The day Wellington ran out of Soy milk

It was freezing cold in the middle of an icy winter of discontent. A howling southerly gale whipped its way through the streets and narrow passageways, on the day Wellington ran out of Soy milk.

At first, all that was felt by the early morning caf? goers was a mixture of bewilderment and slight frustration. On their way to work, they had no time to truly understand the massive ramifications of what was happening to them.

Some brave souls even deigned to ask for real milk, from a cow, at the risk of ire from their fellow Champagne socialists.

But then it became apparent that real milk was also off the menu, due in no small measure to the Labour party?s continued onslaught on the Dairy industry.

As the morning wore on and the bitter tasting Long Blacks ran dry, the Twitter feed began to indicate a growing sense of unease and confused anger.

?How could this happen??

?Who was to blame??


A rumour began to circulate amongst the Lambton Quay offices that a freight truck containing all of the desperately needed Soy, had been held up in the Auckland CBD due to a cycle user demonstration demanding universal and exclusive cycle lanes.

Mayor Phil Goff had made a vain attempt at assuaging the Lycra clothed mob but had been overwhelmed and tied up to a set of traffic lights with bike chains and inner tubes.

The rumblings of discontent in Wellington grew as the day wore on until the final spark was thrown onto the embers of outright revolution.

The Prime Minister, aware of the growing discontent, went on live television with the belief that only she could avert the growing crisis.

As her hands waved frantically in desperation she tried to soothe the savage mob with words of unity and togetherness.

?Sometimes radical change takes a long time? she earnestly cried out.

One small and anonymous voice amongst the growing crowd of civil servants and retail assistants was heard to utter:

?Hang on. That?s a contradictory statement isn?t it??

Someone else in the crowd with the truth slowly dawning on them was heard to reply:

?Yes?yes it is!?

The mood of the disgruntled masses swiftly turned into outright hostility as they emptied out into the streets, steadily making their way towards the Beehive.

As the rushing mob approached they were able to gain access with ease, as the security guards were absent that day due to being on strike.

Panic soon spread throughout the corridors of parliament.

Trevor Mallard strode out of his office and, standing in front of the seething masses was heard to demand ?Order!?

He was quickly overcome by a trans-gender juice bar assistant, who tackled him to the ground.

The next figure the enraged mob turned its attention on was the Education Minister Chris Hipkins who was chased down a long passageway until he was finally cornered and captured.

His head was shaved by an enraged Men?s hair stylist who then proceeded to march him to the nearest whiteboard: ordering him to write out ?I am a Gunt? one million times.

The entire Green Party caucus was found hiding amongst the ferns of the Parliament garden.

As they realised the game was up, Julie Anne Genter looked over at her male counterparts and for the first time in her life wondered aloud:

?Where are some strong, meat-eating men when you need them??

The Green party caucus was tied up, gagged, and then loaded into the back of an articulated lorry which was driven to the nearest airport, where they were put on a plane for a one-way flight to Venezuela in order to carry out a ?fact-finding? mission.

Phil Twyford locked himself in his office and made a fort for himself out of the cushions from his couch. Placing his hands over his ears and closing his eyes he muttered to himself over and over?

?There?s no place like home, there?s no place like home.?

By this time the mob had completely taken over the Beehive and Parliament buildings, all the while screaming:

?Where?s our Soy! Where?s our Soy!?

The Prime Minister had been ushered to the very topmost floor and helped into the confines of a Royal New Zealand Air Force helicopter in a moment of ?Saigonesque? irony.

As the twin Rolls-Royce Turbomecca engine of the French made NH90 spewed forth noxious fumes over the waters of Port Nicholson, towards its intended destination of Soames Island, the Prime Minister looked down at the waters below.

She could barely make out the rather cumbersome and desperate figure of a plump Grant Robertson as he slowly edged his way towards the safety of the island ahead. All the while clinging on to any floating debris or garbage close at hand, finally settling on a single-use plastic shopping bag to aid his buoyancy.

Upon arrival at the island, the Prime Minister was ushered into one of the buildings close by.

Collecting her thoughts she gazed out of the window, to the distant city beyond: all the while wondering what the big deal was.

After all, she didn?t even like Soy milk in her coffee.

Her preference had always been for Almond milk.