Lord Seymour bathes in the glow of his illumination. Photo / Mark Mitchell
Lord Seymour bathes in the glow of his illumination. Photo / Mark Mitchell
OPINION:
JACINDA ARDERN
All week long, with much heaving and sighing, conducted in dim light on account of having run out of candles, the Queen and the members of her royal household struggled with the enormous and awkwardly shaped furniture of the elimination strategy as they tried to carry itup and down the long and winding staircases of her castle, sometimes looking for somewhere to store it, sometimes looking for somewhere to repair it, sometimes looking for somewhere to dump it, always looking for somewhere, anywhere, to put the goddamned thing.
All week long, the Keeper of the Blue Flame, the Guardian of Lawn Order, the One True Legend of Her Lunchtime, the Crusher of times past back when She had Power, the Bearer of the Knife that Despatched Hapless Muller, the Suspected Fingerprints on the Knife that Despatched Tolstoy Bridges, the Wife of a Samoan and Don't You Forget It, the Spilled Milk of Oravida, the Friend of Slater, the Lightning that might one day strike Margaret Pugh for a Third Time, the Leader of a Depleted and Dispirited Rabble, the Second in Command of the Opposition Forces, searched her castle high and low, from top to bottom, hither and yon, sometimes running in circles, sometimes walking into walls, sometimes jumping up and down on the spot, always sure she would eventually find it, never giving up hope, even as she blundered about in pitch darkness on account of having run out of candles.
"Relevance," she muttered to herself. "I am determined to find relevance!"
DAVID SEYMOUR
All week long, Lord Seymour fanned himself while lying back and choosing from a delectable plate of fruit and nuts brought to him on silver platters, sometimes peeling the grapes, sometimes allowing his attendants to peel them for him, sometimes hiding them in the pockets of his toga in case his recent prominence as Commander of the Opposition Forces might not last and he'd go hungry, always looking for signs of weakness in Queen Jacinda's reign of her hermit kingdom while studying it from his castle that was illuminated day and night with burning candles.
"Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day," he sang. "I've got a wonderful feeling, everything's going my way!"
Winston Peters. Photo / Michael Craig
WINSTON PETERS
All week long, the Great Sage from the Ancient Garden of Baubles burned the candle at both ends, and in the luminous flames he saw visions, wild visions of manifest evil, of wenches with terrible lusts, of the unruly gang who controlled the wenches and were themselves filled with terrible lusts, and who forged travel documents as they rode together on horseback from the Bay of Plenty to Northland via Auckland despite the pandemic that raged through the hermit kingdom, and who did as they pleased, sometimes engaging with customers at a hotel in Whangārei, sometimes ordering room service probably, sometimes staying on a marae, always keeping one step away from the Queen's guards, always posing real and present danger to the health and well-being of good folk everywhere, especially the old ones who voted for him.
"The night is dark, and full of terrors," he announced in the public square on top of an apple box that he carried with him in case of media appearances. "Ha! Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!"
