Voices from the Frontline – Queenstwon Mayor Clive Geddes

This is the fifth in our series of short pieces by those who work at the coalface of New Zealand's drinking problem.

The Party-town Mayor – Clive Geddes

Queenstown is world-renowned as New Zealand's party town, but the daily hangover can wear pretty thin for locals whose shopfronts are routinely fouled by vomit, whose windows are smashed in random acts of violence and whose early-morning sleep is shattered by the incessant, repetitive, gnawing screech of Australians chanting, "Oi, oi, oi!"

It was the need to balance the lifestyle of long-term residents, the expectations of tourists and the habits of party-hard seasonal workers that led Queenstown Lakes District Council through a tough period of small-town liquor licensing reform.

Clive Geddes has been mayor nine years, but says the need to take a hard look at liquor licensing first arose around 12–15 years ago. The council’s district plan allowed 24-hour licences, and there were often inebriated people stumbling around the picturesque lakeside town at 8am or 9am on a weekday. Workers in the CBD would be greeted with urine or vomit in their shop doorways. Assaults and offenses against property were on the rise.

There are 90 liquor licences for premises within a 500m radius of central Queenstown.

"By the turn of the century, it was becoming apparent that this high concentration of licensed premises… created a whole range of social and community problems in the CBD."

The decision to tackle liquor licensing was a controversial and long road. The mayor drove through changes that took effect two years ago. Now, every liquor licence that comes up for renewal will be subject to new closing hours. Last drinks will be served at 4am, and all punters must be out by 4.30am – although exceptions have been made for well run, host-responsible, ticketed, one-off events.

So far, only five or six licences have come up for renewal, and Geddes says it is difficult to gauge a tangible change in terms of antisocial behaviour. (There were always only a handful of bars open 24 hours; the majority close between midnight and 3am.)

But the debate and resulting change in policy has seen a sizeable shift in attitude. The licensees and the council have joined forces with Police and public health providers to form a liquor liaison group. Together, they've instituted council-funded community guides who patrol the CBD on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. The guides intervene in about 30–40 situations a night where small incidents have the potential to blow up into assaults, fights or vandalism. The liaison group also made a submission to the Law Commission, suggesting that liquor licensing hours be dictated by the service an establishment is offering to its customers in terms of host responsibility and security.

Queenstown has another problem with the young hospitality and ski industry workers who buy cheap alcohol from off-licences and supermarkets, drink at their flats until around midnight, then wander into town to socialise in bars. If they are too drunk, they are denied entry, which creates problems on the streets of the town.

As a non-drinker, Geddes admits it is sometimes difficult to be seen vigorously pushing for liquor licensing reform. Geddes has not had a drink since 1988. "I am one of those people that alcohol doesn’t sit comfortably with."

But he says New Zealanders' attitudes to alcohol need to change. He is dismayed by the ease of access to alcohol, community acceptance of drunken antisocial behaviour and sport’s heavy reliance on alcohol sponsorship.

“I think, in New Zealand, we've had an acceptance of gross alcohol consumption and intoxication that I don’t think stands to our credit at all."

Geddes says he does not want to see a raft of draconian measures or overregulation of liquor licensing. Rather, he'd like to see sensible regulation and a long-term view to changing Kiwi attitudes to drinking.