Chapter Seven of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
CHAPTER SEVEN
The President continues to look smug. - I thought you would have received the formal invitation.
Alix is trying to nonchalantly scroll through her emails to see who it is who's fucked this one up.
- The speaker found a slot for Norbert's maiden speech. Tomorrow evening at 6.15.
- What's a maiden speech? Some kind of virginity hazing thing?
At times I forget that Alix has only been with us for about five minutes.
- It's one of the few proper traditions of the Westminster parliamentary system that we have been able to retain.
That and the baying from the benches like it's been too long since mummy wiped their bum and they are going to tantrum until she gets the milk out. You need to either go with a boring European Parliament set-up where the real work gets done in the business chambers or allow the full on brawls of the Taiwanese parliament. This petty simpering to a crown that long abandoned us is pathetic.
- Norbert will be given the opportunity to address the house for an uninterrupted fifteen minutes where he will lay out his aspirations and goals for his service to the country.
- That sounds like a very long time for him to talk without fucking up and saying the wrong thing.
Got it in one Alix.
The President does not look perturbed. - I think Norbert is most concerned about bringing enough people down from Napier so the applause in the house doesn't sound paltry.
Indeed, nothing worse than parliament's live stream sweeping round the public gallery to find only the ashen faces of some ageing relatives. But not to worry, we can fill it with the youth wing as long as they promise not to slobber over Alix in the reception after.
Where's Nobby? Twenty four hours is not a lot of time to write his speech.
- I imagine he's still in the Beehive.
Grab the rum from my office Alix. This is going to be a late one.
WHEN we arrive in the pokey broom cupboard of an office that they have found for Nobby, Caroline is sitting at the desk, pen poised in hand. How the fuck did she get to Wellington? Doesn't she have five kids to look after?
- We're very lucky to have my mother in law offering support, pipes up Nobby.
You can see the problem here? Why is she sitting behind the desk with the pen while you're standing around looking like a flailing piece of loose scrotum.
Have you gone through full security clearance yet dear?
Caroline narrows her eyes, trying to work out if I'm blagging this.
- I've been given the swipe card with my photo on it.
But did they get you to fill in the confidentiality agreement yet?
She looks at Nobby as if he might have the slightest clue what we are talking about. He looks out the window.
- I don't think so.
In that case I'm afraid you're not able to access the speech documents. Until they go on Hansard they are considered classified and need level 3 clearance.
Nobody nods vigorously as if that sounds very important and correct.
You can wait outside if you like. Or in your hotel.
Caroline looks exceptionally pissed off but she is a smart lady who knows when she has already lost a battle. Once she's gone from the room, Nobby puffs his chest and makes to sit behind the desk but Alix is already ahead of him, lowering herself into the chair.
- Shall I take you through where I've got to? Nobby picks up the sheets of paper from the desk.
No way did you think we’d let you write your own maiden speech. Hand the pages over to Alix dickwad.
Alix does an admirable job of reading through the handwritten scrawls. I was about to ask if she has ever seen handwriting before but if I leave her to it so I can get on with opening the rum. A drink girl? Not you Nobby. You need to be on your top not-fucking-things-up behaviour for the next twenty four hours.
Alix doesn't even bother with the pen. - We can keep this sentence, she says, pointing into the depths of the papers.
- Just the one?
- Hmm, this one too. And this anecdote. But I'm going to need to rewrite it.
Around 2am Nobby asks if he can go home.
Not until you can deliver that penultimate sentence without tripping over it like you're wearing long pants for the first time. Actually, fuck it, rewrite the sentence Alix and see if he can make less of a baboon's arse of it.
- I don't think I can see the paper on front of me anymore, I'm so tired.
How the fuck are you going to survive the general election campaign if your bedtime is when the nanas turn in?
- Damp squid, mutters Alix loud enough for it to bounce off the pokey office walls.
She's wide awake. Must have snorted something on her last toilet break. Eyes like dinner plates.
- Couldn't we just pick it up in the morning? Caroline says if I don't get enough sleep my eyes will be puffy in the video recording.
What the fuck does Caroline know? Have you been surreptitiously texting her when Alix and I have had our heads down in the real BOSS work? Nail the last paragraph and then you can go to bed. And then you will be back in at 8am to show us it is still nailed.
Alix side eyes me. Don't expect a fucking lie-in girl. Get your cocktail of downers and uppers sorted and you'll be just fine.
BY THE time we get into the house the next evening it's in chaos. Why are there people running up and down the stairs to the gallery?
Alix finds the house’s camera feed and streams it on her phone.
- Some kind of protest going on in the gallery. They're hanging banners off the rail. One is flapping around the head of the old guy, you know the minister that looks like he swallowed an egg whole. Something about...oil.
The fucking Greens. Or Te Pāti Māori. The speaker of the house will be having kittens.
- Security are hauling them up but they must have more with them. Look, they're draping more off the rung over there.
It's like a swarm of ants outside the gallery. Security keep blocking the entrance and the dreadlocked, too many piercings, protesters shuffle around and regroup, trying to find their way in. They're backed up against a wave of our Youth Wing volunteers and the grey-haired guests that Nobby has flown in for his speech. Back up security come charging up the stairs. They've got no idea who they are meant to be kicking out and who they are meant to be politely deferring to. I wouldn't go touching that queen of the bridge club. She looks like her clothes are expensive enough to be having a stern word of complaint with the speaker if you fuck this one up. At least there's no danger of the Youth Wing getting kicked out the house. They're so uptight there's no way they're going to be mistaken for protesters.
Alix, can you see if Nobby is in the house?
- Where's his seat?
Next to the backbencher who always looks like he’s sleeping sitting up.
- No, not there. Seat's empty.
This better not be a game of Where's Wally.
- His phone's going straight to voicemail.
Difficult damp squid.
Up at his office there's no sign of him either but there is the Press Sec standing in the corridor with her arms folded and looking like she's ready to castrate someone.
Nobby?
- He's in the bathroom. Throwing up.
Why are you looking at me like it's my fault? If you're going to exile me to Party offices then you can't expect me to babysit.
- Did he eat something dodgy? Alix asks.
- Apparently it's nerves. Not helped because he mixed some beta blockers with caffeine tablets to help with both the stage fright and the fatigue.
- What a tool.
- The Chief of Staff is in there with him trying to help.
I can see the Press Sec is torn. She knows the Chief of Staff is less competent than a wanked on tissue but no way is she going to diminish her feminine dignity by walking into the Men's.
I have no such dignity. Stride with me Alix. Into the Men's.
Nobby, get out of the cubicle.
- I'm not sure if there's more to come.
If there is there won't be much. Swallow it down. Get your head into the basin of cold water. You can refix your makeup later. Man up. Show the chief of staff you've got some balls. Jolly ho. Let's go.
ALL SAID and done it's not a bad maiden speech. I'm taking note of the MPs who didn't stay in the house after all the excitement and fucked off to their dinner break instead of bolstering the applause for Nobby. They can get a bollocking later. After the applause died down Caroline somehow managed to wrangle the public gallery into a rendition of the national anthem. In English only. That will piss off all the right people.
They've made a good decision to put the reception in the galleria and not the banquet hall. The smaller space looks passably bustling rather than a bunch of bald heads pinballing between the windows and the walls.
Alix is on her way home. Her eyes are too red. My eyes have had a pick me up in the bathroom. Now would be a good time to give the chief of staff a good bollocking for letting Nobby get anywhere near the bathroom stage of chucking up. But I'm going to stay focused.
Heels are towering. Shoulders squared. Weaving deftly between the grey haired from Napier. Swatting away some rumbunctious children. WHERE are their parents? I would ban the under 18s from precinct. None of these family rooms and breastfeeding spaces. Turn them back into late night drinking places.
Zooming in on Nobby. Hand on his shoulder. He nearly jumps out his skin. Time to meet some of the big boys.
- I’m just catching up with Caroline’s parents. Then my great aunt Gladys is having a sit down outside to get away from the noise so I need to go out and have a check on her.
Fuck that. That’s the point of Caroline. She deals with the social niceties; you suck cock for the donors. Get moving. That’s it. No, hold up. Shirt check that none of the finger food is dribbling from your tie to your crotch. Right, brace those shoulders. Follow me.
Donor #1 is not enthused by the ditch water Pinot Gris in his hand and even less enthused by the strength of Nobby’s handshake. This is going to need some finessing. Donor #2 is so far up his own arse he thinks the world is a box of Amadei Porcelana. Two more drinks and he’s going to be Nobby’s wingman for his Wellington ménage à trois.
Gentlemen, it is always a pleasure. You don’t need me to lick your culos with small time pleasantries. I want you to know that you have Norbert’s ear and he is EXCITED to be co-creating our vision for a better New Zealand with you. This is just a little taster of the direct access you will have to Norbert as we progress Project Tui. A little palette preview of the great work we are going to be achieving together.
-And I am looking to forward to finally finding out what Project Tui is all about, pipes up Nobby.
Shut the fuck up. How many times do we have to go over you not opening your mouth until you have explicit permission.
Gentlemen, you are seeing firsthand the humble humour of our newest partner. As soon as you want some face time just flick me a message.
BACK IN the office the equilibrium is amiss. Best dressed admin bitch is cool and collected at her desk but the coffee underling is wheeling chairs towards the door and the dowdy one has a bought-for-the-occasion clip board braced against her elbow.
What's up bitches?
The dowdy one knows she's not allowed to involve me in whatever is on the clipboard but she also knows she cannot not tell me. She's going to shit a diamond if I make her stand there for too long.
Best dressed admin bitch relieves her of the strain. - Fourth floor's been leased for the campaign. We're doing inventory before they begin the fit out.
Ah, the not quite tragic version of rearranging the deck chairs. Campaign's coming and everyone is anxious because they don't know what it entails. They're not across any of the real plans. They just have to make sure the correct number and colour of post-its are available.
I hate this stage too. Even when I do know the plan there's none of the blood pumping, orders barked, gajoolies shaking, wet knickers rush of action. Just waiting.
Relax dowdy one, there is nothing on your list of paper clips and staplers that I need access to. But I will saunter on up to the fourth floor to have a look.
What's that frightened look on your face? Has Mr President explicitly told you not to let me up there? In that case I am no longer sauntering up. I am marching, with one of the newly bought clipboards and a random piece of paper from beside the printer. Man hath no fear like being confronted by a woman with a clipboard.
Mr President simply sighs when he sees me emerge from the elevator.
Now, look at this. The fourth-floor lease covers the east side. Which means harbour view. And a harbour view office. With a side office that Alix can have. Bagsy.
- Sorry Rebecca. That office has been reserved for the campaign director.
No.
- No?
He won't need it. Better to have him in the pit with the campaign staff. Team building, good rapport, all that shit.
- How do you know the campaign manager is going to be a he?
Oooh, that condescending tone of trying to pretend you know how to play woke. A woman wouldn't take this half-arsed piss amount of pen pushing power. And definitely not having to work under you. The office wouldn't be sitting here with no one to fill it if that knob end campaign manager you hired had managed to stick it out more than three months. How's he finding it back in England with the Tories?
- His wife was diagnosed with cancer. She wanted them to be closer to family support.
Hmm, I did not know that. About turn.
Well the office is as good as mine; we all know I'm the de facto campaign manager.
-You are not any kind of campaign manager. I’ve seen the 2017 review. It says Rebecca Howard is not allowed to be a future campaign manager under any circumstances.
That’s absolute bollocks…I think.
Anyway, yes I am.
Two fingers in the air as I walk backwards out the office.
Before I go, will I see you at the confirmation tomorrow?
He looks confused. - What confirmation?
I know why he doesn’t know because I made sure he didn’t get a calendar invite.
Oh sorry, are you busy?
I know he is busy because it’s scheduled right in the midst of his golf.
- What confirmation?
Caucus’ Project Tui confirmation.
- I could probably move...
Oh sorry, the press sec said all the seats are already taken. No more space. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you up at a later point. Bawbag.