The secret diary of . . . Kim Dotcom
The artistic community, including myself, mourns for Philip Seymour Hoffman.
As one of the world’s greatest recording artists, as well as an acclaimed performance and bullshit artist, I am deeply saddened by the loss of an actor who, like myself, expressed many deep emotional feelings.
Last week I broke my foot. The doctors said I might never walk again. I wasn’t too fussed. It does a man good to lie down. But the point is that I refused to suffer in silence, and expressed many deep emotional feelings about it on Twitter.
Like Hoffman, I’ve played many roles. The victim. The campaigner for justice. The party animal bringing good times wherever he goes. Sometimes I wonder what this rather mediocre country did for fun before I arrived. I’ve spoken to many Kiwis about it, and they all said they can’t remember a time before I was here.
Hoffman’s death has robbed the world of a major talent – and now we’ll never know just how good he might have been playing the role of Kim Dotcom.
One thing is for certain. It would have been the role of his career.
Like myself, he had the weight for it. He had the necessary range, too. He could play powerful, brilliant, adorable, and humble, but he could also play facile, annoying, talentless, vain, tedious, and loathsome.
And yet I think the best person to play the role of Kim Dotcom is myself. At the end of the day, only I could stomach it. Sometimes I think how easy it would be for agents from the CIA, FBI, GCSB, RSA, ACC and SPCA to disguise themselves as trees, plant themselves around my property, and convert energy from the sun into chemical energy stored in carbohydrate molecules, such as sugars, to produce photosynthesis.
No-one would ever know – until it was too late. My lawyers expose more dirty tricks from John Key. It’s becoming evident that he’ll stop at nothing. The latest revelations are another abuse of power – and a sign of just how far he’ll go to deprive New
The best person to play the role of Kim Dotcom is myself.
Zealanders of the sound of my voice.
I was played audiotapes which record Key saying, ‘‘That album of his is a masterpiece, and is sure to fill dancefloors and persuade all who hear it that its creator is a visionary and a funky individual . . . The public must never know!’’
And then another voice comes on. It’s a man with an American accent. He says, ‘‘Get your people to do whatever it takes to prevent it from being heard on the radio. I repeat: whatever it takes.’’
There can be no doubt that the voice belongs to Barack Obama.
I look forward to seeing the President squirm on the witness stand when we subpoena him to give evidence at my extradition hearing. I’ll also be calling Putin, Cameron, Merkel, and Shane Warne. They’re all in on it. There are others, too. The witness list is as long as my arm. It’s going to be a very drawn-out court case. It could go on, and on, and on. I know I will. Attended an Internet Party thinktank. I surrounded myself with a dream team of achievers, innovators, and people whose faces I recognised in newspaper social pages. I think Colin Mathura-Jeffree was there. Benji Marshall was definitely there, or it might have been that guy who goes around impersonating him.
We talked for a long time about staging an extravagant party at our annual conference. I asked the party’s secretary Alistair Thompson to book a venue, but someone said he’d quit before he lost the will to live.
The meeting finished, and I took a walk around the property. It was nice to be out in the fresh air and listen to birdsong. But I began to suspect something didn’t feel right. Something strange. I think it was the trees.