I was doing the rounds at a cocktail party in Manhattan when I spotted her approaching Obama.

I pretended to stroke my hair and whispered into the microphone in my shirt cuff, "Code red. Bulgaria approaching the bishop. I repeat. Code red."

You don't really need to say things twice to my long-time special adviser Heather Simpson. She saw me through three terms as Prime Minister and her old skills are as sharp as ever as she leads my campaign to become the next Secretary-General of the United Nations.


I saw her moving silently and at great speed through the crowd towards my toughest opponent for the job - Bulgarian candidate Irina Bokova.

It was imperative that she be stopped from talking to Obama. Along with Putin, Cameron, Francois Hollande and Ji Xinping, he's one of the five men we need to win over to secure the job.

I want that job. I want it. I want it. I want it badly.

Irina had nearly made it into Obama's inner circle when suddenly she stopped in her tracks. It was as though she'd been shot. It was like the grassy knoll; no one would ever know where the bullet came from. Heather was like a ghost, moving unseen, as she chose the exact second and angle to put her shoulder into a delegate, making him lose his balance, step forward, and bump against a delegate in front of him just as he was raising his glass of red wine, which spilled out and all over Irina's blouse.

She caught my eyes as she left the room. It was a look which said, "Da ti go nachukam otpred i otzad."

I shot her a look back which said, "Doubt it, bro."


Wake up screaming from a nightmare. It began as a wonderful dream. I was playing golf with Obama. John was carrying the bags - he always is in my dreams, come to think of it.

It was the end of the day. The sun was setting. I think we were in Hawaii. I could hear the crashing surf, and the music of birds.

We were all laughing and joking, and Obama kept giving me the thumbs-up.

But when I bent down to steady the ball on the tee, it turned into a tennis ball.

I looked up and realised I was on a tennis court. The sun had gone behind a cloud. I heard thunder, and a dog barking. Obama looked worried. "What's wrong?" I said.

"Someone who says he knows you is walking towards me," he said, "and I don't like the way he's gripping that tennis ball."

It was David Benson-Pope.


To the gym to get in shape for Friday's job interview. Ran the Stairmaster. Pumped the iron. Climbed the rock wall. Punched the bag. "Harder," said Heather. Punched the bag. "Harder!" Punched the bag. "Call that a punch? You're weak! Weak!"

Stepped past the bag, and punched Heather.


Phoned home. "What are you having for dinner?".

"Chops," said Peter.

"Sometimes that's all I want." I said. "Just put my feet up at home, and eat chops."

"No, you don't," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "I know."


I think the job interview went well. "Coming from New Zealand shapes who I am and what I have to offer," I said. " I come from a highly culturally-diverse country in a region of great diversity."

They lap that kind of stuff up.

"I want to end," I said, "with a Maori proverb from my country which says, 'What is the most important thing in the world? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata. It is people, it is people, it is people'."

The only trouble with securing this job, I thought when I got up, turned to leave, and everyone laughed because I had a sign pinned to my back which read I'M A STUPID KIWI in 30 different languages including Bulgarian, is bloody people.

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