ANOTHER GREEN WORLD (Spectator leader April 13)

It’s time that Australians took a long hard look at the man whose science fiction fantasies are tampering with our pay packets. From July 1st, Australia’s economic wellbeing and financial prospects are beholden to the delusional whims of a man who, it would appear, is clearly a few trees short of an old-growth forest. Bob Brown’s ravings at a town hall packed with fellow “Earthians”, where he laid out his plans for a Global parliament (in which an Australian representative would have about as much clout as a Green in Campbell Newman’s Queensland) at the same time as lamenting the extinction of extra-terrestrials due to climate change (yep, seriously) would be disturbing if they were from some fringe activist or obscure backbencher but are beyond alarming when they come from our de facto Deputy PM.

Make no mistake; there would be no $23 a tonne carbon tax under this government if Bob Brown hadn’t insisted on it. Yet in all the acres of analysis of climate change, endless editorials and opinion pieces selling or deriding the carbon tax, the talkback, the adverts, the rallies and the convoys, any in-depth analysis of Bob Brown’s ideology, track record and personal beliefs is virtually non-existent. It’s as if as a nation we embraced Dianetics without bothering to check out L. Ron Hubbard.

Although it is tempting simply to laugh at him, a harmless clown he is not. Apart from Gerard Henderson, Chris Uhlmann, Miranda Devine, Andrew Bolt and (in this issue) Peter Costello, our mainstream media – perhaps intimidated by Brown’s hysterical “hate-media” campaign, or simply taken in by the Green’s phony morality - refuses to scrutinize this dangerous politician and his anti-productive, anti-growth ideas. It’s time Australians took a closer look at Bob Brown before he takes us all to La La Land.

RELIABLE AND COMPETENT (Spectator leader April 13)

“Relaxed and comfortable” was the mantra of John Howard’s government, but looking back at what was clearly Australia’s golden decade, “reliable and competent” might be a more accurate moniker.

By and large, the previous Coalition government could be relied upon to deliver its election commitments in a competent fashion, to the benefit of the economy and the community. Of itself, this sounds a rather mundane and unimpressive boast. Isn’t that what all governments are supposed to do? But as we get well into the fifth year of Labor’s tumultuous and destructive period in office, “reliable and competent” appear goals as distant and unattainable for this government to achieve as Thorpie’s recent quest for another Olympic gong.

“Politically unreliable” and “managerially incompetent” would be a more accurate description of almost every federal initiative undertaken. The Rudd era fiascos of pinks batts, the ETS, and Grocerywatch seem like quaint slip-ups when compared to the latest multi-million dollar mishaps of Gillard, Swan, Conroy et al.

Whether it be the disgraceful duplicity of the Australia Network tendering process, the ongoing pork-barreling of the NBN with its whiteboard-style choice of which lucky Labor electorate gets what and when, the teeth-grinding behavior of Fair Work Australia, the inexcusable refusal of the government to front up to the Craig Thomson allegations, the Machiavellian maneuverings over who gets what out of the mining tax, or the vast sums being squandered before the carbon tax has even been introduced to keep the energy companies onside, what typifies Labor’s actions is a sly disdain for the truth combined with breathtaking ineptitude and financial recklessness.

The list goes on. Unions running amok. Business disquiet over the mooted diesel rebate removal. The abandonment of genuine, much-needed tax reform. The stuff-ups over asylum seekers, cattle exports, and gaffes such as threatening PNG sanctions. At every turn, in stark contrast to its predecessor, this government manages to be either unreliable in its commitments or incompetent in their implementation.

It requires no effort of imagination to predict that the big ticket items, the MRRT, the carbon tax and the NBN, will be as clumsily implemented as all Labor’s other ill-prepared and rushed-through schemes. Lack of consultation, a failure to anticipate problems and a fingers-crossed-behind-the-back management style will continue to be their hallmark, with inevitable consequences.

A billion lost here, a couple of hundred million gone there. Taxpayers’ hard-earned wealth is being frittered away through errors of judgment at an alarming rate. Meanwhile, business groups warn that our overseas competitors are eagerly poised to take full advantage of our self-inflicted imposts, whilst inevitably, investment in exploration for new mines is heading to cheaper fields abroad.

The tragedy for Australian prosperity is that there is one area where the Gillard team will always remain reliable and competent; clinging onto power through whatever means it takes. Miraculously, the carbon tax “compensation” payouts will competently deliver a bucktload of cash at precisely the right time for the next election. You can rely on it.

THE LABOR MESSIAH (Spectator Easter leader)

The search for a messiah to lead them out of the wilderness will certainly intensify within Labor ranks if not before the next election then certainly the day afterwards.

Call it the curse of Gough, but Labor, more so than any other political party, constantly seeks a mystical leader capable of inspiring the masses. Whether it be the “light on the hill” or the Tree of Knowledge, the “greatest moral challenge” or “true believers,” Labor mythology likes to imbue events and personalities with qualities above and beyond those of mere mortals.

However great the left’s heroes may or may not have been, what the last two decades has shown is that the Labor Party struggles to draw a distinction between the statesman, the showman, and the shaman.

Bob Carr was arguably a great media performer in his heyday, but the way he is being wheeled out now on every occasion and on any subject is increasingly embarrassing to watch – akin to a ham actor struggling to pull off his old stage tricks.

Bill Shorten’s frequent media appearances also have an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu about them, as he attempts to channel Bob Hawke – the pragmatic reconciler of the great divisions between the working and managerial classes. What such an act forgets is that the unions, although desperately important to the Labor Party, bear very little relevance to working Australians, other than as the butt of gags about credit cards and prostitutes.

Displaying all the warmth and empathy of Nosferatu in Clark Kent glasses, fellow ex-union boss Greg Combet also falls well short of delivering on messianic appeal. Stephen Smith is, well, Stephen Smith. Crean comes across like a contender for the next series of Grumpy Old Men.

Wayne Swan, who played Judas to Rudd’s futile attempt at messianic resurrection, clearly sees himself as a potential savior. His recent Sermon in the Monthly and attacks in the temple of public opinion on the money lenders and mining magnates were blatant pitches to the unions to support him. What he fails to understand is that the voters – particularly in the crucial Queensland seats –will never forgive his betrayal of one of their own.

Forget the blokes. Penny Wong and Nicola Roxon will be the ones to watch post-Julia.

To the spin merchants of Sussex Street, it is the spokesperson who is more important than the product they are trying to sell. The faceless men and women (surely in a progressive party such as the ALP there can be faceless women, too?) still seem incapable of understanding that it is the policies, not the politician, that ultimately triumphs.

Labor still hopes that the carbon tax – an anomalous economic “reform” born of a blatant lie and a cynical backroom deal – will be their road to salvation, as money flows into the economy by way of “compensation.” Thirty pieces of silver for each and every working family.

In all likelihood, the voters will take the money but wash their hands of the mob that gave it to them. Labor, slowly but surely, will be crucified on a cross of its own making.

TIME TO PULL THE PLUG (Spectator Easter leader)

Heads bowed in supplication, candles flickering in the gloom, incantations being muttered and faith being reaffirmed in front of a multitude of fellow believers. A mass spiritual occasion, both live and on TV, is always a wondrous sight to behold. And so it was that the extraordinary outpouring of faith last weekend was truly humbling. From the leaning tower of Pisa to the Great Wall of China, via the Holy See of Circular Quay, no corner of the Earth was spared the rituals of devotion as a billion souls partook in switching off their lights for sixty minutes.

Atheists and agnostics, or sceptics as they are now called, often find such overtly spiritual and ritualistic activities quite bewildering. “But what’s the point?” they cry. Yet to the believer, logic and the demand for concrete proof is pointless. The act of supplication is fulfillment enough. The rituals are evidence of belief. And belief is paramount.

As with all religions, the original goal of this church is laudable. To draw attention to the sin of polluting the planet. But when society at large is forced to bear a heavy burden for no perceivable gain, when the economy is being distorted, and when those who dare question the wisdom or effectiveness of the remedies are cast out and vilified as heretics, it is way too late to quibble over the symbolic actions enjoyed by those whose faith is unshakeable.

A mushy, sentimental event with few practical outcomes (other than foisting solar lamps and cookers on people who’d much rather have the carbon-based ones the rest of us enjoy) this latest religion has evolved from it’s original awareness-raising advertising stunt to a bizarre quasi-religious gathering whose main goal – like all such cults – seems primarily to be the perpetuation of itself. It’s time to pull the plug on Earth Hour.

DEATH OF THE DOGSBODY

It was the greatest job of all time. The dogsbody. The job around the office where you had to do all sorts of menial, often humiliating tasks for very little money and working all sorts of horrific hours. Also known as the messenger boy, tea-boy, runner or sometimes even receptionist, these were the jobs of old, that have now largely disappeared, that were the launching pads of many a stellar career.

Their demise came about largely through the internet age, where you no longer have to rely on a physical being to get crucial items from A to B in order to meet your deadline, as well as through higher wage costs, payroll taxes, superannuation and the like. But many a career, mine included, would not have been possible without the mixture of experience, education, work ethic and sheer fun that such jobs provided. From Frank Lowe (founder of multi-national advertising network Lowe and Partners) to top Australian director David Deneen (who created the multi-award winning Filmgraphics company) those individuals who started at the bottom often survived the longest at the top.

For my part, running through the freezing dawn of London’s Soho district with large film cannisters under one hand and still going at 11 at night delivering printers blocks to the hungry machines of Fleet street was my entry into the advertising industry. Paid a pittance, I loved every second of it. It was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating. But above all, it was the hands-on introduction to, and respect for, so many aspects of the business that proved invaluable later on.

“Work experience” is supposedly the modern equivalent. It may just be a Gen Y thing, but time after time I have found those who I have taken on in such a guise have no desire to experience anything arduous whatsoever, particularly work. On top of which, there are so many petty regulations and HR considerations to take into account that the exercise often proves fruitless – on both sides.

“Whatever happens, be there at 6 am on the dot,” I said to one teenage boy, who had professed a great passion for the film industry and a lifelong desire to attend a shoot. “I’ll pick you up. But if you’re not there I won’t wait.”

Had that been the young me, I would have been there, shivering in the cold, from 5.30 onwards. Needless to say, not only did this particular Cremorne -educated kid not show, he didn’t even bother to phone and apologise. “Oh, I slept in,” was the disinterested retort I finally received on inquiring as to his whereabouts.

Somehow, I doubt a successful business of any kind, large or small, will ever bear his name.

THE BOY DONE GOOD

True story. No, it really is.

The year is 1968. A long, languid and very dry summer in our nation’s capital. The sprinklers clatter away against the backdrop of yellowy hills and blue skies. The Beatles top the charts with an Australia-only release of Ob-la-di-Ob-la-da. My parents, as they do every summer, have allowed us to hire a black and white TV for the duration of the holidays. ‘Bonanza’ and ‘High Chaparral’ are the highlights of the week.  Holt is still missing, snaffled up by the CIA, in a Palmeresque plot of dastardly fiendishness - or was it a Huawei-built submarine? Gorton is PM, and my Mum, a popular local artist, has painted a portrait of Ainslie Gotto.

I’m just ten years old, and leader of the pack – undisputed boss of the neighborhood gang. Well, not entirely undisputed. Virginia, my next door neighbour and passionate rival also sees herself as rightful head honcho of the Red Hill Gang in this brave new world of women’s lib and burning bras. Our battle of wills extends from Forest Primary, where we vie for the role of class captain, to the Deakin stormwater drain where we steal away for the occasional daring kiss.

Across the road, a new family with a five year-old boy has moved in. He’s a cute kid, with piercing blue eyes and an egg-shaped head. And sharp as an arrow. To our despair, he's desperate to join the gang. He wanders over every morning and hangs around all day, until it’s time for those activities that we definitely don’t want him around for. Like sneaking out the back to smoke “bush fags” (straws of grass shoved into curly pieces of bark and inhaled ‘til your lungs start bleeding).

So to keep the kid at bay I start making up outlandish tales; a skill I later turn into a career in advertising.

“Campbell,” I say, "I’ll tell you something but you've got to swear you'll never tell a living soul!"

Eyes bulging out of their sockets, the boy agrees to my terms.

“What you don’t realize is that there’s this ghost of a dead Indian who lives up on Red Hill. We’ve all seen him! He sneaks around at sunset and if you’re not in bed by then he comes out with his bow and arrow and shoots you and then he eats you! Alive!”

It does the trick. As one hot, sunny day rolls into another, I have the boy eating out of the palm of my hand. Literally. “Hey, Campbell. Go home and steal some more of your Mum’s chocolate crackles. We have to make another sacrificial offering to the dead Indian up on the hill."

After several days of indebted servitude, Campbell begins to get suspicious. "You sure the ghost of the dead Indian really exists?" he says late one afternoon, hoping he can stay up with the gang till after dark. "Of course he does, " I snap, annoyed at such perceptiveness in one so young.

The next afternoon I get my best friend Simon to dress up as the dead Indian with a singlet cunningly concealing his face, and hide in the bushes. Just on sunset, with Campbell yet again stubbornly refusing to go home, Simon comes rushing past, making a terrifying wailing sound. Campbell is safely tucked up in bed every night at 7 from there on in.

Until one afternoon a week or so later, when Campbell's Mum appears on our doorstep and has a quiet chat with my Mum, who in turn has a slightly less quiet chat with me. Campbell, it appears, has been wide awake every night refusing to sleep and terrified about some crazy dead Indian he swears he's seen up on Red Hill. His Mum is beside herself worrying about the psychological trauma. So in the end I come clean and admit it is I, with Simon on back-up visual effects, who is to blame. And then I have to go over the road and tell Campbell that it was all a great big lie.

I suspect it was the last time anybody pulled the wool over Campbell Newman’s eyes.

Come the COAG meeting, Campbell will find himself once again the new kid on the block in Canberra, with a whole new set of bullies, myth-peddlers, tricksters and great big lies to deal with. Somehow, this time, I suspect he's ready for them.

,

Already, my former foot soldier has shown he’s not afraid to confront the biggest furphy of them all; the carbon tax. I can’t have been alone in being impressed by the brilliant logic of abolishing a whole bunch of Queensland’s green subsidies on the basis that now the carbon tax was coming to town they were unnecessary. In Bonanza (and Duntroon, for that matter) this clever ruse is called “turning the baddies weapons onto themselves.”

Equally entertaining, in the light of Anna Bligh’s smears on Newman’s family, was his ploy of offering the job of dismantling climate change policies back to Greg Withers, Anna Bligh’s Head of Climate Change who also happened to be her husband.

It’s wonderful what a large majority can do for one’s self-confidence. Yet the contrast between “Can Do” Campbell and “Won’t Do” Barry is increasingly impossible to ignore. Although O’Farrell’s cautious approach has been a welcome antidote to sixteen years of Labor’s spin, Newman’s decision to hit the ground running is exhilarating. Compared with O’Farrell’s bizarre post-election snubbing of Mike Baird and thus far unproductive use of Nick Greiner, Newman has shown that things really can happen when there’s a new sheriff in town - pinning marshall badges on Springborg and Langbroek, sticking to his guns on Caltabiano and Edwards, staring down Tony Fitzgerald and getting Costello back in the saddle are all impressive actions.

The dead Indian up on Red Hill must be proud.