Why Trump will not run for office in 2020

“America has not had a moral compass, let alone moral conscience, since the death of Billy Graham and Martin Luther King, so nobody listens to liberals anymore.”

There is some doubt that the Trump presidency will go full-term. Many left-leaning liberals have created a persistent, strident and amazingly resilient call for his head. However, America has not had a moral compass, let alone moral conscience, since the death of Billy Graham and Martin Luther King, so nobody listens to liberals anymore.

What’s more telling is that calls for a beheading are coming from the right. Stephen Bannon, one-time Trump supporter and senior political and strategy advisor, recently said of Trump’s political prospects: there is a 33.3 per cent chance of the Mueller investigation leading to the impeachment of the president; a 33.3 per cent chance that the president would resign, perhaps ahead a threat from the cabinet to remove him; and a 33.3 per cent chance that he, Trump, would limp to the end of his first term. There was a 100 per cent chance, Bannon said, that he would not stand again.

I believe that, but not for any of the reasons Bannon postulates. I believe Donald Trump—if he reaches that far will not run again because in the  first place  he didn’t want to be where he is today and in the second place, and prior to his November 8 2016 election, he never thought he would be.

Those contentions are not without supporting evidence. Trump is a game-player—in fact, he is more often than not The Game. He is also a reality-star, who has by his own admission cultivated an image—a brand. Why not display it on the grandest stage of all—an American presidential election. Moreover, he could play the spoiler, which would be fun—God help Trump (and America) if he won though. That wasn’t the intent. That wasn’t The Game.

Also lining up in support of Trump not believing he would win, is something he said to his wife Melania. According to Michael Wolff in his book on the early Trump years, Fire and Fury, two weeks before the election, Melania came to Trump in tears. Wolff said she was fed up with the amount and the type (mainly critical) of media attention she was getting. She wanted out. Trump’s purported reply was that it would all be over in two weeks and they could return to normal (whatever normal means in the Trumpashere). Two weeks later, on November 8, Melania was again in tears. Normality was not to be part of the life of a president’s wife, even a wife who lived with an abnormality—her husband.

Second in the absurdities, was the length Trump took to accumulate his senior staff—a process not yet complete and, given the fractious whim of the president, unlikely to be. He and his staff were woefully unready to assume office—because they never expected (nor wanted) to! Only one of Trump’s initial senior staff, Secretary of Veterans’ Affairs, David Shulkin, was a hold-over from the Obama years—and he’s gone.

In fact, and as of last count, 65% of Trump appointed staff have left. Trump promised to “drain the swamp”; it appears he has done so, but of his own people.

So, there is evidence that Trump never wanted to be president and was distressingly unprepared for it. So was his staff. So was his family. Now that he is the president, albeit a reluctant one, I think Trump is bored by the role. His ego may keep him in office for another couple of years, but boredom, political paralysis and possibly legal matters will persuade him not to stand again.  However, he will offer none of those reasons for standing down. He will instead say that it was the media that hounded him out of office.

The Master of the Deal…will become the martyr of the masses.

Little pride in this

There has been a series of events in New Zealand over the last fortnight that, to the dispassionate observer, seem inexplicable. First, there was the sacking of Santa—Neville Baker—from the Farmers’ Santa Parade because he stated the obvious—that Santa is a man and he wouldn’t hire a woman for the role. Then there was the replacement of Nelson’s Santa by a “Santa in a Korowai”—in effect, a Maori bloke that organisers told us reflected multiculturalism and diversity.  It didn’t—it just messed with kids’ heads. Point is that both events were greeted with derision, a fair bit of gnashing of teeth and a whole lot of shaking of heads in bewilderment.

It would be fair to say that neither is likely to happen again, and lessons have been learnt. A reinstatement and an apology were forthcoming.

Not so the Pride Parade and its board.

Their decision last month to ban police in uniform from this year’s Pride Parade was almost as bad as the other two events in its conception and lack of perception. The difference, however, is that the Pride Board has aggravated what I call its grievous error by seeking and gaining majority support for its stance at a meeting held last night.

Who attended the meeting and how representative they are of the LGBTQIA+ community I have no way of knowing.

What I am prepared to bet though is the vote supporting the decision would in no way reflect the feeling of the wider community, who greeted the original decision with scorn. And nor should it. It is a gay parade and they can do what they want with it. Though I have to say that if this group gets to add any more letters to its already unwieldy LGBTQIA+

name, it soon will be encompassing all the rest of us. Perhaps we are already there, covered by that + sign.

But what got me was the board’s rationale for the less uniform decision. Among other things they cited police mistreatment of transgender people and people of colour. They also said some people who would be appearing in the parade would feel threatened by a uniformed police presence. Pride chair LGBTQIA+ (pick one) Cissy Rock reiterated that as late as this morning. I accept that police mistreatment (and misunderstanding) of the gay community may have occurred in the past and may even continue to do so today. But is penalising the police this way the best way to go about redressing the situation?

It cannot do that. Nothing is ever achieved by shutting down dialogue. Even Pride’s expressed values of inclusion, engagement and diversity suggest that on this occasion the board and its acolytes have acted against what Pride says it is trying to achieve.

Their compromise offer of allowing police to parade if they wore t-shirts is laughable. What should the T-shirt say? “I attended the Pride Parade, and all I got was this T-shirt”?

For our pride’s sake, let’s just get through the silly season and return (I hope) to a sense of sensibility and simplicity.

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Pick up lines

I am not great at picking up birds.

To be honest, I rarely had the requirement to do so. Any bird that has fallen for me has done so, if not entirely into my lap, at least in sufficient proximity that I haven’t had to go hunting for them.

What I have learnt, though, is that a bird falling for me is entirely excusable. Forgiveness is not a factor, but understanding is. They can’t help it. They are what they are, and I am who I am. Both of us victims or beneficiaries of Nature taking her course.

Which means, of course, I am less the hunter and more the gatherer.

So, you will understand my perplexion today when a bird—a pretty wee thing—fell for me.

What was to be my response? Should I, as my heart was vehemently urging, nurture her? Should I, instead, ignore her in the belief that ultimately it would be better for all? Should I study her with studied indifference, which would have a demoralising and long-term effect on someone so young and impressionable?

In fact, I did what most men of my age and proclivity do: I turned to Google.

Google told me to leave her alone.

Google told that Nature would indeed take her course, and whilst it wasn’t entirely natural that a young bird should fall for an old man like me, it was not  entirely unexpected or unacceptable.

Leave it, Google told me.

So, I did.

And that is my advice to you and to anyone who has birds falling for them. Birds do it all the time (apparently) and unless they are in immediate and mortal danger long-term harm is unlikely.

The bird that fell for me remains outside my window looking in. A few branches above her, her siblings remain in the nest and frequently her mother and father return to make sure she is okay and to show she has not been forgotten.

If one of them has fallen, though not yet flown, from the nest, it is just a matter of time and nature. She will cope, the family will cope and both will survive, and no doubt thrive.
This is a family in love.

No help required from me.

Annoying people

Annoying people are everywhere. In fact, they are an annoying fact of life, and like a leech that latches on to your body almost impossible to shake off.

Of course, there are degrees of annoyness. At the lower end of the scale are lazy writers who make up words like annoyness to explain a point. At the higher end of the scale are, I suggest, the following. And before I start my list, let me explain that in several cases, I am stereotyping, and this is grossly unfair. For example, not all Cantabrians are annoying—just a few, but enough.

Too much information

These annoyers are those who insist of regaling us with information that we are not remotely interested in and have little relevance to our circumstances. Most common are those that tell us their medical condition/history in detail. Others include cruise-liner passengers and their latest cruise (and the one before that and so on) and believers in natural therapies.

Mr Right

These are the opinionated people—mainly blokes—who believe they are always right and anyone with a contrary opinion is wrong. Everybody has a right to an opinion or a belief, but they don’t have the right to believe or assume that they are emphatically right. The only certainties in life, my friend, are death and taxes and the superiority of league over rugby. And, no, Trump is not God just because you say he is.

Cantabrians

Talking of superiority, Cantabrians have long held a superiority complex, particularly when it comes to slagging off at Aucklanders. Yes, you may have a better rugby team (frequently) and a better cricket team (sometimes), but that is because Aucklanders (usually) have better things to do—in short, they have a life.

Rampant Email Forwarders

This has been for a long time one of the most annoying aspects/abuses of modern technology. Look, we are not interested in some random inspirational thoughts somebody, just as annoying as you, has sent you. Same goes for Facebook postings: sunsets are beautiful, why mar them by overlaying them with some tin-pot, Christmas-cracker philosophy. And, yes, that puppy is cute, but I have seen a dozen today already.
Born-again Christians
I admire your fervour, just don't bring it around me. Preach to the converted, not at me.

Comparers

Similar to Mr Right. These are the people who have never heard that comparisons are odious and insist on comparing the relative merits of sporting codes (League V Rugby etc), beer brands, Holden V Ford, and so on, entirely forgetting or ignoring the fact that people may have a contrary opinion or, more often, simply don’t care. All sport is good, even if League is gooder.

Correctors

We all make mistakes. No Fryday goes out without one or more. They are not life-threatening. The only use I have for a corrector is the excellent copy-editor who corrects my newspaper articles; I couldn’t live without here (sic).

Sic People

People who use sic. Are you deliberately trying to humiliate us? Just correct the damn thing, and shut up.

Jami-Lee Ross

Well, that’s my list of annoyers. Not complete or exhaustive by any means. I would be interested to know who you find annoying. Not actually know them, of course—I would likely find them just as annoying—just a general guide. Dive in and give me your thoughts.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: God’s gifts

Last night my wife Bobby-Jo and I were conjoined in contemplative prayer. Prayer is the most precious of God’s gifts and from the time that I was saved and brought into his righteous presence and was anointed thus, He has bestowed upon me his love and the gift of spreading His Word.

And thus, it was that my Bobby-Jo, when contemplation was at its most intense, looked upon me and said:

“Pastor, what is the Word of God?”

I smiled benignly upon her. I thanked God again, as I had many times before, for the blessing he had given me of one so young, so innocent, so searching.

“Oh, you are so young, so innocent, so searching,” I said to her. “The Word of God is a precious gift and you know what is most precious about it?"

“No,” replied Bobby-Jo, in wide-eyed wonder and obvious adoration for everything I said and everything I did to and for her.

“The most precious thing about God’s Word is that it is ever-changing, ever-evolving. He never allows it to stagnate as if in the marshes of the Holly land or the depths of depravity of the Democratic Party. He is forever changing His Word and blessing us with new riches.”

“But Pastor, still I do not understand.”

Again, I smiled benignly.

“What do you not understand, my Precious,” I asked, reflecting as I did that this sweet child was just as precious a gift from God.

“I still do not understand why the Word is so precious. Forgive me.”

“It is precious, my dear, because as I have told you it is ever-changing. The Word of God last week, is not the Word of God this week.”

“But, why…”

“Because our people have already paid in our ministries for last week’s Word, they are yet to hear and pay for—gift—this week’s Word. That is why it is so precious. To us.”

“I see,” she said.

“I know you do,” I said. “Now, come to me and we will again contemplate what God has given us."

For this week’s Word of God, as delivered personally by God to Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a three-day family pass to the Cecil C. Sackrider Theme Park. Offer available only to American Christians and Republicans.

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The lament of a Hamilton librarian

I woke to a foggy morning today.

That in itself is not unusual, but the very opaqueness of the fog that greeted me this day was almost Dickensian. My first thought was to stay in bed. But, I knew I could not. I knew that I had to venture out…to where my friends are.  I know they will be there to greet me, as they have been daily for the last four(?), five(?)—how many years has it been? The years have, like the Hamilton fog, obscured much. But unlike the fog, that obfuscation has been a blessing, protecting me from the reality of being…of being here.

I woke to a foggy morning today. However, I made my way by bike to work. I chained my bike to the railing outside as is the purpose of the railing. The pragmatism of the railing is disquieting and does nothing, as an embodiment of the town, to dispel the omnipresent depression one feels constantly and inevitably.

But, my friends are here, here to greet me. There they are in rigid lines, smiling at me. They are a colourful cluster, inside and out. The rigidity of the lines belies the riot of colour they present—each so different from the others, each providing an individual ingredient to the banquet of friendship they present. It is a rich and rewarding banquet. It is one, I think, I could not live without.

My friends, my books.

I should not want to live without my books. The Hamilton Public Library where I work, where I cycle to every day from my bedsitter in Claudelands, is an oasis of calm and culture in this town.

No, it is more than that: it is a sanctuary and a portal—through which one may escape this world and journey to lands afar where beasts may be tamed, mountains may be climbed, crimes may be solved, bodices may be ripped, and love may be found.

The Hamilton Public Library is all this…and more.

The Hamilton Public Library is my home, my haven…my liberty.

What I want to be when I grow up

Let’s at the outset say that I am what I always intended to be as a grown-up. Whether I have indeed grown up is the only question left unanswered. I spent 30 years in advertising. And that is what I wanted to do. It was a productive time for me. It taught me many life-skills that—had time remained my friend—would have got me a job in just about every profession I could name. I compiled a list of a few. I could have become:

A teacher

In advertising, I learnt to be adept at seemingly retaining my fervour for the job whilst secretly seething with frustration. It wasn’t that the job was not personally rewarding. It was. And for a teacher able to shape young minds it must be doubly so. But in teaching as in advertising there is always an expectation for you to sell something you don’t entirely believe in—like The Treaty.

An airline pilot

Back in the 70s and 80s we in advertising flew high. We mastered the art of doing so with very little substance below us and only the rarefied air of being on top of the world to sustain us. Of course, there was always the possibility we would come crashing to the ground—as we did in the mid-80s—but we never lived for tomorrow. We lived for the day and couldn’t remember it tomorrow.

A Hamilton librarian

In Auckland advertising we were good. But those working in Wellington were better. We learnt early to handle the frustration of being second-best or being even further down the totem pole if we accept that most of the great advertising of the time emanated from the United Kingdom. So, I could handle the Hamilton humiliation of being at best second best. At least a Hamilton librarian has the facility to think of books less as a vocation than as an escape.

Leader of NZ First

Of all the jobs I am qualified for, this comes pretty close to the top. The reason is that advertising taught me one essential skill—one precept, one I share with the current leader of NZ First: “it is not what you want to say, it is what they want to hear.” I am good at that.

A televangelist

Possibly the easiest for me to master, given my advertising background. Essentially it is sales. No more, no less. Once you manage to lose that frustrating little albatross some call a conscience and replace it with the knack to selling with fervour, passion and naked belief something in which you have no belief—you are made. Advertising is second only to car sales as providing the necessary skills for televangelism.

Local body communications manager

Top of the tree for me. Requires only the essential skill (learnt in advertising and PR) of seemingly saying something when you are not. There is a skill in that. An even greater skill, requiring greater imagination, is finding a way to say nothing at all. After all, you are an expert in communications—not conveying it, just creatively avoiding it. That’s what council pays you for. Only problem is I would probably have to change my name to Dick, because that is what everybody else would call me.

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The Sting in the Tail

I count myself fortunate that I know a lot of people generally classified as creative. I think classification is important because without it most everybody, excluding Hamilton residents, could and should be called creative. However, let’s for the point of argument deal with actors, writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, and advertising people, and exclude those who—either through choice of career or simple lack of interest—do not see themselves as being creative.

The thing about creative people is that often their greatest “creation” is themselves. Not everybody, of course; but I suggest a heavy percentage of creatives put a great deal of effort into building mystique around themselves and the creative process. So much effort in fact, that some make it seem effortless: Hemmingway is an example. But the fact that creatives need to feel different and act different is unfortunate. They would make a far greater contribution to society and probably be more liked if they acknowledged that, whilst they may be more “gifted” than others in some areas, the person in the next aisle has gifts of her own. Their gifts will be different and perhaps not as ethereal, but they are still gifts—and should be honoured as such. So, my point –and I know you were wondering if there was one—is that in weaving the rich tapestry of life we are all weavers, we are all making contributions and even those whom society deems worthless have some worth, unless of course you are Mike Pence.

An abnoxious time

There is no sadder sight in Parliament than a politician who doesn’t want to be there.

There are two of them in there now, both on the Government side: Andrew Little and Kelvin Davis.

Both entered New Zealand’s current parliament with good intent; both got scuppered by one man—Winston Peters.

Andrew Little’s situation is particularly sad. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his party after it became apparent that under his leadership Labour had no chance of winning the 2017 general election. He did so with grace and decorum and was widely praised for that.

I also believe he did so with the reasonable expectation that Jacinda Ardern would replace him, and that under her leadership and with the support of the Greens, labour had the best chance of winning that election or the next. What he may not have counted on was the role and the eventual importance of Winston Peters--a man who is I believe an anathema to all the principles Andrew Little holds dear—uppermost among them honour.

Now we have unwelcome sight in Parliament of Andrew Little trying to justify a bill that is widely described as the most spurious, self-serving act of legislation to come before Parliament in recent times. What must be particularly galling for Andrew Little is that, as Minister of Justice, the bill is in his name, whereas the reality is that it has been perpetrated by Winston and his paranoia that New Zealand First’s MPs may desert the party. The Electorate Integrity Amendment Bill or The Waka-jumping Bill, as it is also known, seeks “to enhance public confidence in the integrity of the electoral system by upholding the proportionality of political party representation in Parliament as determined by electors.” In reality it forces MPs to toe the party line—even in contravention of their electorate responsibilities, or risk expulsion from the party and Parliament. Compounding that, it’s been recently revealed that Winston Peters has in his party’s constitution a clause that makes his MPs each liable for a $300,000 penalty if they resign or are expelled from the party before the next general election.

The bill and the penalty are draconian and disgraceful. They are also, as the National Party MP leading the debate for the Opposition, Nick Smith, says unprecedented in any democratic parliament in the world.

Yet, poor hapless Andrew Little has to defend it. And his efforts to do so have come increasingly desperate yet lackadaisical. Yesterday, for example, he denied knowledge of the New Zealand First constitution clause, which seems hard to believe. And he even resorted to attacking Nick Smith’s pronunciation of obnoxious (“abnoxious”) to describe the bill, which rightly drew the ire of Speaker Trevor Mallard for being demeaning (to Smith) and bringing Parliament into dispute.

Clearly Andrew Little is more than a little uncomfortable. He is fighting for a bill that I believe he doesn’t believe in. No wonder he looks and behaves like he doesn’t want to be there.

The other MP whom I believe is disenchanted, but, unlike Andrew Little, makes no effort to hide it is Kelvin Davis. That is no surprise—Kelvin Davis seems to put little effort into anything, including reading his briefing papers. Kelvin Davis is the picture of misery—a fallen man whose always unrealistic expectations remain unrealised. Yes, as deputy leader of the parliamentary Labour Party, he may have expected to be made Deputy Prime Minister. However, that was never going to happen under MMP and certainly not after Winston became (once again) Queen-maker. Nor is Kelvin Davis up to the job, as he so ineptly demonstrated when he served as Acting Prime Minister. His churlish behaviour since has won him few favours or friends.

I know what it is like to be doing a job I don’t want in a place I don’t like. If circumstances permit you can always leave. I did. Perhaps Mr Little and Mr Davis you might like to consider that option. Jump to another waka. At least, as Labour MPs, you won’t have to shell-out $300,000.

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Forget free speech, let's have a debate

Last night’s free speech debate featuring Dr Don Brash was both compelling and chaotic.

It was compelling because it brought forth an unanticipated and often unintended level of entertainment and wit. I will come back to that later.

It was chaotic for a raft of reasons—far too many to number or even to list, but here is a start. To start with, who knew it was a debate? Yes, we all knew that Dr Brash would be speaking at Auckland University, that was widely publicised after the Massey debacle; but did we know that Dr Brash would be part of a team and would be sharing the stage with others? It doesn’t matter I guess, except those others were mostly boring and mostly unknown; two of them, both students at the university, were described by the too young and plainly terrified host/moderator/MC as "award-winning debaters of awesome credit to the university.” They weren't. They were, without a doubt, the worst debaters I have come across—rambling and abstruse.

Even if we knew about the above, did we know that the event would be streamed live on Facebook and on the Herald’s website? I didn’t. I came across it quite by chance and if I hadn’t, I like many of you would have missed the most entertaining nadir of New Zealand broadcasting since David Seymour.

Then there was Dr Brash himself. More chaos. As soon as he rose to speak he was shouted down by a group of protesters, one of whom had a megaphone. Let’s look at that: I can understand why they were let in, you leave them out at your PC peril, but with a megaphone? Can you imagine someone being admitted to a performance of Les Miserable with a megaphone? Dr Brash in his response expressed the obvious and in doing so did himself, his argument and those of us who believe in unrestrained free speech few favours. He stood at the microphone for a few moments with his David Seymour smile on (who knew that David Seymour's smile would become a euphemism for insincerity?) and then walked away from it exclaiming that they (the protesters) had proven his argument. They may well have doctor, but in saying that you usurped your responsibility to that argument to express it in your own words and to give those who had come to hear you speak the opportunity to do so. To that end, the protesters won. And when you did get to speak, your argument with its references to the superiority of Jews and other miscellaneous matter was so obscure as to be more chaotic than compelling. An opportunity missed.

Now we turn to the coverage itself, which added to both the chaos. I watched the Facebook option. It ended before the debate did. We weren’t told who won it. We were instead told on Facebook to go to the Herald website for “full coverage.” I did. I went to the Herald website, only to be told the same thing: “Go the Herald website…” I am already here, fool!

The Facebook coverage at least gave us the opportunity to be involved. We were presented with a selection of emoticons that we could press to express what we thought of what was being said. Even that, though, added to the confusion. Take the “angry” emoticon for example; what was that supposed to express? Anger in support of what was being said? Anger that it was being said? Anger at how it was said? Who knows? Not helpful.

But it was another Facebook device that provided the true wit and all the event’s entertainment. Down the right-side of the live feed was a column where viewers could post their comments and opinions—supposedly on what they were viewing. Fine. However, early in the debate that column was “hijacked” by the Ban 1080 Brigade. From there the column escalated leaving the debate far behind and replacing it with the  opportunity to try and outdo each other for the imagination of our mirth. It started innocuously enough with someone suggesting we ban everything and another that we ban Ban 1080. But it then it descended or ascended, depending on your perspective and position to: “Ban Jacinda Ardern”, “BAN CAPITAL LETTERS”, “Ban the apostrophe”, and when Dr Brash got on to his comments about Jewish superiority: “Ban 1080 in Israel”. I guess you had to be there, but it was great fun.

What was I suppose meant to be serious debate on a serious subject wasn’t. Part of me regrets that. But another part of me, having experienced and participated in the events of last night, is delighted at what happened. For me it was compelling, if chaotic, evidence that a large proportion of us are funny—that we can have fun and, given opportunities such as last night, we can take the Mickey out of ourselves and others without malice or forethought.

It was spontaneous. It was fun. Let’s do it again.

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The Trouble with Trump

When you read that headline, what was your first thought? Probably it was the same as mine—and I wrote it! My first thought was not Trump again, haven’t we heard enough about him? Aren’t we trumped out? Surely Trump inertia has moved in.
All of which is true, though that largely depends on your perspective and—I am bound to say—level of masochism.
The trouble with that, however, is Trump himself. He won’t leave us alone. Knowingly or unknowingly, intentional or not, he seems set on feeding an insatiable media and through them each of us. If you are anti-Trump he will feed you all the material, let’s call it fertiliser, you need to grow your loathing of this buffoon. If you are a Trump supporter you will be congratulating yourself on your unprecedented level of imagination as you seek to excuse his actions. Trump’s supporters will trumpet that he—Trump—is indeed “making America great again.”
For the rest of us, he is just making it grate.
And that I think is the problem for Americans who care. They are through the actions of their President  entering a period  of self-analysis and introspection to a level unprecedented since their civil war. Some of the more enlightened will be looking with deep dismay at the way America is being perceived by the world. Those for whom the world view doesn’t matter will be looking at themselves and their neighbours and asking is this the America they want.
Of course it is wrong to blame the American people, even those who voted for Trump, for this strutting personification of Eugene Burdick’s Ugly American. Could anybody, any American, have seen this—him—coming? No doubt some did. Even more today will say they did. But even if you did, you got belted by the Bible Belt and the Rust Belt. And there was nothing you could do about it…for yourselves or for us.
You now have live with the voting decision made by others. We all do.
And there perhaps is the only silver lining—for once the world is united behind America: united in its loathing of a President who nobody saw coming and nobody deserves.