"Tea" is coming to have a special place in the New Zealand political lexicon. In 1988, then prime minister David Lange paused for a celebrated "cup of tea" signalling a hiatus which, as it transpired, effectively curtailed his party's rigorous programme of neoliberal reforms commonly referred to as "Rogernomics". It also signalled the deep divide that had arisen in the party between the Roger Douglas faction, which went on to form Act New Zealand, and more traditional Labour, eventually to be led by Helen Clark.
Now we have the "Teapot Tapes" saga, which arose out of a public meeting prior to last November's election, and which this week has acquired a degree of "closure". Or not. The players in this case were the National Party leader John Key, campaigning for a second term, and John Banks, the Act party candidate for Epsom, on whose election his party's continued existence depended. In November last year, that was by no means a foregone conclusion.
What the centre and centre-right voters in the electorate required was a signal from Mr Key that they should vote tactically and throw in their lot with Act. This would enable the election of a party to National's right. In a well-flagged piece of political semaphore, it was deemed that the means by which such a signal would be delivered to the electorate was a public meeting between Mr Key and Mr Banks in an Auckland cafe.
As is now well-known, at this orchestrated "stunt" a freelance TV cameraman left his recording device on the table in front of Mr Key when the media was asked to leave the room. He subsequently passed the recording on to a Sunday newspaper - which eventually, and probably rightly, decided not to publish.
While Mr Lange's "cup of tea" was almost Wagnerian in its heft and ramifications, Mr Key's has veered wildly between soap opera and farce. But it would be untrue to suggest the affair does not have implications. Such closure as has been ascribed to it arises because the police, to whom Mr Key complained, and who subsequently "visited" the offices of four newsrooms in the course of their investigations, have decided that laying charges against the cameraman, Bradley Ambrose, would be a waste of money and thus not in the public interest. At the same time, the police "are clear that the actions of Mr Ambrose were unlawful".
While there are certainly questions to be asked over the legality of undisclosed recordings, the position of the police invites comment: they seem to want to have their cake and eat it, too. It is the task of the courts to decide what is or what is not illegal in particular circumstances when the facts, and their import, are disputed. Mr Ambrose's lawyers are equally confident that "no offence was committed or could be committed in the circumstances". Who is right?
If the police are so convinced illegal actions were committed, should they not have pursued the matter?
The unsatisfactory outcome is that no-one, least of all the media, is any the wiser as to the limits of recordings at such events. Having invited all and sundry to witness and report on this significant, albeit staged, occasion, were Mr Key and Mr Banks effectively asking to go "off the record" when they required the assembled reporters and crew to leave the cafe; and, if so, does that not require the assent of all parties?
The vacuum of uncertainty created by the police decision invites a degree of scrutiny on the Prime Minister himself. As the complainant in the matter, his views as to prosecuting Mr Ambrose were sought. Because the cameraman had written a letter of regret to Mr Key and Mr Banks over the taping, Mr Key felt pursuing the case was not now necessary.
But there are other reasons why Mr Key might not want the case continued: the "Teapot Tapes" saga raises astringent questions as to his own actions and judgement - in staging the stunt in the first place, then in calling the police when it all turned pear-shaped.
This was not his finest hour.
