Debonair leader glories as good old times roll

By FRANCESCA MOLD

Twirling across the floor with an attractive woman in his arms, he danced on a carpet of black and white balloons singing I Did It My Way.

It was Winston Peters' big night. And he was celebrating his landslide win in true Peters style.

Debonair in a black shirt with diamond neck pin, his wavy greying hair styled to perfection, he waves his dance partner away back into the crowd as the song fades.

Sucked back into the warmth of his black-and-white-clad supporters, he settles back to bask in the glow of success, clutching his trademark glass of whisky and in the other hand, a smouldering cigarette.

Winston was back in a big way. And it was time to party.

But the public will never see him dancing and singing.

Because by the time the party really got going, the cameras had been switched off and the journalists had gone home.

Earlier in the evening, fans of the New Zealand First leader had arrived at the Bureta Park Motor Inn flushed with excitement.

This was their chance for revenge against all those commentators who had written them off as decrepit, colostomy-bag-wearing, good-for-nothing oldies.

To get them in the mood, Frankie and Eru Rowles (brother and nephew of one of Winston's favourite singers, John Rowles) took them back to the good old days.

They sang along to the karaoke beat of Song Sung Blue, Tania, Save the Last Dance, Release Me and Let Me Be There (in Your Morning).

The performance brought a few of the younger oldies onto the floor as they twisted and jived in celebration of their party's climb over the 10 per cent mark.

Organisers were quick to roll out the supper buffet when the clock ticked towards 10pm and there was still no sign of Winston.

Beef rolls and sweet cups of tea helped lift the drooping eyelids and kept spirits high.

Suddenly there was a surge of excitement as camera crews rushed to the entrance.

Is he here? Is he here?

Disappointed, they turn away.

It was just deputy leader Peter Brown.

Then a gleaming black car drew up outside and into the night came the victorious leader.

But there was only a glimmer of his trademark cheeky grin and crinkly smiling eyes.

He looked like a man with a long road ahead rather than someone who had just brought his party from the brink of oblivion to the third largest in Parliament.

The cameras captured a hardened political campaigner promising to make life hell for those with the temerity to rule him out of a coalition Government.

He took his usual swipe at journalists in his speech - continuing the theme of an underdog fighting a dual battle against his political opponents and the chardonnay-swilling, quiche-eating big-city media. He grumbles at TV3 for not covering his campaign and threatens to boycott their live coverage.

But as always, he relents.

He is followed around the room by a posse of journalists clinging to his every word.

Finally the lights and cameras are packed away.

It's then that the real Winston emerges.

A sly grin slips onto his face. He accepts a whisky and sparks up a cigarette when his minders are sure there are no cameras watching.

It's party time and he promises it's going to be a big night out. It was.

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