Enter the stallion. Image by Martin Davies. www.daviesart.com

“You know how it goes, you’re meeting your friend Polly Bush for a quiet drink after work when all of a sudden you find yourself at Parliament House surrounded by Labor MPs, celebrity journalists, and free beer. I have no idea how this strange and disturbing scene escaped from Polly’s imagination and became real but I know that, somehow, Margo Kingston is to blame.” Don Arthur

Polly Bush is a Webdiary columnist. Her report on the 2001 Walkley awards is Polly Bush Walkleys.

Simon Crean’s last day as Opposition leader on Monday was surreal. Coinciding with the timing of a leadership-knifing contest, I managed to pick one of the most exciting days of the year to visit our nation’s capital.

Some people raise eyebrows when you explain you’ve chosen to spend some of your annual leave in the home of politics, adult sex shops, and concentric circular drives, but there were several reasons why Canberra seemed so compelling. For a start, there were people to see, including a couple of Webdiary greats.

One was our editor-extraordinaire � the fast and furiously brilliant Margo Kingston. It had been two years since I’d met Margo and attended the 2001 Walkley Awards, and after recovering from one of lifetime’s greatest hangovers, it was time to catch up again.

Another highly anticipated meeting was with one of Webdiary�s finest contributors, Don Arthur, who after a long series of frenetic email exchanges, had become a great cyber buddy of mine. Don’s Webdiary posts (and later, his blog spot, A Hail of Dead Cats) are always an extraordinary pleasure to read � he’s incredibly thought provoking, craftily creative, and writes in a fluid, whimsical, yet natural style. Don’s been having a hopefully-temporary-only break from Webdiary to try and put his baby to bed � a Phd on welfare reform.

One of the other reasons for being in Canberra was to indulge my inner-nerd, and Monday’s Question Time didn’t disappoint. While some reports labeled Simon Crean�s final date in the big chair as tediously dull, I was on the edge of my seat, and it wasn’t just because of the intriguing sight of Bob Katter’s blinding white mop or the bird’s eye view of Brendan Nelson’s all-encompassing forehead.

Crean’s first question asked whether children in detention centres would be released before Christmas. The question provided horrible memories of Kim Beazley succumbing to the wedge on the crucial asylum seeker issue at the last Federal election, and the fear that the ALP would return to the same rollover tactic the very next day if they re-installed him as leader.

While it suddenly seemed apparent Crean’s tenure as leader had actually altered the ALP’s take on the asylum seeker issue, John Howard’s answer was a reminder the Government would be standing firm:

“With respect to the Leader of the Opposition, the observation should rather be directed to their parents and guardians rather than to the government,” Howard replied.

Howard also pulled out his opposition to Sydney’s heroin injection room from his button-pressing dog-whistling pre-election hat as Sydney Member Tanya Plibersek got swiped by Speaker Neil Andrew for interjecting. Highlighting World AIDS Day, Julia Gillard took on a red ribbon clad Tony Abbott, questioning the Federal Government’s commitment to pharmaceutical costs with a pending free trade agreement with the United States.

And to top it all off, Bob Katter marched in at the end of Question Time like a Thunderbird statue that had suddenly come alive. Questioning the Government�s research into motor vehicle pollution, the Member for Kennedy managed to say the word “emissions” three separate times, and on each instance, inserted an extra delightful Quoonseland syllable to make it “emisiyons”. Hardly a tediously dull moment in the House.

The Coalition MPs were unusually well-behaved during the process, biding their time and biting their tongues. One of the morning’s newspapers had speculated as to whether the Coalition would target one of the leadership contenders, so as to try and influence the vote over who was the perceived threat. But there were no swipes at either of the two potential Labor leaders. There were no swipes at Simon. Howard even began question time announcing a donation to Hazel Hawke’s Alzheimer’s fund – a donation that Crean had previously requested.

In terms of body language, leadership aspirant Mark Latham appeared engaged. He walked around during question time, around the front bench to whisper to colleagues such as Craig Emerson. He looked relaxed and confident. Likewise, Laurie Brereton, Latham’s numbers man, occasionally walked the floor to have a yak to colleagues.

It was an interesting contrast to Beazley’s crew, who sat tight in their trenches and kept their heads low. Everyone seemed to be tipping a Beazley victory. Beazley’s people reportedly had the numbers. Either some people were lying or had a late change in heart, or somebody couldn’t count.

On the backbench, Beazley kept his head down and seemed to be immersed in reading � no murmurs to colleagues, not even the occasional rise of his head. He looked like a student in class who hadn’t done their homework and wanted to avoid any undue attention. He looked like he didn’t want to be there.

In a way, Question time on Monday seemed more about what wasn�t said. The only reference to the leadership of the Labor Party emerged from Simon Crean himself � a seemingly jovial reference of having more time on his hands to appreciate the Davis Cup tennis victory.

Indeed, a tennis match of sorts was still causing a quiet racquet, the match tight. It�s hard to imagine the frenetic extent of the lobbying efforts up until Tuesday. Strangely, this vote pulled apart friends and factions. As Former Prime Minister Paul Keating said following the historic vote:

“It is a victory for a new beginning and a defeat for the bankrupt factional system and its operatives.”

Crean’s wake on Monday and the sniff of change in the air indeed constituted a bizarre, surreal day. And the funereal proceedings only got more bizarre that evening, but I’ll let Don Arthur tell that story.

***

The Polly Bush Effect

by Don Arthur

You know how it goes, you’re meeting your friend Polly Bush for a quiet drink after work when all of a sudden you find yourself at Parliament House surrounded by Labor MPs, celebrity journalists, and free beer. I have no idea how this strange and disturbing scene escaped from Polly’s imagination and became real but I know that, somehow, Margo Kingston is to blame.

It was the evening before Kim Beazley had finally satisfied his seemingly insatiable appetite for humiliation and Simon Crean was throwing a party. Not that Crean had any idea how satisfied Beazley would be before lunch the next day – Crean hadn’t organized the party to tell how pleased he was to be spending more time with his family.

Instead it had been arranged some time before this latest tilt at the leadership snuck up on everyone like a quietly clanking Collins class submarine.

So at Margo’s invitation we arrived at the party and Polly located the beer. The VB and Farmland brand soft drink was in a big garbage bin near a podium and once we were there, there didn’t seem to be any compelling reason to be anywhere else. Empty bottles of beer and Rawson’s Retreat already littered the tables and within minutes of arriving we found ourselves directly in front of the ex-leader of the opposition who was mounting the podium to deliver a speech.

It was something about the speech that tipped me off that we’d all been plunged into one of Polly’s fantasies. The thing was laced with so many (admittedly dated) pop culture references and bad jokes about a West Australian MP who allegedly eats at Rooster Hut that it had to have come from Polly’s imagination. The man behind the stand up routine was lost in a kind of haze. I didn’t feel the sense of loss, disappointment, or anger, that you feel in the presence of a real human being. Instead there was just a kind of genial bitterness that seemed to hang in the words themselves.

And it’s this disconnection between words and emotion that makes me wonder when fantasy had first begun to seep into reality. How was it that anyone could have believed that this man’s ambitions for the Prime Ministership could have become real? It was never his words and ideas that were the problem – I’m sure if they ran them past a focus group they’d play at least as well as the Howardy mush that seems to go down so well with the iffy voters. There’s little doubt he could have been a Prime Minister, it’s just that he was completely unable to become one.

What separates Simon Crean from more successful leaders like Bob Hawke or Bill Clinton is his inability to communicate emotion. He told when he should have shown. Politics is fundamentally about pride and shame, hope and despair, elation and sadness. It’s about big ideas fused with deep emotions – ideas made real by feeling.

The other big give away about the fantastic nature of the evening’s events was the presence of so many of Polly’s media idols. Margo had rounded up so many celebrity journalists and introduced them to Polly that even as a pub yarn or daydream it was starting to get far-fetched. And it was just at that point when the thread of credibility is about to snap that I turned around and saw one of Polly’s heroes offering her advice on her career. “Drop me a line,” said a journo with thick glasses and long wavy hair.

It was somewhere between when the beer ran out at the party and we were chased out of a pizza place in Kingston that the thread snapped and fantasy took over completely. Margo had followed some staffer into his burrow and we found ourselves wandering lost in Parliament House. It was exactly like one of those dreams where you’re trying to cross the road but no matter how hard you try you never manage to reach the other side.

Before I go on I’ll share something a bit confidential with you � one of Polly Bush’s favorite Labor politicians is young, blond, and more than a little left wing. And it was this brainy, blond politician who showed up in a midriff top and rescued us. She ushered us out of the building and, back into the real world.