National
You met Christopher Luxon on Tinder. Was he trying to get the validation he seems to lack in his own caucus?
He takes you to a pottery studio, because, though he wouldn't admit it, he feels a kind of kinship with the round, hairless concept of a bowl. When you get there, Luxon trips over his own shoelace, which he forgot to tie, and arses over ungracefully. As he gets up and brushes himself off, you hear him say, "Fucking Labour."
"What?" you say.
"Yeah," he says.
Luxon's phone beeps.
"Who is it?" you ask.
"Oh, nobody," he says. The caller ID says 'Jack Tame.'
You're only five minutes into the session when Luxon says, "I'm already bored. Is there a way to speed the pottery wheel up by throwing a bit of money at it?"
It surprises you, as you sit and spin with the incumbent Prime Minister, that he's not really a conversationalist. You try to press him about his character and interests, but he never exactly seems to have an answer; he just smiles nervously and skirts around the question. Why? Is his brain as smooth, shiny and wrinkle-less as his pate?
"What are you making?" he asks you.
"A gravy boat," you answer.
"A gravy what?" he asks. "Can we afford that?"
To make an awkward date worse, when Luxon gets up to go to the bathroom, he trips on his shoelace again, and this time he cracks his head on a shelf full of ornamental pots. He's bleeding.
You're the first to call an ambulance. "Hello, I'd like to report an emergency. We have a man here who has sustained a head injury…"
"I can slot you in in about two weeks' time?" the operator says.
"What?" you say.
"Wait, it's okay!" another person at the pottery class says. "I'm a qualified nurse! I can help! I just graduated!"
Luxon slowly raises his bleeding head from the ground. "No," he says.
Labour
You have a meet-cute with Chris Hipkins when you rescue him from a locker he's been stuffed into by Chris Luxon and his goon Nicola.
"Gee, thanks!" Chippy says brightly, brushing rubbish off his suit. "You'd actually be surprised how often that happens to me.”
You swap numbers, and Hipkins says he'll plan you both a date. A couple days later, he's at your doorstep.
"Kia ora!" he says. "So, what do you have planned for our date?"
"What?" you say. "Didn't you say… you were going to do that?"
"Oh!" Hipkins says. "Right. My bad, my bad. Just a second."
He angles his phone away from you slightly, but you still see him Google 'first date ideas inspiration urgent'.
"Aha!" Hipkins says, after an awkward few minutes. "How about we do… a spot of mini golf?"
A bit uninspired, but okay. You make your way to the mini golf green and grab your putters. As you're walking to the first hole, Hipkins trips over his own shoelace, which he forgot to tie, and arses over ungracefully. As he gets up and brushes himself off, you hear him say, "Fucking National."
"What?" you say.
"Yeah," he says.
You beat Hipkins after a miserable final hole (one of those ones at the top of a tiny hill so every time you miss, it rolls back down).
"Good game!" Hipkins says, bravely, and smiles. "Did you want to do something after this? Jade's got the kids, so we have all the time in the world…"
You suggest going and getting ice cream together. Hipkins gets two scoops of vanilla, of course.
You walk home unsure if you’ll accept his second date offer. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t; you're not gonna lie, there's something about a ranga from the Hutt Valley on the cusp of middle age that does it for you.
New Zealand First
You met Winston Peters at the local retirement village. The seductive silver fox was being woken from his afternoon nap by a long-suffering healthcare assistant.
Honestly? He had you at “Fuck off! I don't want my beta blockers! Go back to your own country!”
You’ve heard a lot about Winnie P. They say he’s been around the block; they say he’s been around riffraff of every lean and ideology; they say he’s run through. But, let's be honest–your curiosity always wins over.
For your first date, Peters says he'll let you pick the restaurant.
"Oh, perfect!" you say. "I've been meaning to go to this new Chinese place, I've heard it's really–"
Peters' expression has darkened.
"...Chinese?" he says, ominously.
You end up at a Lone Star. Winnie the P needs to have his food gently mashed with whisky for maximum digestibility and ABV and minimum stress on his dentures.
Afterwards, Peters goes outside for a cig (or twenty). He does not offer you one. You sit awkwardly at the table, alone.
But as you watch him through the window, dragging on his durry, you can't help but wonder: what does this titan of New Zealand politics muse over in his sunset years, what issues stand tall in the mind of one of parliament's most iconic and divisive figures, what ideological weights does this stalwart figure shoulder after so many decades and governments?
He re-enters the restaurant. "I've been thinking," he says, "and I've decided that the cost of living is so high," he tells you, "because, uh, Woke."
Greens
You met Chlöe Swarbrick and Marama Davidson at the local tree planting/drag brunch fundraiser for marijuana legalisation. It came as no surprise when they approached you after and asked, "Hey… do you know what a polycule is?"
Your first date together is firebombing a Woolworths. Davidson brings the Molotov cocktails and Swarbrick brings the snacks. You bring the getaway EV—you’re not sure if either of the others can drive?
The green giant burns. Ah, you love the smell of napalm in the Woolies. Supermarket duopoly, you’re toast. There’s a new group of polys in town, and they have the power of wealth tax and #Woke on their side.
When it's razed to the ground, you go back to their place. Swarbrick and Davidson's housing co-op is cosy, although the sink is full of unwashed dishes and it smells like patchouli.
The next morning, you're shaken gently awake to a pounding headache and a wave of patchouli-induced nausea. "Wakey wakey!" Swarbrick grins above you, offering you a breakfast tray of unsweetened coconut yoghurt, tofu scramble and HRT.
"No time to snooze," Davidson adds, handing you a cup of clean, nitrate-free water. "It's our shift at the community-owned mask-mandated coffee shop today, and those decaf soy lattes aren't gonna make themselves!"
Opportunity
Qiulae Wong was initially unimpressed by the pick-up line “call me Gareth Morgan the way imma destroy t*** p****”.
However, famously open-minded to both cooperating with losers and universal handing-out, Wong comes around to your apologies. You suggest a movie, and she agrees.
What movie? At the Hoyts self-service kiosks (which for the sake of this piece exist outside of the regular passage of time), you swipe through the options; The Odyssey, Project Hail Mary, Paw Patrol: The Dino Movie…
"Anything you like the look of?" you ask Wong.
She smiles mysteriously. "I'll go with whatever you say!"
"No, no! You should choose," you say, encouragingly.
"No, thanks," she says. "It's all up to you! I just go with the flow!"
You choose Obsession. Several times throughout the movie, you glance over at Ms. Wong. You have no idea whether she's loving it or hating it.
"Thank God I didn't relate to that!" Wong laughs as you leave the theatre. "I could never be like Nikki. I don't really feel that strongly about anything!"
Later, at the restaurant, you order for both of you. While Wong is away from the table for a moment, you see her phone light up with a text message from Chris L:
I'm sorry for what I said before your kingmaker thing became realistic Qiulae. Pls forgive me u know I never follow through on anything
A minute later it beeps again.
It's like that song lol. you only need qiulae when winston is low. only miss the teal at the 5 threshold. only know you love her when you let her go
Well… not the worst date you've ever been on. You're reminded of how once, in a moment of stunning racial sensitivity, Winston Peters said that “two Wongs don't make a white.”
But… can one Wong make it right?
Te Pāti Māori
While still the newest ethically non-monogamous couple in town, Rawiri Waititi and Debbie Ngarewa-Packer are looking for a fourth (you would be a fool to think you could take John Tamihere's place as a third).
You met on a Facebook group, but neither of them showed up to the first arranged date, or the second.
Third time's the charm… and Rawiri Waititi wants to hit the club. "I don't know," you say to him. "Christchurch has got a pretty tight dress code…"
"That's fine," he says. "What would I be wearing that they don't like?"
You get there. The bouncer shakes his head sadly, and points to a sign on the wall. It reads "MANDATORY TIES, NO NIKE AIR JORDANS, AND NO COMICALLY OVERSIZED COWBOY HATS."
"Well, we're leaving," Waititi says.
You go back to the couple's home. Waititi gets out the guitar. He plays a couple classic waiata; Tūtira Mai Ngā Iwi, Te Aroha, Poi E, and, of course, Wonderwall.
Waititi and Ngarewa-Packer seem a little bit dejected at the end of the date.
"We've had a bad couple years," he says. "People think we're the worst polycule in town, which is honestly weird because we basically haemorrhage members too fast to even count as one, so what are they judging us off?"
Ngarewa-Packer shakes her head sadly. "Yeah, I mean, if your name doesn't start with B and rhyme with Grooke gan Gelden, you say the c-word once in the House, and boom, you're gone."
"Like, I get that the other polycule actually has a marketing strategy," Waititi says, "and that we're actively telling everyone we're with to dump us and go join them instead. But it's rough."
ACT
David Seymour first reached out to you via Snapchat. His reaction upon opening the door is not particularly enthusiastic. "Oh," he says disappointedly, "you're a bit older than I thought."
You watch a movie together. It’s The Lorax.
"Classic," he smiles. "I've always found this film to be an inspiration…”
"Yeah!" you say. "I love how they defeat the mayor, regrow the tre—“
“But I usually turn it off halfway,” Seymour continues, “because the ending makes me too sad. It’s honestly disgusting what environmentalists do to people who just wanna make a little cash out of mass environmental destruction. I hate that little orange shit.”
Halfway through the film, Seymour goes to his kitchen and brings you out a snack he prepared earlier.
"You know, this only cost me $3 to make," he says, "and it's halal. Isn't that great!"
You nod nervously as you pick a slice of ham out of the sandwich and bite into it.
"Good?" he asks.
Fearfully, you choke down the vomit and nod.
After you get halfway through the movie, Seymour drives you home. When you reach your house, he leans in for an open-mouthed, closed-eyes kiss. Too disturbed to resist, you feel his millimetre-wide lips search desperately for purchase against yours.
The next morning, just before you are overcome with a horrific case of food poisoning from the sandwich, you receive a text containing a bank account number. ‘$20,’ it reads. ‘For the food and fuel.’