What you see on television is merely a fraction of the magic and mayhem of parliament’s question time.
The school groups that fill the public gallery of the House of Representatives alternate in 15-minute intervals during question time. The students kick their legs lazily, hunch over on their elbows (note the “NO LEANING ON THE BALUSTRADES” signs) and trade bemused glances with each other, bored of the political bickering. When teachers send whispers down the lines announcing it’s time to go, the kids make a beeline for the exit, while the MPs below watch a whole generation of potential voters in the making shuffle out the door.
They don’t appreciate it yet, but question time is one of the few gifts that comes with having a Westminster parliament. The UK tradition holds the government, including the prime minister, accountable for answering questions from MPs on sitting days, and since Parliament TV launched in 2007, the public has been able to enjoy the thrills of the House straight from their living room. If you want a front row seat to the action, you could physically show up at parliament too. It’s a reflection of democracy in action, though it may be more fun to think of it as a reality show with a convoluted script, a bland wardrobe department and a whole lot of antagonists.
Tuesdays usually provide the rowdiest episodes of question time – it’s the first sitting day of the week, and MPs are keen to dig into each other with the hard questions before the prime minister leaves parliament on Thursday. Politicians who have let their frustrations stay pent up over the weekend are just as energised and vengeful as hormonal teenagers, if not worse.
The sorts who make time in the middle of the day to visit the public gallery are more varied than you think. Many are older, of the baby boomer generation and beyond; one is waiting to get a handshake with Winston Peters after the show; some are middle-aged workers passing through on business; the teenage students or university gen Zers observing with as much interest as their counterparts some 50 years older.
The view from the press gallery isn’t so bad, especially since Darleen Tana’s banishment to the back, back, back benches, otherwise known as Siberia, provides a good visual gag. I’ve ended up here on a press gallery scholarship, and the journalists beside me lean towards the spectacle below with their laptops and notebooks open, a position they’ve long practised and one I find myself mimicking despite not actually having to report on anything. Carved into the benches are memories of the not-so-distant past: “TV3 News Stephen Parker”; “Duncan Garner 1995 2012 RIP ‘news man’”; “Patrick Gower ‘pol ed’ 2012-17”; “Tova O’Brien Newshub pol ed 18-22”; “Lloyd Burr 2011-2017 2023”.
This was last Tuesday, following Tana’s last-minute appearance on the tiles announcing (again) that she would not be resigning, and had instructed Te Pāti Māori to vote for her in the House in her absence. The surprise stand-up with Tana sets the tone for a fiery debate – now the MPs know they’ll need to cut above the noise Tana’s announcement will be making in the media with their questioning, especially the Greens, who are trying to get the prime minister to reveal whether he believes Māori ceded sovereignty to the Crown.
Being here, it becomes very obvious very quickly that there are two particular pockets of the chamber where the heat has already hit far beyond boiling point. In the left corner, Greens co-leader Chlöe Swarbrick and Te Pāti Māori co-leader Debbie Ngarewa-Packer, and in the right, NZ First’s Winston Peters and Shane Jones. For every hit the former lay on the government, Peters and Jones can punch back tenfold. But while the men are seasoned hecklers, Swarbrick and Ngarewa-Packer have enough foundation in their beliefs to stand their ground.
A question from Packer to children’s minister Karen Chhour, over why 790 Māori tamariki have entered Oranga Tamariki in the past eight months, received a response from Peters instead: “ask your cousins”. Then came the onslaught of noise; the laughter from the government side, groans from the opposition, interjections from MPs and speaker Gerry Brownlee trying to reel the circus in. Brownlee had to nip the mob in the bud: “I suggest we just desensitise a little bit and move on.”
Not everyone can handle the cutthroat nature of the House – a few weeks earlier, the speaker had introduced a rule that prohibits MPs from heckling, but only while Chhour speaks, following her allegations of bullying. She’s audible on a livestream, but her mumblings can barely be heard over the shouts of the opposition. You can almost see her physically fold into herself, a hothouse flower in a garden of thistles.
The House has its jovial moments as well, like on the government side, whenever someone is saying something good about the party’s policies, there’s shouts of “how good?” and “hear, hear”. Like a bunch of lads cheering on a keg-chugging competition.
A good piece of advice shared along the tile floors is that you need thick skin and a whole lot of humility to survive being here. Thick skin to handle the jabs traded across the House, and the humility to be able to comfortably bump into each other at the pub upstairs, share a drink and laugh over the day’s events. The place breeds the most unlikely of friendships, such as Todd Muller and James Shaw, Jenny Shipley and Helen Clark, or Golriz Ghahraman and Gerry Brownlee. In other cases, especially between Māori MPs, you could be debating your own whanaunga.
Tuning in via livestream this Tuesday, having returned to Auckland, provided the same quality viewing, but with less of the oomph. Clearly itching for some action following recess, the House was asked by the speaker to pause multiple times to calm themselves and get their act together. “We are going to have a little bit more sensibility around asking and responding to questions,” Brownlee said. “[It’s] not on.” Then later, “just a general comment, just calm it a little bit more.” And again, “everyone, take a breath for a minute.” Oh, to feel the fire in person.
You can’t see the small things through a livestream, like the true scope of MPs looking at their phones, how few of them listen to their earpieces when te reo Māori is spoken, the glances Peters throws to the press gallery when the media is criticised, Swarbrick’s entire range of emotions on display or the box of treats Arena Williams keeps by her desk.
It’s infectious, and pure performance. With microphones only turned on for a speaking MP, a lot of debate fire across the House is lost when you watch question time through a livestream, and unlike a real high-budget reality show, there are only a few cameras to capture reactions and no confessional to pour your heart into afterwards (you could do it on the tiles with the journalists, but that’s not recommended). So, even if it doesn’t always translate fully on the screen, it’s still the best live show in New Zealand.
It’s a somewhat unconventional way to spend a weekday afternoon, but should you find yourself in Wellington, a trip to the parliamentary buildings and a quick sit-in on question time might be the only entertainment you’ll need. It even offers the sobering post-Netflix-binge feeling of total emptiness when you’re done with it, walk out and remember that the issues these people are arguing over really do exist in real life, and they’re supposed to be responsible for fixing them.
People say we should expect better from our politicians, but letting them take up petty fights with each other, like Sammi and JWoww on Jersey Shore, or everybody on Bad Girls Club, shows you just how much better some of these MPs are at being performers than politicians. A bunch of the biggest names in the nation, piled together in a room bursting with high energy and tension, performing the best and worst of themselves in the vain hope that it will connect with someone, somewhere. Watching the way your favourite MPs unleash upon each other in the debating chamber might just influence what you tick on your voting ballot.