“Your moral compass is gone,” hooted Hipkins. Luxon simpered in reply: “I feel you’re being disrespectful.” He needs to grow a pair. Hipkins made a show of his sudden campaign surge of testosterone by goading Luxon that at least none of his MPs had beaten someone “with a bed leg”. The reference to the wretched Sam Uffindell was the debate’s exciting moment of blood on the floor and hair on the walls; the odours were raised by Mutch McKay, who asked about sinkholes and human waste. It was a little off-topic.
Hipkins got six laughs from the studio audience, Mutch McKay got four, Luxon got three - one of them came from me in the second row, when he claimed he spent $60 per week on groceries. Haw! Does he live on milk, bread, and luncheon sausage? Each leader shared the same amount of sudden applause, and here credit should be given to John Campbell, who acted as the warm-up man before the debate. Please, he implored, make some noise. Noise was duly made. This man has a future in broadcasting.
Hipkins, the superior politician; Luxon, the symbol of opportunity, progress, movement. We saw their polished selves and parts of their real selves at the debate. The past - six years of whatever - caught up with Hipkins. He was always a pretender to the throne. The future - a weakling in charge, unable to answer questions - most likely belongs to Luxon, and that eternal force, the ghost who walks, Winston.