Bardic reverence Victor Billot on National's aspirational leader
Baron Luxon’s Quest for the Bottom Feeders
A long and lonely quest I set upon,
accompanied by none 'cept my great steed and sword,
my Squire Willis, my spiritual advisor Bishop Bishop,
my chorus of twenty seven communications contractors,
and my bodyguard of Ninjas from the Taxpayers Union
dressed in sheer black silk man rompers.
For many hours we saw nothing of interest.
"How much further, Squire?" I inquired.
"We are nearly past Lambton Quay, my liege,"
the faithful Willis replieth from her Shetland Pony.
Lo, and on the roadside a crone waited by a bubbling pot
inscribed in mysterious ancient runes: Newstalk ZB.
"What ho, crone!" I confidently addressed the creature.
"What is it you seek my lord?" the crone wheezed.
"I seek the legendary bottom feeders," I replieth.
She said nothing but dropped the eye of a newt,
a copy of Robert Kiyosaki's Rich Dad, Poor Dad,
and few strands of ponytail into the gruesome stew.
"You must take the positive and aspirational path,"
intoned the witch, pointing down the middle of the road.
So for many nights we travelled across the Bleak Marsh,
until we came to the Kingdom in the North,
where the streets are paved with gold
and the worthy opinions of Archduke Leo of Molloy.
But for thirty leagues or more outside the walls
lay the tents and hovels of the little folk.
My heart sunk at this miserable sight,
the teeming, hopeless masses in their privations.
"What ho, Squire Willis," say I.
"Is this the only way into the Great City
or do we have to squelch through these wretches? "
"These, O Great One, are the bottom feeders,"
explained Squire Willis through a perfumed kerchief.
Thus it was foretold - he who claims
the Chalice of Greatness must squelch on occasion
past the little folk and their dreary hovels.
"What ho, little folk!" I declaimed.
"I come with happy tidings - indeed, positive
and aspirational tidings, to your rustic nook."
They gathered around and scratched
at my fine leather breeches with their nasty claws.
"Close enough," I cried.
"My Lord, we need bread," croaked a wizened yokel.
"What you need is a tax cut!" I replied.
"A tax cut on takings over and above,
let's say, 450 000 groats per annum."
"But My Lord! " wheedled the churlish cretin,
"we have neither groats nor bread!"
"My policy thus provides you something
to positively aspire to, good fellow,"
I replied, and galloped off towards the banquet
that awaited me in the Grand Hall,
trampling a few of the slower bottom feeders
under aspirational hooves.
Victor Billot has previously felt moved to compose Odes for such luminaries as Clarke Gayford, Centurion Andronicus, the Prime Sinister, Brian Tamaki, Dr Siouxsie Wiles, and Garrick Tremain.
