Wit's End

Wit's End cannot offer you the last word on Megzit. There are a million that precede this column and a zillion more to follow.

My Uncle Norm, the famed Agony Aunt columnist, asks Wit’s End to help bandage troubled minds by running the overflow of anguished letters begging for his advice.

You've probably heard that the famous poem See Venice and Die by German writer Herbert Nehrlich has been updated and is now ‘‘See Venice and Drown’’.

I recently raged about the bonkers wastefulness of an Australian University that offered a doctoral course on making symphony orchestras safer places, writes John Lapsley.

I shall fudge, and write first of John Montagu, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich. This is because there is a second sandwich matter which I must approach more gingerly, and only after first donning...

You will know of my uncle, Norman Fossil, the famed agony aunt columnist to the rich and famous, writes columnist John Lapsley.

We heap most of the Brexit blame on the wrong scoundrels. The chief knave isn't Blustering Boris, nor is it his tattered, flummoxed Parliament.

I have no special grudge against the Tsars of Honolulu's airport. Their transit camp for travellers is no more nor less humane than most of the penitentiaries through which the airline passenger...

Back when I set out upon this column's ponderings, I needed to come up with the right sounding title, writes columnist John Lapsley.

We've been watching young TV reporters ask the wrinkled classes what it meant to them 50 years ago when Neil Armstrong placed the first footprint on the moon. (Armstrong's boot was a size 9 b medium).

In an odd way, it's been a privilege to watch, mouth agape, the lunatic unfolding of the Israel Folau affair, writes John Lapsley.

Amid the bubble and squeak which burbles from the Beehive, we hear hurt complaints about its sometimes grumpy Speaker, Trevor Mallard, writes John Lapsley.

I'm visiting Sydney, where I confront the Aussie side of my soul. I grapple with the ways in which it is different, then wonder why I give a toss, writes John Lapsley.

Once we shamble past say, 50, there is a very good case for living in the past writes columnist John Lapsley.

Self- made millionaires are a fervently right-wing species. They've started from scratch, stared down the big bad world, and made their motza. They have little time for "spongers" and "lefties",...

Back in those dear departed days of yore, there was a Kiwi catch-phrase so common it was almost cliche: "Live and let live", writes John Lapsley.

You don't need to be certifiable to indulge yourself in distinctly odd fantasies. The world would be as dull as a diet dinner if we couldn't savour our favourite daydreams.