The Sad Truth About Local Government
The Ballad of the Universally Inoffensive Party
The great theatre of New Zealand democracy is once again staging its most unwatchable act - the local body elections. It’s a performance so uninspiring that even the actors forget their lines, the audience stays home, and the ushers quietly weep into their fluorescent vests.
Apathy, we are told, is the new patriotism. Voter turnout is so low that one wonders if we might soon replace ballot boxes with raffles - at least then someone might bother to show up for the meat pack.
And who can blame them? The candidates shuffle out, draped in the beige uniforms of the Universally Inoffensive Party, promising nothing, delivering less and hoping desperately that their slogan, “time for a change,” is bland enough to offend no one but still fit on a corflute. That one’s even being used by an incumbent - which is either a stroke of comic genius or a cry for help.
Meanwhile, the issues that actually matter are trampled under the muddy boots of developers and consultants. Affordable housing, safe water, public transport that turns up more often than Halley’s Comet - these remain aspirational luxuries. Local councils, once charged with serving communities, are being quietly remodelled into branch offices for property speculators and central government accountants. Their motto? “Streamline services, strangle communities.”
The most animated debate you’ll hear in a council chamber is whether to serve the muffins before or after the PowerPoint presentation. God forbid they get distracted by the pesky business of poverty, homelessness, or the sewage pipe exploding down the road.
We are told that the “three Rs” - roads, rubbish and rates - are the holy trinity of local politics. Yet somehow, roads resemble lunar craters, rubbish collection is outsourced to whichever multinational offers the cheapest bin stickers and rates climb like ivy on the crumbling façade of democracy.
The public? Many retreat to their gated suburbs, fortified not just with fences but with smugness. They complain about rates on Nextdoor while sipping lattes and congratulating themselves for voting “responsibly.” Meanwhile, those on the other side of town fight mould, potholes and the slow erosion of every shared service once promised as a birthright.
But fear not. The local body ballot is here. You too can choose between Nice Woman Who Smiles, Nice Man Who Nods, and Nice Retiree Who Thinks the Library is a Socialist Plot. If you’re very lucky, you might get an eccentric candidate - someone who actually says something real and is therefore quickly dismissed as unelectable.
This is the paradox of our civic life. We long for leaders who are bold enough to fight for us, yet we recoil at the thought of anyone who might upset our mothers. We dream of firebrands, but we elect tea cosies.
Communities do not thrive on complacency. They thrive on the awkward, the irritating, the ones who say, “No, you can’t just sell the community centre to a developer and replace it with a carpark.” They thrive on the bastards who shake things up, who remind us that democracy was never meant to be a polite garden party.
Until then, our councils will continue their descent into managerial beige, humming lullabies while Rome - or at least Rotorua – burns and when turnout hits 20%, the powers-that-be will congratulate themselves for maintaining “strong democratic participation.”
Perhaps it’s time we asked the only question that matters: not “who looks nice on a poster,” but “who actually gives a damn about the street we live on?”
Because if we leave it to the Universally Inoffensive Party, we may wake up one day to find our towns neatly packaged, asset-stripped, and sold off - with a thank-you note attached - “Your community has been streamlined. Please enjoy your carpark.”
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