Me & Mr. Jones
A classic journal extract concerning the fateful night I accidentally ended up getting extremely boozed with the 1%, & some supplementary thoughts about class
“Tambourine and harp, branches covered with buds.
Is anyone sober enough to speak with the king?
No one. All right. Remember how a gnat
once got drunk and walked into the ear
of a terrible tyrant…?”
(Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks)
I hung out with the one percent and all I got was drunken!
Plus this lousy haiku.1
I first shared this story in February of 2018 on the Platform of the Damned, prompted by Bob Jones being in the news for some fresh dickishness.
(Who is Bob Jones, I hear non-Aotearovians ask? Here ya go— r/newzealand -Who is Bob Jones?
Sample takes:
“He's an absolute narcissist, asshole who owns a lot of stuff. He's about as old as the pyramids.”
“also famous for punching a reporter in the face when they helicoptered in to doorstep him and ruined his trout fishing.”
“very old crusty boomer developer”
“Bob Jones is the old dude who used to show up pissed at my old home because it was his childhood home and wanted a trip down memory lane, hooked me up with Jonah Lomus autograph.”)
A bit of background… The story I am about to relate took place during Election Week, September 2017. I had decided to cast my vote on Women’s Suffrage Day. New Zealand was the first country in the world where women won the vote, following sustained campaigning, in 1893.2 In honour of getting to vote on the anniversary some Aotearovian women were dressing up Edwardian to cast their ballots, which I thought was cool.
Once, some years previous (I think after watching the movie about young Coco Chanel) I had tried to emulate the Gibson Girl pompadour. I was in a Victorian phase at the time— a severe centre part and elaborate small plaits around my face criss-crossed back into a bun— so it seemed a logical progression. (Yes, I did have too much time on my hands, thanks for asking.) I couldn’t work out how those Edwardians got their hair to do the big front-pouffe, then finally I realised you needed rats— that is, padding: you save all your hair combings (for colour-matching) and felt them into a little pad of hair, like a shaped independent dreadlock, that you pin on then comb your hair over. Gross! Also, man, they must have been scattering hairpins like dragon scales!3 But I digress…
The point is, I wanted to get dressed up on Election Day too, because I was going to vote for Jacinda Ardern.
We were at the culmination of an astonishing election campaign that saw (good-hearted but rizz-deficient) then-Labour leader Andrew Little fall on his sword to make way for Jacinda Ardern less than two months out from the election. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Ardern was a year younger than me— almost exactly, a fellow Leo— and I saw that she could win.4 I wanted her to win. Solar power of the lioness, the womenfolk in proud attire; there was a strong female magic in the air that day. As I cast my vote, as I put the folded up paper into the cardboard box, I felt the Gods were with me / us. Luck, or whatever. I could feel the current of history was up for the shaping.5 I felt joyful after voting, and I didn’t want to go home, so I went into town, and that’s where I ran into Bob Jones…
“Meee & Mr Jones... We got a thing... Going on...”
Since everyone's sharing Bob Jones's latest inflammatory bigotry I thought I would tell of my own encounter with the undead Arch-Capitalist6... (Mega-rant follows)
[You have to imagine the following written in a barely legible drunken scrawl…]
19.9.2017
“I'm gonna have to walk home, because I missed the last bus, because I was hanging with the bourgeoisie.7
Maybe fine wines don't make you so very drunk as cheap ones, because although I can see by my writing I'm shitfaced, I feel fine. (The wines of the rich, they're of a different calibre to your meths or your anti-freeze— like butter— like blood— sweet & warm. Infinitely flowing, like milk from a kind breast.)
That was a crazy turn of events— stepping through a wormhole and into the OTHER SIDE.”
[The next day I decide to write a fuller account while it is still fresh in my mind... the bits I can remember, anyway…]
20.9.2017
“So yesterday was the 124th anniversary of Women's Suffrage in NZ— so I decided to vote. Some people were dressing up Edwardian but I just got all Wizzed up— put on my 'ei katu [flower crown]... And walked down to Newtown library to cast my vote.8 An overcast day, showering a little, but the library was full of people queueing to vote— which gave me a glad feeling— emotional. Bread and Roses. After all the buildup— the moment of voting is so inconsequential— all the props so flimsy and cheap. Cardboard & paper & marker pen.
Looking v closely to make sure to carefully tick the right boxes. The guy next to me, who looked Somali, asked me to make sure he was doing it right, which moved me.
All of it— all the thinking, talking— all it comes down to is that little moment. And after, I got my sticker, like a good citizen.9
“Good girl”10
Anyway I felt so good in my voting outfit I decided to wear it into the evening— & that's why Bob Jones started talking to me, on Cuba Street, saying my flowers were pretty. And why we then walked a couple of blocks, talking about Women's Suffrage— about Saudi Arabia— about being equal-opportunities-haters of all patriarchal religions. And ended up both turning in at Suite Gallery.”
His opening line is— “I like your flowers. Very pretty.”
To which I reply “I'm dressed up because I went to vote today. Because it's WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE DAY.”11
We realise we are going the same way and cross the road together. As we cross the road I'm sneaking peeks at him, making sure it is really him, and looking curiously at his zombie appearance— he has the look that you see at its extremes in someone like Rockefeller— the look of someone whose life force is preserved by money. He basically looks undead— his skin is not the right colour. And I'm thinking YOU— you sold our country to line your own pocket.
He informs me that they've only just given women the vote in Saudi Arabia and they still don't allow them to drive, ha ha.
I've only just been reading about a power shift within the Saudi Royal Family,12 and try to talk about this, but he won't allow me— with the blithe bullishness of someone who always gets to drive he steers the conversation onto another tangentially related topic.
Which is, as far as I recall, radical Islam. I say that I'm pretty much a hater of all controlling patriarchal religions (being a woman and all.) This is a topic on which we can agree, and to my surprise, we turn in at the same door.
As soon as we enter the room a ripple runs through it, as when a famous person arrives. Bob immediately begins enquiring “My girl— where's my girl? Ah, there she is,” as a very young and very beautiful woman rushes to his side (presumably his PA). Then he is swept away on a wave of sycophants and I am of no further interest to him.
(As it turned out, I was at the Gallery on the wrong night: I thought I was going to see a painting show til I eventually noticed no one else was looking at the work— then someone informed me it was actually a poetry book launch. I stayed for the wine and snacks, but the poetry also turned out to be amazing.13 I ended up going down the wine bar with some dudes I met at the book launch, hence my later drunkenness.)
Other fun out-takes about the super-rich:
“The rich look different to us: perfect skin, perfect teeth, expensive understated clothes.”
“Even the small things, the snacks— the food at the show exquisite. Everything delicious & perfect.”
“The confusion of meeting the enemy— quite liking them. On best behaviour— trying to show them that we— the poor— are cool too.”
“They asked me who I voted for— I wouldn't tell. I told the CEO, well, my vote counts the same as yours.”
(They said “She doesn't look like she voted Act, though!”14
I said “Put it this way— I vote for my own interests, just like you guys vote for yours.”)
“They were astonished that I'm an artist, that I'm on the dole, that I think the world's ending.”
(I waited a while to drop these particular truth bombs ha ha. They asked me, fascinated, how much money I get every week.)
“The power of charm, the power of manners, the power of power, of money. Money buys so much ease, safety, freedom. (The other half.) But it can't stop your wife from going blind. It can't prevent you from the feelings that wring a poet’s heart.”
“Oh Art, you great universality! Language we could converse in. These people are the target market, the ones who can afford it, & that's how it's always been. The purchasers of trinkets, princes, popes, idle wives.
(THEY CAN'T DO WHAT WE CAN, THOUGH.)”15
At the end of the night I had no money for the bus and considered bumming five bucks. I was very drunk. I ended up evading the clutches of a 60+ year old ex corporate lawyer, and phoning a friend to come pick me up.
This story isn’t really about Bob Jones… It’s about the people I hung out with subsequently, who actually wanted to talk to me, to listen as well as talk; Jones only wanted to pontificate. But I notice that I haven’t really shared any identifying details about them— the second half of my post is just generalised observations— probably in order to protect the sacred bond of drinking companions. What happened was that after I left the gallery (already quarter-cut) I was standing in the street outside talking to a friend when a party of people from the book launch came by, and because I’d had a good long yarn with one of them, they grabbed me and dragged me into the wine bar. That is, they very nicely included me in their party, bought me wine, and talked quite openly, and even though I’ve told some of the tale here for laughs, I guess I wanted to protect that trust.
Actually, there's a phenomenon I've noticed before: I like hanging out with the ultra-wealthy. Our interests overlap a fair bit. They have time for art and culture and thought, and so do I; the realm of art is a space where the very poor— artists— come into contact with the very rich— purchasers of art. But aside from that, there is often something Wizardly about the very rich. Some of them are proper dark Magicians. Money is definitely a species of magic, though not one I dabble in much. (LOL.) They are often very confident and charismatic, dress elegantly, and have well-honed manners (though it’s also true that money can buy an exemption from the need to be pleasing). In fact, I think what happened on election day happened because I was dressed up. My festival attire made me socially unplaceable, and they didn’t realise until we were all half-cut and loose-tongued that they had a pauper in their midst. It is also a good example of how magic can be uncontrollable. The outcomes are seldom predictable, but the feeling of magic is that luck is with you; you surrender to the currents and go where it wants you to go.
One thing I do remember, though. The [redacted— very big business executive guy] had a companion, who was young and … well, I dislike to describe people’s appearance: what I will say is that she was performing femininity— her clothes, makeup, and manner conveyed that she wished to show she was applying herself to the beauty-work that was, in a way, her job. I remember that she had braces on her teeth. The conversation between me and the menfolk was a kind of fight, or at least a very spirited debate. I had the sense that being contradicted was novel to some of these men; or if not novel, it was a fun challenge rather than existentially troubling, even though, as I mentioned, my life and viewpoints were unfamiliar to the point of outlandishness to them. But they were up for the wrestle, and so was I. It felt fun to be in a different world, sharpening my wits against new swords. What I remember is that I tried to include this woman in the conversation, because she was sitting silently. I was in the bear-pit with the big boys, and it wasn’t so much that I wanted to drag her in there too— I genuinely wanted to know what she thought about things, and on principle I didn’t want her to be left out. However, she refused to be drawn. It seemed to make her uncomfortable to be asked to offer an opinion. I could draw conclusions here about gender and power, but it’s also possible she was just shy.
Everyone on the Platform of the Damned loved this tale. They said God, I love this, and This is the best story I’ve ever heard in my life!
Don Franks wrote: “I get to see the very rich from time to time when I’m playing gigs, can corroborate your findings and would just add that they take up heaps of space. Literally, they seem to need more than necessary physical area around them. A couple of them will be standing in a big hall, you come struggling along hauling sound gear and have to squish into the wall to get by, the rich don't move aside for any of the hired help”
Jay wrote: “Lovely I got drunk with Bob one monday morning in his office. He regaled us with stories of many sexual partners, of bodyguards for his many children and of talking his way out of many misbehaviors - I loved him and detested him in equal measure and my colleague was moved to compose a poem of rural incestual pedophilia, whether this had anything to do with Bob I do not know.”
Jimmy wrote: “I love picturing you telling them about being an artist on the dole and how fascinated they were.”
Me: “the crazy thing to me was how they laughed at me saying we were at the end of Capitalism— they thought that was outrageously ridiculous.”
Jimmy: “I guess it's still working for them and all their friends so they don't have so much cause to doubt!
and I suppose someone has to uphold the stories which hold these systems in place. Like how buying and selling property as prices increase constitutes earning money even if no value was added for anybody and it only makes money by redistributing it systemically from people who do create value. So they must be the true believers…16
I like them too. I been to hang out at the Wellington Club a couple times. They're charming, polite, funny, and have a lovely sense of enabling themselves and others to do cool stuff for the sake of it.”
This end-of-Capitalism chat was one of the most interesting things about the whole night. They were genuinely shocked at my Doomerism, and I was genuinely shocked that they thought that not only was everything fine, but that neoliberal Capitalism would be the ongoing status quo for the foreseeable future. I was like… What about the GFC? What about 2008? I was going to say who’s laughing now, and I told you so, but then I realised I can’t actually tell who’s winning at this point in time: maybe we were both right, in some weird way. There was more life left in the undead animate corpse of Zombie Capitalism than I thought. Even when it’s just a rotten foot hanging off a skeleton leg, it keeps hopping along, kicking that can down the road.
Counterpoint… Another class-based memory, also set at Suite gallery: I was at an exhibition opening when a homeless guy walked in. I was happy that he had come in and I wanted to make him feel welcome. (Art is for everyone!) I asked him if he wanted a glass of wine and tried to engage him in conversation: I asked him which of the paintings he liked the best, but he wouldn’t accept the drink, and he angrily said the paintings were all shit, then he left. He had made it through the door, but once he was inside, the atmosphere in the gallery was a kind of pressure on his skin that he couldn’t tolerate.
This touches on what I was talking about in my last post, the overlapping-maps-of-the-city thing. It was clear to me that their very world— the one-percenters, I mean17— was a parallel one to mine: that although we moved through the same physical city, our paths seldom or never crossed. (
says, in a post that arrives as I am writing this one: “The very rich sequester themselves together, shunning all normal contact- never in shops, churches, parks or the street, just socialising with their own kind in places where they do not have to encounter the garish and shabby ordinariness of the rest of us.”) The bar they took me to was one I had never entered before, although I had passed by hundreds of times. It was as if a door had opened in the air, where there was no door before.I sat in the flattering dim gold light; the ambrosial wine in its bubbles of fine glass appeared before me with regularity and I drank it, only sometimes thinking about how much it might have cost— gift horse, mouth, etc. (I’m an expensive date, and this is pretty much the only way I can get drunk, the gentle pressure of someone steadily putting drinks before me. Left to my own devices, I will stop drinking. Getting drunk, as well as being an expensive pursuit, is a kind of labour, and I generally don’t have enough will-to-drunkenness to continue. Also, I strongly dislike being hungover.) I have a vague memory of tipping or spilling a drink, and the [very big business executive guy] drawing back in disgust, curling his lip at my messiness. That’s when I felt it was time to call it a night. When I stood up I discovered I was drunker than I’d thought I was, drunker than I’d been for years.
The corporate lawyer was persistently following me, trying to get me into a taxi with him, and a detached part of my mind (the sober driver at the cockpit controls of this big malfunctioning body) was amused that he thought there was even a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. Earlier in the night he had told me about the fortune— an inheritance, maybe?— that he pissed away against the wall, on prostitutes, fine food, and alcohol.
Upon leaving fairyland, I found myself abruptly back in the quote unquote real world with less than five dollars to my name. (The irony!) It was well past the time of night when the buses stop running. Normally I would walk home— this takes just over an hour— but I was too drunk to walk. I had no choice but to phone a friend for help, then sit on the kerb and wait to be picked up.18 That’s poor-world: without the golden ticket in your pocket, the means to whisk yourself away from wherever-you-are, to be transported by magic carpet AKA silent Uber / taxi driver to your own front door, a person is forced to call on social safety nets.
One time I found myself stranded in a city not my own at 1 a.m. I went to my friends’ house— the door was not locked— and into their bedroom. I stood there agonising for some minutes. It was a spur-of-the-moment journey, so they didn’t even know I was in town. Waking them seemed like a terrible thing to do, but I couldn’t see that there was any choice, so I piteously woke them up to ask if I could stay. They were grumpy but not angry. “Ugh, get in, we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Do you have a friend you could call on like that? If so, consider yourself extremely lucky: that’s a kind of wealth that money can’t buy. I’ve written about this before, about how being free from the web of community is paradoxically a kind of poverty, how the gift is strongest among those who have least.
Afterwards I wrote a haiku about it:
As the CEO said to the artist
I couldn't write a
three-line poem: I only
understand numbers
This is not the haiku, the haiku is at the end. But if I were to render this bit in haiku:
I hung out with the
One percent. All I got was
Drunk, a shit haiku
You can see the Suffrage petitions submitted to Parliament here: NZ History - About the Petition
More about Edwardian hair: Women’s Edwardian Hairstyles: An Overview
Actually, I had already picked Ardern as a contender some years previously. I had been pondering the rhetorical question, Who is the NZ Jeremy Corbyn / Bernie Sanders? i.e., Do we have that kind of a charismatic figure on the left here? Jacinda Ardern, I thought. I knew that Ardern had the chops— she was already making waves— but I thought that the old men would never let her have a go, not in a million years. I was wrong— and I was right.
When Ardern contested Nikki Kaye in the Central Auckland electorate in 2011, the media dubbed it ‘The Battle of the Babes’. An omen of tone to come… Upon resigning as Prime Minister in 2023, Ardern refused to say that the intense, sustained (violent / misogynist) personal abuse she had been exposed to was a factor in her resignation. She said she ‘didn’t have enough gas left in the tank’.
(Side note, I can’t believe that was only two years ago… it feels like a lifetime…)
Say what you will about Ardern’s centrism, neoliberalism, etc., (or conversely, if you’re rabbit-holed, her draconian authoritarianism)— she was objectively the best Prime Minister this country has ever had, and it was fucking disgraceful what happened to her. (The trolling also functioned as a warning for any woman who felt like getting into public politics or otherwise putting her head above the parapet: a misogynistic chilling effect that felt personal to many of my female friends, just as the triumph of her election had felt personal.)
I have previously written about Ardern, and the prophetic dream I had after the election forecasting her win, here:
Beach-Combing Journal: Blue Flower Mystery
Walter Benjamin, On the Concept of History: “Surely the time of the soothsayers, who divined what lay hidden in the lap of the future, was experienced neither as homogenous nor as empty. Whoever keeps this in mind will perhaps have an idea of how past time was experienced as remembrance: namely, just the same way.
This post also includes my most recent prophetic politics dream from last election-eve: briefly, a baby-eating monster gets indelibly marked by a woman’s hand. (I still can’t interpret that one clearly, but I mention it here for posterity in case the meaning becomes clear later on, in which case, I told you so etc. etc.)
As I said, I wrote this post in February of 2018, and when I revived its much-flogged corpse just now (in order to embroider it into this ‘essay’ you are reading) I couldn’t remember what exact arsehole behaviour Jones was guilty of that time. Turns out it was the newspaper column he published arguing that Waitangi Day should be renamed ‘Māori Gratitude Day’; I’d quote it, but it’s really quite fucked.
(Film-maker Renae Maihi subsequently presented a petition signed by 80,000 people to Parliament, arguing that Jones should be stripped of his knighthood: Jones then brought defamation proceedings against Maihi, arguing that the column was clearly satire, but later dropped the case— vexatious litigation is another of his little hobbies.)
Incorrect terminology here— the bourgeoisie are the middle classes: these fancy-pantses were the crème de la crème, the upper class. (Possibly nouveau riche, but tres riche; riche-er than me or likely you, anyway, peasant.)
Fun library fact: Newtown is the oldest branch library in New Zealand
Afterwards you got a primary-schoolish ‘I VOTED’ sticker
Here I am quoting the stepchild
Read: BECAUSE I AM A FEMINIST
In the London Review of Books: Malise Ruthven - The Saudi Trillions
Unfortunately I can’t now remember who the poet was, only that RNZ business commentator Gyles Beckford gave a speech, and I was surprised to see what he actually looked like.
An extremely right-wing party
i.e. Make good art. Only partially true: as I said, the poetry was pretty good
Or— as a friend of mine used to say— Every day in every way, things are getting better and better… for ME!
And conversely the homeless guy
This must have been when I did the drunken-journalling. If I’m ever in an altered state, I try to write, because it’s always interesting what comes out.
fascinating vignette, with vinegar
Between this and the night you wound up in the cigar bar, you seem to have quite the knack for drinking adventures!