I’ve been thinking about John Key for some time. John who? Yes, exactly. The New Zealand electorate’s love affair with John Key, which is still far beyond my understanding, seems to have ceased the moment he gave up being prime minister. It is as if he was swallowed by the hole of regretful memories. Does anyone remember why they loved him? Or is it a case of being embarrassed by a teenage romance best forgotten? Forgotten until recently, that is, when he popped up with a knighthood.Now, who can remember the name of the prime minister who breathed life into this extinct, antediluvian embarrassment of knights, dames and garters? I’ll say no more. Except that Bill English, the worthy replacement and a man in my view of much more substance, is not turning people on. Boring Bill’s capabilities are being underrated. Perhaps he has become collateral damage to the memory of cringe-making adolescent yearning.
And now that we’ve all reverted to cold-hearted analysis, who are the ex-lovers going to vote for? A curly question even for the pollsters these days. Brexit took them by surprise, Trump knocked them out, Macon, like Trump, made it without a party, and Jeremy Corbyn, against all predictions, is making a lot of entitled people nervous.
So where do we go from here? Are we going to follow the trend and say a plague on both your damn houses and give our votes to Gareth Morgan and David Seymour? Labour and National sharing the opposition benches. Wouldn’t that be fun.