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Salient. Victoria University Student Newspaper. Volume. 34, Number 2. 1971

The Governor-General as an Emperor Penguin

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The Governor-General as an Emperor Penguin

Photo of the Governor-General in formal attire

At ten past twelve on Thursday Roger Cruickshank rang up the secretary of the Speaker of the House. 'Can Owen Gager go to the opening of Parliament instead of me?" The deputy-clerk was dubious - "I'll just ask someone." Silence for five minutes. "Is he wearing a suit - a lounge suit?" Roger, doubtfully: "Oh, you could say that." Deputy clerk (noting Roger's doubt): "Well, he's better come to my office before one." - to be inspected for Proper Attire, obviously. I dashed down to Parliament, and must have passed muster, because I was given a large yellow invitation from the Governor-General, and told to come back in a hour-and-a-quarter.

I arrived back dutifully at 2.15. The Parliamentary watchman cum guard-dog was suspicious. "You're a staff member aren't you?" he asked. I nodded. Clearly I didn't look as if I'd been invited to the Grand Opening. But waving my yellow invitation as I walked over several thousand yards of unvaccuumed red carpet (who Has got the contract for cleaning Parliament Buildings?) I eventually arrived at seat R12, which was reserved for me. Scat R11 was occupied by a Mr. Onions of the Dairy Board. I discussed the weather with him for two minutes. (We seemed to have little else in common, somehow.) Scats P12 and P11, immediately in front of me, were occupied by two men in black uniforms who appeared to be the Commissioner of Police and his deputy. I was seated next to the door two paces in front of which, and so alongside me, stood the only obtrusive police officer visible. (All other policemen stood immediately outside their respective doors) Perhaps I'm being a little paranoid in thinking that this particular seating arrangement was worked out with my particular convenience in mind. If my paranoia is justified, however, I can assure the authorities that an official of the Dairy Board discussing the weather is just as unnerving as three senior members of the constabulary.

My first impression of the attendance at the Parliamentary opening was that I had seen nothing like it since I attended evening service at the Rotorua Presbyterian Church fifteen years ago. The majority of people who attend Parliamentary openings like the congregation at Rotorua Presbyterian are heavily overdressed middle-aged women. I was not permitted to take notes during proceedings, or I could describe for the benefit of Salient's women readers the more elaborate tribal head-dresses worn for the occasion. I did notice, however a sad dearth of both mini and maxi skirts. It seems that these fashions have not yet caught on among the vice-regal circles. But, otherwise the fashion-scene was in full blaze, and the only other comparison I can think of besides Rotorua Presbyterian is the Big Day at Trentham Racecourse. In fact, when the assembled women suddenly lowered their voices and a deathly hush fell, broken only by the awed tones of the NZBC commentator describing the form, and when trumpets rang out, I half expected the ghost of Phar Lap to be led triumphantly into the Legislative Council chamber.

But, instead it was a horse of a different colour. Old, tired Sir Arthur Porrit, stumbling under the weight of his medals, climbed up the mercifully few steps to his Seat of Power like Christ carrying the Cross the last few yards to Gethsemane. Sir Arthur is the living symbol of the crisis of the New Zealand health system - if you become a qualified surgeon and abjure your country to practice in another still undefiled by Social Security you too can become a Governor-General. Clearly he would have been far happier using his surgeon's knife on some sick member of the Body Politic, perhaps Tom Skinner, than reading out the address Keith Holyoake thrust into his well-gloved hands. Occasionally he winced at Keith's Pahiatua English - (I agree, Sir Arthur that the word "guidelines" is indeed a noxious Americanism.) - But apart from this, it was a performance of which Peter Cushing could have been proud. I was reminded of the death scene in 'Lear' Porritt is a marvellous Lear with a perpetual blasted-on-the-heath (no pun intended) look, while the dead Cordelia, dying for the truth, was well played on this occasion by the New Zealand economy, admirably described in this updated version of tragedy as undergoing a downturn in its terms of trade unparalleled since the thirties. The majestic utterance of that sinister word, "thirties", was greeted with an audible gasp by the assembled matrons, but no other breach of dramatic decorum was committed. Nevertheless, a distinct gloom was observable during tea-and-cakes conversation afterwards.

There are those who believe New Zealand is a parliamentary democracy but it's quite clear after seeing this moving ceremony that it's not Keith Holyoake but Sir Arthur Porrit who wears the feathers in his hat and uses the nearest thing New Zealand has to a throne room. Nobody bows to Keith Holyoake yet; nobody but Sir Arthur can order members of Parliament from place to place. Sir Arthur of course, claims to be limited by his constitutional position, but everybody knows New Zealand hasn't really got a constitution. Doesn't it solve a lot of problems about why the country is governed as it is if we assume that it's not Keith Holyoake - a man, after all, whom Spiro Zavos has claimed is intelligent - but Sir Arthur Porrit who is the real ruler of the country? Everybody has always assumed proclamations are made for form's sake only in the Governor-General's name: but what if we've been fooled all along? One thing became very clear to me watching the opening after Parliament. Keith Holyoake (who smokes Benson and Hedges) could never say "no" to anyone, especially not to Sir Arthur Porritt After all, if the Governor-General really is powerless, why do we spend the enormous amount of money we do on a constitutional anachronism?