Toby Manhire: I dreamed of ...

Peter Burling has a dream of boats and of races, and of winning those races with those self same boats, and finding it all quite satisfying. Photo / Getty Images

Fun-loving celebrity cyrptoanarchist Lambshank has been in touch again, with a cybercache of cybermail from the electronic inbox of the prime minister, Bill English. Highlights, fabricated and edited for length, follow.

From Todd Barclay:
I dreamed of the Evil Six. There were half a dozen of them, and they had "evil" written all over their faces. The Evil Six were riding into Queenstown atop a sea of livestock, hay bales and old-fashioned Kiwi values. As they circled us, howling classic country and western battle cries, we leapt from our state-of-the art Jacuzzi baths, repelling their yeoman-like thrusting and weaponised cheese rolls with phalanxes of seasonal workers, tossed dwarves and state of the art recording equipment.

MP Steven Joyce. Photo / Michael Craig

From Steven Joyce:
I dreamed we were sailing. Up on the foils, wingsail aloft, flying past a devil-beast rowboat full of opposition parties. Look! There's me, the dashing helmsman. I'm Peter Burling. I'm Steve Hansen. I'm guiding the catamaran to certain victory. Look! There's you, perched at the bowsprit of the starboard hull, spread-eagled, the King of the World, delivering for New Zealand, like a postman or a midwife. On the port hull, it's me, real name Ella Yelich-O'Connor. I'm singing a pretty legal tune. Listen! "Here we come and we are sailing, here we come we're on our way. In a boat just called Fly Emirates Omega Toyota Pirelli Nespresso Steinlager Torpedo Team New Zealand, let's get together that's our way!"

From Shane Jones:
I dreamed of butter chicken, of condiments, of kai moana. I dreamed of the crepuscular excrescence incumbent upon your old bloody mate, etcetera. Matua Shane Jones emerges from the proverbial shadows, to the great infinity pool of political utility and true mateship, e hoa. Whanga: to lie in wait. Rei: to ambush. The master and the servant travel together but for the tempest that bedevils their path and assails the butter chicken, etcetera.

From Peter Burling:
Just dreamed of racing boats, really. Getting out there and racing the boats. And winning the racing with the boats, that's pleasing.

From Steven Joyce:
I also dreamed about monetary policy frameworks.

From Nick Smith:
I dreamed of a river. A great, beloved old river, betrayed by juvenile tributaries. And that great old, beloved river reflected on its parlous state, and it knew at once that to continue to flow, to serve the people, it must return to its old, loyal allies, its familiar tributaries, those that for so long had aided its circulation, and so it did. Quite an emotional dream actually.

From Todd Barclay:
And then I dreamed of a towering figure, a human colossus emerging out of Lake Wanaka, to make peace between the warring factions of Gore and Queenstown. It is Peter Thiel! No, wait, it is not Peter Thiel. It is Tom Cruise! No, wait, it is not Tom Cruise.

From Mike Hosking:
I dreamed I was in Paris, 1789. Beautiful city. A little wine, al fresco, as they say, a little shopping. Perfect. Some mob was storming the Bastille Prison, making a great big racket, full of themselves, frankly. Get a life. Waste of everyone's time. Not important. Not what hardworking Parisians care about. And how could you not love Paris? They call it the city of love, and that's because of the love. And the city. Couldn't be clearer. I dreamed a bunch of women marched on Versailles. Attention-seekers, frankly. Won't change anything. Get a life. Waste of everyone's time. Not what people care about. I dreamed there were waves of massacres, that the King was executed by the guillotine, that a reign of terror ensued, throwing France and Europe into turmoil. The usual suspects up in arms, of course. But at the end of the day what is the fuss all about? It's about nothing. It. Does. Not. Matter. Does it matter? No. Get a life. Waste of everyone's time. Beautiful city. The croissants, the Beaujolais, the guillotine, the je ne sais quoi! Happy days.

From Paula Bennett:
I dreamed we welcomed the sailors home, spontaneously shouting "yes, yes" for viral social media posts as they fell into our arms, the wind beneath their wings, right? You know? I dreamed we built the Burling Wall, and made Larry Ellison pay for it.

From the Whanganui River:
I dreamed of Nick Smith, dreaming about me, bloody weird, woke in a cold sweat.

From Sir John Key:
I dreamed you and I, Bill and Sir John, were spinning through space and time, pursued by a giant dictaphone. I, Sir John, glided effortlessly, spinning with the gyrational force of a rugby ball from Sir Richie's palm. You, Bill, to be perfectly honest, were a little less smooth, like a fidget spinner sort of thing if you take my meaning, and by "my" I, Sir John, mean that of me, Sir John. Anyway, best of luck as always, your mate, Sir John.

Todd Barclay. Photo / Supplied

From Todd Barclay:
I dreamed of a tape, but it was not established that there was a tape. I dreamed of Peter Thiel, but it was not established that it was Peter Thiel. Tom Cruise again. I dreamed of the giant fish sculpture that welcomes visitors to Gore, telling them stories, so I put a dictaphone into the fish but the fish was not established, and then darkness.

From Peter Thiel:
I dreamed of freedom. I dreamed of a utopian kingdom burrowed several thousand miles into the earth's crust beneath Never-Zealand. I dreamed of locusts and blood and the inexorable march of time and the Last Man, the man who cried NO! and faced down the unassailable monsters of mortality and also I dreamed of several exciting opportunities in the digital space for venture capitalists. I want one of the islands. One of the big ones, the north one or the south one. Give it to me.