I don’t want to!

First published in Column 8 on the 17^th November, 1993

Having avoided writing about politics during the election run-up (apart from my recommendation of MMP, a piece of advice most voters in my electorate signally ignored), I still don’t want to write about politics. Politics, and politicians, we’ve had quite enough of.

And I don’t want to write about dinosaurs, even though I allowed myself to be persuaded to visit the mechanical monsters at the museum. The mechanics and the marketing – and the sound effects – were marvellous, but I don’t want to write about dinosaurs. They’ve had enough media attention to last several billion years.

And I don’t want to write about unemployment, even though the French contemplate cutting back everyone’s hours and wages in order to give unemployed people jobs, and even though the English politicians are finally admitting that there is a correlation between crime and unemployment, a fact that our politicians have so far been unable to perceive. Blast, I’m writing about politicians. They’re insidious, and creep in wherever you don’t want them.

I don’t want to write about employment either, even though some gentleman with the memorable name of Mex Bouzaid has managed to create employment in Queenstown – yes folks, the word was ‘create.’ He seems to be beating the Employment Service at their own game.

And I don’t want to write about recycling either, even though we’re told we don’t do enough of it, and when we do, we have to pay to get rid of it, and when we’ve got rid of it no one wants it.

I don’t want to write about the fact that the community is constantly blamed for not recycling enough, when no local authority wants to set up anything that will actually use what we recycle.

And I don’t want to write about the arguments over whether cloth nappies or disposable nappies are better for the environment, because that would be writing about the environment, and I don’t want to write about that either.

I don’t want to write about whether it’s better to use more trees to make disposable nappies that can’t really be disposed of, or whether it’s better to use more water to wash away the poo and the chemicals that clean the poo out of the cloth nappies. I just don’t want to write about such Karitane-yellow matters.

And I certainly don’t want to write about crime and the way criminals make more money out of ACC than non-criminals – because I don’t want to write about ACC either: that would mean I’d have to write about politicians, and as I said…

Nor do I want to write about people being attacked for no more reason that that the exist, because as soon as I start writing about crime I’d be writing about unemployment and politicians – see what happens?

And I don’t want to write about Suffragette Year because it’s politically (!) incorrect for a man to write about women. We mere males cannot possibly understand the complexities of what it is to be female.

I’m looking forward to All Male Year, and suggest we start aside our dollars now to fund it, because I doubt if there’ll be any government subsidies going.

And I don’t want to write about sex, or Aids, or condoms or abortion or homosexuality, because then I’d be moralising, and since the present trend of the world is to believe that morals and feelings and doing your own thing are all pretty much the same, I’d probably be wasting my time.

And I most definitely don’t want to write about film stars, because they get constant attention, while nobodies live and die – and get maybe a centimetre of news space.

And I most definitely don’t want to write about myself. When I write about matters on which I have opinions - my wife says that means opinionated – the world ignores it.

On the other hand, when I write about my beard, or buying clothes, or bringing up kids, everyone and her sister comments on it.

Anyway, is there anything interesting about me which I haven’t already written?

Courtesy of A Great Dream Language School

Karitane-yellow was a joke name in our house for the poo on a nappy, which we saw a good deal of over several years of having five children.