"Of course," beamed Laurie. Depositing his armful on the bar-top and selecting with a flourish the smallest of the packages. "Just a little token of my appreciation for your patience and tolerance over the past 12 months. I know Les and I aren’t the easiest of your customers."
Hannah blushed in spite of herself, unwrapping Laurie’s gift with exaggerated care.
"I’ve spent the better part of 40 years living with Chanel No 5, Hannah, so please tell me I’ve chosen correctly."
"Oh, Laurie, of course you have! I don’t know what to say except, thank you. This is just so sweet."
"Merry Christmas, Hannah." Now it was Laurie’s turn to blush.
"Of course. On the house. Go on — I’ll bring them over."
Les frowned ferociously as his friend laid his Christmas pile before him.
"Bloody hell, Laurie, why did you have to do that? Now I’ll have to get her something. Seriously, man, you’ve got more money than sense."
"She’s a very good bar manager, Les. Don’t be such a tight-fisted old Scrooge."
"Bah! Humbug! I can’t help it, Laurie. I hate Christmas."
"A socialist like you? I thought you believed in handing out goodies to all and sundry, regardless of whether they deserved them or not."
"Shush!", hissed Les. "Here’s Hannah with our ale."
"Here we are, gentlemen. Not a gift to match those of my two favourite boomers. But it’ll have to do for now."
"You old fraud," whispered Laurie, as Hannah returned to the bar.
"Cracking on you hadn’t bought her a gift. I wonder about you sometimes, I really do."
"No need. Like you said, I’m an unreconstructed socialist. Everybody deserves to get something for Christmas."
"Even politicians?"
"Especially politicians."
"So, what would you give the Prime Minister for Christmas?"
"Christopher Luxon? If I could, I’d give him what the Germans call Fingerspitzengefuhl."
"Finger-what?"
"Fingerspitzengefuhl. The literal translation is ‘fingertips feeling’. By which the Germans mean a politician with an instinctive ability to respond to any given situation appropriately, tactfully and, hopefully, with lashings of style and flair."
"Not qualities we generally associate with Christopher Luxon."
"No."
"And Chris Hipkins? What would you give him for Christmas?"
"A working memory might be a useful gift. In his speech to Labour’s annual conference on Sunday he paid the usual homage to the great Labour prime ministers of the past. He began with Mickey Savage, moved on to Peter Fraser, then to Norman Kirk. So far so good, you might say, even if he’d missed out poor old Walter Nash. His next pick, however, was Helen Clark. Come on, Laurie, what’s wrong with Chippie’s portrait gallery?"
"Ummm. What happened to David Lange?"
"Damn good question, Laurie. It would appear that the entire fourth Labour government has disappeared down the memory hole. And why not? Accepting that Lange changed New Zealand every bit as much as Savage, Fraser and Kirk — and a great deal more than Clark — would mean that Chippie might have to come to terms with the fact that while he and his mates are happy to celebrate their democratic socialist predecessors, they’re completely unwilling to embrace their policies."
"Like Basil Fawlty not mentioning the war?"
"Exactly. Neoliberalism has become the ideology that dare not speak its name."
"Unlike ‘decolonisation’.
"Indeed. But you know why that is, don’t you?"
"Wokeness on steroids?"
"No, no, no, Laurie. It’s because Chippie owes Willie Jackson and his Māori caucus big time — and vice versa. Willie’s got Chippie’s back — ably assisted, it must be said, by Labour’s Pasifika MPs. Without the support of the Māori and Pasifika caucuses, Chippie would be dog-tucker. It’s quid pro quo, Laurie. Quid pro quo. Chippie stands four-square behind te Tiriti o Waitangi, decolonisation and indigenisation, and the Māori caucus stands four-square behind Chippie. Throw in his deputy, Carmel Sepuloni, and his finance spokeswoman, Barbara Edmonds, and Chippie can appoint Keiran McAnulty campaign chairman in perfect safety."
"Heh. Because when Labour loses in ’26, he’ll be blamed."
"Exactly. Kieran’s the gift that keeps on giving."
■Chris Trotter is an Auckland writer and commentator.
