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Rundle: chasing Latika as the high priests get pissed

Crikey’s writer-at-large is in the corridors of power, drinking the right wine from the right fridge, as he tries to wrangle an invite to the hottest party in town …

Seven fridges! Seven fridges!” At the Public Bar, Manuka, it had turned 11pm, and the late crowd were streaming in from staff parties on the hill, from Kennedy’s down the road, the young crowd, the staffers and journos, men with bad skin and half-pressed suits, gallery juniors in manic pixie dream girl glasses. And above all, those with the golden

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