Valedictory Statement

I think I may be able to help—by confirming that this is my last speech to this honourable House. The first valedictories I heard were actually in the Labour caucus room by MPs who had been defeated in the Muldoon landslide of 1975. So in my moment of personal victory I was surrounded by friends all of whom had lost, and I listened to speeches that live in the memory only of those who heard them.

Rufus Rogers was a doctor who had represented Hamilton East, and he said that when legislating we should remember that every New Zealander is entitled to only 1/3,000,000th of the opportunities this wonderful country has to provide—well, it is now 1/4,000,000th. I have journeyed across the political landscape, but it is still good advice, no matter what side of the House one is on. Many petition this House asking for privileges, whether they be from business, trade unions, or interest groups, but all we are actually entitled to is the opportunity to 1/4,000,000th of what this country has to offer. I made Rufus Rogers’ advice my personal touchstone. I have always opposed privilege, and where I could I have dismantled it. And those who have been granted privileges by this House have a duty to exercise them for the benefit of the nation. No one has greater privileges than those in this House.

My first majority was 284. I was, as Sir Robert would describe me, the lowest of the low. When, with the help of boundary changes—wonderful things—I had the biggest majority, even with encouragement I could not get Sir Robert to admit that I then must be the highest of the high. The whips were concerned about recounts, and summoned me to Parliament on the Monday after the election. I explained that I thought I would do well in the special votes. In fact, Sir Robert claimed that one had only to take a bus through Auckland Central to get on the roll. I want to put the record straight: that is not true. We enrolled people only when the bus stopped.

I went up to the back-benchers’ offices to see my friends like Mike Bassett and Mike Moore—all of whom had been defeated. Mike Moore said to me: “You won’t be here, Richard. You’ll be over in Siberia.”, as the Opposition block behind the Parliamentary Library was known. I came to learn that that name referred not just to the political wilderness but actually to the temperature. The main Parliament Building here is heated by boilers, but Siberia was heated by electricity supplied by the Wellington power board, which had a custom of switching off the heaters when there was a power surge, as on cold nights. So we wore long johns, coats, and gloves, yet on those all-night winter sessions the Opposition literally froze.

“This is an odd place.”, said Mike Moore; “It might pay to put your name on the furniture.” So I did. As I had nothing else to do, I put my name on the furniture of all the defeated MPs. I came back the next Monday and directed the taxi to the library entrance, and as I was going up the steps I could hear the unmistakable voice of Bob Tizard, the man who, 8 days earlier, had been Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Finance—our sort of Michael Cullen—“Who the hell is this Prebble fellow?”. I came round the corner and saw a number of former Cabinet Ministers milling around in the corridor. “I am Richard Prebble.”, I said; “Can I help?”. Tizard pointed to a pile of furniture stretching all the way along the corridor. “Why have you got all this furniture and we have none?”. I ingratiated myself to the caucus—and probably reached the peak of my popularity; after that, it was all downhill—by inviting them all to take their pick.

The only other new Labour MP was Frank Rogers, nicknamed “Taxi” by Muldoon. This shows how politics has changed: Frank got his name for literally fighting for the working man’s right to smoke in a taxi. Oh well, things have changed.

Another change is that in those days elections were held in November, but Parliament did not meet till May. Frank could not see any point in rushing down, so he arrived in December. He surveyed his empty office, and came to me and said: “How do you get new furniture?”. I suggested that he try the Clerk’s Office. He returned to say that there was good news and bad news. The Clerk certainly did agree that he needed furniture; the bad news was that the budget was exhausted and the next financial year began on 1 July. I had no idea what to suggest. Frank said that he would go and find Bellamy’s bar.

I came back the next day feeling bad that I had not looked after my fellow new MP. I looked into Frank’s office, only to see that it had the most magnificent furniture. Frank arrived some time later, and I asked what had happened. He said: “Bellamy’s was closed, so I went to the messengers’ bar. They’re wonderful fellows. I explained my problem and, for two bottles of Bellamy’s whisky, at 1 o’clock in the morning we fixed it. The desk comes from the Deputy Prime Minister’s office, the chair comes from Adams-Schneider’s, the filing cabinets are Allan Highet’s,”—he had a piece of furniture from every Cabinet Minister’s office. I said: “What did you take from Muldoon’s office?”. “We’re not mad.”, said Frank—he had not taken anything.

Then I said: “Look, Frank,”—displaying all my knowledge as a lawyer—“this is theft. You have to take it back.” “No way.”, said Frank; “The messengers, who know how this place is run, say I’ll be OK.” I was sure that a policeman would come and arrest Frank. Instead, some days later I saw the Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand, the Rt Hon Brian Talboys, coming cautiously down the Opposition corridor. He asked for directions to Frank Rogers’ office. I followed him and eavesdropped as the Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand begged the most junior MP to please return his desk. It was part of a set, apparently. Frank said that he had no desk, and Talboys offered to take him personally to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where he could have his choice of any furniture he liked. Over the next few days, each Cabinet Minister had to come in turn and beg for the return of the furniture.

It was then that I realised that Parliament is a very different institution. We have privileges so that the executive cannot stop us from holding Ministers to account. Shamefully, too many MPs have abused that privilege, but we must maintain the right to fearlessly debate and criticise. I modestly claim to have done my bit. Those who have measured these things—I have not—tell me that I have more words in Hansard than any other MP in the history of our Parliament. Perhaps I had better stop at this point.

I actually started my career way back in 1966 as the campaign organiser for Norman Douglas, who was Roger Douglas’ father. Norman taught me a great deal. One of the great lessons was: “You can’t lose what you haven’t got.” He always kept a copy of the electoral roll by the phone. When constituents rang and asked for assistance, telling him that they had voted for him, Norman would look them up on the roll. Being Norman, he would say: “You’re not on the electoral roll, so so far we’ve established you’re a liar. What else can I do for you?”.

I would occasionally receive calls from people who lived in Muldoon’s electorate—we shared a boundary. When he got one of my constituents he would say: “You’re Richard Prebble’s constituent. I know he’s a wild young man, but he’s a good electorate MP. Here’s his home phone number. He won’t mind you ringing him. He’s a bit of a night owl, so ring after 10 p.m. and be sure to say that I told you to call.” When his constituents rang me I would say: “Parliamentary protocol means you must approach your local MP. Muldoon’s good to his constituents. Here’s his confidential home phone number. He gets up very early to catch the early flight to Wellington. Best ring him before 6 a.m.” I would then add, no matter how difficult the problem: “Sir Robert’s the Prime Minister; he can easily fix this problem.” We did that to each other for 18 years. But the amazing thing is that Sir Robert actually did fix the problems. One constituent had been ringing every MP to say that the SIS was beaming gamma rays at his head. Muldoon just said: “Why didn’t you ring me before? I’m the Minister in charge of the SIS. I’ll put a stop to it today.”

I realise that I will be remembered—as much as any of us are remembered—as part of the Lange Government. David Lange is critically ill. Let me pay this tribute to him—a great New Zealander. We all know that he was our greatest platform speaker, so let me record what only his Cabinet witnessed. David Lange was actually a brilliant chairman. His Cabinet passed some of the most far-reaching reforms in our nation’s history, yet Cabinet rarely met after lunch. He kept the discussion focused while allowing all Ministers to make their points. How did he do it? He used his wit to defuse tension, and he started every Cabinet with a monologue of his recent experiences, with insights so funny that I saw Cabinet Ministers fall off their chairs with laughter. There was the time he told us that he had arrived home late at night only to find that the Ministry of Works had fitted—unrequested—security. He opened the gate only to be blinded by spotlights. He concluded that this must have been requested by the escorts, to make sure that if there was an assassin he did not shoot the wrong man! I am proud to have served in his Cabinet. I am sure that the whole House wishes to join with me in telling David and Margaret and his family that they are in our thoughts and prayers.

It is, I think, the greatest honour in a democratic society to be elected by one’s neighbours to represent them. I am grateful to my staff, to my many supporters, to my family, to my children, and to my wonderful wives—and to the voters, who have returned me so often. I have to say that I am a little incredulous that I am the longest-serving member of Parliament, and, in a way, I feel I am just getting to terms with the job when I am quitting.

We are one of the world’s oldest Parliaments. We now actually have the best select committee system of any Westminster Parliament. Jonathan Hunt’s ruling that MPs may use their allocation of supplementary questions as they choose has made our question time very searching. Instead of a Minister facing a limited number of supplementary questions, Ministers can now face a gruelling cross-examination, and I think it is part of the reason the Government has found Parliament such hard going this year.

But we could be so much better. When I first arrived and knew nothing, I received half an hour for my maiden speech, and I know that under the Standing Orders my valedictory is officially to be 10 minutes long. Most speeches in this Parliament are just 5 minutes long. I defy anyone to explain accident compensation reform, Resource Management Act amendments, or taxation changes in just 5 minutes. There are MPs in this House who, through no fault of their own, have spoken for less than a total of 20 minutes this session. They cannot represent their constituents, or give value for the cost to the taxpayer of having an MP, in less than 20 minutes a year. Our Parliament does not sit for long enough. Although we meet for more days a year than the great Parliaments, we are in session for fewer hours. The most powerful legislature, the US Senate, still has unlimited speaking time, but it meets all hours, including Sundays. To be a real check on the executive, this House must meet for more hours—not to pass more laws; there are already 1,441 Acts of Parliament, an estimated 40,000 pages of statute law, and that is not counting the 2,850 regulations that are in force. No wonder small businesses complain about red tape! No member of Parliament could possibly read all the laws that we pass each year.

I have always believed that our Parliament would be better if there were a group of independent-minded MPs who sat on the cross benches and advocated rational economics, and attempted to keep everyone honest. Leading such a party has been my own personal highlight of my career—the only new party not formed by present MPs to break into the House. I rang Rodney Hide on the Sunday after our first election victory and said: “Come down tomorrow. We need to put our name on some furniture.” We were referred to the floor where the United Party had had its office. Somewhere in this complex there is a store of green wheelie bins. It is how many careers end: defeated MPs throwing into wheelie bins documents that, just 48 hours earlier, had seemed so important.

I recall the chaos of the 9 weeks of Government negotiations. The Parliamentary Service said it could not allocate the ACT party any telephones until it knew who was in Government. I pointed out that the only thing we actually knew was that ACT was not going to be in Government, because we were the only party not negotiating with Mr Peters—and, I have to say, vice versa.

Rodney Hide managed to find a desk with a computer. He started to use it, but it was incredibly slow. He rang the computer support service, which said someone would be there directly. A technician appeared a few minutes later with a trolley and a brand new PC, installed it, and took the old one away. “How did you know what was wrong?”, asked Rodney Hide. “All MPs want a PC on their desk,” said the technician, “so we give them the old discards. If they complain, we give them a PC that works.” “Get many complaints?”, asked Rodney Hide. “Not really.” From that conversation, I realised that Rodney Hide would take to politics.

I recall one of Muriel Newman’s first questions, a patsy to Jenny Shipley: “Could the Minister outline the advantages of the National Government’s announcement to sell six small hydro stations?”. Jenny Shipley, no doubt thinking that ACT would be a good doormat, said what a good question it was and waxed on about the advantage of the sale. Then Muriel Newman asked: “If selling six small hydro stations is of such benefit to consumers, why not sell six big ones?”. Poleaxed, I think, is the phrase. I think we have been raising issues that parties would rather not consider ever since. I note that ACT has voted against the whole of Parliament twice this week, on the cricket tour and the nuclear issue.

I do have just one uncompleted piece of business. It did reduce me to tears when it happened, so I hope I can tell it. Helen Clark said this week that she thought the public’s response to the Unknown Warrior was a highlight, and I think that is because so many New Zealanders did not return. A few years ago I received a handwritten letter asking whether I was any relation of Bill Prebble, who was in the Battle of Crete. I wrote back: “There is only one family of Prebbles in the world, so we are all related. My middle name is William. Bill Prebble is probably a descendant of William Prebble, who arrived in New Zealand in January 1840.”—that is why the treaty does not apply to us—“Why do you ask?”.

Then I received this letter. He explained that the Battle of Crete had been a much bigger muck-up than has ever been admitted. He wrote: “We were all teenagers in our platoon. Our sergeant, who we called the old man, was Bill Prebble, aged just 23. We lost all of our officers on the first day of the battle. Our sergeant led our platoon across Crete displaying great bravery and single-handedly taking out German machine-gun positions. Bill Prebble got us all off, and we owed him our lives.

“When we got to Egypt the platoon went to see headquarters. We thought that the sergeant should get a medal for bravery—we believed the Victoria Cross. We were told that because no officer had witnessed this action there could be no medal. Our platoon thought that this was very unfair so we took an artillery shell, and we polished it and engraved it, and presented it to our sergeant. We fought together across Africa and into Italy. Outside Monte Cassino, Sergeant Bill Prebble was hit in the head by a stray bullet and died instantly. We had to leave his body on the side of the road and just take his personal effects. I picked up the shell case, and carried it for the rest of the war, and it’s been in my living room ever since. I’m an old man and now it should be with a relative.”

It has been in my office ever since—let me try to finish this properly—and I am proud to have it, but it is time it was presented to one of Sergeant Bill Prebble’s closest relatives. I have asked the Army, which is unable to find his file. From the Monte Cassino war cemetery I found that his name was actually Roy Francis Prebble, son of John and Ivy Prebble of Christchurch. That is right, because the shell is actually engraved R A Prebble—and teenagers could easily have got the middle initial wrong. So I decided to use this valedictory speech in the hope that I can find his closest relative. As Bill Prebble died defending our democracy it is fitting that he be remembered in the pages of Hansard.

Madam Speaker, all that remains is for me to wish you and all members all the best. Be careful out there, and for those who are about to be defeated, it is not so bad. I have been there too. Once you are out of Parliament, New Zealanders are very forgiving and very kind. And, who knows, like me, within a year you could be running a New Zealand - Viet Nam railway. I am having some refreshments in the ACT caucus room, and you are all very welcome. There you are—I am mellowing already. Thank you.