It got me thinking – what are my political preferences? What guides me when I’m in the polling booth, orange marker pen hovering above the ballot paper? It was time to revisit elections past.

1993 – Waikato
McGillicuddy Serious Party

18 and with the power to vote, this was my first election. It was also the last election under first-past-the-post – and my voting choice was a direct result of this. I lived in the corner of Hamilton that was part of the Waikato electorate. Most of Waikato was rich, rural heartland, so it was a safe National seat. There wasn’t much point in voting for any other candidates. And that’s where the McGillicuddy Serious Party came in.

The McGSP were a comedy party, but – as their name suggests – they were very serious about it. Based in Hamilton, they brought a bit of colour to the grey old town, but in standing a candidate in a safe seat, they helped expose the flaws that marred FPP voting.

And besides – the McGillicuddy’s 1993 manifesto had a recommended reading list that included the Lester Bangs essay collection “Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung”, which I got out of the library and it totally changed my life. Yeah.

1996 – Hamilton East
Electorate: McGillicuddy Serious Party
List: McGillicuddy Serious Party

The electoral boundaries changed and I was now in the more even-handed Hamilton East, but was I still willing to give the McGillicuddys a second shot. McGillicuddy always did well under FPP, but how would they do under the first MMP election? Could they win a seat in Parliament?

Well, no. They still got votes in safe electorates, but only managed 5590 party votes – compare that with 34,398 for the Aotearoa Legalise Cannabis Party. The McGillicuddys stood for one more general election before calling it a day. However, former McGillicuddy list candidate Metiria Turei is now taking things a bit more seriously as the co-leader of the Green Party.

1999 – Auckland Central
Electorate: National
List: ACT

The fact that I’ve voted ACT shocks some of my more right-on friends. Yes, it’s true. And it wasn’t a strategic Epsom move or anything. I voted ACT because I wanted them to get in government.

My flatmate at the time was an ACT supporter. He and a good friend of his had been supporters since they were teens going along to meetings of the Association of Consumers and Taxpayers. They weren’t just some kids who’d read “Atlas Shrugged” and decided to support ACT. It was a party that reflected their values and they could talk about it very intelligently. They’ve stuck with it, to the point that one of them was rumoured as a potential ACT list candidate this election.

And then at the same time National were kind of bombing and Labour were kicking arse. So I got a bit hipster about it and wanted to vote for someone who wasn’t the local champion. I felt really conflicted about it, and at one point completely lied and told a friend that I’d voted for the Labour candidate and Green.

2002 – Epsom
Electorate: Green
List: Green

I cannot remember why I did a double Green vote this election. I voted a couple of days before the election because I was out of town on election day. Making a vote in a corner of a suburban library is never as much fun as a proper vote on the day itself.

The day I voted was also the day of my lovely great-aunt’s funeral, and she was a bit of greenie, so perhaps it was in tribute to her. Or maybe it was a kind of backlash against my voting at the previous election. Or maybe Labour had done something that seemed a bit dirty, necessitating a more leftward nudge.

It’s funny how all this stuff seems like such a big deal at the time, and votes are cast with such conviction. But looking back, it’s a fading memory.

2005 – Epsom
Electorate: National
List: Labour

This was a crazy election. I wanted a good local MP. Rodney Hide, the ACT leader and likely winner, didn’t seem like the sort of person who’d be able to dedicate much time to his electorate.

There was a sneaky campaign going on to encourage National voters to vote for ACT. I’d received a strange phonecall from a woman doing a phone survey with questions loaded to support ACT. I even emailed the National candidate Richard Worth to see if he really wanted my vote. He said he did, so I gave it to him, with the party vote for Labour because I couldn’t think of anyone else to vote for.

It was also the election of the Exclusive Brethren-funded pamphlets. I found six of them stuffed in my mail slot, tempting me with a “Caribbean cruise” with the tax cut I’d receive if I voted for some unnamed party.

As it happened, Rodney Hide was elected, and then spent the following year dividing his time between being the ACT leader and his showbiz/weight loss journey on “Dancing with the Stars”. Yeah, a really choice local MP.

Richard Worth, meanwhile, got in on the National list but resigned in 2009, amid allegations of being a dickbag towards a woman he was trying to impress. Yeah, an even more choice MP.

2008 – Wellington Central
Electorate: Labour
List: Maori

I met Grant Robertson at a tweetup. He was a nice guy, we had a little chat and I figured he’d be a good local MP to have. A couple of years later, I saw him walking down Lambton Quay and he said, “Hi, Robyn”, which was also nice. And that’s what got him my vote.

I’m not entirely sure why I gave the Maori party my vote. Possibly because lots of people I knew were voting Green and I wanted to be different. And the Maori Party got into government, kind of.

Looking back at all my years of voting, I feel like a really lousy elector. On the eve of this year’s general election, I feel like I should be better prepared, to have done research and attended meet-the-candidate meetings and have asked questions. I feel like I should have really solid reasons for my decisions, rather than just making a snap choice in the polling booth. Or maybe I should do what some political reporters do and stay neutral by never voting.

But you know what? At least I’ve never voted Libertarianz.

I wrote about Playboy back in 1997. Back then I’d got hold of a copy of the magazine itself, and ended up somewhat disappointed that it didn’t live up to the exotic reputation it had held years earlier amongst my friends at primary school.

But since then Playboy has changed. The magazine still exists, but the iconic bunny logo has totally gone mainstream, having been licensed for all sorts of products related to the Playboy lifestyle. But it’s moved from representing a sophsticated, sexual thing for adult men to being a crazy fun thing for younger men and women who just want something that says, “Hey! Sometimes I have sex! I might have sex with you! Waaaagh!”

The old ads asked “What sort of man reads Playboy?“, with the answer being a worldly, wealthy, jetset, scotch-drinking kind of man. But what kind of person buys products with the Playboy bunny logo? I’ve started noting products that have licensed the bunny, in an attempt to gain insight into the new consumer of the Playboy brand.

Flannelette sheets

One would think, maybe, that the beds at the Playboy Mansion would be made with satin sheets, perhaps in a deep burgandy colour. But what’s in stock at Briscoes? Playboy flannelette sheets.

The perfect bedding for the playboy who lives in an uninsulated, unheated flat, who wants to ensure he (or she) can put on their jimjams and snuggle down with a mug of Milo into a nice warm bed in winter, but also wants to ensure their image as a sexy person is maintained year-round.

Duvet cover

If the pattern of the flannelette sheets was too subtle, how about a giant screen-print of the logo on a red duvet cover? This duvet is for those mornings when you don’t want to go to work because you have a performance review at work and you just know your manager is going to say something about that box of black marker pens you took that one time. So you call in sick and then start to actually feel a bit sick and spend the rest of the day eating two-minute noodles and watching “Titanic” on your HP laptop. Also: 40% off! Yay!

Throw cushions

How about a throw pillow to add some colour to either your flannelette sheet set or giant red duvet cover? There’s a black pillow with little bunny hearts (yay, love!) but more demanding of your love and attention is the giant bunny-shaped pillow.

While technically it is a pillow, it is also secretly a cuddly animal toy. If you feel that you’re too old for Mrs Panda and Colonel Teddy, the Playboy bunny cushion gives you a nice animal friend to snuggle up with when you’re feeling a bit lonely. No one ever need know. They will see the pillow and just think you are edgy, cool and sexual.

Fragrance

Oh, hey, merry Christmas! It’s a couple of days late, but your boyfriend’s dad and his stepmum are giving you their present. You guess that’s some sort of perfume gift pack – fingers crossed it’s the new Britney one! But, oh, it’s a Playboy perfume and moisturiser pack.

Your boyfriend’s stepmum immediately demands that you put some of the perfume on. She grabs the tube of moisturiser and starts smearing the cream all over your hands, insisting you deserve “a bit of pampering”. It smells like Ribena and curry. Your boyfriend looks ill.

Body spray

Playboy body spray exists for the young man who has a busy life – too busy for daily showering or the regular laundering of clothes. It’s ideal for those situations when Work Corey has to quickly transform into Date Corey before the train arrives.

Just grab that can of Playboy body spray in the Miami fragrance (this guy on Facebook says it’s the strongest), shove the can up your shirt and spray liberally. Remember not to squirt it down your trousers, but you may wish to give your area a little spray just to be safe.

Car seat covers

Cars – they’re a bit boring. It’s nice to individualise one’s automobile and there’s no better way to do that with some fluffy sex dice and some plush Playboy car seat covers. This is the kind of car that starts out with the formal nickname of Bertha, but ends up being called the Shaggin’ Wagon, much to the owner’s disappointment, but with the reluctant acceptance that it is sort of true, especially after that one time down by the river. But the good thing is the Playboy car seat covers are fully washable, so if you spill some banana Primo on it, you can easily clean it off.

I grew up in a house where sport wasn’t really watched. I could speculate that’s where my lack of interest in the game came from, but yet there was hardly ever any music played in the house and I’ve grown up totally in love with the world of pop. And likewise my brother has overcome this sporting handicap to become a fan of rugby league and union.

The few times I’ve watched rugby on TV, I’ve found it really hard to follow. It seems really complex, all these guys running around in different directions, passing, kicking and then stopping to get into various formations, like aggressive cheerleaders.

I’ve just never had a connection with rugby. Even in 2009 – the year I vowed to go to sports events – it didn’t occur to me to go to a rugby game. Soccer is simple enough, but even the achingly complicated cricket won out over ruggers. Perhaps it’s because of the massive role that rugby plays in New Zealand society. Top-level rugby seems so intense, so extravagant, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

Supporting the All Blacks – to the point where you’re ecstatic when they win and inconsolable when they lose – takes emotional committment. You give a bit of yourself to the All Blacks and let them become part of your personal identity. I’m not there. I’m still unconnected, outside the sphere of rugby. If the All Blacks lose the World Cup, I’m not going to go into mourning. But if they win, I won’t have that “WE’RE NUMBER ONE!” feeling of elation.

So the Rugby World Cup happens without me being drawn into it. I’ve only watched one match, a semi-final, and I was paying so little attention that I can’t even remember who was playing. Because I couldn’t follow the game, it was other stuff that grabbed my attention. My mental image of what a rugby game looks like seems to be based on how things were in the 1980s. So I was intrigued that today’s players mostly look really muscular and lean, like they’ve been deliberately visually bulking up their muscles and not carrying extra weight. They’re also a lot less hairy – there seems to be a serious waxing regime going on. It’s all very metrosexual, which I highly approve of.

When the big ol’ New Zealand versus Australia semi-final game was on last weekend, instead I was watching the indie romantic comedy hit “Strictly Sexual“. There are a lot of things that I’m really into right now and those will always win out over watching a rugby game.

So now, in the final hours before the really-big-deal final, I’m still trying to figure this thing out. I’m probably not going to watch the game. I probably won’t know the final score until I see people on Twitter emoting over it. But, you know, I’m not going to complain if the city erupts in jubilation… or implodes with devastation.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. While I do not currently own an automobile and have little direct need for petroleum byproducts, I do occasionally pop into servos for the purchase of such items as drinks or maybe an ice block if it’s a really hot summer’s day.

And Shell is, of course, the sponsor of Maurice Shadbolt’s travel book “The Shell Guide to New Zealand”, so even though it’s an international brand, it has a long history in New Zealand. Evidently Greenstone are just going to piss that history away because, as they told the Herald, “research showed demand for a distinctly Kiwi identity.”

Oh really? How is naming your company after the dungeon sadist from Pulp Fiction a Kiwi identity?

Greenstone CEO Mike Bennetts told the Herald, “Z is the first letter of the last word of the country to which our business is solely committed.” Oh, that’s quite clever. Hey, New Zealand is a country, and I can think of a word you can make from some of the letters in ‘country’ that also symbolises New Zealand’s national identity.

Wikipedia tells me that Shell got its name from the original owner’s family business importing seashells. There was no industry-specific consumer research behind that name. It literally described the business, then when the commodity changed from seashells to gasoline, they kept the name even though it wasn’t a literal fit.

Scoop notes that “[t]he swirly red and orange Z symbol, which does look a little bit like the number 8, is in fact a statement of New Zealand having moved beyond the number 8 fencing wire ‘battler’ to a ‘more confident and assured sense of our place in the world’.”

This rebranding is also coming at a time when margins on petrol are low and suburban petrol stations are closing down all around the country. The city is full of empty forecourts with boarded-up Shell Shops.

Petrol prices are rising and the young carefree motorist that Maurice Shadbolt was writing his book for now has a careful eye on the eftpos card, and is more reluctant to go on a road trip.

The few petrol stations left can’t rely on just selling petrol. They have to turn themselves into convenience stores and cafes. And indeed this is part of the Z rebranding.

Again from the Herald: “Greenstone has been working hard to develop new ‘cafe quality’ food and coffee in its stations. The company had not opted for sit down cafes but has ditched Australian pie suppliers and will sell pies made in Hawke’s Bay and sell cupcakes.”

So, hooray for (sort of) locally made pies, but cupcakes? Cupcakes? The time for cupcakes was in the early ’00s. Now they say the chic sweet is macarons, with the over-frosted cupcake having devolved into a signifier of nu housewifery – how to look and act like a 1950s housewife without actually having a house or being anyone’s wife. “Try them,” Z’s new website cheerfully urges. “The icing is the best!”

Cupcakes are to the ’10s what muffins were to the ’90s – a way of snacking on a sweet treat, but being able to convince yourself that it’s good for you. The muffin contains fruit so it is healthly; the cupcake is a high quality indulgence and therefore is emotionally healthy.

Wait, of course it makes sense that Z will sell cupcakes. Go on, grab a cupcake with your petrol. It will make the price of petrol seem less painful, and also make you less mournful of having to live way out in the false economy of car-centric Churton Park because it seemed like the only affordable suburb.

Eventually all the Shell livery will come down and the Zs will go up. Eventually the Shell logo will look like a ye olde remnant of the 1950s, and Z will be just another petrol station brand.

• Diana’s voluminous wedding dress seemed like the totally obvious choice for a teen bride that an older bride wouldn’t touch. “Wheeee! I’m going to be a princess!”
• Charles looked really uncomfortable, like he didn’t really want to be there. When the archbishop talked about how marriage is not to be taken lightly, Charles looked strangely twitchy.
• And despite the theoretically joyous occasion, there’s a layer of tragedy pressing down on it from the future. Divorce! Death! No one’s immune from that.

But let’s get back to this future, and hope that a similar fate doesn’t befall William and Kate.

First was the news that William’s granny had passed the happy couple a duchy, meaning they were to be known as the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Awesome – Cambridge is a pretty little town, the jewel of the Waikato, and worth more than just a toilet break for travellers on State Highway One. Also, take that, Tirau!

I was watching the royal YouTube channel, which was just a raw feed with no commentary – and no footage of fabulous celebs arriving at the church. Instead I just had to use my general knowledge of royals of the world (hint: European royals are generally more attractive than UK royals).

I was hoping for a glimpse of Mrs John Key and her husband, but the footage didn’t provide. I was intrigued by reports of John Key’s “pounamu washed” suit. No one actually seemed to know what “pounamu washed” means, but I wondered if was a similar process to stoned-washed jeans, but with greenstone instead of pumice. But from subsequent photos, it turns out the fabric was just tinted green. What?

The first sight of William and Harry was rather exciting because it appeared they were both paying tribute to the late, great HRH the King of Pop, Michael Jackson with their elaborate military-style jackets. Fortunately there was no crotch grabbing.

While the A-list Windsors all arrived in fancy cars or horse-drawn landaus, the B-list royals arrived in minibuses. This was a somewhat controversial choice. “Minibuses?!,” the world tweeted. But I reckon every family who’s had more than two children, and had to ditch the family sedan and upsize to a van or peoplemover will identify with that. Big families need big automobiles.

Westminster Abbey was operating with a strict policy forbidding guests from using cameras. This means it would be the first wedding in decades to not have the church full of aunties taking bad photos with dinky little digital cameras, and uncles mucking around with overly complicated DSLRs that had clacky loud shutters.

Finally the bride appeared, wearing rather a nice dress. It was, like everyone has noted, quite like Grace Kelly’s wedding dress, only with a V-neck and managing to look more Anglican than Princess Grace’s Catholic styles.

I’m also wondering if the 1950s Grace Kelly style is further evidence of the huge impact that “Mad Men” is having on contemporary dress. We like getting dressed up in our mid-century-influenced suits and gowns.

And even though veils seem a bit weird these days – and are certainly not part of the ’00s-style strapless bridal gown and low bun uniform – Kate’s was nicely proportioned. Unlike her mother-in-law’s veil, which looked like Diana had got caught up in some net curtains.

The first time William saw his bride, he looked so happy, which made me happy. Compared to his dad’s nervousness, William looked totally smitten with Kate, which bodes well for the future. So maybe this is how it goes now – you marry someone you love, rather than a medically certified virgin with a title.

At one point YouTube – which was holding up brilliantly – got a tiny delay and a slight electronic echo to the sound, making the archbishop terrifyingly sound like a Cyberman.

During the vows, Twitter got really quiet. Actually, that’s not totally true – there was still discussion, but it was all from guys. All the twitettes were too busy watching the ceremony to tweet. And besides, it’s hard to type when you have tears of joy in your eyes.

Also on Twitter, the #QILF hashtag was trending. The Q stands for queen, which is a bit weird because Kate isn’t a queen (yet). Or could it be that the live broadcast has opened people’s eyes to HRH Liz, stunning in yellow? Also, I’m going to be checking the @JohnKeyPM Twitter account to see when he makes a #QILF tweet. I mean, it’s just a matter of time. We know he has a thing for slightly posh, slender, brunette Brits.

When songs were being sung, the camera would linger on Sir Elton, as if perhaps hoping that he’d put on a soulful singing face and really belt it out. But he looked like everyone else, half-singing, half-mouthing along. Ditto for the Beckhams. Nothing in the world of Spice could prepare Posh for this.

This whole wedding business seems quite fun. I’ve only been to a few weddings (now people seem to buy houses instead of getting married), and in 36 years, I’ve somehow not managed to have the opportunity of having a wedding of my own. Maybe I’ll do a Dennis Rodman and marry myself.

I did a tally and figured there were at least six New Zealanders at the wedding: the Prime Minister and his wife; the Governor General and his wife; William’s former equerry Sam Stevenson; and Gary Lewis of Gisborne, husband of Lady Davina. So I reckon it would have been quite good if all the New Zealanders had got together and done a haka as a mark of respect for the couple. Why did not this happen? I pay taxes!

Ceremony over, the various royals made their way back to Buckingham Palace. Overhead camera shots revealed a large amount of horse poo on the streets. Imagine what cities would have been like in 19th century – smelly, dirty, unhygienic, with a whole industry around cleaning up the poo. Fortunately the clean, efficient motorcar came along and got rid of that problem.

Finally all eyes were upon the balcony at Buckingham Palace. The Windsor-Middleton whanau emerged, complete with plenty of waving. Then I lipread William say to Kate, “Shall we? Shall we?” and then he leaned in and gave her a quick smooch, and another one. I thought maybe he was a bit embarrassed having his gran right next to him, but even after she went inside there was still no royal pash.

Ok, so that’s all over with. I can go back to not thinking about the royal family very much, other than the occasional glimpse at old Queenie on the back of a 10c coin.

I am thinking, though, that I might do a drawing of the wedding and send it off too the happy couple. Well, it worked out quite well last time.