Australia’s turn in muck of political tribalism
Australians who thought the disruptions that have led many to view North Atlantic politics with disdain wouldn’t reach their corner of the world can no longer ignore reality. The urban-rural divide that drove Brexit and the election of Donald Trump is now reverberating closer to home, and it’s not a good look.
It’s one way of explaining the ludicrous spectacle of Deputy Prime Minister Barnaby Joyce’s refusal to quit over revelations that a former staffer is pregnant with his child. Joyce recently broke up with his wife, who is the mother of his four children. Joyce, booted from the family home, subsequently lived with the ex-staffer rent-free in an apartment owned by a political fundraiser, according to the Australian.
So what? It’s a private matter, right? Not when you build a career based on family values and complain that samesex marriage corrupts a sacred institution.
The National Party that Joyce leads, the junior coalition partner in Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull’s conservative bloc, typically represents farmers and rural voters, and moans about wasteful government spending and out-of-touch urban politicians.
Turnbull has signalled he wants Joyce gone. Joyce and his supporters are digging in, eroding Turnbull’s leadership. Turnbull is in Washington this week. You can bet that questions one, two and three to Turnbull in the obligatory post-Oval Office news conference will be about Joyce. Trump may even be asked his opinion of it; it’s hard to see him refraining.
That Joyce is still in office says a lot about the challenges Turnbull faces managing a one-seat majority in the lower house of Parliament. If Joyce chooses to quit politics entirely, that seat and Turnbull’s survival are theoretically in jeopardy.
It also says something about the chipon-the-shoulder bloody-mindedness and parochialism that characterises the National Party’s general outlook. If the elites in the coastal cities and, God forbid, the capital Canberra want Joyce out, then we should resist – never mind that family values of hardworking, Godfearing rural folks get trashed. Sound familiar?
Despite the image foreigners have of the country, most Australians live in cities along one corner of the coastline. The Nationals hate that.
Turnbull is an especially attractive foil. He represents the eastern suburbs of Sydney, an area known for wealthy harbourside mansions as well as diverse, trendy inner-city neighbourhoods and the beachside mecca of Bondi. (Disclosure: I lived in this electorate in the 1990s before Turnbull was elected.)
To be fair, opinion on the right isn’t monolithic, even within the National Party. Whether Joyce leaves next week, next month or not at all, Turnbull’s oneseat majority gives Joyce’s supporters all the ammunition they need to feast on the rural-urban schism.
It’s this split that’s arguably the great swing factor in Australian politics, as opposed to the old labour-versus-capital divide that grew out of the 19th century.
For a while, Australians on both the right and the left thought that compulsory voting protected them from polarisation because more than just a hardcore base would show up at the polls. That’s still largely true. It doesn’t mean the country is untouched by the broader political forces sweeping other Western democracies.
Many Australians also maintained that a quarter-century without a recession protected them from the worst strains affecting politics abroad. But the China-driven commodities surge that delivered much of that growth story has faded. Perhaps the political implications of that are just beginning to be felt. embarrassingly bad, pre-digital, amateur hour photographer, the elevation of The Datsuns to the status of international stars was akin to collective vindication.
They were such nice chaps, too. Guitarist Phil Somerville, whom I barely knew to say hello to, had the virtue of playing my chosen sport, squash rackets, at the highest level. Dolf de Borst, whose brother I toiled next to in a minimum wage video store rental job, was that rarest thing, a front man with impeccable manners, one whose off-stage politeness and respect for others belied the energy and intensity he brought to his singing. Both facets of his character were enhanced by success: as he became a demon on stage, Dolf seemingly warranted sainthood when you met him on the street. By contrast, drummer Matt Osment, an honest tradesman, was a little more Keith Moon than Ringo Starr, thirsty and anarchic, bringing a sense of danger to the party.
Lead guitarist Christian Livingstone, a Waikato University student, a gentleman of discernment and dry wit, moved in circles closer to my own. Appropriately enough, I first met Christian in Cambridge, on a day when he was overseeing a recording session by another legendary Hamilton act, the Mobile Stud Unit. Knowing my own interest in the movies – he was himself studying in the Screen & Media department – Christian favoured me with a great story about how an ancestor of his had taught Charlie Chaplin to clog dance when the proto-Tramp first joined the Eight Lancashire Lads at age 10. At the time the tale was amazing enough on its own terms. Later on it seemed to foretell The Datsuns’ meteoric ascent. Just a handful of years hence Christian would be working with John Paul Jones, the bass player of Led Zeppelin. Though no one could ever call Led Zeppelin Chaplinesque, I’m inclined to see an intergenerational correlation.
It’s rare in life to observe the ‘‘before and after’’ of fame up close. One sunny lunchtime beside the university lake, early in 2002, Christian outlined the band’s ambitions whilst balancing a mutual friend’s baby on his knee. It was all or nothing, he said, with humility in his voice. They were off to London the next day, with a promise of exposure on John Peel’s radio show. Most of the eggs were in this basket. Either they broke into the big time or the years of struggle were for nothing. Plenty of antipodean acts had failed to conquer. Even Split Enz.
Days later, a significant portion of the world knew their name. New Zealand’s media even briefly woke up to the fact there was some talent south of the Bombay Hills. John Campbell announced himself a dedicated fan. The boys guested on his television show, in an era when TV 3 was still just a little bit cutting edge.
Whether Joyce leaves next week, next month or not at all, Turnbull’s one-seat majority gives Joyce’s supporters all the ammunition they need to feast on the rural-urban schism.