The Phone Call (actual)

What follows is a short extract from the diary of Prime Minister Bill English detailing his Waitangi Day activities. 

Dear diary… today dawned like any other with the sun appearing over the horizon like a giant ball of burning hydrogen. I rose from my bed and donned my dressing gown and headed for breakfast. Two Weet-Bix and a cup of tea later I was ready for some serious prime-ministering. Several breakfasts and a yum cha later I was ready for a well earned rest. I retired to my luxurious and very free crown limousine and told Harold to drive. So we drove. 17.43 minutes* around and around until the phone rang. I answerved it and guess who it was? None other than President Trump – the President. He said hello and I also said hello. He called the Australian PM something I can’t repeat here** and then said something about The Hobbit and Sir Bob Charles before going on about how awesome he was and how stupid the fake media were for not reporting the facts he was telling them to report. He then mentioned how much he hated Alec Baldwin before saying that I should drop by the White House next time I’m nearby so we can throw darts at his CNN dartboard. Then he said goodbye and hung up. 

Following this call I am certain we will have first preference on a bilateral trade deal should the chance arise. ***

Had Trump stopped talking about himself during the conversation I’m sure I would have said his immigration law changes weren’t very nice.

Anyway, thank you for listening diary. 

Kind regards, 

Bill English  (Prime Minister of New Zealand)


* that’s .43 of a minute which is 25.8 seconds, not 43 seconds, in case you were wondering. 

** President Trump said, “Trumble is a bit of a dick.”

*** I am not convinced there will be any trade deal without us putting Sir Bob Charles up as some kind of collateral. 

The Phone Call

TRANSCRIPT: Phone call between President Donald J. Trump of the United States of America and Prime Minister Bill English of Southland.

Hello. It’s me.I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet.

BILL: Hello… Bill speaking

THE DONALD: Hey buddy. It’s The Donald here. How the hell are you?

BILL: Who?

THE DONALD: The Donald.

BILL: Sorry, who? Who is the Donald?

THE DONALD: Me. I am The Donald.

BILL: Yes. I know. But who is the Donald. Who are you?

THE DONALD (slightly agitated): Oh for chrissakes! I am The Donald. I am The goddam Donald?

BILL (long pause): Um… OK… and what is it that you do Mr.The Donald?

THE DONALD (quickly getting more agitated): I’m the goddam president!!

BILL: The president of what?

THE DONALD (seething with blind fury): The goddam President of the United States of America. You goddam idiot!!

BILL: Oh… that The Donald…

THE DONALD (utterly enraged): Yes I’m that The Donald. How many other Donalds are there?!!?!?

BILL: Duck?

THE DONALD (apoplectic): What?!!!???!?

BILL: Donald Duck… that’s another Donald.

THE DONALD (psychoticly apoplectic): I don’t have to speak to you! I’m the king of the free world and your just a snivelling little shit from the boon docks. Shove it up your ass!!!
*slams phone down*

BILL (smiling): Snivelling indeed you orange racist.


Spread your wings and fly little Boon

After travelling internationally, there is a tendency for the head to lose the ability to keep itself aloft. I sit here in Narita Airport in Tokyo willing the nogginy weight atop my neck to maintain its usual positioning, yet all it appears to want to do is chin-buttered my man-Boobs. 

All is not lost. Some ¥en wisely spent on a large “basic coffee” has the desired effect of keeping me awake long enough to enjoy the free food and beverage British Airways has to offer. 

The length of the distance between New Zealand and the Europe so many of us share familial links with is renowned. The first flight takes half a day. Sure you may have time for a quick nap nestled in your moob, but the reality of the journey means in fairly short order you are devouring another half-day flight before you are even close to your destination. 

Twenty four hours flying time plays many havocs on mind and soul.

But what joy the travel can bring. I awoke from a longer nap on our Auckland to Tokyo flight to just the thinnest hint of a sunrise climbing the distant horizon. Slowly the colours morphed through dark orange, blues and purples until the final explosion of dawn blinded me with a subsequent screen glare that prevented any conclusion to the Great British Bake Off. 

Seeing Fuji loom as the mountainous guardian of the sprawling ubanity of Tokyo was particularly zen. This zen was inversely proportional to the level of chaos and rage that greeted me on landing at Heathrow. Fog had combined with the English inability to organise itself during a crisis to create some exceedingly unhappy travellers. Thanks to a quirk in the system I am yet to identify, our plane was allowed to leave meaning we eventually arrived at our Aberdeen destination over two hours late. Better to be there at 1am than on a couch in Heathrow Terminal 5 cursing the airport gods for the most useless excuse for an airport since [insert useless airport here – cannot currently think of one more useless than Heathrow due to my jetlag (which is far worse thanks to Heathrow)].

So we are now here in Scotland enjoying the pre-Christmas banter. We won’t be returning to New Zealand until late-January. Whether there are more posts between now and then really does depend on my ability/motivation to write them. John Key now gathers dust with Robert Muldoon and the great Jenny Shipley in the Great Big Book of Former National PMs. Our parliament has decided, in their infinite wisdom, to recess until summer is almost over. 

I assume the country will continue to run in their (and my) absence. Who knows whether anything worthy of satirical cut downs will occur in this time? Maybe we will never know. In any case, requests can be sent through the @boonman account linked to this blog. 

Until 2017, or the next blog post, MyThinks wishes all its readers a very merry non-denominational holiday season.

Could I have the Bill, please? 

The party was over. The turmoil of the last week was beginning to subside and things were slowly returning to some kind of normalcy. Everyone, for example, had stopped laughing at Jonathan Coleman’s leadership bid.

Back in the Beehive after a long weekend watching other people spend money, Prime Minister-elect Bill English was very pleased himself. He was now precisely where he wanted to be – sitting in an office chair with his hands sitting gently on a desk. This was a great day.

Suddenly, and without warning, there was a sensual knock on the door. The jangle of rings and other jewellery could only mean one thing – the wrist controlling the hand knocking on the door to his inner sanctum was a wrist from West Auckland.

Bill turned on his desk fan. He had seen the wind blow the hair of a man in a film once and he had gotten the girl. His power now gave him options. This time it would be he who would get the girl.

As he thought a few moments longer about where this day might be heading, he remembered the chap in the film had sported shoulder length hair. His hair was the classic Gore short back and sides. There was no folicle waterfall careering behind him. He was just sitting at his desk with water streaming from his eyes. 

The fan was turned off.

“Enter!” is what he wanted to say in a way that had him sounding like a classically trained Shakespearian actor. Instead he said, “Yes?” in a barely audible rural drawl. She entered anyway.

“Shit Bill,” said Paula, “we did it. We actually did it.”

“Yes,” he replied, not meaning to be frugal with his sexual wordplay, but being so nonetheless.

“You here at the big desk with the big job in your highly capable big hands while I take on the job of your number 2…”

“Yes,” he said again, even more erotically than the first time

“Now,” replied his deputy glorious in her 9th floor radiance, “I’ve got a lot of work to do so I’ll head. Well done boss.”

“Yes,” Bill replied for a third time. The atmosphere in the office had moved from lightly to highly charged. He knew it. He suspected she knew it. He decided not to ask her about it just in case she hadn’t noticed him manning around.

As Ms. Bennett walked out the door, her Impulse body spray lingered for just a little bit longer. He moved over to his stereo and, taking one more deep breath of the perfume, popped in his Luther Van dross CD. 

This was heaven and he was in it.

Charter school performance “off the hook”

The government had confirmed it is very happy with the NCEA results from its beloved charter schools. This follows concerns being raised about the different methodology being used to calculate pass rates in the privately run but publicly funded cash cows.

Undersecretary of Hekia Parata (pictured) has taken time out from his own exams to say how delighted he was with the results.

Student waits for exam results

“100% of charter school students passed their NCEA exams,” said a delighted David Seymour outside a Wendy’s he’d just been taken to by his mum, “and I’m not afraid to tell all those naysayers and woolly wowsers that they’re all egg-burgers for thinking charter schools would be a failure.”

Mr. Seymour said the seven charter school students who ended up sitting NCEA exams did very, very well with 100% of the students who passed the exams being counted towards the 100% pass rate.

Her Grand Highness Hekia Parata said she had no problem with charter schools not counting students who left or failed in their data because they were “losers” who would actually end up being counted in local public school data because, “that also makes the charter schools look good.”

John Key was reported as saying, “meh… I’m off the clock.”