October 07, 2004

An Open Letter To Matt Nippert - Have A Read, And Mullet Over

Mr Neil Falloon writes…

Matt Nippert is the worst writer of his generation.

I said it, Nippert. Are you happy now? You’ve needled, you’ve prodded. You’ve called my reportage a “joke”. You’ve said that as a “serious journalist” I don’t exist. Well now you’ve got my attention, and I’m tired of you already.

You want to be the biggest dog in the yard? What makes you think you are bigger than the NBR? That’s a massive dog, Matt – it would be a three storey high dog. Do you believe in three storey high dogs? Of course you don’t, and I don’t either. I’m in the reality game, and I’m calling you out.

You write about how Russell Brown blogs, and you blog, and David Cohen doesn’t blog like you’re the toll-collector on the information superhighway. But guess what, Nippert? I am blogging. Al Gore may have invented the internet, but Neil Falloon made it mean something.

You like to be the subversive face of the mainstream media, but that’s like being the dangerous one in a boy band. All you need is a goatee, you ho. You’ve grown puffed up and arrogant on the platitudes of your mainstream peers. You think the whole world is just one big air guitar competition.

You’re not underground. You run around with your Listener buddies, talking about “alternative media” this, and “Critlient doesn’t suck goatballs” that. I’ve got news for you Matt. That Qantas Media Award doesn’t mean you’ve busted the alternative media above ground. It means you’re a sell-out. The underground media doesn’t respect you. When I get together with Ian Wishart, Jock Anderson, and Jim Hopkins, we laugh at “Matt Nippert and his little Qantas”. When we can even remember your name, that is. Usually it’s one of Hopkins’ humorously derived epithets instead. Like “Matt Dippert” or “Crappin Pert”.

Sometimes we use your other names, your pathetic childish pseudonyms “Lyndon Hood”, “Tom Goulter” and “Max Johns”. Take some responsibility.

You take snide swipes at Cohen like you’re Ana Samways with a speech impediment. You say his love of books, in this html age, is “quaint”. Maybe you should follow David’s lead and go read a little something called “Know Your Role Matt Nippert, You Phoney”. Haven’t seen it? That’s okay, because 15,000 copies are being hand delivered to Auckland homes overnight. And there’s a rumour that photocopies of Metro’s "Drivel Corner" have been sent out all around Howick, although Nicola Legat says she hasn’t given permission. I don’t know anything about it, Matt, I was with John Banks the whole time. But maybe you want to think twice next time before crossing people with powerful friends.

You think you are a hardman, a rock star. You run your mouth about how you want to write for the “serious pages”, like you have gravity. You are not hard, Matt. You are not rock. I am hard. Even as I type this, I am harder by the second. Greg Dixon is hard. After the ASPAs, while Russell Brown was holding your hair back as you vomited into the Shakespeare’s toilets, Greg Dixon was threatening to smash my head in for recognizing him from his picture in the Herald. That’s a man who hasn’t sold out. He told me how he cuts himself every night to purge APN Holdings from his veins, and falls asleep to his own cries of anguish. When was the last time you cut yourself, Nippert, you wannabe? When you were clipping out Brown’s latest mention of you in his Listener column? You will not die before you are thirty. You are no Greg Dixon.

You think because I am not involved in your love triangle with Brown and Cohen that I don’t exist? That’s the best our mainstream journalists could come up with? Pretending I’m not real? Perhaps, when you are sipping your mocha selloutte and playing air guitar to a Martin Winch record in Starbucks, you should watch your back.

Like a Holocaust denier, you cannot continue the charade for long. The tide of history will wash over you like the waves over King Cnut. I know your type, Nippert, and you are just another Cnut from the Hutt Valley.

Yours sincerely

Neil Falloon




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