Tribunal The sans-culotte Mathieu calls on the people to give money for the army of the Revolution, but they refuse. Gérard, who has recovered, enters and renews the appeal. A blind woman comes in with her grandson, whom she gives to be a soldier of the Revolution. The crowd disperses, and the Incroyable reports to Gérard that Chénier has been arrested in Luxembourg, and Maddalena will come for him. He urges Gérard to write down the charges against Chénier for his trial. But Gérard hesitates. Alone, he muses that his Revolutionary ideals are betrayed and he is still a slave: formerly of the nobles, now of his own lust. Finally desire triumphs and he signs the indictment in a mood of cynicism. The Incroyable takes it to the Tribunal. Maddalena enters to plead for Chénier's life. Gérard admits that he had Chénier arrested to control Maddalena. He has been in love with her since they were children, is now a powerful man, and will have his way. Maddalena refuses: she will shout her name in the streets, and be executed as aristocrat. Maddalena sings how the mob killed her mother and burned the palace, how she escaped, and how Bersi became a prostitute to support them both. Chénier was the force that gave life back to her. So if Chénier's life must cost her body, she will yield to Gérard. Gérard is moved by her love for Chénier. He searches for the indictment to cancel it, but it has already gone. A clerk presents the list of accused persons, including Chénier. Gérard promises Maddalena he will save Chénier. A crowd of spectators enter, and then the judges and prisoners. One by one, the prisoners are hastily condemned. When Chénier is tried, he denies all the charges, and proclaims his honor. Gérard says he falsely accused Chénier, but Fouquier-Tinville takes up the charges himself. Gérard defies the Tribunal: justice has become Tyranny, and "we murder our poets." Chénier embraces Gérard, who points out Maddalena in the crowd. The Tribunal condemns Chénier to death, and he is led off with the other prisoners. Act 4 St. Lazare Prison Chénier awaits his execution with Roucher, writing verses of his faith in truth and beauty. Roucher leaves, as Mathieu sings the Marseillaise outside. Maddalena enters with Gérard for a last meeting with Chénier. Maddalena:
They killed my mother
At the door of my room;
She died and saved me!
Later, in the dead of night
I was wandering with Bersi
When suddenly
A pale glow flashes
And it lightens ahead of me
The dark street!
I look!
My home was burning!
So I was alone!
And all around me, nothing!
Hunger and misery!
Deprivation, danger!
I fell ill,
And Bersi, so good and pure
Made a market of her beauty
For my sake -
I bring misfortune to all those who loves me!
It was in that grief
That love came to me!
A voice full of harmony and it says:
'You have to live! I am the life itself!
Your heaven is in my eyes
You're not alone!
I'll collect all your tears!
I'll walk with you and support you!
Smile and hope! I am love!
Are you surrounded by blood and mud?
I am divine! I am oblivion!
I'm the God that descends on Earth
From the Empyrean, I turn Earth
Into heaven! Ah!
I'm love, I'm love, love
And the angel approaches with a kiss
And the Death is kissing you.
My body is a dying body.
So take it
I've already died!
At the door of my room;
She died and saved me!
Later, in the dead of night
I was wandering with Bersi
When suddenly
A pale glow flashes
And it lightens ahead of me
The dark street!
I look!
My home was burning!
So I was alone!
And all around me, nothing!
Hunger and misery!
Deprivation, danger!
I fell ill,
And Bersi, so good and pure
Made a market of her beauty
For my sake -
I bring misfortune to all those who loves me!
It was in that grief
That love came to me!
A voice full of harmony and it says:
'You have to live! I am the life itself!
Your heaven is in my eyes
You're not alone!
I'll collect all your tears!
I'll walk with you and support you!
Smile and hope! I am love!
Are you surrounded by blood and mud?
I am divine! I am oblivion!
I'm the God that descends on Earth
From the Empyrean, I turn Earth
Into heaven! Ah!
I'm love, I'm love, love
And the angel approaches with a kiss
And the Death is kissing you.
My body is a dying body.
So take it
I've already died!
bribes the jailer Schmidt to let her change places with a condemned noblewoman. The lovers meet and both rejoice in their love and their coming death, which they now face together, Gérard hails their bravery and devotion, and leaves to make a last appeal to Robespierre. As dawn approaches, Schmidt calls their names. They go to face the guillotine joined in love.
MIKE HOSKING (NZ NEWS PERSENTER) : LYING BASTARD
Sunday, January 12, 2014 Steven Cowan
Talkback host Mike Hosking has been caught telling porkies again.
In 2012 Newstalk ZB' s Mike Hosking declared that he thought that the Government's intention to test beneficiaries for drugs was a simply wonderful idea.
He loudly backed Paula Bennett's claim that many beneficiaries weren't ready for paid employment because they were on drugs.
Thundered the wealthy Hosking: 'This to my mind is a fundamental breach of the agreement you have with the Government and therefore needs fixing. The fixing will come in the form of your benefit being cut.'
Hosking, a man of little knowledge and even less compassion, couldn't actually come up with any evidence that drug-taking beneficiaries were a problem except to say that government was confronting an 'alarming number' ' of beneficiaries who had admitted that they would not pass a drug test.
Hosking's claim was as about as reliable as the Minister of Finance's assertion that he had received many complaints from employers in his electorate who had told him 'they often can't employ our own locally unemployed young people because they can't pass a drug test."
But now the evidence is in and Mike Hosking is, again, exposed as the lying government toady that he is.
The New Zealand Herald has reported that “of the 8,001 beneficiaries sent for jobs requiring drug testing, only 22 tested positive to drug use or refused to take tests.”
As John Minto has pointed out, this is 0.27% of all beneficiaries tested.
These, ladies and gentlemen, are Mike Hosking's 'alarming numbers'.
But will there be an public apology from Hosking to all the beneficiaries he has smeared with his filthy lies? Of course not. He's a wanker and we all know it.
In 2014 Hosking will, as one of the new hosts of TVNZ's dreadful Seven Sharp, have a new media outlet to bash beneficiaries and kiss the arse of John Key..
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Friday, January 10, 2014
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
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