Parussini - Believer - Conversations with Mike Moore

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN e: 978-1-990003-10-3

ISBN m: 978-1-990003-11-0

An Upstart Press Book

Published in 2020 by Upstart Press Ltd

Level 6, BDO Tower, 1921 Como St, Takapuna

Auckland 0622, New Zealand

Text Peter Parussini 2020

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Design and format Upstart Press Ltd 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by CVD Limted (www.cvdgraphics.nz)

Cover photo: NZPA/NZME

Contents

Introduction

March 2017.

The solid mahogany family dining table is fully extended, and hes sitting at its head nearly touching the wall behind, like his old Bowen House desk in Wellington. In front of him are nine chairs beautifully padded at attention, waiting for a meeting.

The ashtray, the smell of old cigarettes and the mountains of memos, speeches, press releases and newspaper clippings in two giant piles either side are gone and replaced with flowers from the garden, ornaments from world travels, the stinging sun and the smell of sea air coming through the veranda doors.

The books biographies and the latest economic and business thoughts from academics and leaders from around the globe are still strewn everywhere. But now theres also a neat pile of them Go Fish , From Different Villages , Muslim Heritage in our World and The Penguin History of New Zealand lying on each other directly in front of him with a computer laptop, wirelessly connected, on top.

A pint glass of iced water is just in front of his left hand. His black contact pocket-book, with bits of paper still sticking out and dog-eared pages, is near his resting right hand.

The scene isnt much different to his old office which had those veneer desks common across Wellingtons public service in the 1970s and 1980s fake light walnut in colour and big; more than a human wingspan.

He also used to have it jammed up almost to the window, but with just enough space to squeeze in a comfortable high-backed chair and a pole with the New Zealand flag draped from it. A framed photo of the bespectacled Michael Joseph Savage hung on the wall and looked down across the room.

Laid out in front of the desk all connected were a series of tables in the same public service cardigan dullness, not quite matching the desk, butted up against each other to form a long table that could be surrounded by 10 chairs.

With cupboards and bookcases on one side of the room and windows on the other overlooking the prize the Beehive across Bowen Street there was little choice but to sit and meet with him when you walked through the door to his office.

With the familiar, the greeting is still the same. The dimple on his left cheek engages a pursed-lip teethless smile, his eyebrows lift, his blue eyes gaze up and theres a soft Gidday mate, how are ya?. Its more a statement than a question and the sentence peters away, like hes thinking of something else.

He pushes his mouse awkwardly with his left hand and clicks it.

These days he doesnt politely stand when you walk in the room and his handshake doesnt feel like your dads; more like your granddads wanting to be firm but with a couple of stiff fingers and not able to engage all the muscles.

Yvonne hasnt changed: theres still the optimistic smile, the greeting-kiss on the cheek with a hug, and offers of coffee and water. The savouries, sandwiches and cakes come back minutes later, out of their little white paper bags, cut up and returned on plates with napkins.

How do you think theyre going? he starts the conversation. But its a different query. The 42-year-old version of him would have followed up his question with a quick precis about how he thought they the New Zealand Labour Party were going.

Theres a pause. Did he actually want an answer? Ive accidentally slipped into my old ways of more than 25 years earlier, creating a gap for him to answer his own question.

I hurriedly tell him what everyone else is saying, knowing its hardly an observant answer for someone who always craves insight: Littles a nice and capable enough chap but he isnt the person to lead Labour out of the wilderness; but who knows who is.

Theres another pause and he states matter-of-factly: Theyve got to change that constitution to create a process that brings forward a leader that has broad electoral appeal, that doesnt have to pander to a handful of people who have privileged positions in the party.

We need someone who appeals to the next generation and unashamedly dreams big for New Zealand because thats what great Labour leaders do.

In the past he would have said that with an angry and exasperated voice. Talk about his party and its processes would often result in his eyes bulging forward and a deep staccato-like voice.

Now his tone is calm. Hes not bland. Its just softer and a conversational reflection that invites other opinions.

He is thirsty, though, keen for a chat about all matters politics: whats happening around Parliament and what others are saying about Labour and its key players.

Having given him some savouries, I slowly offer him something else: Mike. If youre up to it, Im keen to talk about the early days your mum and dad, growing up in Kawakawa, about being packed off to Dilworth School in Auckland.

He relaxes his face, his dimple goes up, his eyebrows rise and his eyes look forward fixed on something beyond the end of the room . ..

****

There was hardly anyone there this midweek afternoon. No advance had been done to check out the location and drum up a crowd.

But Prime Minister Mike Moore went seeking the public like some missile homing in on targets. He cold-called many bewildered shoppers, stuck a hand out and introduced himself with a bevy of journalists and cameras in tow. Many politicians find the process of meeting members of the public awkward; not Moore, who seemed to enjoy their company more than the familiar faces of the media pack.

Few really wanted to chat. Many turned their eyes down and politely walked away after shaking his hand which, in itself, was an achievement given the hatred the country had towards Labour in 1990.

There was hardly anything exciting to report upon other than the depressing reception the prime minister was receiving at the Coastlands Shopping Mall in the marginal Labour seat of Kapiti, just north of Wellington. But that was a story that had already been written weeks earlier about Labours re-election chances. No chance but well cut him a break and see what he can do, the Press Gallery seemed to think unconsciously.

As we wandered aimlessly through the mall, the photographer accompanying me spotted a giant panda sign at a nearby coffee shop, Pandas Caf. He said I should convince the thirty-fourth prime minister of New Zealand to pose in front of it. Instead of telling him how undignified that would be for a prime minister, in my youthful naivety I asked Moore if hed oblige.

I hadnt calculated ahead that by asking him for this favour that might be my one and only following him around on the campaign trail. The older and wiser ones in the Press Gallery would probably have held back, saving up their one ask for something more important the inside word on an announcement or an exclusive story.

I also hadnt thought through the consequences of Moore barking back at me for being so stupid and how that would have put me even further down the pecking order of respect among my colleagues.