#AusPol winners and losers: Who has to go back to where they came from?

The bottling of sour grapes, a stale pork pie and a forked tongue placed on a battery. Welcome to the merry land of #AusPol.



Every Friday, your trusty commentators at The Big Smoke review the most lauded plays in the game of Australian politics from the week previous. Passionate? Unquestionably. Conniving? Undoubtedly. But it’s not about that. Headlines need to be made and an audience needs to be entertained. So, who won?



Matt Canavan – for the making of Lambrusco with sour grapes

To be honest, he could have been in here many times over. While refuting Italian stereotype and disrespecting his mama is worthy of note/a parental slap to the back of the head, the method of his exit is the real issue. Rather, his lack of a one. At the time of publication, Canavan has his fingers around the bedpost as he brattily refuses to move out of his bedroom, threatening to call DOCS.

Moreover, he’s cut through the rhetoric, committing political seppuku by pledging allegiance to the mining sector (cough: Adani) over his own electorate.

See that Ludlam? That’s how you quit.

By refusing to.

Malcolm Roberts – for not being in Dishergarh anymore, Toto.

Malcolm reminds me of a bent composite of every ancillary Wizard of Oz character. While he might lack a brain or heart, he already has that courage he had all along, leading him to believe a whole manner of things even if he’s hiding behind a curtain to yell it. For instance, as he swept into the land of Oz…tralian politics by a tornado of white hate, he believes that he was born here, in that house, that one with the decaying witch under it, a mere stone’s throw away from the yellow brick road, and, no he certainly was never actually from Kansas, thank you very much.

He believes that not to be true.


There’s no place like home. Where is that again?




Barnaby Joyce – for not bothering to sweep up his paper trail

A lie is very much like a butterfly, in that it has an extremely short lifespan. It soars beautifully until zapped by the baygon of truth. This week, BJ’s porkie emerged from the cocoon, gave its wings a cursory flap, which propelled it into the grill of a speeding Kenworth.


Sunrise, sunset.


Scott Morrison – for making us look bad in front of our billionaire crush

Everyone knows, If you want to bag a billionaire, everything must go perfectly. This is especially the case when they fly in to meet your family. Hopefully, your beau won’t see that the b-double coal-fired trailer-cum-family hovel and flee in horror to the symphony of Italian horsepower, whinneing in furious complaint. Hopefully Christmas lunch will go well, and hopefully, you won’t ever have to work in the coal mines again.

Over the din of best behaviour filtered conversation, a slurred voice rises above the din, threatening to tear apart the artificial fabric of the evening; the voice belongs to mouth breathing Uncle Scott, glasses fogged, hackles raised, clearly looking for a fight.


What? No! Elon please come back. This is who they are, it’s not who I am. Elon…babe?


Thanks, Uncle Scott. Thank you for ruining my life.



Honourable mentions

The Golden Emerson – awarded to those who waste everyone’s time with complete verbal tosh – goes to:

Agnetha Fältskog, Björn Ulvaeus, Benny Andersson, and Anni-Frid Lyngstad – for not suing us over the butchering of your artistic property.



The Secret Verbs and Spicers for the sauciest, most regret-inducing piece of fried hyperbole each week goes to:

Anthony Scaramucci – for picking up where Spicer left off.

Continuation of the species is a beautiful thing. The crushing blow of an exit, smoothed by the entry of another. One week after the family bloodhound of collective derision was hit by a car, we have a new puppy, bouncing, playing, shitting on the carpet.

I think I’m in love.

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