On election night, the Labour Party held a bash at the Lower Hutt Town Hall. There were plates of bleak, beige food: sausage rolls, samosas, those little “party pies” that inevitably conceal nasty bits of gristly, grey mince. There were curling-atthe-edges sandwiches.
Did the Labour leader, Chris Hipkins, indulge in one last prime ministerial sausage roll? Let’s hope not. He and the nation have long ago tired of sausage rolls. But those dismal platters summed up the mood. It was the sort of spread on offer at a wake.
The rigor mortis had set in weeks before for the now outgoing prime minister. He caught Covid. He went into isolation looking like a beaten puppy.debate, he bared his fangs and sank them into National leader Christopher Luxon’s rear end. It made no difference. Come 10pm on election night, it was Luxon who was top dog.
