John Tamihere at a speed bump

John Tamihere

There can't be too many dumped politicians you could call to ask for an interview on the basis that their former colleagues are about to head back to Parliament. The unspoken subtext, of course, being, "And you're not".

John Tamihere, who is not best known for subtlety, gets this all right. "Thanks very much," he says, before launching into one of his rants about how he is now "out of purgatory", how many of that lot down in Wellington are "a bunch of misfits", how, yes, he is writing a book and he's "sold it to Penthouse".

He says he can say what he bloody well likes now and you think, "Well, what's changed?"

He says, yes of course come to see him, although he snorts and says, "You must be scraping the bottom of the barrel".

This would be true of almost any other dumped politician you might care to name. But Tamihere remains an enigma. And this despite the fact that we know so much about his private life, his opinions, his public urban-Maori-bloke persona which doesn't differ much from his private-urban-Maori persona. He has been such a bright hope (and never write him off). He burns bright and crashes so spectacularly and he is - he can play the clown all he likes - such a complicated character.

He tells me that the father of his partner, Awerangi Durie, is a psychiatrist and that "her mother and father aren't necessarily happy with her choice of bloke". Now, why on Earth would any prospective parents-in-law have reservations about you, John? "That's a good question and I'd like you to propose that to them."

He says he thinks they are over their initial trepidation but I'm taken by the idea of talking to Durie's dad. This would be interesting. "Well, no it wouldn't be, because I only talk in monosyllables to him so he can't psychoanalyse me."

This in itself would be worth seeing: a monosyllabic Tamihere. He might employ this technique in future, I suggest, for interviews. "Yees," he says, a bit warily.

Because he's never quiet; since he lost his seat he has hardly been out of the public eye. He regained a seat on the board of the Waipareira Trust, but only through a very public stoush which ended in court. He describes this as a "little bumpy entry".

He says we can meet in the "caff" at the trust and the photographer suggests this is his new Bellamys. He likes that and says, "Yeah and the quality [of the food] is better". When he was the chief executive here, before he went to Wellington, he had an office, "a little shoebox up the top there". The cafe, where you grab a tea bag and fill your mug from the Zip, is his office now. Meeting here is political, though, in a peeing-on-the-lamp-post sort of way.

It seems very Tamihere to scrap his way back on to a board which didn't want him. "Well, yeah, no, no, no. The majority of the whanau round here did [want him back]; a minority of people up there [on the board] didn't."

Tamihere likes to use fighting metaphors. He says, "When you've been through the type of life I've had to live, you've been on the ropes heaps of time. It's a matter of never lying on the canvas". This latest putting-on of the gloves is "just another little speed bump in Tamihere's life, honey. Yeah, just a little judder bar".

I think he must, at some level, enjoy chaos and the excitement that living the chaotic life brings. Much of that chaos is caused by what comes out of his mouth.

After talking to him on the phone I thought I might have to be very stern with him, in the style of his former leader, just to get him to talk some sense. But, of course, you wouldn't want him too damped down, and if Helen couldn't manage it nobody can.

An encounter with Tamihere wouldn't be one if it didn't include an exchange which involves him jabbing and giggling away when he thinks he's scored a point.

He is naturally combative. "Well, I was down the bottom end of the food chain with six older brothers ahead of me and, you know, you had to defend whatever little toys were left to you - and your underpants."

He knows about expectations which "are great; realising them was tough. It's real tough to please your own family and your own community".

His ego appears intact, although an assurance that "look, I can get on the phone to a CEO, or I can get on the phone to a mayor or I can walk down the street there and have a conversation with anyone ... " suggests a graze or two may have been inflicted.

Because, honestly, he has been a twit from time to time. I have to ask, I've been waiting a long time to ask, because, really: "frontbums" ? He can go on all he likes about the good he did in Wellington, and set out his CV and talk about his latest passion for men's rights and education for boys, but we both know we'll get to here.

You have to admire his candour (this time, at least), so I say, "Oh, all right, we'll put your CV in the paper. Somebody might give you a call".

"Well, this is part of what this ****ing interview is about! Ha ha ha. No, no, [it's about] promoting oneself."

He does a perfectly good job himself so I'm not really about to help out any further, so no CV. This, perhaps, will pay him back for calling those of us who work for this paper "pussies".

Anyway, here we are at THAT Investigate interview and that silly talk was ... ?

"Aha, well, that's what we used to talk about behind the bike sheds ... Well, you move on."

"But you don't move on," I say. "You're still using it."

"I am not!" he says. "That's the last time I used it." Which means he has only just moved on. "Hey, it goes like this. I know what that is," he says and points at the tape recorder, "and the next thing I'll tell you [is] when you're talking with the boys there's boys' talk. When you talk with the girls I'm sure there's some girls' talk goes on. Especially when you've had a few bloody wines. I can tell you that now, Hewitson."

He had one glass of wine. "Yes, I know," he says and giggles wildly. "The Prime Minister says, 'Oh, Christ, I can't even say you were pissed'." I thought this might have been a nice example of Helen's humour, but, "No, she was serious."

God help Labour if he ever does write that book.

Still, what a loss he is to Wellington. If only because he has that rare political gift of Peter Pan-like charm.

I have an admission to make about Tamihere, although it is not much of an admission because I'm sure it happens to most people who meet him. And that is that it is all too easy to be seduced by his charm.

And yet, and yet. Let's see how easy it is to turn it off.

Because I never thought it was the interview that did for him. It was the abandoning of the cats. I know he doesn't like this question, I say, but "I met those cats ... "

"Oh," he says, "I'm glad you did. Why didn't you pick them up?" This is supposed to be funny, but isn't, so I give him my best Helen glare and tell him my theory about how the cats did for him. "Do you think?" he says. And "Mmmm. I won't do it again".

We talk about this for a bit longer and while he doesn't get snaky he is a bit defensive. The cats, he says, weren't house cats. I say they looked perfectly happy on the deck the day I met them when I went to interview him at home in 2003. Well, he says, "You've got no idea what else was going on".

Let's take a guess. Whatever was going on was chaotic and complicated - just another little speed bump in the chaotic and complicated life of John Tamihere.