Call him what you want — the incredible no-man; the mad monk; phoney Tony; Captain Catholic; one-trick Tony; Mr Rabbit — it doesn’t matter, just don’t call him Prime Minister anymore or (oh god) ever again. Big Ears is dead; long live, er, the next middle-aged upper-middle-class university-educated white guy. Five PM’s in five years, yeah baby! There may be no I’s in ‘team’ but there are lots in ‘political instability’ what do you reckon? But for me the last twenty-four hours in Australian politics have been all silver lining and no cloud.
Someone told me once that it’s not polite to speak ill of the brain-dead; or something like that, I wasn’t really listening. Sure there’s something to be said for magnanimity in victory; but is it as satisfying as cheap revenge? I don’t know, but I’d love to see Tony stripped down to his budgie-smugglers and trying to explain himself in sentences of three words or less on the wrong side of the wire on Manus Island. I don’t know what he would say, but I’m fairly confident I know what he wouldn’t say: I am sorry. I was wrong. You are welcome.
But life goes on, and we wait with bated breath to see if Malcolm Turnbull will be what this country needs: a moderate conservative politician who can actually think on his feet, not blunder from one gaffe to the next, and not embarrass us on the world stage. Sure, his legacy as Communications Minister has left us with broadband speeds the envy of several sub-Saharan African nations, but maybe gay people who love each other, refugees and republicans now have a glimmer of hope for the future in this wonderful country.
Over to you, Prime Minister.
