Winston Peters, the kingmaker dethroned

Analysis: For the first time in forever, NZ First’s leader is not at the centre of our political universe.

By the time Winston Peters arrived at the Duke of Marlborough Hotel on election night, he was well and truly over this stupid election. He rolled up in a blue SUV, looked at the media horde blocking his way to the hotel door and immediately turned to walk in the other direction. It might have just been an evasive manoeuvre. It could also have been a verdict on the state of things. 

Peters had cause to be grumpy. It had all been going so well just months ago. In April, Talbot-Mills had New Zealand First polling at 15%; a highwater mark not seen for a couple of years and one that would have eclipsed its best-ever election result of 13.3% if it was echoed at the ballot box.

But then came the horrible, no good, wretched, godawful campaign. Peters often looked like a man out of time. As other leaders slurped up ice-cream, patted dogs and flipped hamburgers at McDonald’s he seemed to develop a burgeoning resentment at the death of decorum. He hit out at the “circus” his rivals had put on and openly pined for the way things were before, when you’d just debate policy and didn’t have to go on Dom Harvey’s podcast to be accosted about the last time you cried. "Well, it's just about one of the worst campaigns I've ever seen because the people are sick and tired of it. The pettiness of it all, the diversion of it all, the misleading representations of it all,” he complained to Newstalk ZB’s breakfast host Mike Hosking.

At debates, Peters seemed to resent the uppity whippersnappers who had the gall to deliver their prescriptions on how to change the country, frequently pointing out that he was busy abolishing the superannuation surtax when some of them were still shitting their diapers. 

Peters’ appeals to experience sometimes backfired, most significantly when Opportunity leader Qiulae Wong pointed out having been around a long time meant he’d had a long time to fix the stuff he was complaining about. “We’ve heard a lot about experience, but you're the common denominator in most governments over the last 40 years – and look where we are,” she said.

That one hurt, most of all coming from Wong. Besides all the other indignities foisted upon him by this horrid campaign, Peters had lost his usual position as the centre of our political universe. Part of that was his own doing. For years he’d been the kingmaker, holding court after elections to deliberate on which major party most deserved the crown. But this time around he’d ruled out being the Chrismaker, repeatedly insisting he didn’t want anything to do with Chris from Labour.

As a result, he’d become an afterthought in the electoral math, his vote simply being added to National’s as a matter of course when it came time for the Jack Tames of the world to analyse the polls. Instead it was Wong who got to play the role of the wildcard who could go either way. The great kingmaker had been dethroned, demoted to the role of a side character, forced to wander the streets accosting new mothers, shrugging off constant requests to eat ice-cream, condemning the graceless verbal diarrhea emanating from both outside and inside his party.

When Peters finally navigated his slightly circuitous route to the stage at the Duke, he spoke for all of three minutes. One was devoted to thanking party supporters and the rest was spent chastising all the people who had spent the last few hours deigning to speculate on the composition of the next government. “A lot of people are getting carried away right here, right now, about what the outcome means. It'd be very wise if they held their counsel and found out what the results actually are, rather than the hopeful speculation of what it might be,” he said.

Then he buggered off. When he finished his speech, a bodyguard pushed journalists out of his way. Peters beat a hasty course to the back of the hotel; past the huge marlin above the bar, past the piano that Justin Bieber played a couple of weeks ago, and toward a big brown door. Peters is 81 now. This could be his last rodeo, and it’s one he’d probably like to forget. The last thing he was heard saying by a pursuing journalist was a question, directed at his security: “They can’t follow me back here can they?”. Assured they couldn’t, he walked through the passage. He closed the door, turned the key. It was finally over.