Those summer days when angry nor’westers, having dumped their moisture on the Southern Alps, assault the rest of the South Island with sudden gusts of outrageously hot air.
The sort that sends you reeling backwards when a baking oven’s door is opened.
That was Hannah’s reaction when she nudged open the door from the air-con cooled interior of the pub and stepped out on to the deck. What possessed Laurie and Les, her favourite punters, to sit out here in the unrelenting sunlight and the searing wind she could not imagine. But, there they were in their dark glasses, loud Hawaiian shirts, and faux Panama hats, looking for all the world like a pair of retired Mafioso.
"Two icy ales, gentlemen. As requested."
"Hannah, you’re a treasure."
"Indeed I am, gentlemen. Indeed I am."
The two friends observed the barkeeper’s retreat over the rims of their frosty glasses and drank deeply.
"Where were we?" Laurie asked his friend.
"You were asking me for my predictions for 2026, and I was telling you that if I could predict the future I’d have claimed that $40 million Lotto prize and would now be cruising the Aegean with Rosemary."
Laurie chuckled. "So you were, Les, and I was about to say, ‘give it a go anyway’."
"OK, but with Donald Trump in the White House the prediction business has gotten exponentially more challenging. Talk about your random probability generator. I mean, annexing Greenland! Where the hell did that come from?"
"Same place as Nicolas Maduro’s Special Forces guests, I reckon."
Les shook his head in mock consternation. "Talk about dropping in for a chat!"
"One can only imagine", Laurie grinned, "the cold shiver that runs down the Ayatollah Khamenei’s spine every time he hears a knock at the door!"
"Yep, it’s a nervous time for dictators of every stripe," Les agreed, "and it’s hard not to enjoy a fairly hefty helping of schadenfreude. That said, however, I’d feel a lot safer if our new global monarch was just a little less prone to sudden rushes of authoritarian blood to the head."
"And what about our own little neck of the woods?", said Laurie, changing the subject. "Who do you fancy in the 2026 General Election Stakes?"
Les pushed back his hat and scratched his head.
"You’re absolutely right to compare it to a horse race, Laurie, because that’s exactly what our political parties have become — racehorses. We don’t expect racehorses to hold fixed opinions on economic and social policy, do we? We just expect them to gallop faster than all the others in the race. The voters put their money on National, Labour, Act, NZ First, the Greens — some even back that rank outsider Te Pāti Māori — all hoping for a decent dividend. All of us know in which stables the horses were bred, we know their trainers and what sort of conditions they prefer, but we don’t have an emotional stake in the animals. We used to. But not any more. Now all we care about is win, lose, or place — and what’s in it for us."
Laurie sighed heavily.
"Jeez, Les. What are you saying? That all the political hues — red, blue, green, yellow, black — are nothing more now that the colours of the jockeys’ silks? Useful for telling the riders apart, but that’s all?"
"Pretty much, mate. I mean, ask yourself, does it really matter these days who wins? Tell me what will change? And when I say ‘change’ I’m talking about ‘big change’. The sort of change that followed the elections of 1935 and 1984, when New Zealand was radically transformed. When we were changed into a very different sort of country. Honestly, Laurie, is that what you’re expecting from the 2026 General Election Stakes?"
Laurie drained his glass, set it down carefully, and took a deep breath.
"No, Les, it’s not. Act believes in big change. So do the Greens. And Te Pāti Māori would definitely like to transform ‘Aotearoa’ into a very different sort of country. But those aren’t the horses that count, are they? The only horses that count are National, Labour, and NZ First, and to stave off real change they’ll opt to ride alongside each other — not against each other."
Les laughed.
"A Grand Coalition? Now there’s a prediction!"
■ Chris Trotter is an Auckland writer and commentator.
