As you recall Shane had thrown her pumpkin head back and boasted loudly to the sky with great pomposity, that she had Waitangi wrapped around her little finger, and she would deal with them, don't you worry my son, leave them to me.
But now, a few days later after many hours of walking, Winston threw down his sack of cigarettes onto the ground at the top of a mountainous peak and Casey the hideous associate minister of health, bent over panting for breath, hands on her knees, Shane suddenly wished she'd kept her big bravado mouth to herself.
What the actual?", said Shane surveying the scene ahead while Winston scowled like a wizened dried apricot.
Far away in the distance was the town of Waitangi and behind it - the misty shape of the White Mountain where Don Brash painted the toenails of the Wizard of Atlas - a wizard who could give Winston a lifetime supply of cigarettes in return for special influence with his step father Christopher, the new Prime Minister.
"Is there no way round it?", said Winston lighting up a durry and wishing he had Aukus pillar one at his disposal because down below hundreds of thousands of people were on the move through the forests and along the river banks, marching towards Waitangi, some carrying signs about sovereignty, others about honouring the Treaty...and some, carrying a large cauldron with an effigy of the Smirking Twerker inside it.
"They never built the ten bridges", lamented Shane, "too many kissing cousins, not enough pragmatic solutions, everyone jumped the waka".
"They don't represent me, look at those victim minded losers", hissed Casey, "I'd have to ask for some specific advice to answer you Winston, but there must be another way?".
"People are forgetting that we are not a separatist nation and there's no room for Apartheid here", grumbled Winston as he extinguished his fag on a rock and longed for the old days when he used to play league and mess with wineboxes and electoral donations.
"Maybe we can travel in disguise in a canoe up that river?", suggested Shane, "I know an old Nat troll who lives nearby and cares about the freedom of shipping!"
"There it is", smirked Winston his face unfolding like a concertina, "Not just a pretty face eh Casey".
"Shane is a genius", swooned Casey who knew how to suck up and down when necessary, "Shane is a great Totara standing above the others..."
"Alright, that's enough", barked Winston, "Let's get going".
So it was that Winston and Casey shambled down-hill like bones and liquid cancer in a sack - as Shane led the way and they all descended down the mountain side, through the Jessica Get To Know Him trees, over the slippery Simeon skinks who darted in and out of the fossil fuel transport undergrowth, and down, down towards the banks of the River of Utter Bullshit that led to Waitangi, whispering colonial lies to all who drank of it.
Meanwhile far behind but catching up fast, Christopher strode at incredible pace, incredibly focused, he stopped incredibly briefly and examined the incredible ash of Winston's last fag and listened to the chatter of fact checker birds in the canopy above.
Christopher was incredibly committed to his goal of finding his lost step children, after they did not come home and wandered into these Populist Woods ...and now after incredible focus group poll tracking he emerged in a clearing where the Cottage of Pure Prejudice stood and although he did not smoke, he could smell faint traces of nicotine in the air.
They came from that cottage, and the front door was wide open.
Carefully, Christopher crept up to the cottage, moving like an Edmonds Jelly in an egg beater, and like 500 extra police he pushed the open front door a little further ajar and cast his squinty pyrex piggies eyes around inside.
"Barbara?" exclaimed Christopher, "What are you doing here?"
"Oh fark, it's you, I thought you were Casey", said Christopher's sister in law, sitting in an armchair with a bundle of documents on her lap.
"She asked me for specific advice so I brought it along, you know what would British American Tobacco tell the Ministry of Health, that sort of thing?" - blurted Barbara but Christopher ...signalled for her to stop right there by placing his hands over his ears.
"What? She wanted the advice, so I wrote it", stammered Barbara.
Christopher placed a finger over his mouth - signalling she should speak no more, there may be media crickets in the floorboards - he could not risk the truth - for he had to maintain plausible deniability and the illusion he cared very deeply.
"As long as no money was paid, everything will be fine", whispered Christopher looking over his shoulder, "Have you seen Winston and Shane?"
"No, but there's two slept-in cages downstairs, looks like two visitors stayed the night not long ago", replied Barbara, "Your own spoilt rotten kids are over in Hawaii aren't they? What's happening with you and Mandy? Keep our names out of the paper aye?"
Christopher did not have time for twenty questions about family matters, "Just shut up Barbara", thought Christopher, but instead he said, "I care deeply" and turned around and strode incredibly quickly after the trail, now growing incredibly cold ...clearly the three of them had re-entered the woods, on their way to Waitangi surmised Christopher, as he bounded like there was a ZB microphone ahead and an RNZ one behind, and disappeared into the woods, leaving Barbara behind with her advice for Casey.
Faster and faster Christopher pumped those flabby white legs, like he played for the Crusaders when he was not being Richard Hadlee - and soon he picked up a steady trail of ash, where Winston and Casey and Shane had polluted the forests only days before.
He made incredible progress and hauled back hours with his energy levels but suddenly Christopher stopped dead in his tracks.
There seated on a toadstool was an evil goblin with a very red nose who went by the name of Sir John and he blocked the way, his dead eyes fixed on Christopher, he seemed drunk and slurred, like he'd been at an ANZ AGM.
"Atchually, at the end of the day, you can't survive Waitangi", slurred Sir John the evil goblin, "You need a token, a gimp, someone to thrust in front of you, to speak for you"
"Sir John is that you? Clearly, what I would say to you is I am working incredibly hard to action my goal to find my step children", blurted Christopher who always felt like a naughty child living up to Sir John's legacy of filthy rivers, run down hospitals, bad race relations, and nine years of neglect.
Sir John jumped down off his toadstool and walked behind a giant SPIN Tree - but he remerged almost immediately - holding the leash of a salivating gimp in his hand.
"His name is boy, but you can all him Tama", said Sir John handing the leash over to Christopher.
"What I would say to you is he'll slow me down", protested Christopher who preferred to work incredibly hard alone.
"Not if you ride him, he's a Gelding Gimp built for racing and showing off his Te Reo", cackled Sir John, climbing back onto his toadstool.
"You won the election, but now you must win Waitangi, get on his back and say, the magic word.", commanded Sir John like a bottle of Jack slid through his brain.
Christopher leapt upon Tama's back and pulled the leash tight, but before he could ask, Sir John screamed the magic word, "Judas!"
Tama tore through the trees like a speeding Star Wars speeder bike, with Christopher holding on for dear life, every hair on his head standing up ( lol ) with the adrenaline ...
With no wind resistance and no conscience nor loyalty - Tama seemed to know where to go, as he bolted after the prey.
At this rate Christopher would catch up with Winston, Shane and Casey before nightfall...but what did Sir John mean, about winning Waitangi?
Clearly Sir John thought he knew something that Christopher did not, like who wrote that advice that Barbara wrote and what was happening up in Waitangi...what was winning Waitangi about?
Only time would tell, but Christopher thought about terrible parenting, like Barbara was accusing him of, perhaps he could use that and turn the tables, as Tama galloped like the wind of assimilation under his master's firm white grip.
Satire - the tale of Winston and Shane - Chapter 3
G
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