Political Corrections

with Mungo MacCallum

Government goes to jelly as public goes hungry

As the self-appointed most conservative Prime minister in Australian history, John Howard is understandably wary of innovation.

However, he has recently introduced a new word to his limited vocabulary, the term being flummery - by which he means fine words without concrete results and the Macquarie Dictionary means a fruit flavoured jelly mixture, although the dictionary does give a second definition of agreeable humbug. In any case, Howard's discovery was a timely one, because he has just flimmed and flammed his way through the longest week of flummery of his career.

Predictably enough, the media joined him in creaming themselves over the near-simultaneous visits of the leader of the world's most powerful nation and the world's most populous nation; the times were made for superlatives. The fact that the week was also the most comprehensive sell out in living memory unfortunately got rather less attention.

To a true conservative, the fact that our most important constitutional body - the national parliament—was taken over by not just one but two foreign potentates in the space of 48 hours should have been a matter of serious concern. The further fact that both of them used the opportunity to subvert our hard-won and long-held democratic traditions should have caused outrage. But the coalition government and its media cheer squad raised not the slightest protest as the alien armed enforcers invested the building and gave their orders to the parliamentary presiding officers.

Our great and powerful friends were accorded the tightest security ever seen in Australia (paid for, incidentally, by the taxpayers who are still groaning under the bill for Prince Harry's holiday) and Australians were treated as interlopers in their own country. Foreign media representatives were given privileges denied to their local counterparts. Citizens were forbidden access to their own parliament. Elected representatives were denied their parliamentary rights.

When Bob Brown and Kerry Nettle interjected during his terminally tedious address, George Bush quipped "I love free speech" as the speaker ordered the two Australians to be dragged from the chamber and the government ranks howled their approval. The same speaker grovellingly agreed that guests of an Australian parliamentarian should be removed from the public gallery at the behest of the Chinese secret service.

A dismal dessert of flummery indeed, and at the end of it all the long-suffering public is surely entitled to ask: and just what did we get out of it? The quick answer is three fifths of five eights of sweet bugger all, and precious little of that.

Howard took the opportunity to re-announce a trade deal with China and Bush agreed to press ahead with his own dubious version of free trade, which looks increasingly like an arrangement by which the Australian film and television industries will be screwed immediately with the promise of some ill-defined return to farmers in the distant future; and that was about it. But of course we were asking the wrong question, because the whole blancmange was not about what was good for us, but about what was good for Little Johnny.

As some of the more perceptive commentators have belatedly noticed, the whole machinery of government is surreptitiously being diverted to the promotion, indeed the glorification, of the man whom Bush calls, in what is starting to sound like homo-eroticism, our Man of Steel. Howard now has to be at the centre of every announcement, every function, every ceremony. He is not just our head of government; he has remade himself as our head of state, our glorious leader, prime minister for life and father of the nation.

It is a cult practised by Asian leaders like Mao Zedong and Kim il-Sung, and historically by the deified Roman emperors; but Howard has no slave to whisper in his ear the reminder that he is only a man. Instead, he surrounds himself exclusively with sycophants or, still more dangerously, time servers whose own advancement depends on Howard's continuous success. Howard sometimes descends from his tower to warn his followers of perils of hubris, but there is every sign that he has long-since succumbed himself.

If there was any doubt before last week, the guest list for his private barbecue for Bush at the Lodge confirmed it. The nearest thing to a dissenting voice was the president of the press gallery, Malcolm Farr. The rest were heavy hitters from business, media and sport whose support for the Liberal Party in general and Howard in particular was already on the record. All non-coalition politicians, including the Leader of Her Majesty's loyal opposition, were banned. This was more than just petty spite; it was a public declaration of Howard's supremacy: look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

And yet there was one empty chair at the feast, a chair which had been reserved for one of the few beings whom Howard regards as an equal: the captain of the Australian cricket team, Steve Waugh. Waugh was on the invitation list, but he pleaded a previous engagement - a ceremony at Bowral, the home of that other Australian demi-god Don Bradman.

It was a fair excuse, but given the importance of the summons to sup with Howard and Bush, it looked a bit like a snub. Waugh, unlike most of is fellow sporting champions has a genuine interest in the world outside his profession; he is both informed and involved. He has always been careful to keep his politics private, but there have been some indications that he is, to put it delicately, not committed to the right.

And he did not lunch at the Lodge. It would be ironic indeed if one of Howard's few remaining heroes was among the few to peer through the flummery and perceive that this emperor actually has no clothes.