Jim Hopkins: We come to praise George Hawkins, not to bury him

Poor old George Hawkins. You do feel sorry for him. It can't be easy being the Minister of Drips. Especially when nobody talks to you or rings you up or officially tells you anything. It's not fair. Other ministers get told things. Official things. Michael Cullen got told that Qantas was keen to tie up Air New Zealand, or have a tie-up with Air New Zealand - one or the other.

It's hard to know which because Dr Cullen has since called a press conference to say that he can't say anything about what he was officially told.

He might have been told that if the Gummint wants its money back, he should just smile sweetly and let the fares go up. Or he might have been told to look sad and lament the loss of competition - then let the fares go up.

We simply don't know. Because he hasn't told us. Although he's been jolly nice about it. He's patted us on the head like good little kiddies and said we should wait patiently and, maybe, we'll find out later.

Which is comforting. As is the knowledge that he was officially told something. Of that there is no doubt. He definitely received official advice.

Unlike his colleague, the hapless Hawkins. George can't tell us that he can't tell us what he's been told because he didn't get told in the first place.

Now, this is intolerable. Seriously. Put yourself in the minister's shoes. There you are, poised like a coiled spring, desperate to help those in need but your horrid officials never give you the chance.

So you sit behind your ministerial desk, morosely watching the moths gnawing away at your SuperGeorge suit, and you eat your ministerial cut lunch and sign your ministerial letters, blithely assuming all's well with the world when, in fact, it isn't.

On the contrary. In many places the rot has set in. Newly built houses are decomposing in a most undesirable manner. Yet no official bureaucratic personage has officially bothered to advise you that the matter is officially urgent.

Oh sure, there's the occasional hysterical article in one newspaper. And you do get letters from ordinary people - builders, contractors, plasterboard-makers. They write to you and tell you there's a whopping great problem out there in Mortgageville which you might like to fix. But they're not officials; they don't have an official view.

And it's the official view that counts. Well, no, let's be clear. It's the official view officially communicated. With a big OFFICIAL stamp at the top of the page. Nothing less will do.

It's all very well being unofficially told this, that or the other. But a ministerial personage can't rely on the unofficial official view. Or the private opinions of a few frantic fretters. That's mere flim-flam and froth. A ministerial person needs more.

A ministerial person must wait until his ministerial brain is officially alerted to the magnitude of the problem. Official notification is the magic ingredient that turns mild-mannered Hawkins, G. into SuperMinister, feared nemesis of the arch-enemy, stachybotris.

Give him OFFICIAL advice and salvation is in sight. He can do things. And get his colleagues to do things. He can text message that mistress of multitasking, the inestimable Judith Tizard.

You'll be aware that Ms Tizard is a knitter. Indeed, her ball and skein have attracted churlish criticism of late, mainly because the good woman elected to knit a bit while doing a crossword and overseeing the passage of a bill through the House.

A bloke couldn't do this. A bloke would be utterly flummoxed. Worrying about where to put the commas in the legislation would be enough to give him leaky brain syndrome. But such diversity of focus is a doddle for a lady person of the opposite sex.

So the ambidextrous Judith is quite capable of simultaneously needling the opposition and a ball of wool.

With a bit of OFFICIAL advice under his belt, George could take advantage of this wondrous gift. He could ask the Minister for Affairs in Auckland to knit him some house-warmers. Forget scarves, he could say. Give me something I can slip over a duplex to keep the occupants dry. Give me a jumboclava to pop on the roof. Give me the tools to do the job.

Alas, he's been denied the chance. Because those scoundrels at the Building Industry Authority didn't officially advise him. Okay, so there were board meetings and inquiries and the odd letter to sign. But no OFFICIAL advice. And that's an outrage.

Let's face it, we can't have Cabinet ministers using their nous. Do that and pretty soon the PM will be stripping Dover Samuels of his ministerial post before there's any OFFICIAL evidence to justify the action.

Clearly, that's unacceptable. So a compassionate nation must rally round Mr Hawkins. He's to be pitied, not condemned. We must praise him, not bury him. For George is an honourable man, betrayed by others. It's all their fault, as he has rightly pointed out. Alone, neglected, uninformed and unaware, the minister is a true child of his age. He's a victim - blameless and innocent. He's not responsible for anything - and that's OFFICIAL.