Forty years ago, an inebriated prime minister announced what became known as the “schnapps election”. No one could have guessed that the result would lead to an economic revolution.
Robert Muldoon’s volatile political career had many remarkable days, perhaps none more so than Thursday, June 14, 1984. In the course of that day, he drank too much, dragooned the National Party caucus into believing an early election was a good idea, snarled at one of his MPs that she was a “perverted little liar”, disrupted a black-tie dinner at Government House, called a snap election (which he would go on to lose) and then teetered into the Beehive garage to discover that a tyre on his car had been let down. In the 40 years since, no other prime minister has come remotely close to experiencing such a day of ignominy.
I was among a handful of press gallery journalists who hightailed it to Government House late on that winter’s evening, pursuing a troubled prime minister who had decided to throw in the towel. It was a dramatic occasion to be making my first-ever visit to the vice-regal residence. The day is remembered now as marking a critical juncture in 20th-century political history – the beginning of the end of Muldoon’s prime ministership, and the beginning of the countdown to the election of the David Lange-led Labour government, which would embark on a neoliberal revolution. It would upend vast swathes of New Zealand life.
By June 1984, Muldoon’s National government had been in office for eight and a half years. An election was due that year, the expectation being a November ballot. However, the level of disgruntlement with Muldoon’s erratic style was building. A web of controls, including a wage and price freeze, had destabilised the economy and Muldoon was struggling to put together a Budget. His administration was racked with division and he was about to fall out spectacularly with intrepid backbencher Marilyn Waring, one of only two women in National’s caucus.
On June 13, Waring had supported – along with National colleague Mike Minogue – a Labour private member’s bill that would have banned nuclear vessels from New Zealand ports. It was only the votes of two disillusioned Labour MPs, Brian MacDonnell and John Kirk, that saw the bill defeated by the slenderest of margins, 40-39. The next day, Waring informed the government whips that she would no longer attend caucus or provide for a government majority on select committees, though she would support the government on procedural matters. Waring also reserved her position on nuclear disarmament and rape law measures that were in the legislative mix. Her pronouncement made Muldoon’s blood boil.
In the early evening of June 14, there was a council of war in the National whips’ parliamentary office – Muldoon, chief whip Don McKinnon, party president Sue Wood and director-general Barrie Leay. Waring was summoned and she later recalled that Muldoon’s opening salvo was, “Just what do you think you’re up to now, you perverted little liar?” Other accounts have Muldoon dropping an f-bomb into that query. Waring wrote in her memoir that she munched on an apple as Muldoon’s tirade continued and steadily got worse. He complained that he couldn’t rely on her to support his next Budget and again branded her a liar, “all the while refilling his glass with brandy and ginger ale”.
A frazzled Muldoon had had enough. Parliament at the time had 92 seats, of which 47 were held by National and 45 by the Opposition parties: Labour (43) and Social Credit (2). Muldoon believed that the Waring ultimatum meant he wasn’t assured of the numbers in Parliament and that the country must go to the polls, forthwith.
When Parliament rose at 10pm that evening, National MPs were directed to attend a caucus meeting at 10.30pm. In those times, the government caucus room in Parliament House shared a corridor with the press gallery, and as the few journalists still on duty watched the passing parade of MPs, they wondered what was going on. One speculated that perhaps someone had died.
The journalists soon had their answer. Muldoon emerged from the caucus room and told them National MPs had supported his recommendation that he advise the Governor-General, Sir David Beattie, that without a guaranteed majority, the procedures to dissolve Parliament should be set in motion. And Muldoon had no intention of sleeping on it. It was about 11pm when he climbed into a ministerial limo and was taken to Government House.
Time for a gin
I had started work in the New Zealand Herald’s press gallery office nine days earlier. On the day in question, I had left work earlier in the evening and learnt of the political turmoil that was unfolding – this was the age before mobile telephones – only when I caught a radio news bulletin about the late-evening caucus meeting. I dashed back to Parliament immediately.
Veteran gallery reporter Barry Soper, then the Independent Radio News office supremo, was about to drive to Government House in Newtown, so I cadged a ride. Shortly afterwards, I found myself inside the stately old building, gazing at the chandeliers, panelled walls and grand staircase. Beattie, in black tie, approached the waiting posse of journalists, beckoning a staff member as he did so. “Get these good people a drink,” he instructed. We were soon chugging gin and tonics.
It so happened that Beattie was hosting a dinner that evening for media bosses and assorted VIPs, including Muldoon’s second-in-command, the deputy prime minister Jim McLay and Labour’s deputy leader, Geoffrey Palmer. In the pre-digital age, both were oblivious to what was unfolding in another part of the building.
Muldoon had arrived and been handed the habitual stiff one poured whenever he called at the residence. Cabinet secretary and clerk of the executive council Patrick Millen had been telephoned at home and told to get to Government House pronto. Unsurprisingly, given the hour, he had been in bed. Staff apparently enjoyed the sight of a flustered Millen rushing in, pyjamas visible under his buttoned jacket.
By the time the drawing room meeting between Muldoon, Beattie and Millen wrapped up, it was close to midnight. The media pack still had the Government House foyer staked out. We weren’t going anywhere until we had confirmation of an election, which we got as Muldoon headed for the door, flanked by Beattie. Muldoon advised us that Beattie had agreed to a dissolution of Parliament and that there would be an election in a month’s time, on July 14. Given his tired and emotional state, it was soon christened “the schnapps election”.
The Prime Minister’s night was still not finished. He returned to Parliament and met his party chiefs. At 1am, he faced journalists hovering outside the door – Muldoon could never be accused of shirking his media responsibilities. RNZ’s political editor, Richard Griffin, observed that four weeks didn’t give him much time to run up to an election. Muldoon memorably drawled in response: “It doesn’t give my opponents much time to run up to an election, does it?”
Muldoon had come to the Beehive that day in his own car, a Triumph 2500, but he was in no state to drive to Vogel House, then the prime ministerial residence in Lower Hutt. Chief whip McKinnon dispatched someone to the Beehive garage to deflate one of the Triumph’s tyres. Muldoon noticed the flattie when he got to his vehicle and apparently didn’t demur when a crown limo was whistled up to take him home.
Nonetheless, by the time of McKinnon’s judicious intervention, it had already been a car crash of a day.
Mike Munro was a journalist in the parliamentary press gallery from 1984-94 and later worked for prime ministers Helen Clark and Jacinda Ardern.