No Minister

Politics is a funny business. Though the people of Mordor do have politicians, these seem to be just extensions of the common man rather than public school educated tw@ts or lying war criminals. I could be wrong but that is the impression I get from the following few experiences.

The Prime Minister, John Key, represents the National Party. Not “National” in a Nick Griffin/Adolf Hitler kind of way, but more in a Conservative vein and though he is a world leader he seems to be as accessible as the mayor of a small town. You know, which he is…

Evidently Sauron keeps him on a loose leash and one of the radio stations rings him up from time to time to ask his opinions on certain things, mainly the sporting events. To them he is just “John”, and the conversations are always very casual and relaxed with no pandering to him and a fair bit of florid language thrown in as is the Kiwi way. I can’t imagine anyone doing that with a UK politician, unless they were able to beat them with a piece of steel pipe beforehand to work out all of the issues.

He was on again recently in this astonishing broadcast.

A bloke I worked with was at a café in Newmarket one Saturday morning for breakfast. He spotted a family of four at the next table also having brekkie and thought he recognised the guy from somewhere. Only when the guy got up did he realise it was John Key. He then spotted 2 minders at a nearby table, but was amazed that there was the leader of the nation (albeit a nation of sheep and Orc minions) at a café, just hanging out. Crazy stuff.

The wife likes him so much she wants him to be her dad. As her own dad is a lying, thieving scumbag of the highest order anything is preferable I suppose.

I had a run in with one of the members of the new Hobbiton Council recently when he showed up at work. Of all of the politicians I think he is the least respected, looking as he does like the Hood from Thunderbirds. As he entered the control room here I was roped into the party accompanying him (mainly as I just happened to be passing and they needed to make up the numbers as he was so unpopular) and stood by as he started punching buttons for a photo opportunity. I remarked to a colleague in a louder than intended whisper that he looked like an angry midget Voldemort. At this point he stopped what he was doing and looked around at the assembled entourage and I tried to appear as nonchalant as possible, unsure if he heard me or not. He then frowned, which made his eyebrows look like caterpillars doing some weird insectoid samba, swiftly concluded his photo op and left to deal with those International Rescue pricks once and for all.

Hobbiton has a new mayor and his name is Len.

Quite a few people threw their hats into the ring for this coveted role, including the incumbent mayor, several local councillors, a comedian, a former tv star and a local dole scum troublemaker by the name of Penny Bright.

Anyway, after a hard fought campaign Len Brown won the election and became Mayor of the Auckland Supercity (which saw the amalgamation of five Orc tribes into one), and he did all of this in the defiance of my wife.

To say she hates him is understating the matter somewhat (it’s a bit like saying World War 2 was merely a frank exchange of views) and she has often wished for a portal to Hades to open up beneath him and for his gurning frame to be dragged down and torn asunder by the claws of grotesque demons. All the time being anally raped at the hands of insatiable, barbed penised hell hounds and screaming in indescribable torment as the superheated gases of Hell’s unholy furnace blacken and char his hair and skin. Oh, and he’s also forced to watch looped episodes of the Keeping Up Appearances Christmas Specials.

All pretty standard stuff really.

She came to this conclusion being largely put off by his cheesy grin and row of tombstone like teeth but felt that he had essentially sentenced himself to the pit of torment after his famous council speech in June. Len had been under media attention for matters relating to some spending on his council credit card which included items of a personal nature like toys, cave troll prostitutes and a can of Balrog repellant.

At the council meeting where all this was brought up he repeatedly slapped his face and got extremely emotional, leading to intense speculation that his actions were attributable to his use of a Maori act of contrition. True or not, the face thing is a bit odd and freaked the missus out enough for her to feel physically sick when she saw his visage from then on.

Because of this I took every opportunity to seize the remote and turn up the volume when his campaign adverts came on and secrete flyers bearing his crooked grin in her work bag. It’s not that I am a bad husband; it’s simply that I have a strong death wish.

Recently I was having a drink in Aotea Square and he wandered past on his way for a coffee. As luck would have it I had a camera handy and gave chase telling him that my wife was a HUGE fan of both him and his campaign and that she would be really impressed if I shook his hand. I then shoved the camera into the hands of the woman he was with (who it turns out was the Deputy Mayor) and the little fella put his arm around me, imparting a “Good on ya, mate” as he grinned for the camera.

He genuinely seemed like a nice guy so I wished him all the luck for the future, apologised for pestering him when he was trying to get his Whorebucks fix and went back to my alcohol. He even waved at us when he left Whorebucks and went off, credit card in hand, in search of champagne bubbles to polish his antique waka with.

When I got home and showed the picture to the missus she made me take a shower and sleep in the spare room for a week.