SPARE A THOUGHT FOR THE LOSERS (Spectator leader March 3)

  

While the victors prance from one after-party shindig to the next, reveling in the seductive glow of their glittering success and affirmation of their new-found popularity, spare a thought for the losers. For those for whom there is no limo ride home, no cheering throngs to greet them at the door, no newspapers hanging on their every word.

We refer of course to the dejected, disappointed, demoralized runners-up in the greatest drama yet to grace our TV screens, last Monday’s long awaited, highly anticipated and ultimately anticlimactic star-studded ego-fest known as “The Great Labor Party Train Wreck”, or more simply, “Kevin, the Downfall.”

It was a spectacle to remember for many years to come, as they all turned up, in their most fetching finery, strutting the red carpet to flashing cameras and breathless reportage.

There was Antony Albanese, blabbing his way to the podium, only to find out he'd licked the wrong envelope. Who can forget his hectoring performance only six months ago in front of his own constituents, as he berated little old ladies and bullied those who had dared speak out against a carbon tax? How the mighty have fallen, as he broke down in front of the cameras, wrestling with his inner demons and his addiction to backing the wrong horse. Only a few weeks ago, he drew guffaws for his pathetic rendition of a serious politician, a performance movie buffs were quick to spot was a blatant plagiarism of Michael Douglas. Clearly, this is one star whose best days are behind him, with his latest vanity project –the battle flick Tory! Tory! Tory! – struggling to find any backers.

And what to make of the tragic, haunted figure of Chris Bowen? Forced to play so many different roles with equal sincerity over the past twelve months, hopping from one ludicrous “solution” to another, his credibility and integrity have now collapsed to the point where audiences can no longer suspend their disbelief.

The comic interlude was left to veteran funny man Rob Oakeshott, for whom, alas, the laughs now seem to have dried up. Attempting to reinvigorate the crowd, and unsuccessfully reprising his famous “Kingmaker” role, Rob’s gag about Malcolm Turnbull taking over the leadership of the Liberal party fell completely flat, leaving him standing in the spotlight to an awkward, embarrassed silence. Rob – whose rambling and incoherent 2010 acceptance speech for the tedious docudrama “Ugly in its Beauty” clocked in at an extraordinarily dull twenty seven minutes - is not expected to return next year, or to be heard of ever again after the next election.

Hogging the red carpet in the run up to the big night, the two veteran entertainment writers Peter Hatchet-Job and Professor Van Nonselence, both of whom had confidently predicted that Rudd would sweep the awards, were nowhere to be seen in the aftermath, clearly not invited to any of the dazzling celebrations. “Kevin Rudd will become the leader, not because he's made a compelling case but because Julia Gillard cannot hold the confidence of her caucus,” wrote Hatchet only ten days ago, in what has now become a collector’s piece, along with Van Nonselence’s: “A move to Rudd by Albanese… would give Rudd the momentum he needs to create an inevitability about changing leaders.”

The bravest loser, who walked home empty handed after being expected to grab the Peoples’ Award for his brutal portrayal of a ruthless backstabber in the epic “Ides of March” flick, the popular heart-throb Kevin Clooney, tried to put on a humble face, but the punters weren’t fooled. “'I dedicate myself to working fully for (Ms Gillard's) re-election as the prime minister of Australia. I don’t hold grudges,” he said, in one of the few moments of genuine comedy during the entire show.

Scurrying away from centre-stage before he was booed off, hapless Senator “Marky Mark” Arbib –producer and director of such box office disasters as “2010: An Early Election” and “Kristina the Blonde” - suddenly remembered he had a family to go home to and left the scene early. No more late night backroom deals for him, apparently.

Champagne corks were popping, meanwhile, at the lakeside home of the Queen of High Drama, Julia Gillard herself, who – with her personal stylist and hairdresser boyfriend on her arm – was being lauded for her brilliant portrayal of Australia’s first ever female Prime Minister. “It was uncanny,” said one insider, flushed with excitement. “For a full ninety minutes, you could almost believe she was the real thing.”

Sullen and depressed, forgotten by the rich and famous, ignored by the powerful and the profligate, unlamented by the media and the spin doctors, the night’s biggest loser was nowhere to be seen backstage. We refer, of course, to Joe Blow, the average Australian punter, for whom the desire to vote for their own Prime Minister has now ended in tears.

ON THE NOSE IN DOWNTOWN CANBERRA (Fin Review Jan 12)

New arrivals to parliament need to be better taught how to fit in, particularly as regards such issues as personal hygiene and joining the queue, according to Liberal backbencher Teresa Gambaro.

"Some members of the government have a distinct whiff about them, which, to say the least, is not all that pleasant. Take the member for Dobell, for instance. He hasn't been around long enough to learn any common courtesy. He should have left his dirty laundry in the smoky backrooms and bordellos of the HSU rather than dragging it in here to stink the place out."

Ms Gambaro's remarks have caused a storm of outrage within the corridors beneath Capital Hill. Recently promoted Speaker-of-the-House Peter Slipper was one who immediately took umbrage at her insinuation that he had queue-hopped. "I waited very patiently for months on end until such time as Harry Jenkins was finally knifed in the back and bundled onto the back benches. Then of course I was able to hop straight in, roll up my sleeves and get to work," he said, speaking from his new yacht in the Whitsundays. "As for fitting in with my co-workers, I feel perfectly at home sitting down for a long lunch with my new Labor Party colleagues."

Minister for Climate Change and All Sorts of Other Stuff Greg Combet was equally contemptuous of her remarks. “It’s well known that I have been politely waiting in a queue for several years now, without once complaining or ever raising my voice, behind both Kevin and Julia. But I have no doubt that my turn is coming up very soon now.”

However, Ms Gambaro has found some support for her criticisms of personal hygiene from unlikely quarters. Former PM Kevin Rudd was quick to point out that although the Heiner affair had threatened to hang around him like a bad smell for a couple of years he was able to get rid of it by taking a few simple precautionary steps, such as denying any wrong-doing whatsoever and shredding anything that could be construed as an incriminating document. Picking some wax out of his ear and eating it, Rudd went on to say that he saw “nothing wrong at all” with his personal habits.

Elder statesman John Faulkner was quick to offer some timely advice. "Yes, indeed, there is a rather toxic odour wafting around the joint that we have to all face up to. It's not any one individual. Rather, it emanates from the rotting carcass that is today's Labor Party. We need to rebuild it from the ground up. That's the only way to get rid of the stench." Standing behind him with their noses pegged, both Bob Carr and Steve Bracks reminded reporters that the nasty pong had nothing to do with either of them.

Tony Abbott, himself no stranger to the post-workout anti-perspirant, was quick to defend his citizenship spokeswoman’s comments. "Um, ah, different people have different lifestyles, and, ah, um, come from very different cultures. In fact, ah, one of my co-workers, Malcolm, struggles to fit in at all but, um, for some reason we still tolerate having him around." Sitting all alone by himself in the canteen, Malcolm fretfully admitted that deep down he longed to return to his natural birthplace, the left side of the political divide, from whence he’d fled many years earlier. “I’ve had a sniff around but they won’t let me back in,” he lamented.

Speaking from their adjacent New England electorates, former loners and outsiders Rob Oakeshott and Tony Windsor were unapologetic. "We both found it very easy to fit in, once Julia made it clear we could have as many billions of dollars as we wanted. Nothing smelly about that whatsoever."

Sweating profusely, Chris Bowen was quick to seize on the comments as a personal affront. "The only reason I sweat so much is nothing whatsoever to do with deodorant or a lack thereof," he said, his red face glistening under the harsh light of the TV cameras. "It’s because I feel acutely embarrassed about what a disastrous job we've done." Standing stiffly behind him, Senator Conroy, a British immigrant, admitted that he still had problems adapting to some of the more outlandish Australian cultural norms. “Back in the old country we never bothered with such ridiculous rituals as a cost benefit analysis or a sound business model.”

But Green’s leader Bob Brown was unfazed by the controversy. "Everything around here smells pretty sweet to me. I get my own way on pretty much whatever I want and I only got 11% of the vote."

Julia Gillard was unavailable for comment, although rumours have it that some time in March she'll be taking a bath.      

THE STUFF-UP

"I don't think I have ever been made so angry by anything published on the Drum Ever!" - Johnno

http://tiny.cc/u3epu

Having spent the past five years hiring and firing people, I know how difficult it is trying to get to the bottom of things when there’s a stuff-up. Especially when it’s a monumental one.

“Come in, Julia. Do sit down. Now tell me. What happened exactly?”

Invariably, Julia will start blubbing and I’ll have to wait several moments while she dries her eyes with a tissue. To cover the awkward embarrassed silence, I buzz my secretary and ask her to bring in a pot of tea for us both.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Julia finally says between sniffles. “I thought I had it all under control. But… I don’t know… it was a disaster right from the start!”

That’s when she’ll look up at me with imploring eyes. “It was Kevin who started it all you know!” she’ll finally blurt out. “It’s all his fault.”

“Of course it was,” I nod, leaning back in my swivel chair. Already I can tell it’s going to be a long drawn out meeting. I buzz my secretary again. “Better cancel lunch at Tetsuya’s” I say.

Bit by bit the facts dribble out. Julia shakes her head in irritation. “I always said it was a stupid idea. But Kevin insisted. He had this massive hang up about asylum seekers, right from the word go, so first thing he does is he goes and cancels the Nauru contract. Just like that!”

I nod sympathetically. “Not, in hindsight, such I wise decision,” I say, trying not to sound too judgmental.

She bristles. “But of course I told him at the time ‘what on earth are we going to put in its place?’ and he goes ‘don’t worry we’ll sort it out later’.”

I smile, and pour the tea. Julia shrugs wearily. “For about a year or so, it was all hunky dory. Nothing much changed. Everyone agreed that Kevin had done the right thing.”

“Sugar?” I say.

She ignores me, and carries on. “And of course, all that other stupid climate change stuff was going on and mining taxes and wotnot and next thing you know Kevin’s gone and those faceless men from Sussex street insist on giving me his job! Me?!? The next day all of his job sheets get dumped in my lap!”

“About the, er, stuff up?” I say, trying subtly to nudge her back on the track. She glares at me, and defiantly shakes her red bob.

“What was I to do? Suddenly there’s boats arriving left, right and centre! I tried East Timor, but they didn’t even bother returning my calls. Then I tried Manis, but no luck there either. So I got Chris to give the Malaysians a call and – hoorah!! - they were all up for it! So long as we did a bit of quid pro quo. You know, did a bit of ‘contra’.” She touches her (rather elongated) nose and gives me a wink.

“Chris?” I ask, puzzled.

She stares at me defiantly. “The podgy, nerdy little guy from Accounts. He’s my assistant now.”

I try not to show any emotion. “Really?”

There’s a long, awkward silence. “And, er, did you, and er, this Chris cover all the bases?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible

Again, the steely glare.

“Did you check it all out with the legal department?” I demand.

There’s a stifling silence.

I sigh wearily, and pick up my mug of tea. This is always the hard part. It’s not easy telling someone you had high hopes for that they have completely, utterly, irredeemably and – worse still - unnecessarily failed in their task.

“This is, um, kind of a monumental stuff up,” I say, preparing her for the worst. “You do realize that it’s now open season for people smugglers, don’t you? We’re going to be swamped. Inundated. From a business point of view, it’s not a good look. We are a laughing stock.” There. I’ve said it.

Julia starts to blub. I hate it when they blub.

“It’s all Tony’s fault,” she says, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

I frown. “Tony? I thought you said it was Kevin’s fault?”

“Kevin’s! And Tony’s! And Chris’s!” she sobs, shaking her head in dismay.

I rub my forehead, then discreetly buzz my secretary. “Have you got the number for those faceless men in Sussex street?” I whisper as quietly as I can.