In his latest jeremiad on the state of the economy, Scott Morrison seemed torn between channelling Paul Keating and Joe Hockey.
If Malcolm Turnbull did not know it before, he certainly should now: before you stomp your way into Aboriginal politics, it is wise to first don the emu-feather sandals of a trained Kadaitcha man.
So much for Team Australia. The term was always a bit suss – indeed, when Tony Abbott coined it to claim solidarity in the war against terror, it quickly became obvious that membership of his side was to be strictly limited. Team Australia meant, in effect, Team Abbott.
Even before the wash up, one thing was both clear and unanimous: nobody, but nobody, wants another election.
My fearless prediction is that the coalition will end up with between 76 to 78 seats in the House of Representatives, a thin but decisive majority. But this is not the way it was meant to be.
So we now have competing ten year plans for what will be, at most, a three year parliament. And for this reason alone neither of them is worth the paper it is largely not written on.
Malcolm Turnbull’s supporters have been praising him for keeping on his message, which at least has the virtue of simplicity: my government has a national economic plan for jobs and growth.
So Malcolm Turnbull’s $50 billion submarines sank almost without trace – not as they were meant to, after the first of them makes its stealthy launch in 2030, or somewhere within that decade, but in a morass of turmoil and distraction last week.
This is a story about a man destined to be prime minister – a Liberal leader from Central Casting. His indulgent father provided him with the best schooling money could buy. He went on to university, where he developed both a taste and a talent for politics.
Mungo MacCallum Andrew Bolt, Alan Jones and their armies of orcs have won. For months, years even, they inveighed against Malcolm Turnbull, vowing to destroy him, swearing mighty oaths that he must never become prime minister. They formed barricades around... Read More →
As the coalition troops file back into their party meetings for yet another indecisive week in Canberra, they could be forgiven for chanting: “One, two, three, four; What are we campaigning for?”
So Malcolm Turnbull has undertaken yet another relaunch – a new, shiny (well, at least rather less shop-soiled) ministry, and, on the horizon, an exciting refurbished (well, at least hastily bogged up) tax plan.
There is an old primary school prank in which the perpetrator asks the victim: ‘how do you keep an idiot in suspense?’ When the victim gives up, the perpetrator replies triumphantly; 'I’ll tell you tomorrow!'
There was great jubilation last week at the news that Tony Abbott would nominate again for Warringah, with a view to remaining in parliament more or less forever.
By Mungo MacCallum. Malcolm Turnbull’s ritual pilgrimage to his great and powerful friend went very much according to plan.
So with the sillier bit of the silly season behind them, some, at least, of the pundits are drifting back to what they consider their real task – which will consist largely of febrile speculation about the election date.
Renowned Australian journalist and Echo contributor Mungo MacCallum is recovering after collapsing at Ocean Shores shopping centre yesterday.
'In many parts of the world constituted by trade union officials,' declared Dyson Heydon, 'there is room for louts, thugs, bullies, thieves, perjurers, those who threaten violence...' But the same strictures apply to the business community and even to Heydon’s own legal profession. Mungo MacCallum
Malcolm Turnbull was working this Christmas, at the Wayside Chapel lunch among other places, which was both personally worthy and newsworthy. But we hope he also had a few moments of his own, with the truffles Bill Shorten predicted, because however merry his Christmas may have been, his advent was pretty underwhelming.
Christmas comes but once a year to fill the voters’ hearts with fear; so now that Tony Abbott is not here as Prime Minister to supply it, The Australian has obligingly steeped in to the space with a splendidly seasonal beat-up.
We had been told that everything was on the table. But when the guests arrived with their carpetbags and wheelbarrows to avail themselves of the largesse, it turned out that Stingy Scott Morrison had removed all but a handful of the goodies.
As the pollies flee from Canberra in the hope (or fear) of embracing their far-flung families for the festive season, there will be many ready to celebrate. The turkey has been despatched and Santa Claus has delivered the pudding and the polls.
Mungo: Bill Shorten’s year of ideas has not exactly been a riotous success; in fact he has been marked down at just 15 per cent.
Charles and Camilla wafted into Australia last week, to be greeted by rapturous applause by the usual suspects. As the ageing heir and his second wife preened and postured for the well-drilled spectators the royalists gushed, led by their self-appointed leader David Flint, a comedic courtier whose silliness is only exceeded by his vanity.
The Australian’s commentators said it was an olive branch; their headlines writers called it a test and the ABC preferred the term challenge. But for the Labor Party it was a wedge, a threat.