I’m back baby. To all the new subscribers, if you’re looking for the previous chapters you can find them here Archive • Beehive Bit** • Buttondown

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It's like time has stood still. Three-way glances between us in the twilight of a Beehive starting to slumber for the night. Furrowed brows. Confusion or getting ready for the fight?

You can't shut Tui down. Pause. For fucks' sake.

- We're not shutting Tui down, the PM's brow has unfurrowed. - We're cutting it from the Caucus agenda on Tuesday.

- We'll wait until kitchen cabinet can see the first round of focus groups then we'll bring it back.

The Press Sec has a very sceptical eyebrow raised.

- Are you burning the candle too hard at both ends Rebecca? It's not like you to be so jumpy. It might be a good idea to take a few nights off. Look after your. Pause. Wellbeing.

Possibly. Very fucking possibly. But fuck that. We're prepping Nobby for Fieldays in the morning.

And that's the high well and truly stamped out. But I do take a little of the PM's advice and let the alarm roll over until 6am. It is too early in the campaign to let the nerves disintegrate.

Back in the Beehive’s morning glow Alix is not happy to be playing doll with Nobby again.

- Why am I dressing him in different military uniform? she says as she uses an index finger to make him do a 360 in his khakis.

The opposition's defence spokesperson, Harrison, always shows up to Fieldays in uniform. Who the fuck goes to Fieldays in military dress?

- So you don't want me to wear mine? Nobby pleads with me as Alix stuffs his hair under a beret.

Did I say that out loud? You'll be wearing yours.

- Won't I look like a bit of a prat?

You'll both look like prats. But that's because you're committed to a higher cause than fucking farmers. Fucking them the verb or fucking them the adjective? Could be both.

- What is Fieldays? Alix asks with her nose turned down in the expectation that it will be repugnant.

It's townsfolk in Swanndri jackets and Skellerups out the front while in the background farmers are trying to work out if they can really leverage a third mortgage to buy another diesel tractor. Federated Farmers using its most glorious PR machine to show that it's a cooperative of the ordinary men and not a monopoly. Capitalism at its best.

- It's the biggest agricultural trade show in the southern hemisphere, pipes up Nobby.

Yes Norbert, it is technically an agriculture trade show.

- And then there's a military parade?

No Alix, but it is the centre right's unfiltered playground to pull whatever political stunt they want.

Fast forward to Fieldays. On the drive into Mystery Creek Alix is starting to look sketchy.

- Will there be any rivers?

The Nobby whitewater replays still haunting your dreams? No, no dangerous outdoor adventures except for the tractor pull competition. Which Nobby will not be touching.

- I could drive a tractor.

Could you really? You know how to increase the horsepower on a hydrostatic transmission compared to a gear-drive transmission? And you could comfortably set the throttle linkage so you get the most rpms?

- Just thought it would be a good opportunity to get into civvy clothes and show my rough side.

Alix almost chokes on her flat white.

You're in military dress for the whole time we're here Nobby. That's your identity now. WEAR IT.

Pulling into the mighty car park, Alix turns her nose down again as she sights the rows of utes, SUVs and jumped up 4-wheel drives - these people are not good fucks.

I can see her getting nervous as she scans across the sprawling rows of gazebos and marquees, tear drop banners and printed awnings. Too much opportunity for an MP to disappear out of sight and appear hours later with inappropriate friends. Cheer up girl, it's good to get out of your comfort zone.

But not you Nobby, stop looking like a Cocker Spaniel and take this seriously. Get out the car and go walk through that puddle.

- What?

Your boots look like they're new.

- They are new.

Classic Fieldays mistake. Show up in new boots and everyone knows you haven't stepped out of the city since the last Fieldays. Then the press photographers get a nice close up and social media goes to town on the memes.

Get enough mud on them to make sure they don't look new but not a drop on your pants or blazer. You are a disciplined military man. You are the kind of man who can walk through the trenches without a hair out of place. You are...

Alix has an extremely arched eyebrow.

That's enough mud. Now stride into Fieldays. Stride like you know everyone is looking at you.

Alix is somehow looking extremely chic yet practical and the nose ring has gone. We are an ENTOURAGE.

Stride through the waving hands of cattle feed distributors and agriculture machinery vendors trying to tout their wares. Small hand gesture towards the Minister for Transport eating a sausage in a slice of white bread. We are absolutely not stopping to let him join our entourage. Look, that mother seems to have recognised you. Give her snotty nosed son a hearty thumbs up. Stride through the rutted mud underfoot and step CAREFULLY over the sheep droppings. Stride with the knowledge that the sun has peaked out from behind the cloud and is dazzling off the highly polished buttons on your blazer.

Now, duck in here, out of sight for a moment. The Labour MP is going to be coming out of the Frontera meeting over there in three minutes. You're going to cut him off (firm, manly, not liable to assault charges) and sidestep him to that spot over there (yes, exactly over there) so the two of you are alone. You need to stay on this side of him so the light is right.

God, Nobby is snivelling at me.

- But how do I...what if...

Just follow the plan. Follow the plan. You need to get in really close and intimate. You’re his BFF. You're going to tell him a joke. Nothing dirty. He could tell tale on that.

- I don't know any jokes.

Alix, without a hint of emotion on her face, says - What do you call a three legged donkey?

- What?!?

- Wonky.

Here he comes. Go go go.

Oh nice, Nobby is actually pulling this off. One of the Press Sec’s lackeys has turned up exactly when required and is taking the snaps.

Have you got some good shots?

- Yes. And...

Absolutely perfect, 1 News have started filming just in time. Fucking ace.

EXT. FIELDAYS - RURAL ADVOCACY HUB - DAY

REBECCA walks over to the 1 News TV CAMERA OPERATOR and TV REPORTER.

REBECCA
Would you like a few words with Minister Holt?             

TV REPORTER
That would be great.

CUT TO.

NORBERT pulls away from whispering in HARRISON’s ear. Camera flare diffuses out from the sun light reflecting off the buttons on their military uniform, creating an aura around the pair. Norbert’s hand lingers for a moment longer on Harrison's upper arm before he spots Rebecca and comes bounding over to the reporter. The TV camera operator swings her camera up in time to capture the moment.

REPORTER
Minister Holt, you were looking very close with Harrison Clarke over there.

NORBERT
Oh yes, it’s great being able to catch-up about Project Tui with someone from across the benches who really understand the benefits of military service.

Rebecca carefully steps into the middle of the path so that Harrison has to pass close to the news team.

REPORTER
Mr Clarke, over here. The Minister has just been saying he is grateful for your endorsement of Project Tui.

HARRISON
Oh no, I wouldn’t say I endorse the project.

NORBERT
But you agree that instead of defunding the defence budget we should be recognising the New Zealand Defence Force offers important career pathways and opportunities for people from across New Zealand?

HARRISON

Yes, I agree to that but…

Cut, cut, cut. He said yes. He said he fucking agrees.

That's a wrap Nobby. On we go. Stride through Fieldays like it is your domain. Inspire young men without hope.

Alix raises an eyebrow.

- Is there somewhere to get a drink?

We'll need to go off site. You don't want to mingle in the bars here.

- What about Nobby?

We'll leave him with the Chief of Staff who's coming over and, oh look, he wants us to admire his Swanndri that's he’s managed to get embroidered with the name of the Party and his own name. Toss pot.

I drive Alix into Hamilton so we can hole up in a quiet spot with a decent glass of Sav. A tiny bit of decency after a morning of gumboot and sheep pellets.

What’s up girl? She's more twitchy than normal and it doesn’t seem to be the fear of Nobby at large in the wild.

- The socials really hate Tui. The Greens and Te Pāti Māori are going hard. Between them and a couple of the other orgs they’ve got three separate petitions on the go and they’re getting numbers like they haven’t seen since the Treaty Principles Bill.

Believe me girl, there is such a thing as bad publicity in politics but this is not it. Tui is no longer a native bird or a beer brand, it's ours.

 - They're running a campaign asking DB Breweries to sue us for use of their Tui trademark. They say the brewery should take it to the high court.

Oh Alix, so much to learn. I trademarked the specific phrase Project Tui before the launch. They can create all the noise in the world but all they are doing is embedding Project Tui into the public consciousness. All they are doing is making sure that the biggest talking point of the election is going to be our policy. All they are doing is making us big boss in the political sphere. You can’t buy this type of cut through.

She sinks back into the rattan chair, fingers skimming between the glass of wine in her hand and her phone. Don’t do it girl. Don’t go into the socials rabbit hole. The algorithm knows exactly how to pluck at your young green heartstrings.

When we get back into Fieldays and pick through the rutted tracks, the six-foot banners glaring out of our coalition partner’s tent is a case in point. “From Benefits to Work.” What the fuck of a slogan is that? If you’re going to try and get in on the beneficiary-bashing you need to make something coherent enough for the fucktit holding forth after his seventh pint to understand.

This is getting to be a farce. Fieldays used to be ours, not these wannabe parties. We used to be the only ones with a tent. The only ones holding the big meetings. The only ones shaking the hands of the adolescent boys about to inherit daddy’s farm and patting the back of the old timer with three collies at his feet. You used to be able to smell the diesel in the air and know this was our country.

There’s the Greens over there, trying to hand out flyers about supporting low-income farmers with a bleeding electric quad bike sitting behind them. If the 1 News team are still around I’ll need to grab them and show them where to find the footage of the Green activists sabotaging a battery cage chicken farm in 2001. Farmers don’t forget that shit.

Jesus wept, is that Julianne O'Leary coming towards us.

- Who?

You don't need to know.

Julianne, I thought I had researched carefully that you were still in Lisbon and I wouldn't have to fucking see you here.

- A last minute whim. I changed my return flight so I wouldn't have to miss my first Fieldays in fifteen years.

Don't pretend we don't know it's twenty years and you're five years older than it purports on that LinkedIn bio.

- I'm so glad I've managed to find you so we can have a little time to catch up.

Off you fuck then Alix.

Alix looks distraught as her eyes sweep across the rutted lanes to the novelty wheelbarrows and quadbikes pulling trailers of cattle feed.

- She doesn't want to stay?

Absolutely fucking not. She's good. Go find out what Norbert's up to.

O'Leary thought she was going to be the new me after the exiling of the old crew. Might have even said she was my protege. Cunt lips. She didn’t last a full eighteen months. The Minister for Education found her bawling her eyes out so hard in the ninth floor bathrooms that she couldn’t stop crying long enough to phone a taxi. Two days later and lo and behind she was offered a once in a life time position at a lobbying firm that she couldn’t possibly turn down and she was glad the PM was so incredibly understanding.

- Frontera are not happy.

When are Frontera ever fucking happy. We've got three farmers in cabinet.

- I would hardly count Diane.

That's because you've got your own misogyny so far inside your dry minge that you thought women’s lib was a tampon brand.

 - It’s very far into election year not to have some kind of agriculture policy tabled. There are people in the sector saying that the Party has lost its roots. An awful lot seems to be invested into Project Tui and nothing for those in rural New Zealand who are being left behind.

Why can’t you speak without sounding like a press release? The one thing you can guarantee in the agriculture sector is that some bellend will proclaim we have lost our roots. Bring them to me on a stick and I’ll deal with them. I know you’ve got your own route to the PM so why are you bothering me about this?

- I think it’s time we start working together a little more closely again.

Over my dead twat. Someone has put you up to it and it better not be your fucking uncle playing golf with the Party President.

- Well thank you for your time Rebecca. Always a pleasure. I’ll see about setting up a little coffee date sometime.

And the day was going so well. What a total fucking downer. Now to find Alix and get back to the pub.

Hold on, why the fuck can I see Nobby in a tractor? Is he wearing the chief of staff's Swanndri? How the fuck did he get into a tractor in the tractor-pull?

By the time I get to Alix and the Chief of Staff on the side of the track, Nobby’s halfway down the course with a crowd of bemused onlookers giving him some half-hearted cheers. The sled behind the tractor is slipping at all angles in the puddles while liquid mud is spinning up behind the tractor’s wheels. The other tractor has cleared the course and Nobby’s tractor is going absolutely fucking nowhere.

Don’t even try with that apologetic look Alix. And, Chief of Staff, that Swanndri is getting ripped to shreds when Nobby gets out the tractor.

Wait a second. Is that two wheels starting to come off the ground? It's a flat track. How the fuck is he about to tip the tractor?

Alix is turning white again. The Chief of Staff is lowering the bucket hat he was jubilantly swashing in the air.