The secret diary of . . . David Cunliffe

Last updated 05:00 01/09/2013

PICK ME: David Cunliffe wants to be the leader of the Labour Party.

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OPINION: Hallelujah! A new day. A new day for New Zealand. A new day for New Zealand in a new way, and it only added to the excitement when I cut myself shaving with a new razor. I sent out a press release. A crowd gathered. They watched me bleed for New Zealand.

When they left, I got busy. There was a job of work at hand. I bent my head to the task. I applied a dab of Endymoion cologne (a sensual fusion of citrus, spices and leather, $225), ran a Kent switchblade comb (handmade from sawcut resin, $35) though my hair, and looked at my reflection in a pair of Joseph Cheaney shoes (oak bark soles, $895). I liked what I saw.

That left five minutes to kill before the press conference announcing my bid to lead the Labour Party, so I analysed the latest Treasury reports, studied the economic situation in Japan, Ghana, and Sweden, and ironed my Marcoliani socks (cashmere, $117).

The conference went well. A crowd gathered. I felt at peace.


Hosanna! Another new day. They can't come quick enough as far as I'm concerned. I'm in a hurry. I'm in a hurry for New Zealand. I'm in a hurry for New Zealand to get better, to get over these last few bumbling years of Key and his braying nest of monkeys.

Met with my own troops. Looked them up and down. Didn't want to look too closely. Nanaia Mahuta. Louisa Wall. William Sio. Sue Moroney. Someone called Iain Lees-Galloway.

Oh well. It could be worse. Maybe.


Held a top-level meeting in my Beehive office to discuss new initiatives to create wealth at the same time as providing improved education, health, and transport services for the majority of New Zealanders. Got up to go to the bathroom. The door to the next-door office was slightly ajar, and I thought I saw Key in there.

I opened the door. It was Key. He had a glass pressed against the wall, and his ear pressed against the glass.

"Hello," I said.

"Jesus," he said, and dropped the glass.

I asked, "What are you doing?"

He said, "Who? Me?"

I said, "Yes."

He said, "Oh. You know. Nothing. So. Anyway! How's things?"

I said, "Good, thanks. Yourself?"

His skin was blotchy. His pants hung too low. He only wore one sock. A button had come off his shirt, his fingernails were bitten and raw, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He said, "Never better, actually. Yeah. Awesome. All good! Haha! Hahahahaha!"


Mike Hosking has come out in support of Grant Robertson, and so has Titewhai Harawira.

Poor old Grant. No one deserves that.


Hurrah! A new day, yet again. The angels sang. Someone blew a trumpet. Someone else played a dynamite riff on guitar, and the drums came in loud and booming, yet tender and melodic - God, I love Genesis. They were an interesting band but only became popular when Phil Collins took on vocal duties. Leadership is everything.

Met with Grant Robertson and Shane Jones to discuss the best way forward for Labour. We didn't want anyone seeing us together, so we held our rendezvous on a deserted beach. "Let's walk and talk," I said. We set off.

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The sea was wild, and dark; the surf was high, and crashed on the shingle. The wind shrieked through a pine forest. Shane said he was puffed, and headed back to his car.

It rained. Night fell. Grant said he was scared, and headed back to his car.

I kept going. One foot in front of another. Heading forward for New Zealand. I wrapped myself in my Craigieburn scarf (100% camel hair, $219) and played my iPod. "I can feel it coming in the air tonight," sang Phil Collins. "Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!"

Steve Braunias is a Metro staff writer

- Sunday Star Times


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