The secret diary of . . . John Key
I'm not exactly sure which side I was on during the 1981 Springbok tour, but in retrospect I think I was on both sides, although at the same time I was on neither side.
I'm not entirely sure where I stand on the existence of God, but I'll be in a better position to comment once I'm fully briefed.
I'm not absolutely certain that the world is round, because while its supporters have very persuasive arguments, so do those who point to the validity of a flat earth, and at the end of the day it's all just opinion.
But I can say this.
I've never said that David Beckham was as thick as pigshit.
Few people will have seen New Zealand's thumb-sized native bats - the country's only native land mammals.
Generally, bats are only sighted at forest margins, or over rivers, lakes, swamps, etc, when these are near forest.
Most sightings of bats are made on fine, warm nights, when usually only one or two individuals are seen.
The long-tailed bat emerges in the evening about half an hour after sunset.
Sometimes short-tailed bats have been captured in dense forest after flying into lanterns or lighted huts.
During the day, both species may roost in hollow trees or caves.
The point is that very little known is about bats, including the quantity, regularity, and thickness of their excrement, all of which discounts the possibility that I said David Beckham was as thick as batshit.
Called up Barack last night to congratulate him.
He takes the call at his victory party; I have to shout to make myself heard. He says he'll put me on speakerphone.
I yell, "We're both creative, dynamic and black leaders of Western democracies!"
The crowd roars. I feel their excitement.
I holler, "Let's get this party started! Put on the Eagles, maybe some Hayley Westenra!"
The crowd murmurs. I panic, try to think of something funny to get them back on my side.
I screech, "Have you ever met David Beckham? He's as thick as . . ."
The line goes dead.
We need to put the Beckham affair to bed. We need to make a statement.
Spend all day with the curtains closed, and sit down with my closest advisers to watch old footage of David Beckham's soccer career.
His years with Manchester United. His years with Real Madrid. The 115 caps for England. The long, accurate passes he made to his Los Angeles Aztecs team-mate, Jason Donovan.
Hold a press conference and announce that he probably left Manchester United for Real Madrid because he got sick of playing in such a big gay red shirt.