Steve Braunias' Secret Diary of Jami-Lee Ross

Jami-Lee Ross leaving after holding his press conference outside the Wellington Central Police Station. Photo / File

COMMENT

MONDAY
Here I sit plotting my next move.

I ask Simon Lusk for his advice. He's a good man. He knows politics inside and out, mostly out, because he's never actually worked in Parliament and doesn't seem to have done anything that represents the needs of the people. It gives him distance. He can size things up in a flash, see right through all the bullshit.

"This is war," he said, "and you are a great warrior."

"I work out," I said, and unbuttoned my shirt.

"You have to roll Bridges," he said.

"Bridges," I said, and tried to spit.

"Take him down. Bury him. Make sausages out of his intestines," he said.

"Sausages?"

"You don't have to eat them," he said. "The point is, you have to wipe him out. Destroy him."

"Yes," I said. I ran through the fields, and came back, panting, "Yes, yes, yes!"

He looked deep into my eyes. It was the look of a true friend who has my best interests at heart.

"And then?," I said. "And then what do I do after Bridges is gone?"

He said, "What do I care? I'm just here for war."

TUESDAY
Here I sit plotting my next move.

I ask Cameron Slater for his advice. He's a good man. He wrote the book on politics, except Nicky Hager co-wrote it and used it against him when he published Dirty Politics. I'm proud to say my name is in there. I'm proud to call Cam a friend. I'm proud he's on my side.

"This is war," he said, "and I am in charge of comms via my credible and widely read blog Whaeloil."

"You've done a wonderful job so far," I said.

"Let's sit down and examine another of the private conversations you've recorded," he said.

We put it on, and I boiled the jug. Cam listened carefully. I put in a teabag, and said, "Milk?" He nodded. "Sugar?" He held up a finger. He remained fixed on the recording, leaning forward, sometimes taking notes.

When it finished, he blew on his tea, and took a thoughtful sip.

"What we have here," he said, "appears to be a tape recording of you buying a bottle of milk from an Indian gentleman at the dairy."

"That's right," I said.

He put down the teacup.

"All good," he said. "I think we can use that."

WEDNESDAY
Here I sit plotting my next move.

I turned to Paul Honnor, millionaire and Seventh Day Adventist church leader, who is close to both myself and Cam.

"Let us pray," he said.

Well, it's better than nothing, I suppose.

THURSDAY
I met up with Cam and played him my secret recording of being put on hold by Spark faults.

While I was making the tea, I said, "The good thing is that the heat is still firmly on Bridges. It's not as though Labour have stuffed up, or that the news cycle has moved on."

He threw me the paper and I read about immigration minister Iain Galloway-Smith.

So much for my prayers yesterday.

FRIDAY
Here I sit plotting my next move and have come to an important decision.

I will continue to sit, and plot, and make tea as long as humanly possible while pocketing my $160,000 parliamentary salary and all the associated perks. Cheers everyone!