The secret diary of . . . John Banks
The sun has got its hat on and all the little animals are warmed by its . . . by its . . . by its warmth.
Because that's the thing about the sun. It's warm. And I, John Banks, good old Banksy, weeps to think of all God's creatures under the sun, curled up and whimpering.
Banksy loves animals. Many animals are small. And furry. My goodness, they're cute! But the things they do to animals in the name of testing is a disgrace. They drip chemicals into the eyes of rabbits! And do you know why? It's because rabbits don't blink. Even thinking about helpless and defenceless animals brings a tear to John Banks' eyes.
But Banksy stops his uncontrollable sobbing. He's got places to be! He's got to be in the High Court today to stand trial. Banksy must defend vexatious and grossly untrue charges against him that he filed false returns during a campaign to win the mayoralty of the great city of Auckland, which is made great by the good people of Epsom.
John Banks puts on his best suit. John Banks heads towards court. John Banks is outside the court, beside the wonderful magnolia tree, in beautiful sunshine, when a well-wisher approaches him. Or is he taking donations? He has a bucket. He ought to be careful about taking donations, it could land him in trouble, because - Oh. He's not taking donations.
Well, worse things have happened at sea than to have mud thrown all over your best suit. But that's the thing about mud. You throw enough of it, some of it's bound to stick.
It's another beautiful day. It's another beautiful day for John Banks and it's a beautiful day for New Zealand, and how often those two have walked hand in hand through life's long journey of happiness and prosperity.
But that bond has been torn asunder today by a creature from another planet.
Perhaps, just perhaps, John Banks's old opponent Winston Peters was right to warn us of the dangers of migrants. Winston should have been more specific, and warned us against enormous migrants in Coatesville.
Kim Dotcom takes the witness stand and tells shocking untruths. Who can believe a word he says about anything? Look at him. He's a very strange man. He's seven foot and 200kg and everything that comes out of his mouth is shocking untruth told in an extremely irritating German accent.
Dotcom keeps giving false evidence. Banksy just stares at him, unblinking.
He may have once given John Banks some very generous donations but that doesn't mean he has the right to tear down the career of one of the most colourful politicians - good old Banksy! - in New Zealand history. He should never have been allowed into New Zealand. No-one should ever be allowed into New Zealand. It's good the way it is.
Migrants from other countries bring a much-needed cultural diversity to New Zealand life, which is too often a bit bland, and in need of pepping up.
Mona Dotcom really is a rather beautiful young woman, perhaps one of the most beautiful young women on the planet, so beautiful that it's hard to concentrate on anything she's saying in the witness stand today in the High Court.
The High Court is conveniently located just down the road from the membership-only Northern Club, that fine, decent bastion of happiness and prosperity, where the good people of Epsom meet for a good meal and good conversation.
John Banks was starving. He went to his club. The good people of Epsom avoided his stare. It was as though he were invisible. He left, walked back down the road, and settled for a date slice at QC's, the High Court cafe.
The trial ended for the week, and John Banks went home, curled up in a dark corner under the stairs, and poured himself a saucer of milk.
Steve Braunias is a Metro staff writer.
Sunday Star Times