First they came for the Persians. You may remember Gilda and Naz as the first contestants voted off by viewers of Dancing with the Stars. It was like that great line from a famous poem by Sylvia Plath: "The villagers never liked you." And then they came for Maori. Marama Fox got the boot, Robert Rakete got the boot. Who can wonder that the most visibly nervous survivor on last night's show was Shavaughn Ruakere?
The show might as well relocate to the Orewa Rotary Club. It's become one of the last refuges of white entitlement, a rallying point for that endangered majority, Te Pakeha. It's as vanilla as a scoop of Tip-Top. There are households on the West Coast which still have a portrait of Labour leader Michael Joseph Savage on the wall; the icon of Dancing with the Stars is Keith Holyoake.
There is something deep in the New Zealand psyche which yearns to return to an idea of life in the 1950s. Holyoake presided, boringly. Dad took the boat out in the weekend. Mum made wonderful pikelets - the secret was a tablespoon of hot water. Everyone was white, except tour guides in Rotorua. Good times! There was a lot of partying, a lot of dancing ... It's sometimes thought of as an age of innocence but actually it reduced New Zealand to a cultural desert.
Dancing with the Stars is a return to those simpler, monocultural times. Tonight, fascinatingly, it goes head to head at 7.30pm with the premiere of Heartbreak Island. It's war! Which mindless reality franchise will win the battle for ratings? Heartbreak Island, with its hook-ups and romps, or Dancing with the Stars, which keeps its clothes on, and remains steadfastly chaste, quaint and white?