Jim Hopkins: Demotion not a good look, though demotee is - richly

Right, class, pay attention. Stop pouting, Katherine. Here's a nice safe neutral NCEA question for you. You don't have to answer it. You'll pass anyway. But have a go. Five minutes should be enough. Okay, here it is:

What's the difference between Labour and National?

Class (in unison): "Awwww, we don't know. What is the difference?"

Answer: Labour tax the rich, National sacks the Rich.

Indeed they do. While Helen was giving the state of the nation, Katherine was getting the state of demotion. Not a good look. Or it won't be from now on, anyway.

See, those of us who're deeply superficial couldn't help but notice that the demoted one is almost dangerously gorgeous, so we'll definitely (and superficially) rue the relegation of Parliament's most fetching frontbencher.

Yes, all right. We know politics is really about important things like strategies and policies and visions and such but the fact remains that if all the ladies in Parliament decided to do one of those slightly risque Calendar Girls fund-raisers, Ms Rich would certainly have half the year to herself.

The post-demotion photos this week revealed someone looking less like an angst-ridden politician and more like the chick singer in a folk group. Speaking of which, here's another nice NCEA question:

Who wrote the famous song If You Want to Be Happy for the Rest of Your Life, Never Make a Pretty Woman Your ... Social Welfare Spokesperson?

Well, it wasn't Don Brash, that's for sure. Or maybe it was. Cos if you had to sum up the difference between the Prime Minister and the Dr B right now, you might say, "Helen wants to find hard work for mums, whereas Don just finds mums hard work".

Perhaps he needs one of those newfangled Xena-transplants that the Bioethics Council is considering. For very good reason. Apparently, what happens with a Xena-transplant is that if you're really, really crook, they bung in a few Warrior Princess genes to help you to get better.

Which can't be bad. Most blokes would be happy to have a Xena-transplant. Not for themselves, mind; they'd get lumps on their chest and become alarmingly attractive to large lesbian ladies. But Mr Average Bloke would jump at the chance to put Mrs Average Bloke on the waiting list for a Xena.

Mind you, she'd've probably already put him down for a Leana-Keena-Bigga-Longa-Transplant - or run off with someone who'd had one.

Eventually, the bio-bods hope to have other transplants, not just the Xena and Leana-Keena but also a Milda-transplant - which would be ideal for the shotgun-wielding Mr Tame Iti.

In case we missed them first time, 3 News this week rescreened its January 16 pix of Tame's intimidating tantrum before the Waitangi Commission. There he was, strutting about, his gravid frame clad only in a kilt - presumably displaying the McTame tartan.

At one point, he stood with his back to the commissioners and hitched up the kilt (like Mel Gibson in triplicate) to reveal what was worn underneath. Which was nothing. Or everything. Take your pick.

But the most extraordinary images were those of Tame brandishing a shotgun, loading it and then firing at a New Zealand flag on the ground.

None of which inspired the police to do anything other than think about how they were going to fill their speeding ticket quotas that month.

Throughout the whole astonishing and dangerous display the rozzers did ... absolutely nothing.

Fortunately, if you're an NCEA student, our extinguished poet laureate Mr Jam Hipkins hasn't been so inactive. With acknowledgments to Rabbie Burns, he's penned the following epic. Don't feel you have to read it, you'll still pass. But try reading it (in a Scottish accent).

Och, hoots mon and sporrans,
Lads, heed ma entreaty
And I'll sing ye the Ballad of old Jock McIti.
No timorous beastie is brave Tuhoe Jock,
He'll happily throw you right into the loch
And he'll nae require your consent or permission
Aye, not if you're with the Waitangi Commission.
For Jock's a brave lad, och aye he's a good un
Wearing only his kilt he looks just like a puddin',
A little brown haggis quite perfectly rooond,
Stamping his tootsies in rage on the grooond.
Och, he makes William Wallace look right like a wimp,
A jessie, a nelly, all shrivelled and limp,
For when you come to greeti our brave Jock McIti
He'll brandish his lethal shotgun
And the cops standing there
Will all gaily declare:
"Ohhh, suuuper. What wonderful fun."
Fir they'll nae touch McIti, lest it cost Georgie votes;
Noooo, they'll only stand by, taking copious notes,
For these Sassenach wallies, this timorous lot
Will ne'er dare confront our most brave Maori Scot.
So, wi' the cameras all rolling, he loads his firearm
And he fires at the flag and he does it great harm
While the commissioners smile and the bobbies do, too,
They'll nae mess wi' Jock lad. Well, come on. Would you?
He's a law ta himself, our great polyglaswegian
The rebellious McIti whose buttocks are legion,
For he nae anly bared his old shotgun, old chum,
He also hitched up his kilt and he bared his great bum -
Huge globes of defiance, pointed straight at the state
And they nae charged McIti for that either, mate.
So he shoots off and shows off and nought comes to pass
And it's nae but the law that looks like an arse