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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.

Yesterday, Barnaby lost the plot, evoking privacy right while forgetting that he spent last week reducing the privacy of others. He’s truly reached a Fonzie level of desperation.



Back in the latter part of the 1970s, the creators of Happy Days had a problem. They had crossed over into the realms of the stale, and if nothing was done, they would also become lame, and people would stop watching.

Their solution was to make America’s most safe neighbourhood rebel, Arthur Fonzarelli, jump over a shark for whatever reason and, eyyyy, problem solved. Clearly the logic was using the same old tired Fonzie format, but just cranking it up to unheard levels – a desperate ploy to remain relevant. Fonzie wasn’t the problem, the problem was that we weren’t getting enough of him.



It flopped, and a term was born. Now, the reason why I brought that up, is because yesterday we witnessed Barnaby Joyce’s own desperate leap of faith, leaping at a man outside a house of worship, again attempting to provoke the populace to reveal their teeth in wondrous agony as he sailed over the top of us, in shrivelled balls-out fury.



Like Fonzie before him, Barnaby suffers from oversaturation of a one-dimensional character. He’s a one-note joke. A character with no growth, he’s in the AusPol sitcom to Be Barnaby. He’s like Poochy from The Simpsons, Jan in The Brady Bunch or Betty from Walgett from Hey Dad!. They all possess a limited appeal, and after we tire of their repeated sameness, we roll our eyes at the sight of them and the canned laughter track fills the gaps of our favour.




For those who missed it, yesterday someone was not nice to Barnaby Joyce, and Joyce took to Twitter to decry the attacks on his personal privacy, stating that this kind of treatment was the primary reason why he did the Sunday Night interview. His reasoning is as flimsy as Fonzie’s jump. It makes me think it’s deliberate, that his Beethoven-grade tone-deafness is a desperate writer’s room ploy at making the stale fresh. All the normal Barnaby nonsense we’re familiar with, but with an added ski-jump. All that’s needed is the faux-sultry voice Neighbours use for their promotional material.

You thought he was bad, but you haven’t met the new Barnaby Joyce.



Maybe he’s not acting, maybe he’s just close to the role he’s playing. But I believe that Barnaby no longer has a rope to what’s real. He’s the actor that can’t escape the character. He’s played the nonsense-spouting beetroot for so long, that’s who he’s become. He’s become the method and is now reduced to this street corner pantomime, jammering desperate monologues to anyone who will listen, proclaiming that he was once on television.




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