The three girls sitting opposite can’t take
their eyes off us. Eventually it becomes too much for one of them (the pretty
one) and she saunters over and shyly introduces herself. To Mark, of course,
not the rest of us. Mark smiles and shakes her hand, and that’s all it takes
for the other two to rush over, pen and napkin poised for an autograph, mobile
phones at the ready for the inevitable photograph.
“We really miss you,” gushes one of them. She
even grabs his hand. “You should sooo never have quit. You should be the
PM, not her.” The other two giggle in agreement. Mark smiles
bashfully and gives a dismissive wave of his over-sized hand. “Naah,” he says
in his unmistakable Werriwa drawl, “I had my crack at it.”
An evening with Mark Latham is an enlightening
affair. The pub he has chosen is the Kirribilli Hotel in Tory-town, only a
stone’s throw from the large house on the harbour he nearly got to call home.
He would have fitted in well. The locals can’t seem to get enough of him. A man
who introduces himself as “the Mayor of Kirribilli”, and who bears more than a
passing resemblance to Ray ‘Rabbits’ Warren, is just one of the many patrons of
the pub who finds an excuse to drift over and tell Mark the same two things:
how much they like him. And how much they dislike Julia. “Come back, mate. All
is forgiven!” he growls, to the nodding approval of those around him. Even as
we attempt to leave the pub, Mark is bailed up by more people on the pavement,
echoing the same sentiment. Like the best pollies with the “common touch”, he
insists on chatting to each and every one of them in turn while the rest of us
wait patiently on the sidewalk, shivering.
Over dinner we get the famous
“taxi-driver-with-the-broken-elbow” yarn, complete with a visual re-enactment
of the bone-snapping tackle and plateloads of humour and self-deprecation. He
must’ve told it a thousand times before, but he makes the story sound as fresh
as the tuna sashimi we tuck into. The meal is in a Japanese restaurant, around
a low table, with dishes intended to share. Mark takes the beef hot-pot and
picks up a knife and fork. “What are you lot having?” he asks, tucking in. It
suddenly occurs to me that the “handshake episode” that possibly cost him the
election was completely misunderstood. Latham wasn’t trying to intimidate
Howard. He was probably quite pleased to bump into him and was just being
himself - a brusque, forthright, no-frills Aussie bloke.
Also present are Tom Switzer, Michael Kroger,
Janet Albrechtsen and former NSW minister Michael Yabsley. Two safe topics of
conversation present themselves. One is Michael Yabsley’s passion for the
byzantine inner workings of antique lamps. The other is the byzantine inner
machinations of the ABC. Sorry Michael, but we’ll have to do the lamps next
time.
Five days later I am standing in the foyer of
the ABC, no longer contemplating her inner workings, but rather heading off to
lunch in Chinatown with an old advertising friend, Paul Comrie-Thomson, who
now, along with Michael Duffy, presents Radio National’s Counterpoint program.
Paul and I first met filming a TV commercial featuring a dog called Spot Dixon,
whose owner had a unique way of getting the gunk out of the corner of the dog’s
eye for its close ups. She’d lick it out.
Paul and I had discussed the carbon tax ads on
a previous show, where I’d suggested they were nothing more than
(taxpayer-funded) highly polished corporate ads for some mob called Infigen.
Today we learn that Infigen had debts of $1.25 billion at the end of the 2011
financial year. No mention of that amongst the beautiful imagery and heart-felt
eulogies to the wonders of windmills and solar power.
Having never actually listened to Countdown
before my first appearance, I made a point of tuning in the previous week. Paul
was interviewing Peter Toohey, an academic, about his book called “Boredom: A
Lively History.” I listened for the full twenty minutes, convinced I had
stumbled upon the greatest comic duo since Derek and Clive, as they managed to
turn a lengthy discussion about “how boredom can be good for you” into
something that was achingly, compellingly, and utterly, er, uninteresting.
Sheer genius.
Paul and I have been exploring the theme of the
Truth Well Told, which is the old McCann’s advertising slogan. QANTAS, in their
latest campaign, seem to have turned the idea on its head by delivering
Half-truths Poorly Told. We reminisce about the days when a QANTAS trip
symbolized a rite of passage for an entire generation, as we all headed off to
“do Europe.” Hilariously, you could even smoke on airlines in those days, and
the in-flight entertainment involved seeing how many tinnies you could skull
before you landed in London. That was the real spirit of QANTAS. I can’t wait
to see what the “new” one will be.
Listening to the radio on the way home, it’s
clear there’s a new spirit in Canberra. This one’s called “defeat”, and it must
be hanging in the spring air as visibly as the pollen from the Floriade. “This
is a dagger through the heart of the Gillard government,” opines Graham
Richardson, as the news comes through that the High Court has pronounced the
Malaysian solution unlawful. Some months ago I wrote a spoof article in this
magazine about how people smugglers would be encouraged, rather than deterred,
by this ham-fisted policy. But even drawing on whatever meagre satirical skills
I may possess, I couldn’t have imagined how farcical this whole shemozzle would
become.
Come back Mark, all is forgiven.
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