#AusPol winners and losers: Who busted ScoMo’s flow?

The tearing down of a national icon, the birth of an international stereotype and a wave of hate battered the walls of #AusPol this week. But who won?



Every week, we announce the winners and losers of the nation’s most brutal form of competitive entertainment. So who marches victoriously from the #AusPol arena this week?




Scott Morrison, for being Prime Minister material.

It’s been a fairly grim first week between us and our new political daddy. We’ve decided to skip the honeymoon period entirely, instead choosing to slide into blissful marital apathy.  upon the realisation that this new one is very much like the one that we broke up with.



The problem is that he doesn’t seem very Prime Ministerial. However, there is evidence to the contrary, as in a very small field of suitability, Scott Morrison might be the greatest we’ve ever had.

You see, to some, there’s nothing worse than a politician pretending that they’re down for whatever sport they happen to appear at. It’s why we loved John Howard so, he’s a cricket tragic, but a believable one.

Sadly, Johnny couldn’t bowl for beans, and it’s certainly the primary factor of why he was ousted by Kevin Rudd.



Whereas, ScoMo knows what he was doing in the verdant fields of politicised athletic pursuit. In the words of the great Billy Birmingham in the tone of another, sens-atio-nal.







Chelsea Manning – for having her visa denied.

Well, it seems that we’ve missed out on Chelsea Manning. But I’m willing to make the case that her missing out on us was a good thing. The average clued in Australian is not the problem. The unison us, is.



She was the winner of out all this. The way her tour would be handled would have been poor, bordering on embarassing.

The fetid news vultures would have circled, as a great patriot, a great American and a great person still under great threat, but holding a great legacy would have to deal with the attempted gravitas of Peter Helliar, or the volcanic hot takes of Andrew Bolt.

So yes, we missed out, but we earned it.

It’s enough to make you long for the warm company of a grey, faceless military prison.







Banjo Patterson, for being a hack, and missing the true point of Australian grit.

To many, Banjo Patterson is the alpha of Australian idealism. He represents the Australia we like to think we are, not the desolate booze-coloured hellscape ennui of Slim Dusty.

However, I suggest we collate all the original scribblings of Banjo, and send all his verbal horsies to the glue factory, as he’s clearly been surpassed.

Peep this verse:

“If you have a fair go in this country, you will get a go. There is a fair go for those who have a go – that’s what fairness means in Australia”

What a statement, I only got halfway through when the bombastic sound of rock dideridoos overtook my hearing, as my eyes shone green and gold, as I simultaneously reached for a beer, a face to punch, and a mate to come and get the stars above tattooed upon me under parts.

All hail the man from the Cook Electorate.





Aesthetic European visitors, for dealing with unfair stereotype.

While the real victims of Peter Dutton’s au pair nepotism might be the residents of Nauru, those visiting our shores from the gaudy cobblestone streets of continental Europe have been harmed too.



In the wake of the decision, and the furore in response, every childcare worker with a romantic accent will now immediately be pegged as someone of ill morals, as we’ll now automatically assume that they had to do unsavoury things to/for/at the behest of our elected officials to see the sights we paint on postcards.

Tsk tsk tsk.



Also on The Big Smoke


Honourable mentions

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

Theresa May, for shaking off a continent of haters/the restrictive laws of rhythm.

She’s a maniac, maniac on the floor. And she’s dancing like she’s danced once before.

Not too far removed from the dance step that spawned a thousand* pisstake remixes, Theresa May has stepped the dancefloor once more, reanimating the Maybot.



To be fair, this new and improved update sporting more bendable arm movement and a far swifter anti-hater software.

You do you, Theresa.

Then do me. Phwoar.




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

Mark Latham, for crimes against time.

I don’t want to ruin everyone’s Friday, but we’re all going to die. Very soon, in fact. Life is fleeting, and time is luck. We have a finite amount of it, this grace afforded by the fluke of cosmic mathematics. We’re all here by accident, so it makes complete sense that we should maximise our opportunity.

Disappointly, Mark Latham denies this truth, as he’s endeavoured to waste as much time as humanly possible in his defamation case.



Look, I’ll save you the time. Don’t read it, just know that it is very bad, and not worth further discussion.

Have a lovely day.

I will.

I have 15,330 left.

To discover how many days you have left, take your age, multiply that by 365, then subtract that figure from 27,375.



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