The New Zealander believes the country's problems could be solved at the stroke of a politician.
But he still goes on believing election promises.
When National proffers its team for the 70s, no one bothers to ask which century they're talking about.
Within a few months of re-election, one cabinet minister is dead and three are in hospital.
The New Zealander is pretty sure that politics and sport don't mix.
In fact, he doesn't like politics much with anything.
Recently, an MP attacked the churches for dabbling in politics
on the grounds, presumably, that politics and morality don't mix.
In the land of the long white crowd,
politics is an indecent act committed between consenting adults in the privacy of Parliament.
But we're still a democracy.
The politician will do anything the country wants
as long as the breweries, federated farmers and the RSA agree.
On defence, at least, there is room to be proud.
The New Zealander
on this auspicious occasion
on the renaming of the Ministry of Defence
as the Ministry of Attack.
The new departmental emblem,
a Kiwi rampant with arms sinister,
more accurately reflects the attitude of those who work in it.
And tonight, what better occasion than to look back on New Zealand's long,
and proud, military record?
The Boer War.
And Prime Minister Seddon committed our chaps to fight
before war had actually been declared.
Many men sailed for South Africa
within a very short time of arriving in New Zealand.
Goodbye, God's own atmosphere!
Goodbye, my ma's feet!
you, though I have only just arrived. I'm bound to Cape Town in the morning, and I doubt
that I'll survive. A Kiwi must always do his duty, though I've only been here half a day.
I'll never get to see Te Puke. Farewell, Michonne Bay.
I think it fair to say that New Zealand has won their spurs in the war to end all wars,
or World War I, as it later came to be known.
More than 18,000 of our chaps sailed away, alas, never to return. But for those who did
return came the end of the world.

The ultimate reward.
Pack up your jobs and join the infantry, smile, smile, smile. Join the thousands flocking
to Gallipoli and die, boys, that's the style. Ninety-eight percent of you will have your
arses shot away, but the other two percent of you will be shot down.
We will come back home to start the R.S.A.
After 20 years of uneasy peace, at last came World War II.
And New Zealanders are proud that thanks to a quirk in the time zones,
we actually declared war on Germany 12 hours before London.
World War II's the one for me.
We'll go down in history where Britain walks.
She'll never walk alone.
No one attacked us, machine gun or flak dust.
With all of the nations, we had good relations.
The crowns fought in war when we were first declaring war.
As long as we can sell our land to England and to Uncle Sam,
then we'll see how long ill we can be.
Cheese, cheese, cheese!
Cheese!
Korea.
Damn well.
The farmers, that is.
War went up to a record price of 84 cents a pound.
Korea.
We've just got involved in Korea.
And suddenly we think we'd better go and fight the chick.
Korea.
Makes just as much sense as Korea.
Crimea.
It's military bull.
Who cares if we can sell our war?
Korea.
And it's not in support of the Parmi.
Or to help rid the world of the commies.
Korea.
Looks a really good market from here.
The most beautiful sound.
We've ever heard.
Korea.
Vietnam.
An unhappy conflict.
But our chaps in the five years that they've been there
have only managed to kill 18 of the enemy.
And this works out at well over three million dollars per kill.
However, on the bright side,
this rate is dramatically reduced
if we include the number of Australians we've killed.
We really shouldn't be here but we couldn't stay away.
We only came because we like to kill on double pay.
The urge to fight is rooted in the Kiwi family tree.
Besides, we get our cameras duty free.
All those burning peasants that you see along the road
look frazzled when the U.S. is gone.
The U.S. bombers drop their flaming load.
People try to tell us but we simply turn away.
And count the days until we get our pay.
They call us Cali's heroes but we couldn't give a stuff.
The game we're playing here is just a ball of blind man's luck.
We've killed a lot of Aussies and you may think that it's rough.
Believe you me, we haven't killed enough.
All those burning peasants that you see along the road
look frazzled when the U.S. bombers drop their flaming load.
People try to tell us but we simply turn away.
And count the days until we get our pay.
And count the days until we get our pay.
Thank you.