Political Corrections

with Mungo MacCallum

The talking parrot and his overseas adventure

Is there no stopping our beloved Prime Minister?

Not only has he spent the week sorting out the neighbours, fixing the rift between Japan and China and focussing the lot of them on the kind of financial responsibility that has made Australia the super-economy it is today, but his climacteric at Gallipoli has reshaped not just his country, but the entire world. Really, it's a wonder the Vatican didn't co-opt him as the new pope.

At least, that's the spin the Howard-lovers are putting on his latest excellent overseas adventure, which although short on genuine achievement (the highly dubious free trade deal with China has not really progressed since it was first mooted two years ago and anything similar with Japan remains no more than a wish) at least avoided any serious embarrassment. John Howard's diplomacy still resembles Dr Johnson's talking parrot: the surprise is not that he does it well, but that he can do it at all.

And it remains a matter of some sensitivity. His supporters never tire of recalling the silly jibe of Paul Keating, that Asia simply wouldn't deal with Howard. This was silly because all countries will deal with anyone they need to if it is in their interest; the United States was never too keen on dealing with Gough Whitlam, but even a president as hostile as Richard Nixon did so when he had to.

Similarly, Howard was never going to be ostracised by the nations of South East Asia, however distasteful they found him and his remarks about Asian immigration, or his encouragement of Pauline Hanson, or his toadying to Washington, or his assumption of the role of deputy sheriff to George Bush, or his threats of a pre-emptive strike. Australia is part of the local scene and is going to stay that way, and the neighbours are just going to have to grit their teeth and put up with the leadership, however bizarre they find it.

But having said that, it must be admitted that Howard has improved. He still isn't comfortable; his body language in the presence of Asians is still that of a man who would much prefer to be somewhere else. But at least he has largely dropped the air of insulting patronage he used to adopt, and is even starting to eliminate the crassness. For the new generation of Asian leaders, themselves free of the sensitivities of their predecessors who were directly involved in the decolonisation process, this is a promising start.

He is still not forgiven for his participation in the Iraq war and his embrace of the Bush doctrine of pre-emption; his penance will be the signing of the treaty of amity he holds in such contempt. All the signs are that he is reluctantly willing to do so. It is a long overdue sign of his increasing maturity that he is prepared to bow to the inevitable and eat the s#!t sandwich.

His loyal deputy, of course, has been doing so for years, and apparently failing to win friends or influence people in the process.

I have always viewed Peter Costello as a bit of a dilettante in the Andrew Peacock mould, someone who'd like to be Prime Minister but who lacks the drive and the courage to go after the job. But at a gathering at the weekend I was frankly astonished at the contempt evoked by the very mention of his name.

Peter Costello, declared one derisive 30-year-old, was nothing but Howard's butt boy - the most ineffective treasurer, no, minister of any kind, in Australian history. If he had ever had any testicles, they were now on display in a jar on Howard's desk. Obviously he was never going to be Prime Minister, which was just as well because he'd be a worse crawler than Howard and hopelessly lazy to boot - a sort of Billy McMahon without the charisma, or even the ears.

There was more along the same lines. Admittedly the speaker was a committed Labor voter, but it would seem that the heir apparent has some work to do if he is to achieve his stated ambition of drawing the nation together when the Howard epoch finally grinds to an end.

The death of Pope John Paul II was also responsible for the death of a hell of a lot of trees; seldom has so much newsprint been consumed by so much repetitious gush. The advent of Cardinal Ratzinger, who inexplicably failed to take the name of Pope Adolf I, has been greeted almost as extravagantly. The only useful spin off is that we now know which newspapers have Roman Catholic editors and other senior staff.

It would be nice to think that the death of that other great dictator, Joh Bjelke Petersen, would similarly expose the Lutherans in the ranks of the media, but it probably won't. No doubt their mothers told them not to speak ill of the dead; if they couldn't say anything nice, then better not to say anything at all. On this basis the demise of Queensland's longest serving premier should be greeted by total silence - accompanied, of course, by some discreet dancing in the streets.

And finally, even as a lifelong opponent of the death penalty, I find it hard to dredge up much sympathy for the Bali nine. Their prospective penalty may be out of all proportion to their alleged crime, but with the furore going on around the trial of Schapelle Corby they can hardly say they weren't warned.

They now face a firing squad, but even if they escape that, they will probably poison themselves with magic mushroooms or blow themselves up by smoking a joint while filling a stolen car with petrol. Against stupidity of that magnitude, the gods indeed contend in vain.