Political Corrections

with Mungo MacCallum

FTA a real Downer for Labor

Poor Alexander Downer. Last week's attacks on Spain and the Philippines for running policies which encourage terrorists are the long-awaited proof that the job has finally become too much.

I imagine it was the travel that got to him in the end. All those endless flights around the world, shoring up Australia's - well. America's, anyway - far flung empire on which the Sun, not mention the Telegraph and Fox News, never sets. Those interminable trips with nothing to drink but the finest Moet and nothing to eat but his rather charming press secretary, drawing his fishnet stockings ever tighter against the threat of deep vein thrombosis, risking his life for his country - no, for the entire western world, as he read and re-read the sagas of Biggles and Billy Bunter and watched re-runs of Zulu and that film about Gordon at the siege of Khartoum.

And then, one lonely evening as he was thinking night thoughts about the stress of the white man's burden, of the thankless task of demonstrating the need for a bit of old-fashioned grit to those lesser breeds beyond the law, there came the news that the swarthy unreliable Spaniards and their even more feckless Asiatic cousins the Philippinos had cut and run - scarpered off back to their haciendas and siestas.

Desertion in the face of the enemy, by God. In the old days a man would have sent a gun boat, shown them the glint of cold steel, perhaps blown a few from the mouth of a cannon as an example to the rest. Now, of course, one had to be more careful. Still, a man could make his feelings known, call a spade a spade and a wog a marshmallow. Which was, of course, what he had done. After all, when it comes to terrorism you can't be fuzzy with the truth...

At this point a real Prime Minister, pausing only to narrow his eyes at the last remark and wonder if his foreign minister was being cheekily ironic rather than simply insane, would have called in the men in white coats with the big butterfly nets to escort his still gibbering colleague to somewhere dark and isolated, a very long way from any further contact with the media. A real Prime Minister would then have sent a sincere but dignified apology to Madrid and Manila, assuring them that it was not Australian policy to misrepresent, slander and insult our allies in the war against terrorism for petty domestic political gain, still less because some dingbat minister had a rush of blood to the head.

John Howard, of course, did no such thing; he patted Downer on the back, gave him an elephant stamp and told the world that he couldn't agree more. Things started to get out of hand; ambassadors were called in and Australian flags burnt. Downer, still giggling, said it didn't matter in the least, it was all a storm in a tea cup; after all he called in ambassadors all the time, just for fun. And he knew about these things because he had been a diplomat himself; also a statesman, scholar and soldier, like Wellington at Waterloo, Horatius at the bridge, Conan the barbarian, Xena the warrior princess...

He was eventually dragged kicking and screaming from the stage and watched in disgruntled silence as our ambassadors tactfully explained to their hosts that it really wasn't like that at all, that Australia understood and respected their positions and didn't doubt for a moment their commitment to the war on terror; anyway, that's what they said for public consumption. Precisely what grovelling they had to do behind closed doors has not been revealed. They, like the rest of us, can't wait for the next episode: Alexander the Great Downer Stupefies The Known World.

In the meantime he has gone back to promoting rugby among the Pacific islands, an undemanding form of therapy perfectly suited to his condition and his capacity.

The absurdly misnamed Free Trade Agreement with the United States was never really about free trade, or indeed about trade at all; it was always a political symbol, a thank you gift from Washington to John Howard - indeed, one of more bizarre reasons given by the Howard boosters for signing it irrespective of its benefits (or lack of them) is that the Americans would be terribly hurt and disappointed if we didn't, and we really mustn't appear ungrateful.

And what a wonderful present for Howard it has turned out to be - the perfect wedge to use against Mark Latham. Crunch time has finally arrived; Latham has to make the decision, and whatever he decides will be wrong.

If he agrees to sign on, he is a gutless wonder who has succumbed to the political pressure, a fraud, a sell out and a poltroon, and/or a feeble leader who has dithered over the national interest for months in a weak-kneed effort to appease the left of his party.

If, on the other hand, he jacks up, he is a snivelling traitor, an America hater, a betrayer of Australian business and/or a pawn and lackey of selfish vested interest groups, a man who puts cheap populism ahead of his country. Or at least that's what the Murdoch press will say.

In the end Howard would probably prefer Latham to knock it back: not only would he be able to excoriate Labor in all the above terms and more, but he would never have to take the responsibility for letting what may well be a Trojan horse in to devastate the Australian economy and culture.

But either way he can't lose. Thanks again, George.