Chapter Ten of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
CHAPTER TEN
This doesn't look like a Reddit post. Where's the... red?
Geordie tries very hard not to sigh. Watch it boy or I will remove all your fathoms and put out my own Reddit post that you're a TOP Party simp.
- The original post has been taken down. This is from when it was indexed. But if you look at how they are talking about K here and cross reference it with the user’s other posts...
Geordie taps the keyboard and a cascade of windows unfurls across the screen. Jesus Christ, just tell me what it is you've found.
- K is the Right Honorable Cameron Knight.
You people and your titles. Did you swallow a phone book from the 1950s?
- It looks like the Reddit user didn't just see K dining out with PT on three separate occasions but, on the last occasion, managed to get a photo of K and PT holding hands under the table.
Who the fuck is PT?
- The Right Honorable...
Jesus vomit. I thought her minge had dried up so long ago that they were extracting fossils during the smear tests.
- Are you going to speak to him?
It's 1am and you're so jacked up on caffeine you think you've found the missing WMD. No, this one goes in the back pocket. If we vetted out every MP having an affair there wouldn't be a cabinet left. This is for when I need something from the pisswad Knight that he thinks he is unwilling to give me.
The comedown on Geordie's face seeps through the other desks. One of the others tries to make him feel better.
- Don't work mate, you're still fathoms ahead. Maybe if you just get a few hours kip.
Aha, there's the coup.
Fuckitybye boys, Alix will see you in the morning.
Another fucking grey hair snaking its way to the heavens. But no time for that; it's Tui announcement day. I've been in the Beehive since 6am pissing off the staff as I make not outrageous demands to reprint the documents in an adjusted font, borrow the exact water decanters I want from Copperfields, and change the catering order to get rid of the gluten free crap. If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right.
Hold on though, something's feeling not quite right downstairs. Quick pop to the loo. Lock the door and, Jesus Christ. It's a bloodbath down there. Knickers are soaked through. Crimson droplets now splashing beyond and onto the cubicle floor. And fuck it's gone right through into the pants. The fucking nightmare of perimenopause lashing through the loins at any moment.
I'm pulling through reams of paper trying to mop the scarlet liquid out of the knickers. What are those gooey bits? Fuck, it's all over my wrist. Just need to keep it off my blouse; the only item of clothing untouched. Another tug on the paper, smudging it off the patent points of my shoes. Better try and wipe it off the floor too. Stupid idea. Should have sorted my crotch out first, I've just landed more blood all over the toilet seat.
Phone is buzzing insistently - Where are you?
Here I am. Surrounded by a sea of toilet paper and seeping liquid. It doesn't seem to have stopped. Still flowing out. Time to mop up some more. Jam in the biggest tampon I can find in my bag. Dry out the knickers best I can and stuff them with a wedge of folded paper.
Crane neck over the shoulder; look down the back and then down the front. The carnage seems to have been defeated for now.
More buzzing - Everyone is seated. What the fuck?
Turn the sink half pink washing the blood off my wrists. Face is flushed. Can't believe there is any blood still up there.
It's safe to venture into the hallway only because everyone is in the banquet hall. Waiting for me.
Can I raid the Press Sec's wardrobe? Her door is open but she's a fucking skinny bitch. There's no way these thighs are getting into one of those pencil skirts.
Fuck. There's no hiding the red patch on these pants.
Waddle waddle waddle so the wedge of paper doesn't slip out.
Wait, the Finance Minister's door is over there. Prey for me that there is a dry-cleaning bag hanging up in his office.
And thank fuck there is. And the cut of his suit is wide legged. And the pants slide nice and easy up and over my thighs. The suit jacket won't button but that doesn't matter because it looks like it was meant to hang down the sides of my perky tits pushing their way out of this blouse. Massive advantage of never having babies suck the milk life out of me.
I throw my pants and blazer in his bin. The cleaners will get it before the stench of iron saturates through too much of the room.
Getting the hang of this waddle.
One moment. Ignore the continuous buzzing. Back to the Press Sec's office. And there it is. Vintage Hermes scarf. Tie that round the neck and this looks like a massive power play. Masculine cut suit, patent heals that could stomp all over you and a delicate touch of fabric beneath my massive shit eating grin.
I swan in. No, I fucking whio in, but with an unexpected grace. Caucus is noting me, nodding their heads at this unexpected fashion coup de grace.
The Finance Minister looks at me as I take my place next to the stage. He's gasping because he knows it can't possibly be but then he realises of course it is his pinstripe. Press Sec is at the back growling at me with her eyes. You'll get the scarf back. Calm down skinny bitch. Alix looks apoplectic. Hey girl, I'm here aren't I?
Lots of important people in this room. Stakeholder galore. The PM enters just sixty seconds after the hour. Classy bitch. She takes the stage and she delivers Tui HARD.
The media scrum are falling over themselves to express the requisite emotional response to the audacity of this new policy. Fuck off. You all got the media release under embargo yesterday evening and you've had all night to figure out how much outrage this should illicit, with the most click bait title you can muster, while not pissing off your media oligarch overlords. And stop sending me emoji fucking messages asking for a unique angle to give you the edge on the other media platforms. The media rollout of this policy has been designed, strategised and redesigned to the nth degrees. If I wanted you to have something you would have it BITCHES.
Now the sweetener. Invite him onto the stage Madam Prime Minister. Woosh, the swish of heads - press scrum and stakeholders and dutiful MPs - all craning to see where the thud thud thud of bountiful masculine energy is coming from.
He somehow has the grace of a gazelle and the determination of a Border Collie as he bounds down the centre aisle and takes his place on stage between the PM and Minister Holt. Standing between them, he is resplendent in full military uniform and a glorious head of hair that looks like it has just come from the salon. Because it has just come from the salon. He adjusts the mic. Yes he adjusts the mic because even though he is only just shy of his third decade he has the poise and control of a man with CONFIDENCE.
- Tēnā koutou katoa.
Yes, I have found a young Māori man who is not only supportive of Project Tui but is willing to be its POSTER BOY. The muscles rippling under his blazer are so taut the service medals are about to pop OFF. Just enough reo to prove he really is a bonafide Māori without sending the tremors down into the colonoscopy bags of the old timers in the back row.
His story is powerful. But touching. Modest. And inspiring. A teenager who was lost, confused, unsure of himself. With no role models to turn to, Koru Waititi was just one dark step away from a world of crime, violence and the unthinkable. Then he was recruited into the cadets. He finally found what family meant. He found what pride in his country meant. He found what service for a greater good meant...He found what love meant.
Oh there are some loins stirring amongst the hags in the room. Caught between whether they want to tuck him into bed with a hot cup of cocoa or want to see if they can get the knee that hasn't had surgery high enough to get a leg over him. I have a strong suspicion Alix was shagging him in the bathroom outside Nobby's office after the blackhatting last night.
He wants every rangatahi in the country to have the opportunity he has had. Don't worry about the reo oldies, it will play really well in the media clips. He doesn't want to see his mates facing a life on benefits and handouts. He wants them to be able to realise their full potential. Not a trace of condescending tone as he says it. His true hearted eagerness is flushing through the room. Then, wait for it, he reaches behind the stage, and he pulls out a guitar.
- Do you mind Prime Minister?
The PM nods her head with the perfect smile of, oh, what a pleasant surprise. Noddy puffs his chest in an attempt to show his higher ranking while the guitar wielding Koru readjusts the mic and blocks him from view.
The soul searching ballad of a young man finding his way in the army, written by KORU HIMSELF, reverberates through the hall. I can see at least one cabinet minister dabbing a tear out the corner of her eye. The press scrum are silent and still, IN AWE. I give a potent told-you-so glance at the Press Sec who had been screaming at me in the corridor yesterday that it was in no way acceptable that I had sunk almost all of Nobby's office budget into hiring a state of the arc PA system. The chief of staff is standing next to her. Even he looks like he's trying to work out if he can get a leg over Koru.
Koru goes for a high note. So much masculinity; so much tenderness. And as the ballad comes to an end, he drops his head with the perfect amount of modesty.
- I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time Prime minister.
Fan-fucking-tastic. No notes. I don't bother to stay for the press questions. This one is in the bag.
I've had three G&Ts by the time Alix has brought the important stakeholders over from the press conference, by which I mean our esteemed military colleagues who have flown in from across the ditch and not the social welfare agencies we stuck in the corner as a courtesy. They won't be upset they haven't been invited to the afters; they're already trotting up to the Labour and Green floors to vociferously complain about everything they have just heard.
- Are we drinking before dinner Rebecca?
Of course we fucking are. Let me order you some fries. Guffaws all round.
Once a selection of craft beers, a bottle of Marlborough's finest, and a round of whiskys are laid out on the table - got to do a proper comparison between the local fare and what's back home - Alix is looking twitchy. She hasn't been surrounded by this many liver spots and barrel chests in her life and she has a not unreasonable fear that a few more drinksies and their hands will be getting gropey. It's okay girl, if you can go back over and schedule the embargoed media releases for the morning you can clock off for the night.
The old dogs are not happy to see her go, especially when the fucking chief of staff sits down to replace her. The PM must still be a little twitchy. But we nailed it dear, we fucking nailed it.
- Will Nobby be coming across?
No fucking way, by which I say I'm very sorry he's caught up in important work with his senior ministry staff.
So gentlemen, pour some more adulation on me, how fucking good was that?
- Very very good Rebecca. We will definitely be copying some of those tactics.
The chief of staff is nodding along like he had anything to do with it. - The Post has already published a very nice profile of Koru Waititi.
- We have a lot of those young men, says Major General H--- . They're the absolute best.
I have a feeling I know where this is going and wish the Chief of Staff wasn't hanging onto every word like a Cocker Spaniel. And I also wish the Major General’s barracks voice was a little lower. There might not be anyone else in the bar but three are three bar staff with fuck all else to do but to listen to us.
- The ones that come from the social services, the addict programmes, already been on the benefits - they're always a bit broken. Like a dog whose been kicked too many time before arriving at the shelter, you know where the sore spots are. You train them up but you always know where you're going to prod and poke at them if they ever get out of line. Complete loyalty. Can get them to do whatever you want.
- And they won't tell a soul, states the Commander grimly.
That's enough. So gentlemen, who has tried some of our gin from the South Island. We'll get some for the table. One bottle enough, ha ha ha?
I take the Chief of Staff with me, finding the right spot at the end of the bar to hiss under my breath. You need to make sure none of the bar staff are the kind to leak what the major just said to the press. And if they are, sort it out now.
- How do you expect me to do that?
His attempt to hiss like me just produces a falsetto screech. I glance back to check the old dogs haven't heard him.
$100 should do it. It's Wellington hosbo, not New York bartenders.
- I can't put that on the p-card.
Of course not you fucking twat. We cover these things ourselves. Stop being so cheap and sort it out. I'm going to put the bottle on the table and then I'm heading back over to the Beehive to catch up with the PM.
He knows he's fucked now. Absolutely does not want to implicate himself in the shit the Major General just said let alone put himself elbow deep by being the one in charge of the cover up. But it's not too late for the PM to replace her chief of staff before the election and the one consistent in all the other shit that streams through her office is her expectation of unreserved loyalty.
Toodlypip, I'm off fuck face.
By the time I get onto the ninth floor, the momentary downer inflicted by the Major General is superseded by the blazing high of watching Project Tui roll across all the breaking news banners on the media websites. I barely knock on the PMs door before waltzing in, I am so fucking pleased with myself.
The PM and the Press Sec look up from a small tree's worth of paper on the desk.
- Rebecca, we're going to have to cut Project Tui.
What in the fuckery is this?