If you haven’t already choked on your morning espresso martini while scrolling through the dregs of Woman’s Day, allow me to ruin your appetite. Jay-Jay Feeney, 51, that perennially chipper, pudgy purveyor of morning banter, has triumphantly announced that her 32-year-old Algerian “boyfriend” Minou has finally scored a visa to join her here in New Zealand. Cue the confetti, or more accurately, the eye-rolls from anyone with a functioning bullshit detector.
In her glossy tell-all, Feeney whines about the “uncomfortable and violating” hoops they jumped through, handing over messages, photos and emails to prove their “legitimate” romance. “For all those people who are saying he’s just using me for a visa, the reality is it’s pretty bloody impossible!” she bleats, as if reciting lines from a bad rom-com script. Darling, if it walks like a scam and quacks like a scam, it’s not a duck, it’s Minou, your visa-hungry paramour, eyeing your bank account like an obese Samoan bloke drooling over the last piece of fried chicken at KFC Mangere.
Let’s dispense with the pleasantries - this isn’t love; it’s a slow-motion grift, and Feeney is the perfect mark. For years, social media has been a chorus of “told you so,” pointing out the glaring neon sign that screams romance scam from every Instagram-filtered sunset they’ve posted. Minou, with his chiseled jaw and suspiciously sparse social history, isn’t here for Feeney’s “model-like looks” or “coke-bottle figure.” Those phrases have never belonged in the same sentence as her name without heavy irony. Nor is it her “amazing personality,”.
Hats off to Minou, though; the man’s a strategist. He’s played the long game like a chess grandmaster high on Red Bull, charming his way through years of transatlantic pillow talk without so much as a single “I love you” that didn’t come with a timestamped screenshot for Immigration New Zealand’s perusal. He probably laps up the attention more than Feeney does. Suddenly, this obscure Algerian bloke fancies himself a Kiwi celebrity, strutting into the spotlight via a radio host’s midlife crisis. Everyone else sees him for what he is, a gold-digging opportunist who’d charm the spots off a leopard if it meant a shot at permanent residency
Immigration’s scepticism? Utterly warranted. Why on earth would a handsome thirty-something from Algiers go thirsty for a washed-up broadcaster pushing 52? The age gap alone is a punchline, nineteen years of “experience” that Minou’s likely filing under “tax write-offs” in his mental ledger. Of course their messages “look like love.” That’s the scam’s greatest trick. He’s curated a digital breadcrumb trail of heart emojis and whispered nothings, turning Feeney into his unwitting puppet. She’s not his girlfriend; she’s his mark.
And mark my words, proposal incoming. Give it a year, tops, before Minou drops to one knee with a ring that’s probably cubic zirconia disguised as conflict-free. Two years after that? Straight to the lawyers, where he’ll claim half of everything she’s scraped together from radio gigs, endorsements and whatever residuals come from her podcast company with her ex, Dom Harvey. Sure, Feeney might smarten up and demand a prenup, but by then it’ll be too late. Even without a ring, a few years of cohabitation means he’s got de facto rights to a chunk of her assets.
This guy’s not just good; he’s a virtuoso, turning Feeney’s loneliness into his lottery ticket.
