Welcome To My Nightmare / by Jose Barbosa

I'd love to have a monthly column in a local rag, perhaps the Eastern  Courier or Metro rather, as I suspect they pay reasonably well. Swiping directly from Warren Ellis (the cunty comic book writer not the bearded Australian troubadour) I'd call it I Hate It Here. It would be a bastard's compendium of Auckland listing all the aggravations that Aucklanders swallow everyday like the curdled spunk from the ball sack of God. I'd lacerate the woman in Parnell this morning who pressed on with her moaning, even though I'd explained how I didn't see her when I pulled into the park and was happy to release it to her seeing as she'd been waiting to reverse in.

I'd fling the spittle around explaining how it's impossible to find something to eat in the CBD after ten o'clock in the evening that isn't a kebab.

I'd bemoan the lack of a rail loop, commuter trains from the Waikato, an integrated ticking system, how the trams were ripped out decades ago and how we all cry ourselves to sleep thinking about how those lines could have been the basis for public transport routes.

There's more, but I'm sure you can grasp the general direction in which I'm heading.

There's nice things here too, though. Kelly Tarlton's is quite cool, there's that Vietnamese sandwich place on Lorne Street and I like the Leys Institute public library; it's the most relaxing place on earth, mainly because its Ponsonby clientele spend more time distressing their beefy-ts than using their local library.

It is actually rather interesting to note that the people who are the most audible in the condemnation of their home are the people who've traveled the most. I'd like to distance myself from that lot. They're the ones who can't understand why we don't have olive trees everywhere and think the more patisseries and esplanades we whack in the better. They're the Euro-fuckers, and while I have been to Europe, I think it's nuts to expect New Zealand to conform to a lingering holiday dream. I suppose they'd want to lace the streets with imported Parisian dog excrement  just to lend Auckland a Gallic air.

So, come the Supercity, things will be worse, I'd expect. Things always get worse. I suspect we'll go through a couple years of rolling dysfunction in all sectors of the new amalgamated administration, a lovely gift from a Government who pushed this thing onto the dais half dressed. They knew, of course, it would have odd socks, but waved away the KY, grabbed it by the hair on the back of the head and got to work.