Mallard lives up to his hard-case image

By DIANA MCCURDY

On the wall in Trevor Mallard's office hangs a photo of a man in a tracksuit hunched disconsolately over a list of election results. It's a memento from the 1990 election - an ageing snapshot taken the morning after his electorate summarily dismissed him as MP for Hamilton West.

For Mallard, the image is a constant reminder that his lot as a politician is tenuous; that he will keep - or lose - his job at the whim of the voters.

The photo is a surprisingly humble keepsake for a man whose political reputation is founded on his proclivity for abrasiveness. Over the years, he has become known as one of Labour's bulldogs, a tough guy trusted to sort out political messes and babysit floundering ministers.

At one point, he was even dubbed "Mr Gromyko"- an allusion to the Soviet Union's grim-faced foreign minister Andrei Gromyko, who became famous for saying "nyet" at every United Nations vote during the Cold War. At the time he earned the nickname, Mallard was a junior finance minister and had the pre-Budget chore of vetoing ministerial wish-lists.

Now he's in the hot seat once again as he tackles the unenviable task of culling New Zealand's struggling rural schools. One by one, principals and communities have come to him asking for reprieve. And over again they have heard the same answer: "nyet".

The conundrum for Mallard is that while tough guys are essential in politics, they are not always popular. Gromyko survived admirably, dodging the Kremlin knives to keep the same job for 28 years.

It remains to be seen whether Mallard can match the wily Belarussian. But so far he is doing pretty well.

He's been in Parliament for almost 17 years now, excluding the three years following his ousting from Hamilton West. A few years back, Prime Minister Helen Clark even tipped him as a likely contender should she happen to be run over by a bus. Few put him in the running now.

But Mallard is one of those politicians born for the job, says Auckland University associate psychology professor and long-time friend Dr Keith Petrie. He's known Mallard for 16 years. They've spent many holidays together in the Coromandel and stood on sidelines together watching each other's kids play sport. His conclusion: "He lives and breathes the job".

So it might seem a little odd that a man like Mallard should treasure a photo of his own political defeat. But then, all is not always as it seems in politics.

For all that he throws his weight around, Mallard's ultimate aim is not, he says, to be prime minister. He wants to be a finance minister or Speaker.

The irony of the latter choice does not escape him. From his earliest years in Parliament, the rugby-mad hooker from Wainuiomata developed a reputation as a parliamentary bad boy. Over the years, especially during his stint in opposition, Mallard has frequently held the dubious honour of being the most turfed-out politician.

He earned the first of many rebukes within a few months of his arrival in Parliament in 1984, after launching a biting attack on former Education Minister Merv Wellington. The Speaker, Sir Basil Arthur, warned him he was debating in a manner likely to cause disorder. National MP Robin Gray condemned his oratory as the "lowest, most disgusting speech" he had ever heard in Parliament.

If the young Mallard was at all chastened, he didn't show it. He went on to energetically champion causes both major and obscure. He's had some exemplary successes, including exposing problems with Aotearoa Television. But his enthusiastic style has also brought its fair share of embarrassing moments.

His outburst after New Zealand lost its bid to host the Rugby World Cup has become legendary. Speaking on radio the day after, he proposed inserting Heineken bottles into International Rugby Board chairman Vernon Pugh, prompting outrage.

Mallard is the first to admit that biting his tongue has not traditionally been his forte. He has always had strong political views and stories still circulate about his days as a student activist.

Even his marriage was born out of political turmoil. He and Stephanie Doyle met in 1972 soon after they were arrested for demonstrating against New Zealand's treatment of feminist author Germaine Greer for uttering the word "bullshit" in a public speech.

A few years later, when Mallard was student president at Wellington Teachers' College, a newspaper advertisement appeared for the registrar's job, wryly suggesting that military experience would be an asset. The prank prompted stern public finger-wagging from both the college and the newspaper, but nobody came forward to claim responsibility. To this day, Mallard cheerily refuses to comment.

In retrospect, it isn't surprising that Mallard's teaching career did not last long. The confines of a classroom can be claustrophobic for natural-born firebrands.

Mallard has always had a knack for raising hackles. National's education spokesman Bill English has spent years observing him from the other side of the House and describes him as "an unguided missile".

"I think he's generally over-rated in his effectiveness ... He's a Labour Party machine politician - a mixture of energy and thuggery."

Such barbs are to be expected from opposition politicians, but the tough guy exterior has also led Mallard to alienate himself from some important figures in his own portfolios. In the secondary education sector, feelings still run high one-and-a-half years after the industrial dispute that dogged the lead-up to the last election.

Former Principals' Council chairman Russell Trethewey is a veteran adversary of Mallard. The pair get on pretty well in social situations, but such is Trethewey's strength of feeling about Mallard's performance as Education Minister that he wrote to Tertiary Education Minister Steve Maharey after the last election requesting that Mallard not be reinstated.

Mallard is always well informed, Trethewey explains, but isn't willing to consider other points of view once he's made up his mind.

"I guess he has a counter-puncher personality in a way. He comes out in that defensive mode, which is sometimes unfortunate."

Even within his own party, Mallard's strong personality occasionally prompts unease. The current school closures are a case in point. Although critics acknowledge that Mallard always fronts up to the communities concerned, they contend that his demeanour is not always helpful.

One political source says there is mounting disquiet about the effect Mallard is having in some of Labour's shakier seats. "Some people enjoy being the hard man and the thug around town and doing the big macho thing. But when you are dealing with these sorts of issues, whether you agree with people or not, there's a nice way of doing these things."

Not fair, Mallard says. These days he's toned himself down quite a bit. He's turning 50 this year and even if he's not ready for silver-haired dotage just yet, his body has started sending signals that it's time to start reconsidering. Recently, his doctor told him that if he doesn't stop playing rugby, his niggling neck injury might well turn into something more sinister.

For all his bluster, Mallard says he does take criticism on board. He loses sleep when he makes mistakes (and for a man who claims to sleep only four or five hours a night, that's a big concession).

"I don't know if I have got a thick skin. You get hurt by stuff. You think about what people say and try to work out whether it's fair or not, and if it's unfair or stupid you try to ignore it."

Both the media and his fellow politicians agree that he is a fairly astute political operator.

Throughout his career, Mallard has maintained a close relationship with Helen Clark, even helping her fight off a potential leadership coup in 1996. On occasions, his halo has become a little tarnished, but he remains a trusted member of her kitchen Cabinet.

Mallard reacts strongly to any suggestion that his ongoing political success is linked to Clark's loyalty. By all accounts, the Prime Minister is not one to suffer fools lightly. Even Mallard's critics acknowledge he has had to front some fairly tough portfolios and has proved his capability repeatedly.

Wainuiomata High School principal Rob Mill has spent the past couple of years steering his school through a merger, bringing him into close contact with Mallard. They've had their disagreements, but he believes the education sector needs somebody like Mallard who will make tough decisions and stick to them.

"I'm always up front with Trevor. You put your cards on the table and you debate an issue, and sometimes you can convince him and sometimes you can't. But at least you know where you stand."

Christchurch mayor Garry Moore, who has also worked with Mallard to co-ordinate school closures, is even more glowing.

"Trevor Mallard is a very courageous bloke. It is courageous people who achieve change and he started in his own electorate ... He's a bruiser and he enjoys the cut-and-thrust of politics, but at the end of the day he's a good bloke."

Mallard's blokiness is a common theme among those who have regular dealings with him. For all his abrasiveness, he does not tend to take political disagreements personally. It is not unknown for him and National MP Murray McCully to have a vicious slanging match in the House, then five minutes later be seen amicably plotting strategy for the next parliamentary rugby match.

Both MPs say they get on well outside politics - though they admit they probably give each other an extra drubbing in Parliament to compensate.

"He's a very hard-working, completely ruthless, quite aggressive operator and every party has to have one of those," McCully says. "Over time he's probably become a bit more practical and a bit more pragmatic about things. In the early days there were probably a lot more signs of the rabid leftie."

Mallard has evolved into a senior politician with three grown-up children and a house in suburban Wainuiomata (which, incidentally, is just 100m from his childhood home and 400m from his old school - which he closed).

Though his past performances may not always bear it out, Mallard claims a deep respect for the House and its procedures. He's confident that as he enters his 50s, he can move into an elder statesman role and leave his impetuous reputation behind.

"I feel like I'm a good friend of [Speaker] Jonathan Hunt's. Every time he throws me out, I apologise."