It all started four years ago, on March 11th, 2011.

It was only shortly after the most devastating of the Christchurch earthquakes, and myself and my family were just beginning to pick up the pieces.

It was about then that I had just started to sleep peacefully again, but I often stayed up late, as my sleeping patterns had been adversely affected by the hectic events of the last few weeks.

It was around 2:40am in the morning, and I was just about to drift off, when my phone rang.

It was the Prime Minister.

I’d never met John Key before, nor did I quite understand how he’d got my number. I found this disconcerting, but he didn’t really address it.

“Ben,” he said.

“Yes, Prime Minister?” I asked, still somewhat flattered by the call.

“I’ve just heard this really neat new song, and I want you to listen to it.”

“Well, I could really use some sleep at this point,” I told him.

“No, no, no, you’ll really want to hear this.”

He proceeded to play Eminem and Rihanna’s Love The Way You Lie down the phone, in its entirety, while I listened.

“I just think it’s a really neat song,” he said, once it was over.

“Yes, I’ve already heard that one,” I replied.

“Okay, well, I’ll let you get some sleep now,” he said, to my relief, “but I’ll call you and let you know if I hear anything else I like.”

Little did I know, this bizarre 3am phone call would be the first of many, and I would become trapped in an endless and unwanted cycle of listening to the Prime Minister’s latest music discoveries at hours that didn’t always – or ever – make sense.

Later that year, he called me during my graduation. I was on stage, in front of thousands, about to receive my degree, when my phone rang. I knew I had to answer it.

John had just discovered Beyonce’s Single Ladies. Naturally, it was his new favourite song.

I stood in front of the Chancellor, making him wait until my phone call was over, so that I could receive my degree with some dignity. But the song went on longer than I had expected, and then John began singing it down the line even after it had ended.

“That’s great,” I told him. “I’m graduating right now, okay?”

I was beginning to not like this.

In 2012, he called me to tell me all about Maroon 5’s Moves Like Jagger.

In 2013, his “new jam” – as he made a point of calling it – was Carly Rae Jepsen’s Call Me Maybe. There are a lot of remixes of this song. I know, because I’ve heard every one.

Last year, it was Macklemore’s Thrift Shop, as well as Bruno Mars’ Locked Out of Heaven.

The most recent phone call I received was this morning. John had just discovered Anaconda by Nicki Minaj. I was out to lunch with a friend, but he wouldn’t get off the phone. By the time he’d finished, my friend was gone, and I was alone.

I’m getting really frustrated now.

I’m not sure what I’m actually going to achieve by writing this down, but I just want the world to know what I’ve been going through, so they can maybe understand when someone in a position of power decides he can just call you up at any hour and read you literally his entire Spotify playlist.

Sometimes the calls are short – just long enough for him to play me the song and maybe tell me what he and Bronagh had for dinner – but sometimes they’re long, very long. This usually happens when Bronagh’s away, and he gets lonely. I imagine Max doesn’t want to hear who he thinks should’ve won the Teen Choice Awards.

I only ever snapped at him once. I was at a funeral. I’d called him the day before and I told him, “John, please, I know you’ll probably be browsing the iTunes store at 2pm tomorrow. It’s the best time to browse, I understand, but I just, someone has died, you know?”

He didn’t listen.

I got a call during the burial, and I lost it.

I yelled at him. I told him I hated him, and that he was a bad Prime Minister. It was a bit harsh, I know. I probably shouldn’t have said those things.

I told him he was worse than Hitler. That’s not actually very accurate.

To be fair, he was quite apologetic. He just thought the song he’d found was a good funeral song, wanted me to suggest it. If I Die Young, The Band Perry, if you’re curious.

The deceased was in his eighties.

John sent me two bottles of red wine to apologise. I’m not sure if this is normal for him, or if he was just trying to one-up Colin. It didn’t really make up for the fact that everyone at the funeral thought I was both disruptive and delusional for thinking I was yelling at the Prime Minister.

In any case, I regret it, but if this continues much longer, I can’t promise it won’t happen again.

If nothing else, I just want my life back.

You see, the most fascinating thing about John is–

Sorry, hold on, I have to take a phone call.