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As I mentioned in my last post, I have been abducted and taken to a secret location on the Coromandel Peninsula. I can only guess what the intentions of my captors might be, but I assume that my merciless critiques of the great and powerful have struck a nerve, and that steps are being taken to silence me once and for all.

A number of people have accused me of just pretending to suffer when in fact I am living the high life, eating and drinking in the sun. But these allegations disgust me. Do you really think that I, an ardent socialist, would spend even a minute in the idyllic comfort of Pauanui, unless I was being forced to do so against my will?

I have kept a secret diary of my suffering, which I have managed to post on the internet while my captors are distracted by wine and steak, just to prove beyond all doubt that my ordeal is a very real one. If this reaches you, please send help. And some more camembert cheese, if you can manage it.

27 December

I arrived at my prison. Security here seems lax, but I suspect they know I don’t dare try to escape. I could take the car back to Auckland; after all, they did force me to drive here and I still have the car keys, but I know that wherever I go they will find me. No, I will just have to see this through to the end.

28 December

These people have no honour, and their cruelty knows no bounds. Today they subjected me to the foulest and most vicious form of torture imaginable. The device they used is called The Barbecue. Let me tell you something about The Barbecue, because although it is every bit as nasty as the rack, you won’t read about it in any medieval history book.

This metallic device features a series of grills and metal plates, which they heat using gas. When the device is so hot that even to stand near it makes the operator break into a sweat, they get to work. The Barbecue works by searing raw flesh, and the victim is placed on one of the grills or plates and left to burn. Occasionally they might turn the subject to ensure an even rate of searing, but in many cases the victim is left horribly blackened and charred.

This is quite simply the most grotesque form of torture imaginable. I am in agony, horrible agony, as the delicious meaty aromas waft across my nose. I have not eaten all day, and the smell is driving me mad. But they won’t let me eat until everyone’s meal is cooked. Savages!

31 December

A long and terrible day that ended with the sound of gunfire, and with me hiding under the bed in mortal fear.

It turned out to be a midnight fireworks display, or so they said. But I can’t trust a single word these people say. They have lied to me ever since I arrived at this awful place.

“Relax,” they said. “We really hope you will have a good time.” Lies! I’m on my guard.

1 January

I have survived a poisoning attempt. It surprises me that they just don’t knock me off. Why go to the trouble of slipping poison into my drink, when I am so helpless?

I feel terrible and my head hurts. But I’m alive. For how long, though? When will the next attempt on my life come? And what form will it take? Will my assassination be by brute force, or more sinister means?

God, I need coffee.

3 January

Another attempt on my life has failed. They took me down to the water and told me to lie on the sand. Although they never actually give orders, because they don’t really need to. Their language is pregnant with menace. What they actually said was “why don’t we go down to the beach this afternoon? It’s such a lovely day.” But what choice did I really have?

And now I am in agony. They exposed me to the sun, and now I am burned all over. The fire! It burns!

5 January

I dreamed last night that I was almost rescued by David Cunliffe and an elite band of Labour Party MPs, all dressed in black and wearing balaclavas.

They broke into my room and hauled me out the window in the darkness before anyone else in the prison realised what was going on. Suddenly all the lights turned on, sirens started to go off, and my eardrums nearly burst with the sound of gunfire. Cunliffe and his band of MPs fled, leaving me on the deck naked and with three Labour Party MPs dead at my feet.

I saw which caucus members had been left behind and I cried. Then I realised that they weren’t Labour Party MPs at all, but were instead grotesque copies. It was all a dastardly trick by National to mess with my head!

I don’t know who is behind all of this, though I have my suspicions. It has to be someone in National, but I don’t think John Key is clever enough to invent a machine to infect my dreams. It must be a National MP whose propensity towards unrelenting and diabolical evil is well known. That’s why I reckon it’s either Colin King or Ian McKelvie.

6 January

Today I was subjected to yet another indignity, but this time I fought back. I know that to use violence against my captors would be morally wrong, so I have decided to appeal to their consciences. Today I went on a hunger strike.

It began when I discovered to my great horror that the only tonic water in the cupboard was Signature Range. I cried and I wept, but no-one was prepared to go to the shops to buy a decent brand.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” one of my captors said. “And while you’re there, can you buy some milk?”

What do these people think I am? A slave? Is that their plan? To work me to death?

I starved myself for twenty minutes, until I realised that the consciences I was appealing to did not exist. So Signature Range it was. I fear that if there is a god, He will surely smite me for sullying this fine Bombay Sapphire with such bilgewater.

7 January

And so my ordeal continues. Will they rescue me? Or will I be forced to spend another week here?

I fear I am already lost, because I am beginning to quite like it here.