Chapter One of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
LAST check in the mirror. Tits plumped. They look good. The line of this blazer is SHARP. Thank fuck for shapewear. But,
shit,
there’s a grey hair.
Not a blend-in-with-the-salon-dye-job grey hear but a white bolt of lightning shooting for the sky. This cannot be. I was meant to be out the door four minutes ago. I am rummaging for the tweezers. I am not taking this grey hair where I’m going.
IT’S all okay. I’ve made up time stalking through the forecourt. Even in these heels. I’ve still got IT. Swan past the security conveyor belt. But I am a beast of a swan. Long necked, ready to poke you in the gullet. Slam the swipe card, green light.
I'm back in the Beehive BITCH.
Speaker of the House spots me. He is on the other side of the foyer but I can still see his stomach falling through that pouch of his to the floor. He doesn't know the Prime Minister got her lower-level bitches to issue me the card. Can't stop me now.
I'm on my way to the ninth floor. The walls feel me. They've missed me. Now they're vibrating with the hum of messages; whiny bitch Speaker sending them upwards.
- Rebecca is in parliament. How the fuck did this happen?
Dr. Howard to you, bitch.
THE PM welcomes me into the Caucus room after the perfunctory cup of tea with her Press Sec. Who I like. Because she is a conniving bitch who knows I want a strong black coffee but she gives me a tea knowing that I know that she knows that tea is stewed paper.
The PM welcomes me in and the MPs take their eyes off the exploding messages on their phones. They look guilty as fuck.
The PM welcomes me in. I look badass.
Snivelling rat who has the portfolio for dog racing or is it horseracing or is it elephant racing. I can't remember and I can't remember what his name is. Snivelling rat asks what I am doing here. The PM says it was agreed at kitchen cabinet. Kitchen cabinet look guilty as fuck.
The PM says I am the new strategist. I am here to deliver Operation Tui.
I say what. We are not some fucking Yankee CIA protege.
The PM says sorry. - Dr Rebecca Howard is here to deliver Project Tui. Their faces all say ‘what?’ But not the kitchen cabinet. They are so far in fingers cannot reach them. And I say ‘what?’ But with a smirk. Because of course I know the what. And they are on tender hooks. The PM brings out the papers and her bad ass Press Sec passes them around. And then the grumbles stop.
Hush.
All eyes down.
But my eyes are high.
I shift and now my breasts are high.
I shift.
My hips are high.
I'm a bad ass bitch.
Hush.
All eyes read.
The purpose of Project Tui is three-fold:
· to simultaneously address an increasingly dangerous global arena; and
· give the public the confidence that every dollar of their taxes is being put to productive use; and
· allow meaningful pathways to employment for those who have been left behind for far too long.
To this end we are going to ——— — ————— ——— that will allow the New Zealand Defence Force to — —————— — ——— ———— —— —— ——— —— ——— ———— that are threatening our democracy.
As Churchill said, in 1934, “to urge the preparation of defence is not to assert the imminence of war. On the contrary, if war were imminent preparations for defence would be too late.”
This ————— ——— will be drawn ——— ———————— —— ——— ——— ——————— ———————— ————— —— — ———— —— —— ———— — ———, so long as they —— —— ——— ——— — ——— — ——. These ———————— include, and are not limited to, ———— —————— ———— —— ——— ———— ————. In order to continue to receive ——— ———— ——————— ——— —————— — ——— ———— —— - ———— — — ——— —— ——— and at least —— ———— —— ———.
This —————— ——— — —— ——— ——— —————— ————, will give confidence to the public that their money is not being wasted on perpetuating the cycles of poverty and unemployment that have characterised sectors of our society for too long. Instead, ————————— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———— ——— —— ———— —— ————— — ———— ——— future career needs.
Additional outcomes include reinvigorating a sense of pride and purpose in our citizens in the face of forces which are trying to divide our society.
The MP for Ōtaki, what’s-her-face, says - Why are parts redacted? You’re not allowed to redact cabinet papers.
It’s not a cabinet paper you fucktit.
Press Sec sees me about to pounce and slides in real smooth - It’s not a cabinet paper. It’s a project brief, prepared by Dr. Howard as part of our campaign strategy for the general election.
Tweedle-dum sitting next to what’s-her-face pipes up next - But why can’t we read the whole thing?
The Chief of Staff tries to assert his testosterone dominance over the wily Press Sec, - Only the kitchen cabinet are allowed full access at this stage. Then he pulls out an actual paper fucking copy of the caucus manual and quotes from it. He’s such a limp dick.
I fucked him once. Ten years ago, when he was still in uni. He's scared I'll let that out.
Because it happened again at the last election night party.
The PM’s back in charge. Eyeballing the ministers who look like they might dare to protest, scorning the backbenchers who she knows are trying to tap messages into their phones without her seeing. All sugar and spice, she confirms I'm also helping with the upcoming by-election.
They look pissed.
All sugar and ice, she confirms I’m helping with PR too.
They look scared.
Ping ping ping. The Press Sec is adding me to all the group chats.
-What's her title, asks the Finance Minister, clutching his mental copy of the cabinet manual in his pea sized brain. He’s in the kitchen cabinet but he hadn’t realised I was this deep in the PM’s plans.
The PM says – Rebecca’s not going to be parliamentary staff. She’s on Party payroll.
So you can’t touch me cocksuckers.
- Dr Howard will be billed for strategic consultancy.
They look terrified. I'm done.
HEADING to the door, the Press Sec hands me a fob. What’s this?
- You’re not getting an office in the Beehive, she tells me. It's going to be in the party offices.
Fuck this shit. I don’t want to be sitting with the plebs.
I WALK through the press gallery on my way out. Their necks crane out of their offices. Rumours have pinged down through the walls and they are gleeful children finding out one of their favourites is back. Swagger swagger down the corridor. I’m talking on my phone, letting them all hear that I'll be in every Tue. Notifications start pinging immediately.
- Let's get coffee 😉.
- Have you got a story? Attributable to an unarmed source of course 😊.
Hold you horses bitches. This is just my announcement. You'll be hearing from me.
And get rid of the fucking emojis.
DONE for the day. Cocktail in the -----'s hotel bar. The peace on the water. The tranquillity of this small-town capital's bay. I think I see a pod of dolphins coming round past the lighthouse. No just cloud flickering strange shadows on the sea.
Fuck it, what are the MPs up to on the Insta.
Pull my hair out, Jesus Wept.
- Look at me on the Insta with this rural hick handing me a lamb at the fair.
Go do your fucking reading for the select committee tomorrow. Why is one of them eating a fucking curry in Ponsonby? You've got splatters on your tie fucknuckle. I know your cabinet papers are well over fucking due.
Onto TikTok now.
Five minutes, five fucking minutes of you talking about the Oranga Tamariki legislation while putting your make up on. No wonder it's only got six hearts.
Ah, thank fuck, some light relief. There's a girl doing Irish dancing to the Macarena. How does she get her feet so high up her thigh. And her fellow has just joined her on perfect timing and how is he not falling into the canal when his feet are flicking so far over the edge of the water. That is 1 minute 38 seconds worth watching.
But back to the MPs. Oh god, why do we want a nine minute clip of your speech in the house. It's on Parliamentary TV. They can watch it on Parliamentary TV. But nobody watches Parliamentary TV because it is boooooring.
Oh, what now, a toddler doing backflips. But how do they get the toddler to do backflips? Is it CGI or has he been training from birth. Ah, here’s some improvised lindy hop. Is she not worried that everyone can see her knickers? Oh god, a Labour MP. Well, you’re about as useless as our lot so that’s good to know. More dance now. But this time it is quintuplet toddlers, in time, to Beyonce. How do they even?
I could be here till the early hours of the morning watching toddler gymnastics and the latest dance trends on crack. Time to pay up and go to bed bitch.
NEXT day, wash my face, put on some heels. They don’t need to be as high and bad ass bitch as yesterday’s because I’m only going into the party offices but the Party President is going to be there and I need to be at least one inch taller than he is.
Thank god they moved out of the mould infected house down the road from the Beehive and into some proper offices. But they’re still dismal. Who the fuck thought an open plan layout was a good idea. Look at the shitty fluorescent tubes. The walls look like they are made of cardboard and won’t stand a single end of the day frustrated kick. Somehow there is only instant coffee or a coffee machine with more knobs than a pilot’s cockpit. I’ve got one of the office underlings giving it a go. He’s perspiring under the pressure; not sure if it’s coffee or just dirty water dripping out the nozzle.
And where’s the drinks cupboard? What happened to that in the move? I left behind at least two bottles of Vermouth, a bottle of Cointreau and a bottle of Talisker. There’s no way they’ve been drunk by the flaccid staff in this office.
The Party President finally arrives and pretends he was just too caught up in things that are more important than me. The underling scampers back to his desk.
- A pleasure to have you here Rebecca.
Oh my god, do we really have to do the boring pleasantries.
A pleasure to be here Mr. President. He winces. He really fucking hates it when I call him that with a Marilyn Monroe lisp.
- Your office is down here. We thought you’d like some privacy. For your calls. And things.
Do you really think putting me at the end of the corridor and out of sight is going to stop me from terrifying the staff? Some will love me. Some will hate me. That’s just the way it always is. And it doesn’t matter. Because I get RESULTS.
But it does mean he can do this. He closes the door and nobody can hear us.
- I’ve been given the details about Project Tui.
No you haven’t. I can see a bluff when it comes. Don’t treat me like a two year old.
- And I think we need to set some ground rules.
Like no touching on the rear end without permission first?
- Especially if you are going to be working on the by-election too.
I AM working on the by-election. I’m designing the by-election campaign. I am the BRAINS behind the by-election. I am not some middle-aged man in a Herringbone suit who made it up the ranks of the Party through the sole merit of not yet fucking up.
- This is not like the old days when a certain level of risking taking was permissible or, one might even say, welcome.
Hmm. We only crossed over slightly before I left so he knows few of my skeletons but some of the old hacks will have given him an idea.
But this is boring. So I speed it up. Don’t worry, I tell him, I’ll be a good girl. Promise. Can I get the wifi password please?
He is steadfast.
- Rebecca
Dr. Howard.
- Dr. Howard. I have given the finance team explicit instructions that they need my pre-approval for any of your expenditure.
Don’t imagine I’ll have a problem getting around that. The PM’s got my back.
- I expect copies of all press releases and other outgoing documents in advance of their distribution.
Not a chance. I’ve already got the best-dressed bitch in the admin team working on my letterhead. First batch going out this afternoon.
- You will need to notify me immediately of any media risk that you are aware of.
The MPs, the candidates, this whole Party is a throbbing hive of pulsating media risk
Is that all?
He feels important. - That is all.
I have to skulk around pretending to get set up on the printer and looking busily at my phone for the next two hours before he finally fucks off to his hotel site, or golfclub development of wherever it is he spend the rest of his useless time. Now I can get to work on getting the things I want out of the staff. I buy them a big box of donuts – from the posh bakery, not the shit from the supermarket.
Twenty minutes of gossip later, I've got the fundraising manager working on giving me access to the supporter database. IT guy is setting up a new profile for me in the executive lists. Second compliment of the day to best-dressed bitch. I really do like her earrings. She has the vibe of somebody that doesn’t fuck around and also doesn’t tell tales. I nab one of the more expensive looking paintings from the President’s office and get the coffee-making underling to find a hammer and nail it on my wall. The more dowdy one in the admin team is persuaded to give up one of her pot plants and donate it to my desk. Still can’t find the drinks cupboard. But I do find an ornate coat stand from the old office which will do for my blazers. And a floor lamp so I can turn off the stupid fluorescents. Fuck me. This office is looking almost good enough to go on the Insta.
Now to work. Type type type. - Dear fuck faces at the Electoral Commission. Can you please confirm for me when the dates for the regulated period in the upcoming by-election for Napier will be set. I would also be grateful if you could inform me of…
Hold on. The Press Sec is ringing me. What up bitch?
- Dr. Howard
Oh, it's the PM. Of course, she can't ring me from her phone because the call would need to be recorded in her diary. So now every time she wants to get in touch she has to persuade the Press Sec to stop doom scrolling the news outlets and hand her phone over. Wouldn't be having this problem if you'd just given me an office in the Beehive cow.
How can I help you Prime Minister?
- There's a… She pauses to find the right adjective. Her tone is PISSED OFF. - Unfortunate incident developing. The Minister for Sport and Recreation has become embroiled in a difficult situation. The Comms Director is working on a press statement but… That pause again. Careful careful with the words even if nothing in this call can go in an OIA.
- We need some additional PR support.
You mean you need some hard core wrangling. Ooooh let me in.
- Is that okay?
Fuck me. First day of work. LESSSSS GOOO.