Andrew Wicks

About Andrew Wicks

Andrew Wicks is a country boy with a penchant for movies and sport. After a few years working in health, he decided he'd rather work with today's youth and studied arts and education in rural NSW. His main interests are religion, health and lairy shirts.

Banishing the ghost in Abbott’s cloak

Approx Reading Time-10This week, we’ve seen the poltergeist of Tony Abbott rearranging the furniture of the coalition leadership, but I fear the jump scare no longer gets a reaction.




Biting the neck of the person you voted for is much like stamping on your own testicles. But I feel compelled. Tony Abbott, what are you doing? Ever since his last meaningful act in parliament, we’ve handled the presence of the ex-PM as we did Slimer in Ghostbusters, a gross entity of comic relief, his main gag being the repeated sliming of Bill Murray (Malcolm Turnbull). We chortled, and even cracked a smirk, because we knew he’d slip through the wall and retreat to the backbench in due course.


But, somehow, he’s escaped the trap, and this week alone he’s regaled the end of Safe Schools, which as it turns out he greenlit, and amazingly backed Bill Shorten as a future PM. Worth a mention, today is only Tuesday. I mean, what next? Will he jump a dirt bike over Parliament House wearing nothing but Bob Hawke’s Australiana blazer and a rigid middle finger? The grinding of Tony’s dirtbike timbre, as he twists his wrists to increase the volume, wailing his ranga-dang-dang-dang toward the Turnbull Gov, is the equivalent of a two-stroke of another kind.

I don’t say that to be cruel, I say that as a friend. Tone, please stop. Bruzzie, you’re acting like the pal at the party who expressly came over to gatecrash the new union between your ex and the guy they told you not to worry about and has prepared for such a situation by excessive fortification. But like all best-made plans made in heartbreak and a blood-alcohol content that’d drown a small horse, the words in our brains don’t seem to match the ones that pass through our lips, and the spectacle we make thusly sticks in the minds, and tends to be our lasting legacy (and why we stop getting invites to the corresponding event this time next year). It’s time to go home, I’ll walk you out. Call you in the morning.

The person you’re most harming is not anyone who voted for you (like me) or those who you represent (the far side of the Catholic fringe) but rather, yourself, and our memories of thus. Sadly, as it is in boxing, it is in politics: the lasting memory of great fighters, bruised by the career they had after their peak. People tend to remember the prosaic and the negative, no matter how well they could weave. Take Mikhail Gorbachev for example.

My point is this: the tighter you hold on, the more compelled we are to let you go. Let us remember the Tony you were, not the one you are now, the sign-wearing, rambling doomsayer that ambles around the corridors of parliament claiming the end is nigh.

The end has already come and gone. It’s time to play out your exit graciously, and leave us wanting more, not hoping for less.

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