Southerly by David Haywood

It's five months into the working year, and already I'm three months behind schedule on my work.

In my defence, I've had a few unavoidable interruptions. At the moment, for example, I'm lecturing on thermodynamics at the University of Canterbury. This was unavoidable because they offered me actual money, which is something I find very hard to refuse these days.

Before that I spent a month helping my grandfather put the finishing touches to his book (more on this another day) -- and prior to my grandfather's book was our burglary.

In terms of loss of property, our burglary wasn't really so bad. The days and weeks wasted in dealing with our insurance company were, to be honest, far more of a loss than the items stolen. But the ransacking that accompanied the burglary was really very inconvenient. Jennifer and I both possess a lot of books and a lot of files. When they are all removed from their shelves and filing cabinets, and then spread upon the floor, and then trod upon by burglars -- well, it takes a good many days to sort them all out again.

The worst bit of the re-organizing (at least in my case) was sorting through dozens of short stories and half-completed novels, and wondering what possessed me to write them -- and feeling depressed by how little I've achieved, and how I've frittered my life away doing nothing. It was a bit of a downer, to be perfectly honest.

But amongst all the depressing dross -- and, quite possibly, because they were amongst such dross -- there were a few pieces of writing that didn't seem quite so awful. One of them was a semi-finished novel set in West Auckland, involving half-a-dozen characters whose exploits are described in a series of interconnected short stories.

It was written when I was sixteen, having just finished my bursary exams, and mostly while I was supposed to be working in a warehouse -- organizing a filing system for thousands of faulty electric heaters.

I found the stories in the novel (mildly) interesting to re-read for two reasons: firstly because, at some primitive level, they did manage to describe the type of people I'd met at school and worked with in West Auckland. And secondly, because I'd unwittingly recycled two of the plot-lines in these pieces for Alan Bollard's adventures in the 'New Zealand Reserve Bank Annual 2010'.

It has to be said that the plot-lines work much better when translated into a humorous context -- where, as one insightful reviewer put it, there is the possibility of a "transgressive chortle". On the other hand, if you want to see what four years of incarceration in a rugby-worshipping high school in West Auckland will do to a teenager, then these stories will certainly give you plenty of data.

At any rate, I thought I might as well post one of them -- a story that, somewhat ironically, involves a burglary. But a couple of warnings beforehand: (a) don't expect to find anything humorous in this piece (or, if you do, you should seek help from a psychologist); and (b) this story contains violent imagery and the type of language they use in West Auckland. Don't read it if you are upset by such things.

It was a Beautiful Day

Hog and Shitter were a right pair. Everyone said so. They'd met on PD, and hit it off so well that when Shitter completed his sentence (six weeks 'cos he'd only been done for shoplifting) he reckoned they should become business partners.

Shitter was like that. He'd talk about 'business partners' or a 'business strategy'. He didn't just go off pinching like Hog did. And the way Shitter explained it, Hog could see that a business partner and a strategy was actually a good idea. He could also see that Shitter was a bit of a pussy, but that was okay 'cos Hog saw himself as a hard man who was ready to go out and do the hard yards.

Hog had left school as early as he could, which was fourteen-and-a-half. You weren't officially allowed to leave until you were fifteen, but everyone knew it took the truant officer six months to catch up with you. Hog just couldn't figure out how anyone could be so dumb as to stay at school -- doing what the shit-for-brains teachers told you -- for any longer than that.

He wanted to be out doing what he felt like doing. Hog was still living with his mum, of course, but he could look after himself no problem. If he needed some money he just went out and pinched something and then sold it.

Admittedly, this hadn't always worked out as Hog planned. He'd pinched a car and put an advert in the Trade & Exchange. And a bloke had come to look at it, and said okay he'd buy it, he just needed to get cash from his bank. But then next thing he came back with the fuckin' cops, and it turned out he was the guy

that Hog had pinched the car off in the first place. And next thing after that Hog was doing PD, and working his arse off just like the dumb fucks who'd stayed in school.

He'd felt a bit down after that, picking up litter all day, thinking: "Why fuckin' bother trying when they just arrest you and put you on PD?" But after a few weeks he met Shitter and then everything began to look okay again. Hog had been doing it all backwards, Shitter reckoned, "First you gotta find your customer and ask him exactly what he wants -- then you go and pinch it for him."

So now they were driving to the Westward Ho! in Shitter's mum's Honda Scamp. What a crappy car; Hog had almost refused to ride in it. But then Shitter pointed out that nobody takes any notice of a Honda, not like the Torana or Capri that Hog would've chosen. And Hog had to admit, after he'd cooled down and lit-up, that this was another instance of Shitter's cleverness.

They parked at the back of the Westward Ho! and went in through the toilets. Hog trailed behind while Shitter worked the pub. Sometimes they got told to "fuck off" or "go back to school"; mostly a plain "no". A bunch of older-looking guys had their beers sitting on the pool table; one of them beckoned Shitter over, asked what he was selling.

"TVs, walkmans, stereos -- anything like that. Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you. Cash on delivery."

"How about videos?"

"I can do you a real nice video player for a hundred."

It was that easy.

Hog and Shitter rolled through the streets of Glen Eden looking for a suitable house. The day was turning out to

be a scorcher, and the heat shimmered above the concrete. Shitter would wait in the car with the engine running; Hog would get out and stroll along the sweltering footpaths, checking out the properties. In one street, he found a place with an open window but no video player. Then he found another house with what looked like a video player -- and turned out to be a fuckin' tape-deck.

In revenge, Hog did a shit on the floor in the main bedroom, and wiped his arse on a pillowcase. Then he took the pillowcase and wrote 'SHIT' in big brown letters on the wall, which was kind of funny 'cos it was the word 'SHIT' and it was also written in shit.

After he'd been into another couple of houses, and still no video, Hog began to feel fucked off with the whole situation. It was as if no-one in Glen Eden had any fuckin' money. He wouldn't even have bothered with the house on Osman Street if he hadn't already spent so much time going nowhere.

The house was at the end of a long right-of-way, and Hog just about scarpered when he looked into a window and saw a girl sleeping in one of the bedrooms. But the downstairs ranch-slider was ajar, and he spotted a video player beneath the telly in the lounge. He was real quiet going inside: sneaking open the ranch-slider without a sound, padding across the carpet, unplugging the video, putting the cables into his pocket.

Now he was all ready to leave, but he started thinking about the sleeping girl -- why the fuck was he shitting his pants over some chick? Hog drifted along the hallway to her bedroom. A high-school uniform was draped over the dresser; the room smelt vaguely

of snot. He guessed the girl was ill. She lay with her back towards him and a cute little arse sticking out from under the sheets. Hog could see her white panties, a shadow that might have been her pubic hair. He stood in the doorway watching her.

The floor upstairs gave a creak. Hog picked up the video and crept quickly out of the house. Halfway down the drive, he paused, and thought hard. Had that really been someone moving -- or was it just his imagination? For a moment Hog was on the verge of going back inside. Then he heard a slight sound behind him, and he turned to see this fuckin' huge guy coming along the driveway, and then the guy was shouting: "That's my fuckin' video, you cunt!"

Hog was off. Pelting down the drive at full sprint -- video player hammering into his side. He hit the road and turned right, running back to where he'd been dropped off. Then he saw that Shitter had moved the car to other side of the right-of-way. Hog had to double-back, almost into the arms of the huge guy stumbling after him, now only metres behind him. Thank fuck that Shitter saw him, Shitter flung open the door, Shitter hit the accelerator as soon as Hog's arse touched the passenger seat.

Turned out the Honda Scamp was nippier than it looked. "Do you think he got my licence plate?" Shitter sounded worried. Hog fumbled with a packet of smokes, stuck one in his mouth, lit it with a single movement, took a huge long drag.

"Don't be such a pussy," he said. He looked at his hands. They weren't even shaking.

The guy was just where he said he'd be -- still at the pool table. The

Westward Ho! was getting busy now, Hog and Shitter elbowing their way between the crowds of afternoon drinkers.

"We've got your video outside, mate."

"What?"

"That video player you wanted -- got it out in the car."

"Dunno what you kids are talking about."

"Just this morning, mate! You ordered a video for a hundred bucks."

"Oh yeah, that's right, now I remember. Yeah, I changed my mind. Don't want it no more."

The guy's mates are cracking up with laughter now, downing a few more gulps of beer, enjoying the show.

"Hey, we had a business deal!" said Shitter. He sounded shrill. Hog knew that he was wasting his breath.

Back outside, Hog didn't realize anything was wrong until he opened the car door. There were bits of glass on his seat. On the driver's side, Shitter was staring open-mouthed at two broken windows, a kicked-in panel. The video player was gone, of course.

All the way home, Shitter whined at Hog, just like a little girl: "What am I gonna tell my fuckin' mum about her car?" Hog was sick to death of the sound of him. What about Hog wasting a whole fuckin' day, maybe even risking prison, and nearly getting beaten up by some cunt who wanted his video back. And what did Hog have to show for all that hard work? Absolutely fuck all.

They stopped for the lights at the intersection of West Coast and Parrs Cross Road. A boy on a racing bike pulled up beside the car. He was wearing his school uniform, and sent them a brief glance. Hog felt he could read the kid's mind -- two scruffy losers in a beat-up Honda Scamp. Shitter must have thought the same thing, he shouted at the kid: "What do you think

you're fuckin' looking at?"

The boy didn't say anything, and Shitter stuck his head out the window and yelled: "Hey, cunt on a bike, I'm talking to you!"

The light was still red. The kid pedalled across the intersection, his bike-chain rattling as he turned into Parrs Cross Road.

"Fuckin' cunt," said Shitter with feeling. The light changed and he accelerated smoothly through the gears, steering carefully onto the grass verge, hitting the bike dead centre of the car's grill.

They got out. Hog was amazed at how much damage the bike had done going over the car. Front and rear windscreens cracked, boot and bonnet both dented, a long gouge in the roof. He wondered what Shitter's mum would say now.

"Fuckin' cunt!" Shitter strode over to where the boy lay crumpled on the grass, kicking him two, three times in the stomach -- stamping hard on the kid's head: "Look at my fuckin' car!"

Then he was swinging back into the driver's seat, dropping it into reverse, accelerating hard along the verge, straight over the kid's neck, dragging him four or five metres under the car. Then into first gear, back to where Hog was waiting.

Hog climbed in. The street was empty. They pulled out onto the road, rounded a corner, and suddenly it was like nothing had happened. Except for the cracked windscreen, and Shitter still fuming: "Fuckin' little shit staring at us -- like we're scum or something."

Hog wasn't listening. He gazed out of the window, watching the power poles flicker past the car, bright sunlight on the trees, ash from a rubbish fire as it fluttered into the hot blue sky. He took a long drag on his smoke.

It was a beautiful day.

© David Haywood, 1986.

In this exclusive interview, Paula Bennett (Minister for Social Development and Employment), explains her plans for welfare reform, and discusses her special friendship with New Zealand's most famous racehorse.

I wouldn't call myself a superhero because I don't think that 'superhero' is a label that one should self-apply. But my friends do often say to me, "Paula, you're a real-life superhero," and I have to admit that I don't disagree with them.

I've known Phar Lap for years, ever since his retirement in 1932. Like me, he's concerned about welfarism, and it was his initial suggestion that we form a welfare-busting duo, with our secret headquarters in an eyrie in the spire of the Skytower.

We did try to buy an invisible jet, but we couldn't get one with controls modified for a horse to use. Then I saw a ride-on mower for sale -- with a tow-bar that I could attach to a horse-float. It was in lovely condition, and Phar Lap joked that we could use it to mow the heads off illegitimate children. He has a great sense of humour. People say that our mower isn't exactly the Batmobile, but Phar Lap is 84 years old, which is quite an age for a horse, and he's not getting any younger. You don't really want a sports car for a horse that age.

What I think most people don't understand is that New Zealand sickness beneficiaries control the world's financial system. As I often say to Phar Lap, it all started perfectly respectably, when Otto von Bismarck asked them to help fund his Old Age and Disability Insurance Bill of 1889. But once you let beneficiaries into an organization then it isn't so easy to get rid of them again, is it? I know because I've been a beneficiary myself.

Assassinations? My goodness, yes! Who told Isadora Duncan that she suited a scarf? Who modified the fuel pump on John Denver's Long-EZ aircraft? If it wasn't down to New Zealand beneficiaries then I really have no idea. And apparently John Denver was singing 'Leaving on a Jet Plane' as he dropped towards the ocean -- such a tragedy!

How it works is this: as soon as we get a phone-call on my hotline, I hitch up the ride-on mower, and we race off to the last-known address. When I spot the sickness beneficiary or the solo mother, I open the horse box, and release Phar Lap. Down they go under his hooves! Crunching like strawberry boxes. Ooh, Phar Lap shows them no mercy -- he's got no time for compassionate conservatism.

And while he's crunching and trampling, I'm shrieking: "The Dream is Over! The Dream is Over!" It's sort of our catch-phrase. I scream it over and over again, while Phar Lap's hooves become soaked with crimson, and I dance round and round leaving bloody footprints in intricate whorls and spirals.

Some people say it's against the Bill of Rights, but I think the majority of voters are in support of our actions -- and frankly, the opinion of the majority is what the Bill of Rights is all about, isn't it?

And, of course, they just get reincarnated, don't they? Hopefully as something more useful than a beneficiary! Phar Lap and I love to talk about reincarnation. Gosh, you should hear us. Of course, I've been particularly interested ever since I discovered that I was the reincarnation of Martha Longhurst.

I remember dying ever so clearly: having that heart attack in the Rover's Return, and my spectacles falling off onto the table. I was really surprised. And then I was reincarnated again as Valerie Barlow (née Tatlock). You never know what's going to happen in life, do you? I was planning to emigrate to Jamaica -- but first I wanted to dry my hair. Well, the hair-dryer wasn't working properly, and the next thing I was electrocuted to death!

Phar Lap says he's the reincarnation of Judith Collins, and I must say that it doesn't surprise me at all. He's always singing Pete Seeger and Joni Mitchell songs while he's doing his trampling.

It's not easy getting people off welfare, and you've got to have a good farrier. Being in a welfare-busting duo isn't easy either. There's a great deal of suffering involved -- a lot like a being in a marriage. For example, just last week Phar Lap told me that he likes to read books. That's the sort of thing that could break up a duo if you didn't have your communications sorted.

It's hard work but I must say that I'm very happy, and I wouldn't swap jobs with anyone.

I've always thought that the problem with religion (and especially Christianity) is that it's so very loud. To give but one example: our apartment in Berlin was next door to the Gethsemane Church; and the vicar and his parishioners were constantly ringing bells, and singing their heads off at all hours -- even on a Sunday morning. They had absolutely no consideration for their neighbours.

And then there was the nightly ruckus caused by a local believer when I first moved to Christchurch. We lived across the river from the Barbadoes Street Cemetery, and an unhappy Christian would begin pacing the graveyard around midnight, shouting for hours on end: "MY GOD, MY GOD, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?"

Actually the word 'shouting' doesn't begin to do justice to the volume that this chap managed to achieve. It would be more accurately described as a subterranean bass bellowing -- a noise that effortlessly passed through a double-brick wall and the pillow I had jammed over my head. Of course, the sound levels weren't helped by the neighbours, who would fling open their windows and shout passages from the Bible back at him, such as : "Go forth and multiply or I'll call the police" (Genesis 1:28).

I should mention at this point that I very much dislike people being rude to religious believers -- because it makes me feel compelled to be polite by way of balance. Thus when the Mormons knock on my door while I'm watching Top Gear, I do not greet them with icy rejection in the manner that I'd prefer. No, I offer them a nice cup of tea, and take their damned pamphlet; because I know they've had icy rejection from every other house in the street, and I feel terribly, terribly sorry for them.

In fact, I was once so polite to an American Mormon that he wept with gratitude, and told me a long story about how he'd come to Christchurch to bring the word of Brigham Young to savages living in grass huts -- only to discover that Christchurch had no grass huts and was more-or-less just like Salt Lake City, except full of people who hate Mormons.

My Glaswegian anarchist grandfather was surprisingly keen on door-knocking proselytizers, although not for spiritual reasons. He used invite them inside, sit them down, hobble them with a cup of tea, and then attempt to annihilate their system of beliefs. My grandfather loved a good argument, and -- for a Glaswegian anarchist -- knew a surprising amount of the Bible by heart. In my presence, he once enraged a Jehovah's Witness to such an extent that the Jehovah's Witness used some very un-Jehovah-like language indeed.

It was something to do with a Biblical episode in which Jesus (as a child) wanted to play with some other children, but they didn't want to play with him, and so he turned them into goats. I forget what it proved, other than the fact that Jehovah's Witnesses can be just as loud as regular Christians, and will use the word 'fuck' when sufficiently provoked. I bet that's what the parents said too -- when they saw what Jesus had done to their children.

Incidentally, I've read the Bible a couple of times, and have never found any mention of Jesus transforming children into goats, so I suppose it was invented by my grandfather purely in order to enrage proselytizers. Eventually he achieved a kind of religious trifecta -- and was banned by the Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and the Seventh Day Adventists. They used to cross the street to avoid his house.

Another problem I have with religion is its unnecessary complexity. In Christianity, there is that whole big deal about it being a strictly monotheistic religion -- except, of course, for the thing with the Holy Trinity. Yes, I understand that this is because the Trinity is like Bennifer or Brangelina, and is kind of a celebrity super-couple (plus one); but frankly, this excuse is rather stretching credulity as far as I'm concerned. As an eight-year-old, my brother tied the local Presbyterian minister in theological knots when asking for clarification on the subject. A few months later the minister had a crisis of faith and submitted his resignation; I hardly think that these two incidents were unrelated.

The most impressive theological analysis I've ever heard was from a mother in a supermarket, who was buying wrapping-paper with her child. "We celebrate Christmas because that's the day that Jesus was born," she said. "He wore sandals -- just like you."

They should get this woman to do a new translation of the Bible, in my opinion. It would probably save a lot of wars, and I know it would do no end of good for the sandal industry.

Of course, it's not very nice to poke fun at sincerely-held religious beliefs, and I daresay that many people will find my light-hearted words on this subject to be slightly uncomfortable-making. But consider how impolite religious believers can be towards one another.

Religion A: My God is the only true god. He is kind and just. He knows everything and he can perform any miracle that he wants. My god is omnipresent -- that means he's everywhere, even in the plumbing!

Religion B: Fancy being so superstitious! Your God is just a figment of your silly imagination. My God is the only true god. He is genuinely kind and just, and can really do all the things that your imaginary god claims to be able to do. Plus he's the God of love and tolerance. Oh, and if you don't believe me I'll kill you!

Religion A: Not if I kill you first!

Followers of the Scottish Premier Football League will be familiar with the general flavour of such philosophical debates, and indeed the above conversation could equally well be rendered as follows:

Rangers' FC supporter:: Jimmy McGrory kicked like a jessie!

Celtic FC supporter: I disprove your argument thus...

Rangers' FC supporter:: Oof! [as his nose is broken by a head-butt from Celtic FC supporter...]

Mind you, even if religion were as simple as "everyone should wear sandals" it wouldn't do any good. It seems to me that, generally speaking, most believers not only don't know what their religion is actually about, but they don't care much either. After all, if you're uninformed of the detail then it's easier to make the religion agree with what you'd prefer to think -- rather than having to believe what it says.

And, of course, they care even less about understanding anyone else's belief system. In my bleaker moments, I'm sometimes tempted to view religion as simply another form of tribalism -- albeit with the added bonus of an afterlife with feasting and virgins and houses made of solid gold and no annoying atheists.

Sometimes it's hard to look beyond the ghastlier manifestations of religion: the suicide bombs; the wickedness of Brendan Smyth and Graham Capill; the hypocrisy of Ted Haggard; the intolerance of Pat Robertson and Brian Tamaki. I could go on and on -- and thoroughly depress myself.

But then I remember the legions of genuine believers who unassumingly devote themselves to helping other people. As in other aspects of life, it's the quiet ones that are so easily overlooked. The volunteers who deliver meals-on-wheels, the kind-hearted people who give hospitality to strangers in need, those who donate their time to collect for charity-clothing organizations, who visit the sick in hospital, and the unfashionable and un-thanked people of many faiths who bring comfort to prisoners.

When you focus on these quiet believers, who aren't loudly self-promoting and self-righteous, then you realize that -- in some interpretations at any rate -- there is no problem with religion at all.

Public Address presents our weekly round-up of the important events in parliament. This issue: 8th March 2010 to 12th March 2010.

ANYONE FOR SETI?

This week in parliament the Speaker of the House revealed his role as the primary global contact for the SETI programme (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence).

"What this means, basically, is that when ET phones Earth -- I'll be very first person who Dr Werthimer [SETI Chief Scientist] calls on his red emergency telephone," says Dr Lockwood Smith.

You Can't Go Wrong with Grey

"I've known Dan Werthimer for years, ever since I helped him choose the colour scheme for the Allen Radio Telescope Array," recalls Dr Smith. "And following my successful negotiations in the New Zealand-Singapore FTA, Dan was one of the first people to recognize that I was arguably the greatest Minister for International Trade in world history."

"Of course, as far as we know at this point, this also makes me arguably the greatest Minister for International Trade in the Universe," adds Dr Smith. "So naturally SETI were desperate to employ my trade negotiation skills in the event of contact with an alien civilization."

Princess Diana

Initially, Dr Smith was part of a four-person committee that also included Princess Diana, Gianni Versace, and Robert Atkins.

"The idea was to have a committee of the world's great visionaries," explains Dr Smith. "But in the end, everyone at SETI realized that this was a mistake. Three-quarters of the people on the committee simply weren't up to the job."

Happy Ending

"Happily, however, all of my fellow committee members have subsequently become deceased," says Dr Smith. "And I can't say that I'm sorry. Life at SETI is much easier without their dysfunctional and attention-seeking personalities."

"I'm a much calmer person now," he adds.

KEEP YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM ME, MR JOYCE!

The ongoing feud between the Minster of Finance and the Minister of Transport took a dramatic turn this week, when Bill English accused Steven Joyce of having abnormally large hands.

"Steven seizes every opportunity to 'display' his hands to me," claims English. "And he's always drawing attention to them with comments such as: 'I'll give you a hand with that, Bill' or 'Let's shake on it'. It's quite disgusting."

Kangaroo

English says that his working relationship with Joyce has deteriorated to the point where his ability to sleep has been compromised. "Just last week I had a nightmare that I was a kangaroo, and that Steven Joyce was attempting to insert his hands into my pouch. As you can imagine, I woke the whole household with my screaming."

"I think we should stop pretending there's an option here," concludes English. "Steven must undergo surgery to reduce the size of his hands -- if he's to continue as a cabinet minister."

Camel

Joyce retorts that English's nightmares are "all in his head".

"I can't help what Bill dreams, can I?" says Joyce despairingly. "The week before last, Bill dreamt that he was a Bactrian camel and that I was trying to put my hand between his humps. I admit that I'm not proud of my hands, but surgery is an extreme solution."

Danyon Loader

Cabinet insiders claim that English now holds fears for his life.

"It would be quite easy for Steven Joyce to swim from Albany to Southland, and then enact his revenge on Bill," says one cabinet minister, who did not wish to be named. "That would be no distance at all with Joyce's great big flipper hands. I bet he'd be a lot faster than Olympic gold-medal swimmer Danyon Loader."

ONE HUMP OR TWO?

It's been one of the most exciting weeks ever for camels in parliament with hatchet-man Rodney Hide suggesting that the parliamentary camel should be "sent to live on a farm where it would be happier".

Finlayson to Hide: "I Don't Think So!"

But cabinet heavy-hitter Chris Finlayson is trying to put the kibosh on Hide's schemes. "In my opinion, we are below the minimum level of camels right now," insists the Attorney-General. "At the very least we should retain our existing dromedary, and then hire a Bactrian camel to supervise the dromedary as he goes about his daily activities."

Camels (again)

Luckily for Hide, his anti-camel crusade has a staunch supporter in the Speaker of the House -- although it does come with a caveat.

"I would be loathe to suggest that parliament could get along without any camels at all," says Dr Lockwood Smith. "But does it have to be a real camel? Why not have a person dressed as a camel -- as I did when presenting my hit children's television programme It's Academic?"

Won't Somebody Think of the Children?

Under the Speaker's proposal, an Olympic-sized swimming pool would be installed in the main floor of the debating chamber.

"During school visits I would entertain the children by swimming lengths of the pool while disguised as a camel," explains Dr Smith. "This would teach them far more about parliament than any amount of so-called 'civics' lessons."

Stick It Up Your Junta, Galtieri!

"As a society, we simply can't continue to produce children with so little knowledge of parliament in general, and the Speaker's role in particular," says Dr Smith. "There's a mere 17 shopping days until the 28th anniversary of the Falkland Islands' War -- which provides us with a timely reminder of where such practices can lead."

I was unsure what to expect when Rodney Hide showed me into his office. The MP for Epsom was wearing a worried frown; it wasn't long before he explained why he wasn't his usual cheerful self today.

"I've just been reading the latest statistics for 'P' abuse," he tells me. "You know, I get really worked up when I see the effect that 'P' is having on this country. It's not so much the crime, the wasted lives, or the broken marriages -- it's more serious than that. As I see it, each new 'P' user is another nail in the coffin of sniffing."

The practice (or "art" as Hide prefers to call it) of solvent sniffing is a subject dear to his heart. "For many of us, the tradition of sniffing is what defines us as New Zealanders," explains Hide. "It puts us in touch with our cultural heritage, helps to clear the nasal passages, and prevents the build-up of mucus in the brain. To my mind, the art of sniffing is a cultural treasure -- a 'taonga', as the Maoris would say."

Unlike most sniffers, Hide became involved with solvents in later life. "It's hard to believe, but I used to be a complete loser," he claims. "My life stumbled from disaster to disaster -- until eventually I sank so low that I ended up lecturing at Lincoln University. One day I was marking some student essays, and (as I suppose happens to many academics) I looked at my bottle of Twink and thought: 'Why not?' I never dreamt that it would turn my life around."

Hide's forehead gleams with enthusiasm as he explains to me how the experience led to his political enlightenment. "Prior to regular sniffing, I'd thought that ACT's policies were crazy. They seemed to be the very opposite of what was needed to fix this country. But as soon as I started to sniff then it all began to make perfect sense. And the more I sniffed, the more sense it made."

Fired-up on solvents, Hide introduced himself to ACT leader, Sir Roger Douglas. "It turned out that Roger was a sniffer from way back," recalls Hide. "So, of course, he invited me to be president of the ACT party. Those were great days. Roger and I used to pass around a tube of Ados S4, and churn out policy as fast as we could type."

It's only when I ask Hide how he relates to non-sniffers that I catch a glimpse of another side to his personality. "It's never easy to deal with closed-minded people," he admits sadly. "A case in point would be John Key. I have it on good authority that he's never sniffed anything stronger than PVA. Some people might ask whether a person like that has the clarity of thought to be prime minister -- I know it's something that's certainly a concern to me."

Fortunately for Hide, such moments of introspection are brief. Mere seconds later, he's almost exploding with excitement as he tells me of his success in lobbying for tax reform. "I'm sure that Bill English won't mind if I tell you that this year's budget will raise the GST rate from 12.5 per cent to 4Π per cent -- or, in other words, approximately 12.5663706143592 per cent. This means that New Zealand will become the very first country to have a tax rate that's an irrational number. The genius of this system becomes apparent when people make financial transactions using coins. They'll simply need to measure the total circumference of their coins, divide by the total diameter, and then multiply by 0.04 of the total value to work out GST. It's an incredibly simple concept, but one that would never have occurred to me without a rigorous regime of sniffing."

Although Hide has had considerable success in bringing ACT policy to parliament, he maintains that his greatest achievement is in mentoring other MPs. This assertion finds heartfelt agreement from his colleague Heather Roy.

"For example, just last week I was having difficulty finding the facts to back up our proposed education policy," says Roy. "Rodney sent me a bottle of Spraykote and a plastic bag, and my worries simply flew out the window. By the time I was finished, I didn't know whether I was Arthur or Martha -- I just knew that the Report of the Inter-Party Working Group for School Choice was a damn fine piece of work."

The alloted time for my interview has expired, and I shake hands with Rodney Hide. Pausing at the door, I glance back and observe him taking a can of petrol from a drawer in his desk. There is a hissing sound as he removes the cap; Hide lets out a deep sigh as his eyes roll back into his head.

I find it reassuring that while other MPs may concentrate their attention on the mundane, the mind of Rodney Hide is very firmly focussed on infinity -- and beyond.