‘But I don’t understand the public’s hatred. It’s very hard to parse. Do Australians hate me, specifically? Or is it my government? Or is it the idea of government generally? Because you can find data that supports each. I hear plenty of criticism of government, plenty of disgust, yet I hear constant appeals to it. Which one is it? Do voters want democracy or not? Do they want a government or not? Because hatred of it doesn’t seem to me to have developed, in Australians, any special independence from it. Any special resilience or ingenuity. It seems to me, Sophie, that Australians are constipated. They can’t process their thoughts. And that’s because their need and their hatred are equal — and they’re unwilling, or unable, to take a laxative.’
‘It’s a country of almost 23 million people, Prime Minister. Asking for uniformity of opinion seems strange.’
‘It’s not uniformity I desire, Sophie. We all have our different ideas. It’s the fucking whining that’s the problem.’
‘The whining?’
‘We’re all whiners, Sophie. I’m a whiner. I’m whining about whining right now. And, look, some have good reason to whine. I get that. But most don’t. Most are expressing private regrets by proxy. We’re not in heaven yet. We have to live with our regrets. And we have to process them like adults. I will be the public’s punching bag for my government’s mistakes — but I refuse to be a punching bag for their own.’
‘What are your regrets, Prime Minister?’
‘I guess everything I’ve just said. That won’t play well. But I’m feeling looser these days. Less afraid. So let’s saddle this feeling and ride it. Other regrets? Buying a Lada as my first car. More reliable than the jokes suggest, but it didn’t help me lose my virginity.’
‘Any others?’
‘Ladas?’
‘Regrets.’
‘Bingeing Lost when I had shingles. That show never resolved itself. It was credit card scriptwriting. Buy a cryptic plot development now, pay later. But they never paid, Sophie.’
‘But in your job, Prime Minister.’
‘Oh — not tackling sharks sooner.’
‘So this is a signature policy for you?’
‘You can call it that.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘A late awakening.’
‘But it’s not really a federal issue, Prime Minister.’
‘I hear this a lot, Sophie.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t think the critics get it.’
‘Get what?’
‘That this is about home. Sharks are almost beside the point — they’re just the current threat to the heart of the thing. And that heart is our home. Our playground. Our dance floor. And perhaps Australians will forgive my foolish criticism of them because, fundamentally, they know I want the same thing as them.’
‘Which is?’
‘A safe home.’
I watched, astonished, as the audience stood and offered five minutes of rapturous applause.
As the Prime Minister remained on stage, smiling and glassy-eyed, I slipped away to the pokies room, from which a special Sky News panel was about to broadcast. I joined a crowd of about fifty, and wondered how the panel’s mics would contend with the cacophony of pokies.
‘Welcome to Shaz Live with me, your host, Shannon Roll. We’re broadcasting tonight from the Rooty Hill RSL club with a special guest — this raffle meat tray. Couple T-bones, few chops, and a helluva lot of sausage. No foreign beef here, folks. No grain-fed professor cows. None of these chops have been to university. Doubt they finished high school. And the snags are fair dinkum. No fennel or basil, mates. Just pure Australian arsehole. If these snags had fingers, they’d be hashtagging Weary Dunlop.
‘Me and the meat-tray are joined tonight by former Labor leader Beefy Tickle, former Labor powerbroker and bankrupt Norman Hates, and everyone’s favourite moon enthusiast, ex-Liberal MP Calamity Pete. Blokes, welcome.’
‘Cheers, Shaz,’ Beefy said. ‘And lemme tell you something: if more kids grew up with Aussie meat trays for parents, I seriously doubt we’d be in deficit today.’
‘That’s why we love Beefy,’ Shannon said. ‘Unafraid to make the big calls. Norm, welcome.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘And Calamity — how’s our favourite celestial body tonight?’
‘Seductive as always.’
‘Of course she is. Gentlemen, we’ve just watched the Prime Minister in his People’s Forum. How did you rate it?’
‘For a start, he’s a Yankee lover,’ Beefy said. ‘Aussies don’t roast marshmallows ’round the campfire. They sink piss and bake damper. They tell racist jokes. When I was young, sometimes we’d roast the faces of kids who were good at maths. But never marshmallows. Never heard of it. Embarrassing.’
‘Norman, how’d you see it?’
‘Very strong on sharks. That gets the coastal property developers onside. Some smart money there. Very shrewd. We forget this about him, but he’s not just a philosopher — he’s great with the political calculus. Look how he won over water-polo players tonight.’
‘Calamity Pete?’
‘Well, I can’t celebrate the performance like Norm can. Tonight, the Prime Minister had the temerity to reference the ocean without once mentioning the body that determines its tides. Completely out of touch. Is she, or is she not, a voluptuous sorceress?’
Sky’s affirmative-action policy on personality disorders was brave, I thought, and the network’s producers were to be commended for offering these men sanctuary. Thoughts that would have otherwise been scrawled in faeces upon white walls were now beamed to airport lounges across the nation.
‘Healthy range of opinions there,’ Shannon said. ‘We like diversity here, unlike Their ABC. And in the spirit of tonight’s People’s Forum, we’re inviting an audience member up here to join the panel. Who’s our producer picked out for us tonight? Beth? Ok, come on up, Beth.’
Beth took the empty seat beside the meat tray. ‘Welcome, Beth.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nervous?’
‘A little.’
‘Don’t be. Beefy, I think you’ve got a question for Beth.’
‘Sure do. Beth, you’re a voter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Real shit-show you’ve caused.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The pack of socialist sissy boys running the joint — it’s a real shit-show.’
‘And this is my fault?’
‘You just said that you’re a voter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, last time I checked, princess, it was voters who anoint governments. So congratulations. Nice work on the sissy boys.’
‘You led the opposition in a federal election.’
‘You’re a fucking maggot, Beth. A parasite. A—’ and Beefy launched across the table. If you were watching on television — slumped impatiently in
