Queen Street

Through necessity, I was forced to go into the city centre yesterday. I generally avoid Queen Street - Auckland’s main thoroughfare - as if it had a suppurating case of the clap.

Firstly, there are the Tourists. Mindless animals who, while possessing the opposable thumbs and dextrous digits required to fill out a passport application form, are too astoundingly dull-witted to realise that their bum-bags (intended to be a secure place to store their money), screams to all "I'M A TOURIST! HERE IS ALL MY MONEY IN ONE EASY TO STEAL PLACE!"

They are just begging to have mind-altering substances slipped into their bottles of water, and wake up somewhere the next morning with bleeding anuses and missing a kidney. My only regret is that is extremely improbable in New Zealand, and the worst that happen to them is that people will mock them mercilessly behind their backs.

Then there are the Asians. The Japanese are acceptable, as they are generally quite attractive and dress well, even if the women do have an unhealthy fixation on Louis Vuitton. The rest of them are filthy animals whose sole contribution to Auckland’s main thoroughfare is leaving large gobs of sputum on the footpaths.

Students are a necessary evil to the city, as there is a University and a Technical College* in the immediate vicinity (*AUT now calls itself a University too, but I refuse to call it that. It teaches cookery and beauty therapy for God’s sake. The day Oxford and Cambridge offer papers in Brow Shaping and Boiling Eggs, is the day I will admit defeat, and call AUT a university).

Students are all very scruffy, and it is hard to tell which ones are male, and which female. I do quite like the Goths, though. Everyone looks good in black, and they look suitably depressed, as I too would be if surrounded by bum-bags, spitting Asians, and polar-fleece everyday.