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BooksFebruary 16, 2023

Rat King Landlord: Why Renters United is releasing a free edition of the cult novel

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Author and activist Murdoch Stephens has joined with Renters United to run a PledgeMe campaign to reissue and give away for free to renters an illustrated edition of his novel about the inequalities of housing in Aotearoa. We spoke to him, and Éimhín O’Shea and Robert Whitaker of Renters United, about the project.

Rat King Landlord was first published in 2020. What was the impetus to reissue it in 2023? 

Murdoch: Rat King Landlord is one of a few books (see also Milk Island by Rhydian Thomas and Lonely Asian Woman by Sharon Lam) that our publishing collective put out that was widely read by a young crowd. Their word of mouth has kept sales steady. Maybe because on top of clearly being a novel about class, it also speaks to animal liberation, gender expectations and xenophobia. And hey, it is not like rents have suddenly become affordable. So I think – and every author will say this –  that there is still lots of life in the book. Reprint! Reissue! Reanimate! I’m actually still toying with a follow up fan-fic version … watch this space.

I first met Rob from Renters United to talk about the project in late 2020. We had a few drinks and the idea simmered away for a couple of years. But it was only when the current team of Geordie and Éimhín came together that we started planning in earnest. Of course, in an election year it is a great chance to do something slightly different to keep renter experiences on the minds of voters. People seem to think with the property market tanking a bit that things have somehow gotten better for renters. But that just is not the case.

Lawrence and Gibson mostly publish standard sized paperbacks. Why did a tabloid format make sense for this edition? How much does the format change the meaning of the novel?

Murdoch: The main idea was to make an ultra-low cost, full-colour version that we could give away. I asked a friend who worked at Stuff, on a whim, what it would cost. When the price came back it was pretty reasonable. Two years later with price hikes, it was less reasonable. Hence the PledgeMe campaign. Then, when Rob thought of bringing in illustrators, it just made sense to give people full page, full-colour spreads to draw across.

The fear that a tabloid size might have unreadable walls of text is countered by three components: Rob’s excellent design, the regular chapter breaks and the brilliance of the illustrations. 

I also know that tabloid versions can go horribly wrong. I’ve got three tabloid format books on my shelf. The best is a reissue of Jorge Luis Borges’ The Book of Imaginary Beings which was a supplement to the Buenos Aires Herald back in the day. It’s a gorgeous thing, with the original images from Hermenegildo Sàbat luxuriously spread across the newsprint. The other two are almost unreadable. Yikes!

‘Become a member to help us deliver news and features that matter most to Aotearoa.’
Lyric Waiwiri-Smith
— Politics reporter

How do you feel about the silver and gold editions of Rat King Landlord as a status symbol? That is – what kind of status do they symbolise? 

Murdoch: I feel like people buying the shiny copies are aware of the satire inherent in those pledges: a silver copy for $49 as a homeowners edition and a gold copy for the property speculators (guaranteed 14.9% return on investment!). It was just our way to be clear about the economic differences inherent in these discussions: homeowners can generally afford to chip in a bit more; landlords more so. I guess you could call it progressive taxation. That said, we’ve only had one or two of the gold property speculator editions sold so perhaps that one was a bit on the nose?

More generally, I feel fine about books functioning as status symbols as long as that isn’t all they function as. I mean I’m all for a fully automated luxurious society of shiny things, as long as it is grounded in democracy and social justice. And isn’t it better to calm our middle class anxieties by collecting pretty books than, say, buying a Ferrari?

Tell us about the process of choosing illustrators and illustrations for this edition – how did you decide what to illustrate?

Rob from Renters United: We had a few contacts to draw on from previous design projects and in turn those people were very willing to recommend others. We have now learned there is a very supportive network of illustrators in Aotearoa. In the mix was also a fair bit of Googling and scrolling Instagram. From that research we drew up a long list of illustrators and artists to approach. Because we couldn’t guarantee payment, we wanted to make sure that what we were was as clear as possible so it was easy for artists to grasp the project and figure out whether they could fit it in.

The response was overwhelming to be honest with many supportive messages even from those who couldn’t fit it in. Part of that was producing an initial design where we left interesting shaped illustration spaces so the artists themselves could pick their spot as well as how they wanted to go about illustrating it. Some chose to focus on a scene on their page or spread, others decided to go broader. This has led to a very diverse set of illustrations both in style and subject that we honestly can’t wait to share.

Images from the Renters United edition of Rat King Landlord, with illustrations (left to right) from Robert Whitaker, EJ Thorpe and Hingyi Khong

What response would you like from landlords and property managers who read the novel? 

Éimhín from Renters United: Under the surface of what’s a surreal and bitterly funny novel lies a deeply uncomfortable fact: our society fundamentally privileges those who own homes over those who do not. Housing is a human right, and we’ve allowed it to become a commodity at the expense of the most vulnerable in our communities. Renting as it stands is inherently exploitative and dehumanising. That has to change. 

We hope that landlords or property managers who read this edition (and enjoy the pictures!), also reflect on what it means to profit from human necessity. The problems with renting are systemic and political. We need solutions that are systemic and political.

But for now we also need to recognise that individuals are making these decisions: landlords and property managers should support reforms that make housing more just, stop hoarding housing, and treat renters with dignity. At root, we need them to understand that someone else’s home is not just an address and number in their portfolio. Everything is a choice: increasing rent, neglecting maintenance, discriminating against certain demographics, none of this is predestined and every day they have the ability to either improve or devastate someone’s life. We hope reading this book encourages them to think long and hard about what choices they’re making.

Murdoch: I should return to how we first framed the book: “Not Landlords Who Are Rats, But Rats Becoming Landlords”. That said, I see politics as inherently antagonistic (or agonistic). We can aim for consensus, but in many matters not everything can be win-win. So, I basically don’t care what property managers and landlords think: they’ve closely aligned their personal interests with profiting from a basic human need – shelter – so I suspect they’ll never be part of the solution. 

But that’s all a bit negative, eh? My real hope for the book, outside of giving renters a sense of solidarity, is to forge connections between renters and homeowners. Together, we’re the overwhelming majority. And it is worth emphasising that a system that makes housing a commodity hurts homeowners more than it helps them. We see that homeowners already know this in all the recent surveys where people overwhelmingly agree that housing prices need to drop. 

Briefly, can you tell us about Renters United and what the mission is?

Éimhín: we are an advocacy group that organises renters and campaigns to make renting in New Zealand better for everyone. We see decent housing as a basic human right and our broken renting system as a barrier to realising this right for all. We’re led by renters and are a people-powered organisation who work to change and improve legislation, educate renters and property owners, and to radically shift what it means to rent and be a renter in Aotearoa using a wide range of campaigns and tools. 

What the special edition of Rat King Landlord comes with.

How does Rat King Landlord fit into the broader history of activist literature, and of Renter’s United’s advocacy and campaigns? 

Murdoch: I wish I had a good answer for this! Prior to writing I was inspired by two works of activist literature: first, the anarchist parody polemic The Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free where the young lead character experiences revolution in Britain; second, by the novels of Spitzenprodukt (aka Huw Lemmey), including Red Tory: My Corbyn Chemsex Hell. So in terms of activist literature, my novel is connected to novels that are not only concerned with issues of social justice but are also set in a landscape where activism develops. But hey, I’m open to other folks’ best of activist literature recommendations – message me!

Éimhín: We operate across many different levels of the political landscape and a crucial part of doing so is illustrating and sharing with New Zealanders the realities of renting in Aotearoa but it’s just as important to be sharing a vision for how things could and should be. This project is a really fun and compelling way of sharing that vision, along with a bunch of helpful resources and examples of our work such as our Plan to Fix Renting with a new audience who will hopefully be encouraged to get involved and help us improve renting for all. That we get to help share such a fantastic novel and beautiful illustrations for free with Lawrence & Gibson while doing that is an added bonus. It’s important for activism to be fun! Renters United will be undertaking a variety of campaigns and projects across 2023, this is one part of what will be a huge year for renters.

At the time of writing, you’ve raised more than three times the minimum amount you need to get the project off the ground. What will you use any extra funds towards?

Murdoch: Maybe we under-pitched the minimum amount, but we know people are doing it tough at the moment so we truly did go for the minimum amount we needed to use the cheapest newsprint and to only do 2000 copies. We’re now at the point where we can print on the same paper the weekly real estate supplement uses.

Our stretch goals are to get some cash to the illustrators who have donated their skills so far, to really pump up the number of copies we make and then to pay for the big cost – distribution! After that, we’ll be putting some cash back into the Renters United coffers for their other 2023 projects and, hey, maybe we’ll do a reprint if the demand is there.

Finally, your other novel Down from Upland has been longlisted for the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. Congratulations! What does that feel like?

Murdoch: it feels great to be on the longlist and to have the subsequent attention for the book. As with a lot of writers, I just want more people who might enjoy the novel to read it. More broadly, the end of year best-of lists and awards announcements are just a hectic time. A few books make the lists and other great books miss out. Lawrence & Gibson is a publishing collective and we’ve had our fair share of longlistings – six of our last ten books! – but this is my first time and, to be honest, I’m just doing my best to savour the moment while it lasts.

You can pledge to the Special Renters United illustrated edition of Rat King Landlord here. And you can purchase the original edition at Lawrence & Gibson here. You can also purchase Down from Upland by Murdoch Stephens (Lawrence & Gibson, $30) from Unity Books Wellington and Auckland

Keep going!
Susannah and Robbie at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2002. (Photo: Supplied)
Susannah and Robbie at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2002. (Photo: Supplied)

BooksFebruary 14, 2023

A very bookish love story

Susannah and Robbie at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2002. (Photo: Supplied)
Susannah and Robbie at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2002. (Photo: Supplied)

Publisher Robbie Burton’s Bushline is a memoir of life, love and adventures in the natural world – and in publishing. In this excerpt, Robbie goes to the Frankfurt book fair and meets the love of his life.

I flew into Frankfurt on Tuesday morning after a 40-hour haul from Nelson. Leaving my suitcase at the apartment, I went straight to the International Hall at the fair to set up my books on the New Zealand stand. Two women were unpacking books alongside me. Pauline was one of the owners of an educational publishing company from Christchurch; with her was her friend Susannah, a Kiwi living in London who had come over to keep her company and to help for the week. They were friendly and funny, and I thought Susannah the most beautiful name.

Most of the New Zealand publishers were staying in the same apartments in the centre of the city, and that night we all gathered for a drink in Pauline and Susannah’s apartment. I made sure I sat next to Susannah so we could talk. My interest was already primed and I was taking notice of everything. I’d clocked her name tag earlier in the day. “You’re not related to Janet Roddick, by any chance?” I asked. Janet Roddick was the singer in The Six Volts, a Wellington band whose eclectic and riveting performances in the 1980s had always seemed to me to be the height of contemporary sophistication. I’d had one of their posters on my wall for years. “She’s my sister, and she’s married to David, the bass player,” Susannah said.

She explained she had come to Europe primarily to go cycle touring. By the time she’d described assembling her bike in the arrivals hall at Heathrow, then pedalling off around England and Scotland, followed by Europe, all on her own, she really had my attention. I’m a sucker for the self-reliance and independence you so often find in Kiwi women. There was a little transistor radio on the table, along with a copy of both the Guardian and the most recent Vanity Fair. As a devoted radio listener, I couldn’t help asking, “Why the radio?” The answer: “Really interested in current affairs.”

Another day passed at the fair, talking with her whenever I got the chance. By now I was seriously being drawn in, so I was gutted to discover Pauline and Susannah had to go out for dinner with some clients. I moped about, had dinner with another colleague, and arrived back at my apartment around 8pm, ready for a sleeping pill and bed. But tucked under the door, written on a scrap of paper torn from Tuesday’s Guardian, was a note: 

Hi Robbie
I didn’t go to Pauline’s do. Let me know if you’d like to have a cup of tea.
Susannah (#31)
PS. It’d be BYO pot

The pot reference was to the fact that our all apartments had kitchenettes but there was no kitchen equipment in any of them. I’d gone on the hunt and bought a pot and a mug off a street stall in the Zeil so I could make myself a cup of tea.

Susannah’s note woke me up immediately, and I raced up the stairs, pot in hand, trying to quell my nerves. Talking non-stop, we had a cup of tea, then moved downstairs to a bar next to the building’s entrance to wait for Pauline, who did not have a key. We sat side by side on a bench seat, drinking Pilsner and talking with intoxicating intensity into each other’s lives. Despite a sleeping pill, I slept badly that night, my already fragile body clock assaulted by a mélange of jetlag and infatuation. I was falling hard for Susannah.

She too had a long, sleepless night, and later told me why. “I knew I would never, ever find another man like you. But I had just landed a fantastic job, against stiff competition, as the policy advisor to the CEO of the largest local authority in Britain, and was due to start next week. I wasn’t ready to leave London, and if I did, what on earth would I do in Nelson? How could I possibly make a life there? I knew what was happening was huge, with monstrous repercussions. In the morning, I talked about it with Pauline. Her advice was ‘I’ve never regretted following my heart’. And so I did.”

Susannah and Robbie at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2002. (Photo: Supplied)

On Friday afternoon, Pauline, playing fairy godmother, engineered a chance to talk to me alone, feeling me out as to how I felt about Susannah. When I made that clear, she urged me to act – immediately. It was very sweet, and I remain forever grateful for her making doubly sure that the moment was not lost. There were drinks on the New Zealand stand that night, a small party we all felt obliged to attend. I tried hard to be interested in the small talk, but as soon as I could I took Susannah aside, and we walked away into the deserted aisles of the International Hall. 

“I’m falling in love with you,” I told her. She took my hand and we gathered each other up while a bored barman watched on, polishing his large German beer glasses. I couldn’t have cared less. It had only taken three and a half days to reach this place from which we each privately sensed there was no return. In retrospect, it is the certainty we both felt so quickly that still astounds me. Up until meeting Susannah, getting into another committed relationship was the last thing I’d wanted – the freedom to rebuild my life in my own way seemed like the only chance to rescue something from my middle years – and over the previous two years I’d given any hint of romantic commitment from the opposite sex a hard swerve.

But this was something different, a tumbling avalanche of emotion and intuition telling me to take notice, and I knew, absolutely, this was not an opportunity to let slip away. Fate had been kind in getting me to Frankfurt, but it was also on my side in the days following the Book Fair. Fortuitously, I had arranged to go to stay with my nephew Jake in London afterwards. This meant Susannah and I could continue our wild ride for a few more days. We flew separately to London on the Sunday. I went to Jake’s on Sunday night and, like an awkward teenager, confessed I had met a girl, and our prearranged plans for me to stay so he could take his old uncle out on the town might have to be postponed. He dined out on that for years.

Susannah came over to Golders Green, where Jake lived, on Monday after work. She stayed that night, and at 5am we crept out of the apartment, parting at the train station, she to go home to Nunhead, and I to Luton to catch a flight to Amsterdam for the day. I was in the middle of a complex project to publish a book on Colin McCahon, a co-production with the Stedelijk Art Museum. The touring show was up, and I needed to check the proofs of the book that I had brought with me from New Zealand against the actual paintings. It was a strange, high-powered interlude to find myself in one of the more important contemporary art museums in the world, gazing in a dislocated way at imagery of Muriwai Beach, Farewell Spit, and Pangatōtara in the Motueka Valley. The next morning, I said goodbye to Jake and his partner Renee, and taxied across London to Susannah’s house. She had thrown a sickie in the afternoon, and we had a glorious 36 hours together. 

The next day remains one of the happiest of my life, catching a double-decker into the city, and then strolling along the Thames to the Tate Modern. There was a vast Anish Kapoor sculpture in the Turbine Hall, one of the most extraordinary works of art I have ever seen, ludicrously epic in scale, its sensibility perfectly aligned with my emotional state. Later on in the afternoon, we sat on a bench seat in the cafe at the top of the building, leaning close against each other, gazing across the London skyline, the dome of St Paul pushing into the middle of the vista. I felt a visceral contentment that was absolute, a whole-body experience I had never known before. In the evening we lay in bed and talked late into the night about how we could make it work for us both. Given I owned a house, had a complicated and long-term commitment to the publishing company back in New Zealand, and Susannah was not intending to live permanently in the UK, it seemed that the most practical option would be for her to come home. Susannah decided she would resign immediately (which she duly did on the first morning of her new role), and return to live with me in Nelson at Christmas.

Bushline by Robbie Burton

My flight back to New Zealand left early the next morning. We sat on the stairs whispering in the dark, waiting for the cab to Heathrow. And then all too quickly I was watching Susannah out the back window of the cab as she waved from the middle of her road of terrace houses. It was both crushingly sad and beautiful to see her disappear into the gloom. Much is made of how crazily people behave when they first fall in love, blinded by dopamine-induced, euphoric madness, ignoring all kinds of practical or sensible signposts. And undeniably what we decided to do – to cast ourselves, hand in hand, off a cliff within a week of meeting each other – was bold, if not verging on unhinged. Both of us had much at stake, and not just emotionally. Susannah would have to cut short her overseas experience and abandon her career, while the precious still-fragile space I had started to reclaim for my own life had just disappeared.

But we were not 20-year-olds and wet behind the ears. I was hyper aware of what would make a relationship work for me, and also of what would destroy it, and I had deliberately been keeping a scorecard, certainly in the first few days. The obvious stuff was easy: she was smart, funny and independent, interested in the world, practical, and cute as hell. She even had great taste in clothes. But beyond that, I sensed the footing necessary for an enduring bond was there, solid enough to build something lasting. Crucially, we could communicate easily, and I detected that Susannah took this seriously too, and understood its centrality. But just as importantly, I uncovered in her a set of values about how people should treat each other, a concern for social justice and a commitment to playing an active part in her community. This meant everything to me, because out of that comes respect, the big beating heart of any relationship I really care about.

Those nine days, spread between Frankfurt and London, have proved to be the most significant axis in my life. I look back on that surreal window with enormous gratitude, not just for the dumb luck that saw our paths cross but as much for the boldness we found in ourselves to not let this chance meeting wither in the drought of indecision.

As the plane arced over Greenland en route to the Pacific, I resolved I would not be coy or secretive about falling in love. Graham picked me up at Nelson Airport, and as we drove past the golf course I blurted out what had happened. He was incredulous, and then wildly enthusiastic – a reaction that was to be repeated many times over the next few months. Our culture is obsessed with the romantic start to any relationship, and the jungle drums in Nelson went into overdrive.

Susannah and I fell into an intense period of long-distance communication, with conversations on the phone every day, usually in the early evening for me, sitting on the couch watching the last light evaporating off Tasman Bay, and Susannah in her terrace house in the dull autumnal descent of South London. We also wrote endless emails. I kept these for many years, but in the end they were discarded, their cheesiness just too excruciating. At the time, I hung on every word, dying for the ping on the Mac that signalled the arrival of another email. This period of not being together was, I suspect, very valuable, as all we could do was talk and write. We did not have to deal with any of the practical realities of co-habitating, or the overheated distraction of lust, so our only option was to get to know each other.

On holiday in the Ida Valley, Central Otago: Robbie, Will, Ed and Susannah. (Photo: Supplied)

On Boxing Day nine weeks later I was pacing around the arrivals hall at Christchurch Airport, as nervous as I have ever been. This was it. Would she be as I remembered her? How would it all work? But then she appeared, in a cute blue T-shirt, and I melted. I had struggled to find somewhere for us to stay immediately after Christmas, but the remote and slightly down-at-heel Lake Ōhau Lodge had a room, and we had three nights there. We laugh about it now, but after a perfect first day driving up to Aoraki/Mount Cook and wandering around in the Hooker Valley, Susannah got food poisoning from a bag of cherries I’d bought. She spent the second night throwing up, and then the third day recovering, while I hung around marooned in our room. It was not quite the romantic interlude we’d hoped for. We had agreed we should jump straight into Susannah’s family Christmas gathering, and so drove over the Lindis Pass and down through Central to Dunedin. Her parents, Alan and Pat, had retired to Broad Bay on the Otago Peninsula, and Susannah’s sister Janet and brother-in-law David, with their twin girls Poppy and Jean, were there for a few weeks. 

It was nerve-wracking meeting them all. Naturally, they were wondering what on earth had possessed their daughter and sister to abandon her life in London, and what kind of man was responsible for this erratic behaviour, but they hid their concerns, and I was made very welcome. It’s a cliché that you don’t get to choose the family of your partner. It was quickly apparent I’d been exceedingly lucky. Alan and Pat are bookish intellectuals, extremely decent, liberal and humane, and I felt comfortable with them from the start. Janet and David also soon became an important part of our family life. Their bohemian roots, their values and take on life were familiar and appealing. They were funny, too, and I was taken with their twin girls, spirited three-year-olds at the time. I remember thinking that these were people who I would like to have as close friends, regardless of whether or not they were family. That is a gift, should you ever be so lucky. 

The scariest part of making our new life together was going back to Nelson. Bringing Susannah back to my small hometown, and my still-new house on the Port Hills, seemed fraught and risky – my oft-repeated line is that it felt like acting out a tableau from the nineteenth century, my bringing a pioneer bride out to the colonies, her leaving behind the bustling civilisation of Europe to start a new life on the frontier. And indeed, it did have plenty of challenges, with no job and few prospects for Susannah, her instant immersion into my extended family, and a low base in terms of my own network of friends. But we were still in the first flush of early love, and that carried us through. The only person each of us really wanted to be with was the other.

Bushline by Robbie Burton (Potton & Burton, $40) is available to purchase from Unity Books Wellington and Auckland