A very unofficial guide to how New Zealand ends up with one anyway
Last year I met Christopher Luxon at the Sika Show.
It wasn’t a long conversation or anything dramatic. Just one of those quick interactions you have at a busy event where politicians move through crowds shaking hands.
(Quick editorial insert: the speech that day wasn’t exactly Oscar-worthy. Mr Luxon might want to have a quiet word with his speech writer. Just saying.)
But something about it stuck with me afterwards.
Meeting the Prime Minister in that kind of setting made me realise something — most of us have strong opinions about politics, but very few of us actually understand how the system works.
Not because he’s the Prime Minister.
But because of the reality of the situation.
First of all — the security.
There were bodyguards and staff everywhere, and most of them were so much taller than me I felt like I’d accidentally wandered into the middle of a rugby forward pack. You don’t exactly stroll up casually and say:
“Hi, excuse me Prime Minister… can I make a suggestion about the economy?”
Or perhaps I should have tried something more formal.
The truth is, most of us don’t even know what formal titles we’re supposed to use when meeting the Prime Minister — let alone the mayor or anyone else in government.
We’re not exactly a country big on ceremony.
Most people would probably just say “Mr Luxon.”
Or just use their first name.
And if you’re particularly relaxed about the whole thing, it might even come out as:
“Hey mate.”
Or perhaps cuz.
Or bro.
That’s New Zealand for you.
Titles tend to fall away pretty quickly once someone’s standing next to the sausage sizzle.
Which got me thinking about something.
People are very quick to criticise politicians for not communicating enough with the public. And sometimes that criticism is fair.
But at the same time, it’s not like anyone can just rock up to the Prime Minister’s office, knock on the door, and say:
“Hi there — got five minutes? I’ve got a few thoughts about how the country should be run.”
That’s not how any of this works.
Yes, I realise a lot of politicians eventually lose touch with reality. Spend long enough in politics and the real world probably starts to look like a press release and a spreadsheet.
But the job also puts a giant target on your back.
Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a complaint. Everyone thinks you personally control the weather, the price of petrol, the supermarket bill, and the pothole outside their house.
And somehow you’re the one left holding the baby.
Except the baby is the entire nation.
No pressure.
I’ve actually been in one of those situations before — the kind where you accidentally put your two cents in and suddenly the room turns into a full-blown political riot.
Which taught me something pretty quickly.
Most people don’t realise that leadership actually matters.
Who you vote in; the party, the colour, the whole left-versus-right circus — genuinely shapes the direction of the country.
Sometimes it’s leadership with an iron fist.
Sometimes it’s misguided influence dressed up as good intentions.
And sometimes it’s a government standing out in the rain with no umbrella and no idea where the front door is.
When Jacinda Ardern stepped aside, Mr Chris Hipkins suddenly found himself with his five minutes in the spotlight.
Unfortunately the performance had roughly the same impact as throwing a wet blanket over a campfire.
Anyway… moving on.
While I was thinking about all this, I started looking back at some of New Zealand’s previous Prime Ministers.
A few of them I vaguely remember from childhood.
One of them I’m fairly sure I even wrote a letter to when I was about seven years old — Jenny Shipley.
To be completely honest, I don’t remember a single thing I wrote in that letter.
I don’t remember the political issues of the day.
I don’t remember what I thought government even did.
The only thing I seem to remember is that you had cats and dogs.
Which, in hindsight, might actually explain how most seven-year-olds evaluate world leaders.
But here’s the thing that really made me stop and think.
Most people; including myself until I started digging into it — don’t actually understand how someone becomes Prime Minister in New Zealand in the first place.
We talk about “voting someone in.”
We argue about leaders online.
We blame the person at the top when things go wrong.
But here’s the funny part.
In New Zealand…
we don’t actually vote for the Prime Minister at all.
From what I understand, New Zealand uses a system called Mixed-Member Proportional representation — usually shortened to MMP.
Now before your eyes glaze over and you start looking for the exit, the basic idea is actually pretty simple.
When you vote in a general election, you’re not just ticking one box.
You actually cast two votes.
One vote is for your local Member of Parliament — the person representing your area.
The other vote is for a political party.
The party vote is the big one. That’s the vote that decides how many seats each party gets in Parliament.
So essentially…
you vote for the party.
You get the horns.
No — just joking.
But in reality you’re voting for a whole group of people you’ve probably never met, hoping the party you picked ends up running the country.
It’s a bit like the political version of New Zealand Idol.
Except instead of winning a record contract, the prize is an office inside the Beehive.
Which sometimes feels less like a building and more like the nation’s most important filing cabinet.
Congratulations.
You’re now in charge of the country.
Try not to lose the paperwork.
Now this is where things get interesting.
Because after the votes are counted, the political parties have to form a government.
And no, I don’t mean the dance-floor kind of parties.
Although, judging by some political careers, a few of them probably belong on Dancing with the Stars.
What I mean is groups of ordinary humans; some with degrees, some without, some brilliant, some questionable — who somehow end up responsible for running an entire country.
Or at least attempting to.
Now technically and this is where the constitutional nerds start sharpening their pencils; the Governor-General does hold certain powers.
From what I gather, the Governor-General can dissolve Parliament.
In theory.
In practice, it’s one of those constitutional levers that mostly sits behind glass labelled:
“Break in case of political emergency.”
But that’s probably a subject for another day.
Because politics itself is interesting enough.
I’ve seen the cruel side of it.
And I’ve seen the moments where you question the moral compass of someone you may have actually voted for.
Which is always a slightly awkward realisation.
At the end of the day, politicians aren’t mythical creatures.
They’re just people.
Just like you and me.
We vote for the parties and the individuals that make them up.
And yes — they’re all very much human.
Body sweat happens.
Bad decisions happen.
And yes… poop happens too.
So next time you’re about to bag your least favourite politician for not doing this, that, or the other thing they promised during an election campaign, it might be worth pausing for a second.
Sometimes policies can’t move forward because the numbers in Parliament don’t allow it.
Sometimes they hit a political brickwall somewhere along the way.
Sometimes the ballot box itself changes the direction of the country.
That’s politics.
So maybe instead of only focusing on what they didn’t do, it’s worth looking at what they actually managed to achieve during their three years in office.
Because leadership doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
It happens inside a system.
And sometimes that system involves compromises, coalitions, and political parties that exist mostly to fill seats rather than lead the charge.
None of it is perfect.
But it is still democracy.
And at the end of the day, for all the noise, arguments, and political drama, we still have something incredibly important.
We still have a democracy.
Compared to many places in the world, New Zealand is still a country where people can vote, speak their minds, criticise their leaders, and debate the direction of the nation without the doors being slammed shut.
We haven’t closed ourselves off from the world.
And that’s actually something pretty remarkable.
Are there divisions inside the country?
Of course there are.
But those things don’t get solved overnight.
They get worked through over time; through debate, elections, and sometimes a bit of patience.
That’s democracy.
Messy, imperfect… and still worth protecting.
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