JULIAN ROBBINS sat at his desk, head clamped between his hands, staring morosely at the latest Roy Morgan poll data. Twenty-nine percent! Dear God – what did his boss have to do to get just one good poll! And Colmar Brunton on Sunday. If it showed Labour in the twenties? No, no, no, he wasn’t going to go there.
The telephone’s shrill rattle jolted the Leader of the Opposition’s chief media officer out of his gloomy reverie.
“Julian?”
It was Fran Mold, his new boss. Bloody hell! What did she want now?
“Hi Fran. What can I do for you?”
“How did you do it, Julian? How-did-you-do-it?”
“Do what?”
“That interview with Geoff Robinson on Morning Report. David was brilliant!”
“Jesus, Fran, don’t you start. It’s bad enough having all my old mates in the Press Gallery teasing me, without you joining in.”
“No, no, Julian, I’m being serious. Shearer was fantastic this morning. Best I’ve ever heard him. Smooth, assured, articulate, witty, serious when he had to be. No ums, no ahs, no half-finished sentences or mental re-writes. Julian, he sounded, he sounded … prime-ministerial!”
“Now I know you’re taking the piss!”
“I’m not, Julian, really, I’m not. Didn’t you listen to the interview?”
“Well, to be honest, no. I try not to these days – it just makes me more depressed.”
“Jeez, Julian! Don’t say that to anyone else!”
“Sorry.”
“Look, just go to the RNZ website, have a listen – then call me back.”
Julian replaced the receiver with a disbelieving shake of his head. Fran had only been back two minutes and already she was living on the same dysfunctional planet as the rest of them. Planet Labour. Swear to God, if it wasn’t for the bloody mortgage!
He double-clicks the link to Radio NZ website and calls up the Morning Report interview with Shearer on the GCSB. http://www.radionz.co.nz/
Here goes nothing ….
FRAN MOLD’S CELLPHONE buzzes like an angry bee in the dark depths of her shoulder bag.
“Julian!”
“You were right, Fran! I can’t believe it. He sounded, he sounded, Jeez, he sounded … great!”
“Tell me how you did it. What did you say to him? What the hell was he on? Julian, please, tell me that you didn’t slip him something illegal!”
“Don’t be stupid. All he had was a cup of Radio New Zealand coffee … Oh my God!”
“What?!”
“The coffee! David said it tasted a little strange – like it was off. He only took a couple of sips …”
“… and turned into a lucid, witty, compelling, prime ministerial, LEADER of the Labour Party!”
“Christ, we’ve got to get hold of that coffee!”
“Radio New Zealand – fast as you can! I’m two minutes away.”
“Leaving now!”
KAREN SMITH, the Radio New Zealand receptionist looked from one of the two panting Labour Party staffers to the other. She just couldn’t figure Julian out. Okay, okay, he missed out on the political editor’s job. And then they handed Sean Plunket’s Morning Report spot to Simon Mercep. But throwing in his job and going to work for David Shearer? Hell! He might just as well have taken the lift to the roof and jumped off. And now he was wittering on about the coffee in the kitchen. Sheesh!
“Please, Karen? We only want to take a look. Come on – what harm could it do? Just a look!
“Oh, heck, why not? I’ll swipe you through. Still remember the way, Julian? Course you do.”
“This is nuts, Fran. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Shut up, Julian. Just find me those coffee beans.”
“Fuck! They’re not here!”
“What do you mean they’re not here?”
“The tin, it’s empty – it was full this morning and now its empty. Look.”
“Excuse me, but you couldn’t tell us what happened to the coffee beans that were in this tin this morning, could you?”
The Radio New Zealand sound technician, frowned. What the hell was Julian Robbins doing back in the building, and who was the woman with him? Something fishy going on here, something very fishy indeed.
“It’s alright, Nigel. David Shearer was here this morning and he commented on the quality of the coffee. Asked me to find out where it came from.”
“Yeah, well we’d like to know where those bloody beans came from as well. The whole tin was off. Some sort of strange mould all the way through it. Tasted like shit. You’re sure Shearer didn’t have the instant?”
“No, no. It was from the beans in this tin. What do you do with the stuff you throw out?”
“Huh? You serious? Yep. Well, um, I guess it ends up in the big skip in the basement.”
“Quick, Julian! The basement!”
“Thanks Nigel!”
HARRY KAIMAHI slammed his foot on the brake just in time to avoid a collision with the two people running towards him down the alley. Talk about the long, the short and the tall! And now the big guy is pounding on his door. Drawing a deep breath, he pushes the window control.
“You want to watch it, mate. Running headlong into several tons of truck can be bad for your health.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. We really need to find the Radio New Zealand skip. You couldn’t show us where it is by any chance?”
“I sure could. Just dropped it off. But I should warn you, it’s completely empty.”
“What does he say, Julian? Does he know where it is?”
“Um, I think we’re too late, Fran. I think it’s been emptied already.”
For a small woman, Fran Mold moved with disorientating speed. Before Julian could stop her she had heaved herself up to the level of the truck-driver’s window.
“Do you know what you’ve done, you stupid, stupid man! Have you any idea what was in that fucking skip!”
“Rubbish?”
“No! Wrong! Not rubbish! In that skip was the last, best hope of a Labour Party victory in 2014! You have, single-handedly, lost us the next election!”
Harry Kaimahi looked into the tear-stained face of the desperate young woman sobbing at his window, and sighed.”
“Not me, Lady. And not anybody like me. Labour doesn’t need our help to lose the next election. Not when its useless MPs and their bloody hangers-on are doing such a shit-hot job of losing it all by themselves.”
Heard the interview. He was so competent I knew he was on drugs. This confirms it.
OUCH! and accurate.
Julian was duly impressed, and then he turned on the television and watched David’s speech on the bill from parliament.
http://youtu.be/yhzSCVFbSBw
The hard slapping sound of his hands hitting his face was heard across the precinct startling many.
*pssst!*
Wanna buy a magic bean, squire?
Interesting story, Chris. Yes, Shearer did sound better in that interview.
As I’ve written somewhere else, if Shearer can survive a “baptism of ‘friendly’ fire” from within the Left – he should be well prepared to meet the Dark Lord of the Right next year, on the campaign battlefield.
Calloused; battle-hardened; and with a hide thickened after months of being kicked all over the place – when Shearer meets Dear Leader mano-au-mano, it may well be like a picnic with Mary Poppins in comparison.
Sometimes I think internacine warfare within the Left is more vicious than anything the Right can lob at us.
“Yes, ready you will be, Young David! When strong is the Force within you!” (Apologies to Master Yoda.)
The ‘problem with David Shearer’ is that he already ‘is’ prime-ministerial.
What some MP’s and ‘hangers on’ seem to want right now is a slugger, someone who will land a knock out punch.
David Shearer is certainly not from the old school of Labour party in-fights and hard knocks and carries no baggage or scars. Thank god!
I know an old Nana who will have his picture in a frame on her kitchen wall quicker than you can say peeping John.
sweet. problem solved.
one and a half years as leader and he finally produces 2 mins of coherence.
long live the munter
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