Bound to have been mentioned already, but I vote 'fleg'. Seems like so long ago now...
Samantha Bee interviews Russian troll-farm mercenaries merrily spreading chaos in the US election:
does he just sit in splendid isolation
Depends if you define Masterton as splendid.
...it would be better to work with him than to have to deal with a political neophyte, or worse, a flaming nutbar.
Flaming nutbar: boom, Whittaker's next chocolate range.
I presume many other people have suggested this, but it doesn't strike me as very likely that the first simile someone born in 1989 would reach for is a 1960 Hitchcock reference. But then thankfully I know nothing about the chap, other than the UK music mag review that said his album was derivative.
Too. Much. Rugby.
the usual lineup of ultra partisan commentators
Whose regular refrain, 'from New Zealand's point of view', reminds you that most everything they say is filtered through a one-eyed lens. Listening to skilled overseas commentators, such as some of the English crew, you're reminded that it's possible to appreciate and discuss good play from *both* teams. Not to mention the idea of analysing performance and precedents and making educated predictions, rather than just blokey utterances and pointless banter.
We are generally very lucky in NZ (and probably Australia too) with the quality of our sports camerawork - they really know their jobs and make it so much easier to enjoy matches, whatever the sport. As you point out, knowing the grounds well must be a factor.
There will be no Danny Morrison.
Swings & roundabouts, then.
I meant 1988, brilliant year that it was for me.
The NZ charts weren't quite so flash - top 10 songs of the year:
1. Holidaymakers - Sweet Lovers
2. U2 - One Tree Hill
3. U2 - Desire
4. MARRS - Pump Up The Volume
5. Billy Ocean - Get Out Of My Dreams
6. Tex Pistol & Rikki Morris - Nobody Else
7. Ardijah - Watching You
8. Times Two - Cecelia
9. Belinda Carlisle - Heaven Is A Place On Earth
10. Timelords - Doctorin' The Tardis
My non-fiction highlight of the year has been Simon Garfield's To The Letter, which aside from stitching together a compelling narrative of the influence of the now-waning art of personal correspondence on world culture, also contains vignettes of actual correspondence between a WW2 British Army soldier in North Africa and his sweetheart interspersed throughout the chapters. Those letters in particular are utterly gripping and I approached their conclusion with both keen anticipation and a growing sense of dread that some military mishap might stand in the way of true love.