OK, Mr. Prime Minister. We need to have a word.
Just stop it.
I mean seriously, between all the “Just call me Sco-Mo” schtick and the man-spreading, mansplaining pop-up videos, you’re coming across like a bored bus driver who likes the sound of his own voice.
And now there’s the beer skol.
Sure, there’s a prime ministerial precedent for irresponsible drinking.
So, according to the keen journalistic minds at Newscorp, the ability to drink 3/4 cup of beer and retain hold of a packet of chicken salt make Morrison a viable PM. #sigh #Auspol https://t.co/7zY8xMY9LO
— Stewart Woods 🌈 (@StewartWoods) November 1, 2018
Bob Hawke became a self-proclaimed world champion of chugging lager, but that was in the 1970s when you could carry your own body weight in beer into a sports event and drive home in your Valiant Charger with barely a seat belt in sight.
And besides, Bob was a bit of rock star. You, Mr Prime Minister, come across as an untidy accountant at Friday night work drinks just one schooner shy of requesting someone put The Macarena on the iPod shuffle.
And while we’re on that, don’t even think about emulating the silver bodgie’s budgie-smuggler years. The nation has enough to cope with right now. It doesn’t need the sight of your verandah hanging over your lycra encased tool shed to be added to their burden.
You sir, are no Bob Hawke.
Just a thought. Has anyone seen you and Scott Cam in the same room? The whole local-bloke-from-main-street thing. Locals cut from the same cloth.
And the baseball cap thing? You do know that’s been done, don’t you? The tangerine tantrum machine in Washington has the patent on that look.
No doubt he could find you a factory in China to knock up a couple of thousand ‘Make Australia Straight Again’ lids for your colleagues wanting to ban gay teachers from schools, but nobody wants their Prime Minister looking like a cheap, nasty knock off of some other country’s populist blow hard.
And thank God the football season is over because if I’d heard you yap “go Sharkies” one more time I think my brain might have melted and leaked out of my left ear in a vain attempt to escape the relentless inanity you’ve made your calling card.
Sure, you like the Cronulla Sharks. Big deal. ‘Man likes footy team’ is not a political game changer.
Ask Bob Carr. He took books to read at football games when he was premier because he was so bored with the futility of sport and he wasn’t afraid to stare down the knuckle-dragging meat axes who probably thought Salman Rushdie was actually an opening batsman for India.
Look, I get it. You’re in a hurry. The clock is ticking so loudly on your prime ministerial watch it must sound like having Big Ben in your office. You’ve got to drink it all in, make it all count, fill your boots and have no regrets.
Book in your portrait artist early, ask Malcolm about his favourite bars in Manhattan for you to ooze about in and get your book deal sorted for the inevitable auto-biography that no one will ever read.
Try to go out with class Scott. Because when it’s all over none of us will be asking, “Where the bloody hell are you?”