Scott Morrison is David Brent…change my mind

Journalists and trolls alike have struggled to define Scott Morrison’s leadership. I think I might have a clue, as I believe that he’s a friend first, boss second and entertainer third.



All this week, and all the weeks following Morrison’s ascension to the throne, the Commonwealth’s finest professional journalists and trolls alike have taken to their various mediums attempting to define the shifting nonsense mass that is Scott Morrison’s leadership. It’s a rolling cringefest that we can’t stop watching. There’s the ScoMobile, there’s his galaxy of hats, he’s the dude discussing his first pash, he’s the man with the thumbs up and a coy wink to people’s mums.

It’s been difficult to define, as each new day resets our thinking to zero, a new low.

But allow me to add my stream to the urinal. Scott Morrison is David Brent.

You can tell in his pieces to camera. He has the same grandstanding dialect as Gervais’ Frankenstein, replete with pauses in his rhetoric to allow himself to think of the rest of the sentence he started. He speaks in long bursts, but he’s actually saying nothing. He’s buying time, and he’s doing it for the cameras. Compare the pair.




We should have noticed this earlier, when he brought a piece a coal into work as a punchline. He’ll point out how inappropriate your joke is if you don’t laugh at his. He’ll add innuendo where there’s no place for it. For instance, Pamela Anderson asked for the springing of Julian Assange, leaning on Morrison to use his diplomatic power to bring him home. Morrison offered this reply, because hello, tits.



He’s the boss, although he’s the one no-one really respects his work, or wants him to continue. We want Neil from Swindon branch. It was a mistake, a snag in management that put him up there. But, he’s going to milk it, because he holds the same Brent-level of managerial delusion. He’s there, because he’s the only man for the job. He’s the Scott-Meister-General. He’ll sort it out, but only if everyone is watching. He’s the life of the party, outside the office. He doesn’t drink, and certainly not for the attention, no.




Morrison, like Brent, is an unwelcome distraction. He’s stopping us from getting our done. He’s the orphan of broken bureaucracy and piss-poor management. We listen to him, because we have to. He’s management. The bus that Morrison took around Queensland in may be empty, but it is filling metaphor. Toured the region by jet and pretending that he’s one of the working class. He’s taken over the business meeting to talk about himself.

He’s here to lead, to maximise our productivity, but he’s mostly just here for a bit of laugh. Of which he takes as a compliment.



I mean, let’s be honest. We’re not that far off Morrison going the full David Brent, replete with baseball hat perched upon the scalp and Tina Turner power ballad ringing in our ears. It’s not a stretch. He believes in us.

We’re simply the best.



So what becomes of you, my Prime Ministership?



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