L ong before we’d met, I had heard a lot about a guy called Tom Box. I knew he was an Australian living in the South Island of New Zealand . I was in Wellington, and there’d been a few occasions when I’d travelled to the South Island for raves or anarchist conferences where some of the folks had gone to Tom’s place – but I splintered off somewhere else.

Then one day, in 2007, I was at a punk gig when a mutual friend said, “Oh, do you know Tom Box? He’s over there. He’s just moved up to Wellington.” There in a sea of black-clad punks, jumping up and down at the front of the mosh pit, was this guy in a pale blue Star Trek uniform. To me, as a person unfamiliar with Star Trek, he looked like he was wearing pyjamas. This was my first vision of him, but we didn’t talk at all that night.

Vi

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