Chapter Two of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
CHAPTER TWO
FEET off the desk, heels back on. I hit up the admin team. I need a taxi to the Beehive. Right now. Pronto pronto. I am NEEDED there.
Best-dressed bitch raises an eyebrow. I can see her assessing if the donuts earlier were a sign she has permission to speak up or if she need to keep her head down. She takes a gamble.
- Staff taxis can’t be used for distances of less than two kilometres.
Fuck that shit. Look at these heels.
The dowdy one thinks she has permission. She absolutely does not.
- You could get an Uber.
Do you think I am the kind of idiot that puts an app on my phone that tracks my location. Fuck no.
They both look nervous. They want to please. There is some kind of internal policy three folders deep in the electronic filing system that says they will absolutely be fired if they capitulate on this one. But I also absolutely cannot walk there in these heels. What a stand-off.
The coffee-making underling saves the day.
- I’ll pull my car round and meet you downstairs.
Down the elevator I go.
Of course it's a Toyota; I'll look like I'm turning up in an Uber anyway. He tries to make small talk, keen to suck up to what he now sees as big boss energy from me. But shut it for now underling. I've got seventeen separate messages on the go and I want a response from all of them before I make it up to the ninth floor.
Screech alongside the Cenotaph. He's wanting the go ahead to ride up onto the kerb but we are not that kind of energy. Not today kiddo. Drop me off discreetly and let me buzz into the Beehive.
Through the security gates. Slap the card down. Green light go. Speaker will still be trying to figure out a procedural way to get rid of my access but not so far.
On my phone now. Which room have you booked? Is he already in there? There better be some coffee for me; not some piss arsed tea. And a plate of biscuits. Because I've not had my afternoon tea and once the adrenaline rush of working myself up to an unrestrained bollocking has worn off, I'm going to be hangry.
Big breath at the door. Got to get the right air into the diaphragm to deliver optimum authority.
THERE he is. Looking very small at this very long table. It’s one of those oak-panelled rooms with dead old men lining the walls and leather-bound books that nobody has ever read. And, what the fuck, he's got a notepad. And a pen. Ready to write notes. It's not a university seminar. You're a grown man.
Well, I've got my phone and I can read off the exact email from the journo. Which is just the same collection of grubby words as the emails from five other journos.
"Trans activist Ms. --- has provided a statement that when exiting the woman's bathroom on the ground floor of government house at approximately 10.15am today, she was physically harassed by Minister Knight who demanded that she use a different bathroom. Please can you provide a response by 5pm today.”
What the fuck Minister Knight?
- Are we going to be doing some black hatting?
We are mainly going to be giving you a bollocking. This is a shut up and listen to what we will do next scenario.
He whimpers.
So get it all out, what the fuck happened?
- I was on my way into the men's
You can't call it that. That's not very woke.
He looks terrified. Certain he's about to be entirely cancelled.
Ha ha. Course you can. Men's is fine you scaredy rat. But that digression just cost me at least two levels of the bollocking scale. Get back on track. And what happened next?
- She was coming out of the w, w..., w…
Yes you can say women's, fucktit.
- She was coming out of the women's and I grabbed her hand and said, look, we've got them installed, the extra binary neutral toilets, and I pointed down the corridor because I knew where they were because they had to remove the Wakefield portrait to put them in and I'm on the art committee working on where to find a new home for the portrait.
Fuck Wakefield. Why would you grab her hand? No woman wants a man grabbing any bit of her body unless it's a consensual sex act. Even then…
What the fuck is wrong with you?
- I was just trying to show that we did what she wanted.
What they all say, fucktit.
- She says, I read some more from a different journo, - this was a physical act of aggression intended to prevent me from accessing a bathroom that I am entirely entitled to use. As such I see this as a direct, transphobic, attack on my human rights and I will be reporting it to the Human Rights Commission.
- But it wasn't. I was just trying to... whimper whimper whine whine.
God this is pathetic.
Did anyone witness this? Anyone coming in or out of the bathrooms? Anyone in the corridor?
- No. There was nobody else there. Maybe the security on the desk round the corner.
Not a problem. Security here loves me. Bit of gossip passing by. Bit of home baked goods during all the major holidays (packaging from the deli ditched before distribution). Bit of asking after their wife, son, mokopuna, favourite dog. They know when to be discreet.
Press Sec walks in and shows me her phone. He's hoping she's his saviour. He's wrong. She gives him an ice glare as she walks back out again.
SUFW - Stand Up For Women, Shut Up For Women, Show Up For Women, what ever they are called - have already issued their own press statement.
- We are grateful that the Honourable Mr. Knight has proven himself to be one of the few courageous members of parliament to look after women's rights and push back on the egregious assumption that biological men should have access to safe spaces for women.
These people are so TIRESOME. So obsessed with genitals. I don’t care who is in the bathroom. Back in the disco days I was snorting coke with the trannies in the Bistro’s cubicles. Anytime you had a snag in your tights or your lipstick snapped they would swoop in. Night club fucking saviours.
Again I digress and I need to get back on track with this bollocking.
So nobody saw you touch her. Good. We are going full denial on that one. If anybody asks you say…
- I em, I don’t recall
Oh for fuck’s sake. You say – without mumbling and fucking around – I categorically deny there was any physical contact between me and Ms ---. She was exiting the bathroom when I saw her. It would have been impossible for me to prevent her from entering. I took the opportunity to tell Ms --- about our proud track record of increasing gender inclusivity by pointing out that we have recently installed new gender neutral bathrooms on the ground floor.
You’re writing this in your notepad. You’re writing this slowly in your notepad. Jesus, this better be memorised by the presser at noon tomorrow. - Ms --- is of course welcome, and entitled, to use the women’s bathrooms and I apologise if any misunderstanding occurred.
- I can’t say that. Whimper whimper whine.
What can’t you say? And do NOT test my patience. Delivering a bollocking in these heels is starting to wear on my calves. We need to wrap this up.
Whimper. Whimper. - One of the SUFW board members is on my branch committee, and raises most of the funds for my electorate levy. She doesn’t think they should be allowed in the women’s bathrooms.
Do I give a fuck? Who made her the bathroom monitor?
- They’re working on a campaign for safe spaces.
Getting your grubby grabbling hands as far away as possible is their best hope of creating a safe space. You’ve got one shot. Deny the touching. Repeat the lines. No time for questions – no way you wouldn’t fuck that up. And head down till it blows over. Or do you want to try it your way?
Whimper whimper.
Thought not. I’ll send you the lines before the stand up tomorrow. Your notes look like a six year old wrote them.
And I’ll be taking that plate of biscuits.
Off I go.
I ask the Press Sec to call me a taxi. She’s keenly eyeing up whether it would be fun to watch me walk but she heard half the bollocking and has put me in her good books for the day.
BACK at the office and no time to lose between finishing the email to the Electoral Commission and writing up the notes for Minister Knight. Sit at the computer. Sit at the computer looking at the screen. Sit at the computer looking at the contrite fucking words to the Electoral Commission. Fuck it. To the balcony - time to vape.
I need to brainstorm what I’m going to horse-trade with the journos to make them kill the story of Knight touching Ms ---. Nothing too big. Save the meatballs for general election time. Just enough. Little fucking schnitzel bites.
Inhale the sickly sweet gas through my teeth. Why can’t we smoke anymore. The twenty first century is the absolute worst.
I look out over my domain. This city is mine BITCHES.
- Ahem.
Ahem what? Why has the dowdy one sneaked up behind me.
- You can’t vape on the balcony.
The fuck? It’s not a cigarette.
- The Smokefree Environments and Regulated Products Act requires all areas of workplaces to be smokefree and vapefree.
And…?
- The President’s inside and he says to let you know that you can’t vape on the balcony.
The President can come out and tell me himself.
She goes back inside. Through the balcony windows I can see the battle lines being drawn. The President absolutely does not want to come out into the cold wind to talk to me but the dowdy one is not actually employed by him and she sees her job as done. I watch the standoff as I suck on the vape.
- I need to have a word with Rebecca anyway so let me handle it. Audible enough so that I can hear him saving face.
What’s up Mr. President.
- If you put the vape away I can brief you on the fundraising schedule for the by-election.
Good try, the vape is already empty. What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be golfing? Or is it too dark for golfing? And you don’t have a fucking clue what a fundraising schedule is. You’re just stringing together words that sound like they are significant.
He looks pensive. Do not force being profound.
- WHY now? Why are you back?
I feel like this has been explained knob-end. Because the by-election has just been called.
- But it’s a Labour safe seat. And our candidate was low on the list at the last election. He’s not got a shot. Whine, whine, whine.
Having the President try to teach me how to suck eggs is so incredibly tedious. Go back to your high teas with the ladies of Karori. He doesn’t know I’m in it to win it because without this by-election there is no Project Tui. And I am very very excited about Project Tui.
Thank fuck I have grown-up conversations about the by-election lined up for tomorrow evening.
Fuckity bye Mr President. I’m done for the day.
LAPHROAIG in the glass. Slow slips. Early on purpose for a little bit of me time. And a tribute of course to the poor Labour MP. He passed too soon. But also early enough that the seat can’t remain vacant until the general election. Poor family. Lucky us.
A by-election is almost my favourite type of election. Second only to a meaty snap election. Not the long drawn out typical general election. And definitely above the piddly mess that is local body elections. The PM was on the fence about bringing me on for Project Tui but when I told her I would win a by-election she was tingling between her legs.
BUT enough me time, my friend has arrived.
He was exiled at the same time as me. But unlike me he is still persona non grata. NOBODY is allowed to talk to him, the Ex-ex-chief of Staff. So I’m not meeting him in Wellington. We’re in our old haunt in Epsom. Because I know at least one of the PM's snitches will spot us and I love to wind her up.
He looks snootily at the hipster-shit oversized light bulbs and fake aged posters on the walls. It’s not what it once was. But the drinks collection is still good. That’s all that matters.
We talk strategy and we have a rum.
- He does have that fresh faced but slightly gormless look that the stay-at-home-mums like when the flyers drop in their mailbox. You should get fridge magnets made up. That’s the kind of face you can have up in the kitchen.
The Ex-ex-chief of Staff is peering into my phone looking at a photo of our candidate.
I tell him the candidate coaches one of the local rugby teams. Partner on a couple of businesses in town. Director of a few others. His daddy had a commercial property dynasty back in the day so he’s already on the board of the water company.
The Ex-ex-chief of Staff nods approvingly.
The local branch endorsed him a few days ago. They ran him in the last election but his child had to undergo extended treatment in hospital. He wasn’t able to fully commit in the final weeks but stayed in the game. Sympathy and respect from the local members.
The Ex-ex-chief of Staff nods approvingly. He’s always liked that I do my homework.
- What’s his name?
Nobby.
- Well that’s a stupid name. A geriatric in an aged care facility name.
Norbert’s just as depressing. We’re working on using his middle name, David. But his wife opposes it. One of her exes is called David. She says she won’t support the campaign if he doesn’t used Nobby.
The Ex-ex-chief of Staff’s eyes start to drift. I’ve lost him with the quotidian domesticity. This shit is beneath him. So he talks strategy and we have a whisky.
- Labour will be putting up Lee. He’s done good work in the housing portfolio.
No they won’t.
- No?
The side he took on the recent asset sale has pissed off a lot of the old heads.
- It was old industry, almost fully privatised already, huge emitter. Why would they care?
THE 1980s. REMEMBER THE 1980s. THE 1980s. Or so I’ve heard. Even I was barely old enough to understand what was going on in the 80s. But the union people care and they’re still strong in the branch so they’re not selecting him.
- Who then?
Akinde.
- Who?
Exactly.
- They know it’s Napier? It’s not Auckland or Wellington.
Exactly.
- So you do have a chance.
There. The real smirk of approval I’ve been waiting for. And so we talk strategy and we have a fernet.
- But what about the Greens?
Usually we’d take them out – just for fun, not because they offer any real threat – or they take themselves out because running a by-election uses too much plastic corflute or some other pissy excuse. This time we need them to skim off some of the Labour vote. They’re cocky of late. A few surprise donations to the local branch might be enough to turbo charge that cockiness into a candidate.
His smirk of approval increases. And he talks strategy and we have a brandy.
- Your coalition partner shouldn’t be too much trouble. They’re too broke to put up a candidate.
Too broke to put up a candidate? They pulled in six figure donations last election.
- They’re in debt. That ridiculous YouTube spending, then not accounting for the GST on the t-shirts they posted to every single person in their database. By the time they had to return the Russian donations they were so unable to pay their bills the Leader had to take out a second mortgage and loan the party money himself.
The Ex-ex-chief of Staff hates those kinds of rookie mistakes so much there isn’t even a trace of schadenfreude in his tone
- What about New Zealand First?
With Winston gone their zombie days of rising from the dead are over.
Then we start to reminisce about the New Zealand First days and we are just rolling around having the best of times. He's already written a cheque. Yes, I know, nobody has a fucking cheque book anymore. But “he has made an electronic bank transfer” is why the twenty first century is so dull. So he’s written a cheque. Not to the candidate of course. But to the party who will donate it to the candidate and keep the disclosures nice and clean. So he's already written a cheque. And now he's completely trollied so I make him write another. Peer over his phone watching his twitchy fingers type in the password to his bank login.
Do you think we can win it?
He’s so sloshed the port is rolling round the edge of his glass and staining his fingers pink.
- It won’t be easy and if you overreach you will fuck it up Rebecca.
Like the old times?
- Just like the old times.
He’s heading back up to the bar but I know when the swimming tide of visual objects is on the verge of making me take a turn for the worse. Pack up and leave time. The old man’s still got enough cash flow to pick up the tab.
HUNGOVER, filthy times on the 6am flight. Dark shades on. Proper Jackie O style vintage; not your current influencer crap.
By the time I’m back in the office it’s starting to clear but I still get coffee underling to crank up the machine to get me a double espresso.
The President is in. Pumped up I give him the triumphant news. Last bits of strategy are in place. We are going full in for this by-election. Going to paint the town…
- But, but, we don’t have the funds for that.
I know the accounts. You think Best-dressed bitch hasn’t let me peer over her shoulder while she’s processing transactions in Xero. But all that aside, Mr President knows I’m good for the money. I can always bring the donations. I’m the bad ass bitch that gets shit done.
Just need to wait for the Greens’ candidate selection meeting on the 15th and Labour’s on the 18th so they don’t get spooked and draw up an agreement to put in only one candidate.
- But, but, how do you know when their selection meetings are?
Got to protect you sweetheart. Not going to tell you about the fake membership profile I set up for each party’s local branch as soon as I heard the election announced. Actually, that’s not to protect you. You’re just too stupid to properly set one up yourself and would wreck it for all of us.
- But, but…
Stop moaning. Just let me get on with it. I am in my stride and this is going to be BAD ASS BITCH.