A John Banks phone call he simply can’t remember
Scene: Prime Minister’s bedroom. Around 3.30am. Sometime midweek. Snoring sounds. Suddenly the bedside phone rings.
J.K: (fumbles half asleep for phone). President Obama? not in all my wildest dreams did I expect, what, who?
J.B: It’s me, most esteemed leader, Banksie John your loyal servant . . . I just wanted to say . . .
J.K: (feeling as if he is in a waking nightmare). Do you realise what time it is man!
J.B: But, you said to call and discuss the matter at a quiet time and I thought . . .
J.K: For God’s sake, John you have put me in an impossible position. First the teacup tapes, now this. Donations under the table. What next, transvestites in the closet?
J.B: My liege, I wanted to explain I had agreed with Helmut Dotslob that donations were to be broken down into teeny-weeny amounts over $25,000 over at least two payments for the mayoral campaign. We both agreed it would be anonymous.
J.K: Holy toledo man! Do you realise how you have compromised your position. You’re in the big league now. This is national politics we are talking about.
J.B: But it was an ACT of good faith, esteemed Prime Minister. Haha. Get it?
J.K: You’ve dropped me in it again John, double dealing with that dodgy German bratwurst, Helmut Dotslob. Now I have to front media and spin some bullshit on your behalf
J.B: (snivelling) All I ever wanted (sniff) was a ride in a helicopter. I never had a train set as a kid, not even a meccano set. I just called him to thank him for the fireworks display and he invited me over to his mansion, he said he would send a chopper to pick me up. I was so excited! J.K: Pull yourself together! J.B: It’s all very well for you, your eminence, born with the Midas touch.
J.K: (smugly) I do know my way round the stock market; politics is a roll of the dice John.
J.B: My royal prince, I was just being neighbourly! It was so much fun at the mansion. We went into his secret panic room and played his favourite party game. We all got dressed up in oversize nappies with big pink safety pins and jumped around in his giant bouncy gold lame castle. Up and down up and down, all the while eating slabs of apple strudel.
J.K: I’ve heard about these strudel shindigs of his, in fact.
J.B: And, and then we spent the rest of the evening drinking grappa and watching the Bavarian Pole Dancing Girl Championships with brass band music direct via satellite. I just love culture!
J.K: The cat’s out of the bag now, John. You’ve well and truly cooked your goose.
J.B: The barbecue? Oh, you can’t imagine. It was a mediaeval banquet. An entire herd of jersey cows had been slaughtered for the occasion, there were thong-clad nymphets serving silver platters of dumpling and horseradish sauce, rare Vietnamese pheasant, miles of gourmet sausage. Bouillabaisse by the bucket full. That was just the finger food. I loved the swimming pool filled to the brim with frothy champagne, too. You had to dive in and fetch floating toffee apples off the surface – with your teeth!
J.K: The point is, your mayoral campaign flopped, John, even with the $50,000 donation from Helmut Dotslob – it doesn’t look good, and the man is under investigation for shady dealings, graft, and gluttony.
J.B: My sovereign, what can I say? It was indigestion. I couldn’t talk straight on the campaign trail. I think it was the pheasant sauce I kept repeating for days afterwards. It looked as though I was being smarmy. Can you believe that?
J.K: Look John, I have a big Fonterra Uzbekistan promotion coming up shortly. I can’t afford dumb-arse behaviour in the camp right now.
J.B: My Lord, I have the perfect promotional prop to help you successfully launch our ‘‘White Gold Rush’’ into the steppes of Russia and beyond. I shall bring you the most revered, eternal, and celebrated person on the celebrity circuit today. Custom made, in fact! J.K: (yawning) Oh? Lady Gaga? J.B: Nothing as wishy-washy as that, my inimitable leader, we need a bit of eco-friendly tradition for the launch into the greater Asian market. ‘‘Milk Is Our Culture’’. I have already sent out emissaries to burn incense. I’ve ordered in bolts of saffron cloth for street banners. None other than the Dalai Lama!
J.K: You must be out of your tree, man! Do you realise what this will do for Sino-new Zealand trade relations? Blow it out of the water, that’s what. You must know that human rights has nothing to do with politics – it’s all about sycophancy, trade leverage, short-term expediency and longterm promises; to be seen looking busy, [pause] hello? hello? Can you hear me. Oh mein Gott! Surely you are not . . .?
Before the phone cuts off, all the Prime Minister can hear down the line is German oomph band music; followed by splashing sounds, high-pitched girly giggles, and unaccountably, what appears to be an excited donkey braying loudly in the background.
Stephen Oliver is the author of 16 volumes of poetry. He lived in Australia for 20 years and now resides in the King Country. He works as a freelance writer and voice artist.