The law according to Dimbleby

To the powerful men and sporadic women of Whitehall, gathered in this room, on this day, the young man standing in front of them has no last name. He is simply Dimbleby, and he is an imperial pain in their collective backsides.

Not because of who he is, for he is nothing compared to them and their political power, but because of what he is here to say, and what his poking about in the archives and the annals has brought to light.

Or almost brought to light - for there may still be time to stop this abomination.

Dimbleby, for his part, understands now what it might be like to be one of the foxes these people, his superiors in every way imaginable, hunt for sport across England's green and pleasant land - at least, across the vast tracts of it they collectively own. He hopes that, having delivered his message, he will be allowed to retreat, safely, back to his little office. But this was not to be Dimbleby's lucky day.

"I'm sorry," said a very senior bastion of the British establishment. "Can you please repeat yourself, young man?" "Yes sir," said Dimbleby.

"It, um, transpires - in that I have discovered the document - that in the wee small hours of the 7th of February 1840, that Lieutenant-Governor William Hobson and the Maori chiefs, representing the tribes of New Zealand, signed a rather amended version of the Treaty of Waitangi, the document granting the United Kingdom sovereignty over New Zealand.

"It would seem, when one reads Governor Hobson's journals - which are, admittedly, a bit sketchy on things on and around that day - that after a bit of a hangi and a few beers, followed by a few more beers and then some whisky and rather a significant helping of rum all round, Hobson and the chiefs, who were by now his new best friends, decided that the whole Treaty thing was a bit one-sided in favour of the Queen - which is to say us - and set about, um, revising things."

"When you say 'revising things' what the devil do you actually mean, young man?" piped up a crusty man with the word Sir in front of his name. "Well," gulped Dimbleby, "what I mean, Sir, is probably best put in Hobson's own words and, presumably, the words of his chiefly drinking mates, in their revised version of Article the Third of the Treaty itself.

This originally read "In consideration thereof Her Majesty the Queen of England extends to the Natives of New Zealand Her royal protection and imparts to them all the Rights and Privileges of British Subjects". But in the subsequent version the following words have been added: "and also Her Majesty wants the Natives to know that they are welcome to come to Her place any time they like and stay for as long as they want 'cause they are the bestest Natives in the whole world'."

"Now while Hobson's grammar seems to be slipping a tad here, undoubtedly due to the effects of the local brew," continued Dimbleby, nervously, "the boys in the constitutional law section all agree that this revision, as dictated by Her Majesty's duly appointed representative, constitutes a binding, open invitation, for anyone of New Zealand Native status to, well, make themselves at home on any of Her Majesty's lands.

"In short, if they want to put down a hangi pit on the grounds of Buckingham Palace, we can't stop them."

"But surely the man was pissed," spluttered a senior minister.

"Being drunk, I'm afraid, does not negate British law and foreign policy," Dimbleby continued.

"In fact, the history of Britain's dealings with the rest of the world shows that many of our key decisions were made under the influence of alcohol - the American War of Independence, Palestine...

"We do think, however, that Hobson may have overstepped the mark a tad when he amended Article the Fourth in the Treaty, giving the Maori tribes Yorkshire, in return for all the lands the Crown was going to take in New Zealand. Quite why he gave them Yorkshire is unclear but, by law, Yorkshire is now Maori land.

But that, I'm afraid," continued Dimbleby, "is nothing compared to Article the Fifth. This is a difficult to decipher, as it was clearly the wee small hours by now, but we believe the phrase 'I am you and you are we and we are all together', though uncannily like a Beatles lyric, actually means that, by law, we are all actually Maori. Kia ora."

When Dimbleby heard the Prime Minister whimper, actually whimper, he knew his career has just taken a giant step backwards.