IN CHRISTCHURCH to welcome the arrival of the Kurdish-Iranian author Behrouz Boochani from PNG. After six long years of failing to con Australian public opinion with his Manus Island fairy-tale ‘No Friends But The Luvvies’, the government has decided to let him try flogging it to the Kiwis.
Along with me in the terminal is a small crowd of mostly hysterical women. Columnists for the The Guardian, one presumes. They wave placards bearing Boochani’s portrait and perform weird dances while loudly spouting the usual nonsense about refugees being normal human beings like the rest of us. To blend in, I carry a large portrait-placard of Dr Kerryn Phelps with the whopping lie ‘I’m Not a Silly, Virtue-Signalling Quack’ emblazoned across it, and repeatedly swivel my eyes and scratch my armpits incessantly.
When Boochani finally makes his appearance, the women all rush forward enthusiastically to throw flowers and to hug and shower him with kisses, which is all quite strange since, to my mind, he closely resembles some kind of rock-ape. Did he always look like that, I wonder? I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it’s down to the weather on Manus, that he looks such a complete wreck, or due to all that indiscriminate buggery that goes on each time Nick McKim pays a visit.