Simply put, it was pissing down. One of those cloudbursts that causes people, having reached shelter, to slam the door behind them as if they’d just run the full length of no man’s land without being hit.
That, at least, was the look on Les’s face as, trailing rainwater behind him, he made his way to the bar.
"Laurie’s already got them in, Les," Hannah said, staring despairingly at the growing pool Les’s greatcoat was dripping on to the pub’s just mopped floor.
"He’s waiting for you in the corner."
From their usual table, Laurie nodded in recognition and gestured grandly at the two glasses of ale standing before him.
"It’s not fit for man or beast out there," Les exclaimed, hanging his sodden greatcoat over the back of the nearest empty chair.
"Long gone, mate. And a good thing, too."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Even so."
"Otherwise all right?"
"Fantastic."
Les’s glum expression belied his affirmation.
"At least it would be if we didn’t have my bloody son-in-law staying with us."
"Oh lord! What’s brought David to town?"
"The usual. Some sort of workshop, seminar, hui — I’m not exactly sure which. Quite possibly all three at once. Of one thing I am sure, however. You and I, the long-suffering taxpayer, are footing the bill."
"Is Allison with him?"
"Oh, yes, she likes to catch up with her mum and dad whenever she can. We look forward to it."
"But not to Mr Political Correctness?"
"It’s just such hard work, Laurie. I’ve got to be so careful what I say. Sitting at the dinner-table last night I let slip something vaguely pro-Israeli, and for the next half hour we all had to endure David’s take on the United Nations’ definition of genocide. I was about to offer him the much simpler definition of ‘Southern Israel, October 7, 2023’, but Rosemary shot me one of those ‘don’t-you-dare’ looks, so I bit my tongue and tried to look neutral."
"Half an hour? Sounds to me as if you got off lightly. Didn’t you once say that David could give Fidel Castro a run for his money in the long speeches stakes?"
"Oh, don’t worry, he still can. You should have heard him waxing eloquent over the appointment of Steven Rainbow as Chief Human Rights Commissioner. To hear him tell it Rainbow’s the ideological love-child of Joseph Goebbels and Lavrentiy Beria. Had Rosemary’s watchful eyes not been on me I would have asked him how believing in free speech makes Rainbow a fascist. So, I contented myself with asking him whether his job at the ministry was safe."
"Oh boy."
"You can say that again. I got a painful kick in the left ankle from Allison, and an even more painful one in the right from Rosemary. It was worth it though, just to see the look of displeasure on his face."
"And is it safe? His job?"
"As houses, Laurie! People like David are never made redundant — for the very simple reason that it’s people like David who get to decide who stays and who goes. My question did, however, elicit a rather dark remark about this government not being allowed to serve more than a single term."
"I rather thought that was our decision to make", muttered Laurie. "As, you know, the voters."
"Hah. David has a very low opinion of voters. Regards the overwhelming majority of them as an unsavoury collection of ignorant, sexist, transphobic, white-supremacist and Zionists. If he could get away with it, I’m convinced he’d only allow those who demonstrated an ‘acceptable psychographic profile’ into the polling-booths."
"Not a big fan of David Seymour’s Treaty Principles Bill, then?"
"No. But he knew a couple of the people who helped write the He Puapua report. Went to varsity with them. That’s the sort of constitutional reform he favours: conceived in secret; revolutionary in intent; implemented incrementally without fanfare; and under no circumstances to be placed before the electorate for democratic ratification. David does not believe ‘decolonisation’ and ‘indigenisation’ are compatible with ‘majoritarian democracy’."
"Jeez," Laurie sighed. "When’s he flying back to Wellington?"
"Not soon enough, mate. Not soon enough."
■ Chris Trotter is an Auckland writer and commentator.
