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The power of the press?

The scene: a trendy bar and eatery in Freemans Bay, Auckland. Booked exclusively last evening for a business function, three stalwarts of the popular press, including Ms F O’Sullivan and Mr P Holmes, tarried at an outdoor table after a late lunch. When politely reminded their time was up, the visitor from Hawke’s Bay replied: “Don’t you know who I am?” Sadly, the young and demure organiser had to admit that she had no idea, just that she had booked the place exclusively. Perhaps the question should have been: “Don’t you know who I was?” The defenders of the fourth estate stayed ostentatiously put after the bar manager quailed in the face of the ferocious and fulsome trio, fearing a D rated review.

And while we’re talking Holmesisms, a former neighbour of P Holmes told us of a time when the erstwhile ego knocked on his door asking to borrow a bottle of wine. Flattered that the great white mouth should ask, he duly gave him a bottle of his best and promises of a payback were made. The favour was returned when Holmes turned up on his doorstep—not with a bottle of similar value, but with a copy of his book. Signed mind you.

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