- We love these sports movies…but we really shouldn’t
- The religious discrimination bill doesn’t protect the religious, it rewards them
- Someone once told me that a boring life was a happy life (and they were right)
- Government slashes growth and surplus in budget update
- Science makes baldness optional (if you can afford it)
We didn’t get Peter Dutton as PM, but we did get a clone of Malcolm Turnbull in ScoMo. After all the mess, all the hurt and all the sniping, what have we won?
According to the minds of the LNP, the man to solve the mess that Malcolm Turnbull put them in, is Malcolm Turnbull. While it might have been Scott Morrison by a deep exhale, what it really represents it a stay of execution. Despite the glee that some of us might feel after evading the prospect of PM Dutton, and having the worst of our fears realised; in reality, this represents the LNP offering a free shot at their dangling rattlers.
The ABC’s Barrie Cassidy put it thusly: “…the winner is Bill Shorten”
Which is half true, as it also represents a win for the murky conservative forces that began this nonsense in the first place. Considering ScoMo is a product of the Turnbull factory, he’s lumped in the same bin as the departing PM. The challenge still remains, but it now returns to the seemingly dormant normalcy of the ‘long game’.
Disappointingly, with Julie Bishop now out the door, ScoMo’s protection from the white pointers when they return is particularly thin.
If Dutton remains in Dickson, and thusly, in parliament, fish the worry beads of out the drawer.
I don’t have to say this, but don’t be fooled by the giddy pang of euphoria you feel coursing through your limbs. Mind you, I’m trying to strangle the butterflies within that scream ‘near miss’ in a Bee Gee octave, but as for ScoMo being the magic wand that will somehow bring peace to all, and to all a good night, well you were clearly born yesterday, and I weep for the amount of trauma you’ve endured in your short life.
What today (and this week) solved, was nothing.
If anything, Scott Morrison is a cleanskin. That four dollar bottle of wine in the bin next to the counter. He’s not what we went to the bottle shop to get, but he was cheap, he was there, and he’ll do. But, much like every other impulse bottled choice, he’ll only be opened when we work our way through the good stuff.
While ScoMo emerged out of the hailstorm of camera shutter, not dissimilar to Andy Dufrense’s half-naked journey through a mile of foul-smelling internal workings we can’t imagine, another must vanish. Whatever Malcolm’s words this afternoon, his bow is assured. The smarmier corners of Twitter predicted the vibe, following his noble resignation in the same tone as his noble path to marriage equality, but what now?
So Turnbull will quit parliament upon losing the prime ministership. There he goes again, doing what he said he would. Cue outrage…
— Peter van Onselen (@vanOnselenP) August 24, 2018
He may exit with grace under pressure, but the cocksure denial of Ernest Hemingway is Malcolm’s too, leaving his legacy with a heavy asterisk. Yet another statistic of the knifeplay of Australian politics. In the meaningless history of politics, a barely memorable anecdote revealed itself before the vote was known. Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull was the last to enter the fated room he wouldn’t be leaving, and he did so in the wobbling trot of an invertebrate thrown around by the sea, a minute late for his own funeral, a dirge written on his face.
So, what now for Malcolm? We might not care, but we should. A lifetime resident of Wentworth, he may now face the anabolic schadenfreude of seeing Tony Abbott’s sister run for his seat.
— Michael Koziol (@michaelkoziol) 24 August 2018
Lol, we might say, but no-one should endure that.
He’ll soon become the ghost of parliamentary past, banished to spook the verdant suburbs of home, sentenced to browse paper shops while the nobodies of the electorate double take and quietly elbow their spouses and whisper do you know who that was?
As a resident of the North Shore, many of us speak in hushed tones of our very own spectre. It is spoken that if you travel to the train station as the clock strikes eight, you will see a familiar figure jogging in a familiar jogging tracksuit. The man of eyebrows, means and occasional hot takes, the 25th Prime Minister of our Denmark, Lord John Howard. He has to wait in line while we refill our Opal cards.
Whatever happens to Mal, today represents the trough of the peak, but still a peak upon future reflection. It was a ride of three years. Three complicated years. Squabbles with Donald Trump, a SNL parody, the knowledge that he was the go-to antagonist for many. All of that will be hard to replace.
While we won’t miss him, surely he’ll miss us.
Not that we care.
Thanks for the memories, Malcolm.
Welcome to Malcolm’s divided Australia, Scott.
— Brett Worthington (@BWorthington_) 24 August 2018