Well, I've been here for about five minutes and I've already been sworn to secrecy on at least two separate occasions. And you people know who you are.
For instance, I had to bail out of a party last Friday night because the only copy of my thesis (with supervisory editing) was sitting on the front seat of a car in Mt. Cook, and the nerves were a little dulled by the beers, but not entirely.
It seems that no one else shared such anxiety though. So we all must do that again some time.
Anyhow, the trip to Wellington went off without a hitch, having inherited a car and saying a few quick hello/goodbyes to the rellies, the North Island fair whizzed by, and before I knew it I was watching people getting themselves hammered at the Beehive and around town. Ah yes, the sacred political art of sinking piss.
At least there weren't any stupid blurts happening.
Apart from being outed by a mate, who asked the drinking buddies if they read this page. I was then both embarrassed and surprised, especially when a few seemed shocked that I wasn't a short, bald, tubby man. Well, maybe gone a little tubby around the spare tyre region. It seems that my Australian anonymity is well and truly gone.
For those anxious about being written about in lurid detail, this week will instead be made up of rollicking discussions and attempts to corner people into explaining various enzed political occurrences, such as that fascinating case of the guy who's not allowed to be Maori, or what to rename possums to make them palatable, or why in the hell IHUG stops working the second the clock ticks over 9am, in Wellington Central.
And to jump yet another bandwagon I think the only comment I could possibly make about the Tamihere 'incident' is to point out that Frank Haden is officially the most out-of-touch columnist I've read in a long time. I'm no doubt preaching to the converted, but his pontificating about our John being the 'first Maori prime minister' was in all likelihood written before the weekends' revelations, but ascribing the leadership of a party to a man who had very recently entirely isolated himself, even if not by his own choice, is more than a little tenuous.
Even more, I reckon that the very phrase 'first Maori PM' is perhaps the ultimate jinx, the mega-jinx if you will, that is guaranteed to scuttle any Maori MP. It damn near sunk Winston after all, and I have a vague (and very sketchy) memory of it sinking Tau Henare.
Actually, speaking of Winston. I have a plan. A cunning plan. I have yet to run this one past MS Reality Checker, but there may be a great way to dislodge him from Tauranga once and for all. Heh heh heh. Or maybe "Mu-ah, ha, ha".
The go is this, Stage One I phone up a few guys I know from my old hometown, Mount Maunganui, who poise themselves until the few days before the next election.
Stage Two. These guys get a bunch of other people to come with them, and they try to completely block off the main beach at the Mount. Big banners, lots of yelling and the waving of the arms, great photo ops of surfers being sent packing etc.
Stage Three. They then make a claytons demand for ownership of the beach, under the contents of the new Foreshore legislation.
Stage Four. We tell the blue-rinse set in Tauranga that the only reason they're able to do this is that "WINSTON MADE IT POSSIBLE WITH THAT DODGY LEGISLATION!"
Stage Five. We all produce evil laughs when he is deposed for what will in all likelihood be an ACT MP. But, the lesser of two evils. Mu-a, ha, ha.
I think there's probably holes in that plan you could drive an articulated through, but hey. Up here's for thinking people, up here's for thinking.
And speaking of thinking, suggestions about what to do with Club Politique that will stop it from being taken off screen due to conflicts of interests (work) will be warmly appreciated. I'm thinking a run-down of happenings here in the Windy City, but input from expats who are still attached to the place will be given due consideration.