Creating The Crusher: The political life of Judith Collins, and how she became The Crusher

Thursday, 29 January 2026

As she announced her retirement from politics, Judith ‘The Crusher’ Collins revealed she’d never been a fan of her nickname. That revelation shows how complex her political career has been, writes political reporter Glenn McConnell.

When the rumours started that Judith Collins would announce her retirement from politics in 2026, they didn’t make much sense.

Collins was at the height of her political career. She had scored huge wins for her portfolios, which she appeared - and insists she is - deeply invested in.

By landing the Defence Capability Plan, she had locked in a $12 billion programme to upgrade defence infrastructure and buy new planes, helicopters and ships. She did so at a time when Finance Minister Nicola Willis winced at the thought of spending anything much on anything.

As Attorney General, she signed a $420 million deal to settle the 36-year-old Nelson Tenths Dispute. Remarkably, she did so with unanimous support from all political parties.

And in the areas of science, space and government, she shepherded through new roles, changes, and processes. Her advocacy led to the creation of a new role - which she took on, as the first Minister for Space - and significant policy work and reform, ranging from genetic engineering to reform of the public service.

So why did she call it quits?

On Wednesday, she said she was enjoying this work.

After a 24-year political career, she said she said she had built herself a reputation where she could get things done. She knew how to work within the coalition, when to reach across aisle to get bipartisan support, and who to speak to when you needed action in government.

But she was “sort of over” politics itself.

“I’ve had 24 years of it. You can sort of tell, over the last few years, I have been trying not to get into the bear pit,” she said.

Collins was highly adept in the pit of politics.

She had survived, and even thrived, during scandals and political tumult.

From the Opposition bench, she dived head first into political debates and culture wars - very rarely shying away from giving her opinion on any big debate.

Part of one of her scandals, the Dirty Politics saga of 2014, involved leaked texts and emails with Whale Oil blogger Cameron Slater. In one of those messages, she wrote: “if you can't be loved, then best to be feared.”

That’s a lesson from Niccolo Machiavelli, the 1500s’ political philosopher who wrote about the game of politics, and how leaders could secure their own power through dodgy deeds.

Collins, for a while, was cast a Machiavellian character in the story of the modern National Party.

But when her party arrived back in power, she insisted she wasn’t all that interested in power. During her press conference on Wednesday, she said the “bear pit” was fun for a while - but she had left it long ago.

Colleagues, including Labour’s Barbara Edmonds - who was once a staffer in Collins’ office - long-time National MP Todd McClay, former deputy leader Shane Reti and Willis, the current deputy, all described Collins as a caring and thoughtful person. They used soft descriptions for someone who was known nationally as The Crusher.

Creating The Crusher

That was a name that, it turns out, Collins didn’t like much.

But it followed her for more than a decade, since it came about while she was police minister in the Key Government. She vowed to crush boy racers’ cars if they continued to break laws.

She seemed to revel in her reputation as the Crusher for her entire political career. She brought it up herself, when she became National Party leader in 2020. She promised to “crush” her opponents.

On Wednesday, she said she wished she’d shaken off the name.

“I mean, honestly. The trouble with nicknames like that is that it stops people from having to think about you as a human being. And I think that’s the hard thing. It also gives people permission to be mean,” she said.

Many of her National Party colleagues thought Collins liked the persona she’d built - or stumbled upon - as The Crusher.

Former prime minister John Key told Stuff he thought she liked it.

He couldn’t quite remember how the name came about, but he said it hadn’t been crafted by a spin doctor. He said he thought it came from a journalist.

“I don’t know, it stuck. Did that suit her? I think so, I think she quite enjoyed the concept. And I mean, not that many cars were crushed in the end - but it probably worried a few boy racers,” he said.

Willis, who was working in Key’s office at the time, also couldn’t remember how the name came about.

“But, you know, I really appreciate the honesty of Judith's reflections on that today, which is that sometimes nicknames forget the whole person. My experience with Judith has been that she’s the kindest person… she’s far from a Crusher,” Willis said.

McClay and Reti both said the name worked, at the time, to strike fear in the hearts’ of boy racers.

“The people whose cars were crushed were probably the ones talking about it the most. Judith has had a magnificent career,” McClay said.

Asked if he knew where the name had come from, Justice Minister Paul Goldsmith told Stuff: “It wasn’t me!”

“Look, she's had many nicknames over the years, and she's been a very colourful character in New Zealand politics. She'll be sadly missed,” he said.

Asked what the other nicknames were, he wouldn’t say. “That’s not for me to talk about,” he replied, as he exited the conversation.

Collins can recall how she became known as The Crusher.

“It was Barry Soper. I think he’s confessed to it.

“I never used it at the time, but I never objected to people using it because there’s no point. You know, in politics, as long as they’re calling you something, it’s probably better than calling you nothing.

“So I never worried about it, and I think it sent a message - which was quite good,“ she told Stuff.

Soper, the former Newstalk ZB political editor, confirmed to Stuff that it was him who first used the name back in 2009. “It clearly stuck,” he said.

But her reputation as the Crusher was, perhaps, unfairly earned. In 2017, only three cars had been crushed under The Crusher policy.