Wednesday 7 February 2024

O No, it's Whitiwhangi Day, Again!

Put it away- it's Rude

Yesterday was Waitangi Day in New Zealand. A day of supposed celebration marking the signing of a historic treaty between the Māori and the British. Every year, Māori representatives plus government officials, including our Prime Minster, gather at a small town 'up north' to commemorate this momentous event of concord between the two nations. Predictably, the event has become a focus for the expression of discontent for a variety of Māori pressure groups. No matter how these 'protests' are packaged, the aim is always the same, regardless of the merit of the scheme/scam promulgated: screw more money or concessions from the government.   

Anyway, several years ago, I decided to write a rather scurrilous and irreverent post about the whole affair. I have reprised this post previously, but I've decided to parade out my nonsense to those who may not have been around to appreciate my previous scribblings on the topic. So here we go again.  

Although written as a jocular interlude, the original piece does make some salient and serious points. For those who would like to catch my opinion on 'Māori Affairs', you can read it here: Waitangi Day reprise. 

Happy Whitiwhangi day! For you, dozy benighted Pomms, Whitiwhangi Day (6th February) is New Zealand’s National Day. It celebrates the signing of a solemn treaty between the ‘British Colonial Governor of Her Majesty’s Government’ and the Māori in 1840. As a slight digression, I would like to introduce the less educated amongst you to the noble Māori race. Ethnologists are of the opinion that the first Māori arrived in New Zealand as Asylum Seekers sometime in the Middle Ages. They found a bountiful land colonised by a peaceful and equally noble race called the Morori. Mutual respect was only marred by the fact that the Māori had an irrepressible appetite for human flesh. As it was against their culture and religious custom to eat their own, they decided to eat the indigenous people. In very short order, they had porked their way through this fair people and moved on to eat all the large birds, mammals and frogs. Today, the only indigenous creature left in New Zealand is a highly camouflaged, fast moving and slightly tasteless marsupial, known in the Māori language as ‘DonttastlikeKFC,ehbro.’

To return to our Solemn National Day. It is reputed that the Governor of 1840, Sir Effingham-Peffingham, was suffering from syphilitic ague prior to and up to the signing of the treaty. Some say he deviated from the standard British Colonial Policy of the time. Usually, British Army drill was to send the local chocos off to an early grave and at double time, too. Of course, when faced with the local duskies waving fruit and sharpened sticks, the best response was always to ‘fire a volley’ and finish off the wounded and less fleet of foot with the bayonet.

Unfortunately for the Empire, Sir E was suffering from delirium tremens on the day of the signing. For his entertainment, the local Māori Warriors performed their formidable war dance, ‘The Haka.’ The stout warriors, all painted and covered in feathers, reminded the Governor, in his delirium, of the Nelson Rep chorus line. After all, the Governor was notoriously short-sighted and thick.

The treaty was duly signed by the Governor and the Tribal Leaders. Luckily the Māori could not read or write English. The clause they failed to notice (stupid Māori) was the bit about allowing White Folk, known in Māori as Pakeha, to shoot any Māori on sight on Whitiwhangi day, as long as it was before noon. Good man, that Governor.

As usual, I celebrated ‘Whitiwhangi Eve’ with four bottles of medicinal red wine (as is the custom) and awoke the next morning feeling like a Frenchman’s crotch. After retching up over the dog, I noticed that it was 11.50am. I panicked somewhat as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to legally shoot someone. So, without further ado and without getting dressed, I reached for my father’s trusty 303 Lee Enfield rifle. The same weapon he had used to shoot unarmed German prisoners at the battle of El Alamein. Shortly after this incident, my father’s contribution to the war effort was permanently curtailed due to wounds inflicted during a brisk encounter with the renowned and much-feared SS SeamStress division. These Valkyries could sow SS runic insignia, in silver thread, on your epaulette in under 20 minutes and double stitch at that; fucking amazing! During the battle, my father received a puncture wound to the arse from a rusty bodkin. The infection rapidly spread to his cock, and as a consequence, he spent 6 months in a Venereal Disease hospital in Blighty. The word around the campfire at the time was that my father had caught the infection after an intoxicated and ill-judged liaison with a wild, desert she-goat. Absolute nonsense. It is well known that you can catch this sort of thing from toilet seats and dirty sewing baskets.

With shaking hands, I slammed a fresh magazine into the Lee Enfield and rushed out onto the porch. Luckily for me, I saw a Māori in the adjacent field, not 100 paces away. I raised the musket to my shoulder, took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. I was exhilarated to see my quarry spiral to the ground. I rushed inside for my trusty scalping knife and bounded over to the fallen Māori to gather my well-deserved trophy. Imagine my disgust when I realised that I hadn’t shot a Māori after all but had bagged my Dutch neighbour, Mr. Neils Van der Pump. In mitigation, I have to say that his Indonesian wife had been standing close by, and she does look a little bit Māori. I did consider shooting her as well and could hardly miss from two paces. But I suppose I’m a sentimental old fool, and it didn’t seem quite right to shoot her under the circumstances, as her husband had suddenly taken quite poorly. I did offer to apply a tourniquet to the wound on his neck, but neither of them seemed too keen on the idea. So, I left her to administer first aid and retreated back to my bed to sleep off the previous night’s excess. I had hardly fallen asleep when I was rudely awakened by the local plod. Thereafter all is a blur. I remained in custody for several months prior to trial. Poor Mrs. Saxon had to work 20 hours daily to keep the farm afloat. She did contact my flaxen-haired cunt of a son to ask for help. But he was too busy finding ‘spiritual enlightenment’ in a commune in PerthWestern Australia. Spiritual enlightenment, my arse! From what I can see, he spends his days banging small-breasted Asian ladies, sometimes two at a time (nice work if you can get it) and judging from the photos, some of the ‘ladies’ aren’t real women at all.

I finally had my day in court. I must admit I raised a spirited defense. However, things looked bleak after the prosecution’s final summing up: “Your Honour, I submit that Mr. Saxon is a demented, chronic alcoholic with a tenuous grasp on reality. It is recorded, your Honour, that after a particularly heavy and prolonged drinking bout, he thought he had turned into a canister of ‘Shake N Vac’ (Alpine Dew) and was found by his wife rolling naked on the carpet shouting: ‘I am fragrant, suck me off with the vacuum. I rest my case, your Honour.” But bugger me if I didn’t have a stroke of luck. Poor Mr. Van der Pump had lost the power of speech after my ill-fated shot had destroyed his larynx. This same lucky bullet had also divided nerves in his spinal cord, and consequently, he was paralysed from the nose down. The upshot, of course, was that he was unable to provide a verbal or written deposition; in other words, he was a piss-poor witness. The case against me rested on the sole testament of his Indonesian wife. This poor cow couldn’t speak a word of English, and her Court-appointed interpreter had just been deported as an illegal alien. The outcome was not in question, and I was promptly and deservedly found innocent of all charges and freed.

I confess that after this encounter with the law, I am truly a wiser but not a sober man. Although, I have to say I can’t wait for Mr. Van der Pump’s children to grow up so I can shoot them on Whitiwhangi Day, before noon. After all, they do look a little like Māori……..              


  1. These ideas they come all from the same bottle of poison. How could all these precious cultures ever forgive being prohibited in widdow-burning, head-hunting, clitty-cutting etc. and forced by those mean british suppressors to democracy and toiletpaper? (did you ever apologize officially to the French? Man, they will never forgive you expelling the nazis out of their country) Cheers.

  2. Should have given the buggers a second volley with brown Bess. Then in with the bayonet- 'in, twist, smack 'em with the butt'. Halcyon days......

  3. One of only three men to ever win a bar to a VC was the kiwi legend Charles "they don't like it" Upham.

    I notice he only made 83 in the top 100 of New Zealand's greatest, with a number of the noble originals ahead of him.

    Somehow though, this impeccable list of justice missed the great L S Maori, responsible for the face painting that is perhaps the defining and crowning achievement of their legendary civilisation.

    If chuck had picked up his Lee-Enfield and bagged that particular one, I'd have given him a third!

  4. Yep, the kowtowing to Māori by government and official sources is sickening.