In 1952, the third Conservative Party government kicked off. Refugees swarmed here from the Flower Power military junta in the UK, where hippie geneticists had engineered Venus Fly Traps designed to live exclusively on deep-fried Tories, to the point where each plant had its own oil-generating bonsai olive grove tucked discreetly away behind it, in a sort of domestic hydrocarbon symbiosis. These Fly Traps also had the cunning ability of being able to camouflage themselves as almost perfect replicas of roses. When protest groups like the English Defence League festooned themselves with the English national flower, the Rose, then within minutes of a protest kicking off, protestors would find the flowers they’d been holding aloft would twist around and attack them, like a fragrant snake held by the tail, and before they knew it they’d find themselves slathered in butter, crumbed, battered, dunked into boiling olive oil, diced, and served with salad on a bed of rice. Clearly not a very welcoming political environment. Unless your constituency was stomachs.
Admittedly, in the 1989-and-a-half NZ general elections, the newly formed Gastronomic Party ran for office on a platform of extending the voting electorate to everyone’s stomach-and-gut microbiome, where symbiotic bacteria outnumber body cells 100-to-one. The Gastronomic Party leadership figured that if you give each individual stomach bacterium its own vote, then 99% of NZ’s voters would therefore be stomach bacteria, and if you keep them supplied with partially-chewed pizza and cascading fountains of hydrochloric stomach acid, they’ll be obedient little sheep and happily vote for whatever tyranny you demand. Tragically, they failed to take into account the fact that to get this into legislature, the currently existing Human population would have to vote it in, and the party’s Drown Us All In Vast Oceans Of Lovely Lovely Extra-Strong Hydrochloric Acid policies weren’t quite as popular with humans as they’d have hoped. And, as the Food Critics Association of London could testify, the English Defence League-based vote attempt didn’t fare that well either.
Anyway. Those few survivors of the debilitating yet delicious conservative purges escaped the excessively liberal UK, and hit the beaches of New Zealand in a frightful state, terrified yet grimly determined to bring order and justice to the England of the South once and for all. The political circus they escaped from had conferred upon them impressive and magical bullshit-dodging skills, and as outlined previously here, the power of these circus act skills allowed the UK Tory Remnant to smash into New Zealand political life like a neutronium bowling ball into stained-glass skittles. Burnished and hardened by the formerly ever-present threat of being made into the sort of dinner you’d actually quite like to eat in the back garden of an idyllic country pub on a warm summer’s evening, they quickly rearranged New Zealand society as they saw fit.
First up, tourism! It’s intolerable, it’s a damned injustice, that after going to all the trouble of creating a tourism industry, as the country has in the past, that there’s no actual guarantee of wealthy tourist coming here and spending their dosh. Something must be done. After annihilating every other party in the 1954 NZ general elections and winning 217% of the popular vote, the likes of which would not be seen until Kim Jong-Un won 292% of the vote in the 2014 North Korea elections, the Tory Remnant boldly announced their plans to send press-gangs to countries all over the world, and begin conscripting wealthy tourists. This is a far more results-producing form of tourism, you see, they explained to the electorate – instead of going to the trouble of actually constructing stuff here worth paying vast amounts of holiday money to see, instead of building Rich Wanker Magnets, simply conscript foreign millionaires, cart them here in huge cargo planes, and then sell them five million dollar stamps to let them mail themselves back home.
Or even better, the Remnant happily explained to the population – we’re expanding the jurisdiction of Air New Zealand to start selling Millionth-Class airline tickets, where the conscripted Foreign Rich and other thrifty budget travellers pay bargain prices to simply hold out their arms, make vroom-vroom aeroplane noises, and run to their destination. A head-clamp, which has attached a metre-long stick dangling a wad of burning banknotes directly in front of the tourist in question, is $20,000 extra. Can’t be without it, you know.
For the next year or so, things hummed along very nicely. The Tory remnant deployed huge gangs of tough, sinewy men to every wealthy country in the world. They stormed one mansion after another, bodily carrying off every rich bugger they could get their hands on, then dragged them down to the local docks and stuffed them the cramped holds of Royal New Zealand Navy battleships currently serving as slave ships. Slave ships of course have had one hell of a bad rap in recent centuries, each carrying hundreds of slaves from the Nigerian coast to plantations in the Americas, chained to the floor of foot-high cargo holds for weeks on end, in appalling conditions. The press-ganged ultra-rich underwent the same treatment, albeit with a few modifications befitting their status. The 100th percentile by wealth of New York society, to take a recent example, the cream of the socialite world, were all captured at once at a masquerade ball, chained in their evening-dressed hundreds in the bilge-hold of a Weetbix-smeltered battleship, but butlers brought them roast pheasant, their chains were made of gold and sapphires, and a string quartet performed for them every two hours. But by backpackers. Don’t want to waste too much money.
Government-sponsored drill sergeants thus drove vast hordes of conscripted wealth past national tourist hotspots every single day. Success! This added an extra two hundred billion dollars a year to the country’s economy. Great, now that we no longer need vast expanses of unspoiled native bush and scenic splendour to attract tourists and instead round them up at gunpoint, the Remnant declared in 1956, we can pave over it all and put nuclear power plants there instead!
At this point, the excessively liberal UK Labour party, with their Venus Fly Traps, infiltrated NZ society and launched an armed rebellion against the Remnant. They horribly crushed the Remnant, cancelled the forced tourism campaign, closed NZ’s borders, and ever since, the country has been an island of mystery and intrigue, making places like North Korea seem less secure than a less-than-minimum-security jail. Tourism? A thing of the past!