Political Quotes

From How to be a Megalomaniac by Mungo MacCallum (Duffy & Snellgrove, Australia, 2002):

Many have noted that Thomas Jefferson, who penned the immortal line: "We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal ..." was an unashamed slave-owner. On a more mundane level one of Australia's own founding fathers asked the people to vote for the lofty aim of federation with the words: "We shall found a great nation, and there will be cheaper meat." Even Ben Chifley, arguably one of our best loved, observed trenchantly that the most sensitive part of the voter's anatomy was the hip pocket nerve.
[Chapter 1, p. 4]
[...] The story is told of a newcomer taking his place for the first time in the House of Representatives. Settling gingerly into his seat he looked across the chamber. "There they are," he breathed, "The Enemy." An old hand sitting next to him smiled sardonically. "No, son," he replied, "That's the opposition. The enemy are the ones sitting all around you."
[Chapter 1, p. 12]
It is seldom a good idea to invent an entirely fictitious past; there is always the risk that it will be found out [...] A direct lie is almost always a mistake, even in politics. But it can also be considered an unnecessary risk, as much can be implied and insinuated without recourse to absolute mendacity.
Let's face it, even Peter Reith seldom came out with a blatant fabrication, even after the giveaway phrase: "Let me be perfectly frank ..." emerged from his well-tended lips. However, while they were moving, the unvarnished truth was not all that came out. It was probably unfair of me to claim in one well-reasoned critique that Reith had a physical allergy to truth, which brought him out in hives, although my evidence - that no one had ever seen Peter Reith with hives - as undoubtedly persuasive.
[Chapter 2, p. 21-22]
[...] life isn't meant to be fun, at least not when people are watching.
[Chapter 3, p. 34]
[Bruce] Graham's predecessor, Billy Jack, became famous as a parliamentary mute; in some 17 years in the House of Representatives he asked just eight questions and made seven speeches, one of which was: "I move that the question be put." Unsurprisingly, Menzies never offered him preferment, but his constituents loved him; he increased his majority on every election until his retirement, thereby confirming Ben Chifley's adage that more people talk themselves out of parliament than ever talk themselves into it.
There have been those whose careers have been made or broken by a single phrase. [...] Legend has it that the young Doug Anthony took years to live down the phrase he used to introduce himself to his peers: "I'm a country member". The only possible reply was: "Of course we'll remember. How could we ever forget?"
[Chapter 3, p. 36]
[Billy McMahon's] own predecessor, John Gorton, was as famous for his mangled syntax as for his mangled features and gave his critics many hours of harmless fun as they attempted to deconstruct sentences like his notorious explanation of his proposed health scheme. I have quoted it often in the past, but can't resist the opportunity to give it one more run: "On the other hand the AMA agrees with us, or, I believe, will agree with us, that it is its policy, and it will be its policy, to inform patients who ask what the common fee is and what our own fee is, so that a patient will know whether he is going to be operated on, if that's what it is, on the basis of the common fee, or not."
[Chapter 3, p. 37]
Let it merely be said that while few careers have been made purely by the right slogan, more than a few have been largely unmade by the wrong one. American presidential campaigns are instructive. In 1964 the conservative Republican Barry Goldwater tried to overcome the impression that he was too reactionary for the electorate by running under the line: "In your heart you know he's right". The Democrats immediately replied: "In your guts you know he's nuts", and LBJ won in a landslide. And in 1960 Richard Nixon never lived down his opponents' challenge: "Would you buy a used car from this man?"
[Chapter 4, p. 47]
[...] I have already mentioned the notorious member for North Sydney, "Silent" Billy Jack. In Canberra Jack never did anything even remotely noteworthy; indeed, except on the rare occasions when his vote was needed in close divisions, he need not have bothered turning up and may not have - few if any would have noticed his absence. But in his own electorate he worked tirelessly to satisfy his constituents' complaints about garbage collections, the siting of bus stops, the delivery of newspapers - no cause was too silly or trivial for Jack, despite the fact that practically none of the queries he answered came under the purview of the federal government. Others would have fobbed them off to the local state member or the council; Jack took them all on board. No plaintive cat was ever stranded up a tree while he was the local member.
Standards may have changed in modern times, but it is still a truism of politics that no matter how incompetent, stupid or even corrupt politicians may become, the ones that look after their grass-roots base are bloody hard to shift. Even so, it can be done, because another truism is that self-interest, if sufficiently ruthless, will generally prevail. Bribery, threats and blackmail are technically illegal, but all have a place in a hard-fought preselection battle. [...] Preselections, like nature, are usually red in tooth and claw and definitely not for the squeamish.
Branch stacking, however, in spite of what you have read in the newspapers, is not illegal. In a vague sort of way it is against party rules [...] But it is nice to know that branch stacking is not, in itself, a criminal offence. You will probably have to commit a few of these during your political career, but it is best to keep the list as short as possible.
[Chapter 4, p. 48-49]
[...] The politician who tries to ape his rival or predecessor is, almost by definition, a second rater, inferior to the real thing.
In a slightly different context this explains the downfall of Kim Beazley in 2001. Having decided, wrongly, that the GST was the real issue, he decided to avoid distracting attention from it by agreeing with John Howard about everything else - up to and including the treatment of asylum seekers. Faced with what was really no choice at all, people decided they might as well vote for the leader who devised the policies rather than the follower who just went along with them - for the organ grinder rather than the monkey.
[Chapter 5, p. 60]
And while we're at it, learn to play tennis. This is a most useful hobby for a politician; even a few practice swings can give the impression of boundless energy, and you can sit down again as soon as the television cameras have left. It is a good middle-of-the-road sport; not rich and snobby like polo or identifiably working class like racing greyhounds. It has a clean and wholesome image without being in any way priggish. If you only have one outside interest (and arguably you should always have a couple - the study of a particular branch of history always sounds good, and no one is going to test you if you can stay away from trivia nights) then tennis is the way to go.
[Chapter 5, p. 64]
You can and should, however, confess to a special cause or two; lines like "I know I may seem obsessive on the subject, but one thing I hate with unreasoning passion is cruelty to innocent children or helpless animals" invariably go down well, and require absolute no action on your part (if anyone actually stands you up and asks what you are doing about it, point out sorrowfully that these are really areas that come under the state government and refer them to the local state member; this is a tactic you will use frequently once you have become elected).
By now you should have finished your door-knocking, although it is still a handy excuse for avoiding unwelcome invitations - "Look, I'm really sorry, but I'll be out door-knocking that night; I feel I should try to meet the whole of the electorate, not just special interest groups."
[Chapter 7, p. 96-97]
You will, I fear, have to do a bit of fundraising yourself; prepare for a stupefying round of trivia nights, cake stalls and barbecues at which you will be required to purchase endless raffle tickets and lucky door tokens, not to mention a lifetime's supply of homemade plum jam. You will also be expected to consume at least your own weight in burned sausages and warm beer, but in regard to the latter some caution is indicated.
I have written elsewhere about the perpetual floating ALP barbecue which wends its way from location to location, pausing only to replenish supplies but somehow always forgetting the ice. The Libs have their own equivalent, and I recall with pleasure Billy Snedden doing the thank-you speech at one such event in Queensland in the early '70s. Snedden had perhaps overindulged slightly in the XXXX, and proceeded thus: "Well, first of all I'd like to thank the good ladies of the branch here for providing such a scrumptious repast, and old Jack here for fixing up the hall, and Fred for getting us the sound system and his lovely wife for the flowers, and well, I'm sure there are other people I've forgotten, but who gives a fuck." Not all the plum jam north of the Tweed could compensate.
[...] And do keep a record of what you have spent, both for your own tax purposes and for any stickybeaks from the Electoral Commission who might take and unhealthy interest in your affairs in times to come. It doesn't have to be an accurate record of course, although it is best to avoid claiming to have been at two different fundraisers at the same time. The mere production of anything resembling a diary or an account book will send investigators into paroxysms of delight; because they can then inform their own superiors that all is well. It is only decent to look after them.
And so, at last, the sun rises on election day, as, traditionally, do many of the dead, but this is not something for the clean-cut young candidate to dwell on. [...]
[Chapter 8, p. 103-105]
But with just 24 hours to go, one last ambush remains: the last-minute scare. Here, timing is all. You have to get in while there are still enough hours left to make sure your warnings are read, but not enough time for your opponent to learn of the tactic and denounce it as an outrageous lie. Around Friday lunch hour is generally considered the best moment to strike. A copybook example came in 2001 when Larry Anthony, a junior minister in the Howard government, was struggling in his family's dynastic seat of Richmond. A particular area of concern was the large number of caravan parks in the electorate, whose resident felt they had been dudded by the application of GST to their site rentals and were threatening retribution.
Then, just as they were preparing to go to the polls and wreak it, leaflets were tucked under every van door revealing that Labor had a secret plan to remove the dreaded asylum seekers from the detention centres and relocate them in (you guessed it) caravan parks. It was too late for Labor's comprehensive denials to be heard; Anthony retained his seat, but (of course) knew absolutely nothing about this devastating act of electoral terrorism, and nor did anyone else.
Such masterstrokes are best improvised at the eleventh hour; it is hard to plan them in advance as circumstances can change. But it can be noted that the most effective generally involve some appeal to the innate racism and xenophobia of the Australian electorate. And of course, once again the Goebbels principle comes into play: the more absurd the accusation, the more likely it is to be believed, at least in the heat of the moment.
[Chapter 8, p. 105-106]
If direct bribery is your preferred method of operation, I can only suggest that you stick to state, or better still local, politics. It may be sensible to clear this matter up before we go on any further. Federal government in Australia is almost entirely free of direct monetary corruption. In state administrations shennanigans involving brown paper bags are not unknown; at local council levels they are all but endemic. But in the rarefied atmosphere of Canberra money seldom, if ever, changes hands.
It would be nice to think that this is because federal politicians are, by their very nature, sea-green incorruptibles. Certainly they usually set out with loftier aims than those on the lower tiers of government and they are often smarter. But the hard fact is that the opportunities for getting on the take at the national level are very limited. It is true that the contracts involved are huge, especially in areas like defence, but there are comparatively few of them and they are subject to very close scrutiny. The everyday transactions in which palms are greased like development approvals and trading licences are not likely to involve anyone on the commonwealth level.
[...] I trust this has not dashed your hopes unduly; and let me hasten to assure you that there are plenty of perfectly legal ways of making a bit of extra cash during your time in parliament, and I am sure you will have noticed that not many politicians retire broke. [...]
[Chapter 9, p. 120-121]
You will find that few of your colleagues observe any real form of asceticism. Some, rather ostentatiously, do; the National Party leader John Anderson extolled the virtues of chastity, so much so that he preached that those who broke the rules of marriage were too dishonest to have a place in the national parliament. All I can say is that if he had been taken seriously he would have had a pretty lonely time in the cabinet room, let alone in the parliament as a whole.
[Chapter 10, p. 133]
As a new member you will also be instructed in the details of what is expected from you as a backbencher, probably by the party whip. These are not difficult, and you may have heard them before: cleanliness, punctuality and unquestioning obedience to your seniors are the essentials. It will be made clear to you that your role in the decision-making process is to raise your hand when you are told to and to occupy your seat in the house when it is required.
[Chapter 10, p. 139]
[...] Peter Costello, a genuine high flyer, got his first big break through what was called the sports rorts affair; Hawke's minister Ros Kelly was eventually trapped into admitting that she and her staff distributed tens of millions of dollars to various sporting organisations by writing applications on "a great big white-board" and then ticking off the winners. Since a sizeable number of winners were in marginal Labor electorates, the feeling was the Kelly's methodology was just a fraction too casual and after a long and damaging defence she was forced to resign.
[...] In any operation as large as that of the federal government there are always going to be anomalies, mistakes and peccadilloes. The trick is to incite so much public (or at least media) outrage about them that the government has eventually to cut its losses rather than risk continued political damage.
This is more likely to happen if the minister involved is (a) weak and (b) expendable. When John Howard set up his Code of Ministerial Conduct he was, at first, quite happy to apply it stringently to sack junior ministers who violated its letter. Laster, when more senior ministers drove horses and carts through it, they survived because their dismissal would have been seen as too great a defeat - it was less costly to wear the stigma than chop it out. So when you start to chase after a malefactor, pick out your victim; the skilled hunter will always take the weakest member of the herd first.
Of course if you are on the government side the task becomes one of defence, but remember the best form of defence is to counterattack. If your side is getting a pasting during a committee hearing attempt to show firstly that the members on the other side behaved in a still more unsavoury fashion when they were in government and second that their scurrilous attacks on your minister are motivated purely by spite, envy, the tall poppy syndrome and, if the worst comes to the worst, that they are soft on border protection and aiding the cause of international terrorism, or whatever happens to be the fashionable bogyman of the time. This may not get you off the hook, but it should ensure that the trouble at least spreads into the opposition ranks as well. to
[Chapter 12, p. 161-162]
I have no doubt you have watched and listened to many debates in the house which are not merely rowdy but puerile. To the outsider they may be squirmingly embarrassing; how, you may ask, do these loudmouthed buffoons manage to keep a straight face? Who do they think they're impressing? The answer is all too simple: they are performing not for the discerning public, but for each other. Their immediate future lies not in the hands of the voters - the voters only get a say every three years or so, and that say does not include who will be in the ministry or even who will become the head of government. These are matters for the party room alone.
[...] Deals, flattery, threats and promises are part of the process, certainly; do not flinch from any opportunity to scheme and plot, however sordid and demeaning it may appear. But a good performance on the floor of the house, especially one that ridicules and humiliates your opponents, is the surest of all methods of advancement, and certainly the most satisfying. It doesn't matter in the least if you come over as a graceless and immature smartarse to the world at large as long as you get a pat on the back from your peers. How else can one account for the advancement of someone like Tony Abbot? He certainly didn't get where he is by being kind to dogs and children.
[Chapter 12, p. 164-165]
Ros Kelly, by contrast, was an unashamed go-getter from day one. She announced loudly that she wanted a ministry and she didn't care what it was - she'd be happy to become minister for cats and dogs as long as it got her into the front bench. Admirable as this honesty might have seemed, but was just a bit too blatant for her colleagues, who felt that a little more commitment to the cause would have been polite. Still, Kelly was forgiven much because the had previously been the wife of a journalist; her lack of subtlety and couth was therefore understandable.
[Chapter 13, p. 175]
One particularly grim scenario involves those areas where you have constant pressure from some of the more fanatical interest groups, particularly those who sneak the media in with them. It is said that upon achieving the rank of leader of the opposition, the equivalent at least of a very senior ministry, Kim Beazley told his staff that there was a new and unbreakable rule: his office was closed to women, greenies, Aborigines and gays. If they wanted to lobby the ALP they would have to go to his more junior colleagues and take their chances. This hard line enraged the groups concerned, but among insiders there was considerable sympathy for Beazley's stance: political life is too short to spend it talking to those who will never, ever be satisfied, no matter what concessions are made. This may sound a little unfair to the mainstream of all those barred by Beazley, many of whom can be quite rational for short periods, if kept away from stimulants such as disagreeing with anything they might say. But the fringe is something else again.
During the high days of feminist protest, when women wearing T-shirts bearing such encouraging slogans as "Dead Men Don't Rape" and "Women Who Want To Be Trucks" took over King's Hall and camped on the lawns outside, hardened members of parliament hid in the lavatories rather than risk face-to-face confrontation. I recall one shaking minister who had dared to walk through the camp to reach his office: he was told brusquely that this was "women's space", and to clear off. He protested feebly that it was in fact public land, but beat a hasty retreat when a group of amazonian types advanced on him. From the safety of the steps of Parliament House he turned around to see one of them triumphantly raise her skirt and urinate on the spot he had occupied, marking it as her own.
[Chapter 13, p. 180-181]
Even after you have placated and, with a bit of luck and skill, tamed your departmental man and your senior minister, there is still one more danger. Within the prime minister's very office there lurks a shadowy figure who is the leader's personal advisor on matters relating to your portfolio. This idea of a government within the government was started by Malcolm Fraser, who expanded the old Prime Minister's Department to make it a sort of super ministry shadowing everything. Since then leaders from both sides have taken up the idea and even the leader of the opposition now has staff advisors on just about everything. These people can be immensely powerful; Mark Latham's resignation from Kim Beazley's shadow ministry was a result of his draft education policy being rewritten in the leader's office. The same can happen to you - not, of course, the resignation, a weapon only to be used if you believe you can bring the leader down as a result, but the note declaring your efforts null and void and substituting whatever rush of blood to the head the leader's advisor has suffered.
[Chapter 13, p. 182]
In the run-up to the 1977 elections John Howard was a newly arrived solicitor whom Malcolm Fraser had buried in the undistinguished and short-lived portfolio of Special Trade Negations. In the normal course of events he would have stayed there for some time, in spite of having squirmed his way into Fraser's confidence. But then the treasurer, Phillip Lynch, suddenly found himself in the middle of a series of sordid allegations concerning shonky property dealings. He instantly disappeared into hospital citing a problem with a kidney stone (what is it about this organ which makes it so attractive to politicians in trouble?) but the media didn't let up. Fraser, caught in the middle of an election campaign, finally got tired of being asked if his treasurer was a little crook by smartarse reporters pretending to inquire about Lynch's health and decided the man had to go; and, as he cast around for a replacement among his rather shop-soiled team, there was the gnomish figure of John Howard, clean as a hound's tooth and radiating availability. And the rest is history.
You are, of course, unlikely to have luck like that; but for the moment at least, keep yourself nice. [...]
[Chapter 13, p. 183-4]
[...] You will be targeted as a newcomer during question time: hit back with barely controlled violence. You will always get more points for bashing the opposition than for defending the government, and practically none for giving an honest and considered reply. Some years ago an observer from the parliamentary library rechristened question time, the 45 minutes or so allocated daily to questions without notice, "Questions without Answers", and things have only got worse since. Question time is simply an opportunity for combat; it has as much to do with the exchange of information as does world championship wrestling. Get in there with all boots flailing.
[Chapter 14, p. 192]
[...] if the public was really going to be turned off the political process by the occasional stoush it would have happened long ago. Whatever bitterness there is these days is a mere shadow of what happened back in 1909, when Alfred Deakin's Protectionist Party, which had supported Andrew Fisher's minority Labor government, decided to merge with the Freetraders under Joseph Cook to form the conservative anti-Labor alliance which has shaped Australian politics ever since. Sir William Lyne, who stayed loyal to Labor, shouted at Deakin: "Judas! Judas! Judas!" Labor's Billy Hughes replied mildly: "I do not agree with that; it is not fair to Judas, for whom there this is to be said, that he did not gag the man whom he betrayed, nor did he fail to hang himself afterwards." On another occasion Hughes's invective enraged Deakin to the point where the prime minister interjected: "I deny it! I deny it! I deny it!" There was a silence; the speaker asked Hughes if he had finished his speech, to which Hughes replied: "Oh no, Mr Speaker, I was just waiting for the cock to crow." [...]
But even this was tame stuff compared to the colonial parliaments of the nineteenth century. In the New South Wales Legislative Assembly in 1886 a debate on the innocuous subject of tariffs produced amazing scenes. [...] The magazine Table Talk reports one occasion when "members simply knocked the stuffing out of each other and kicked each other in a most sacred part". [...]
[...] But remember also that unmitigated aggression is not enough by itself. Even Billy Hughes had a flashing sense of wit, as can be seen from the exchanges noted above. Paul Keating, reviled by his opponents as one of the more ruthless and foul-mouthed players of the modern era, could also be both funny and charming when he chose, as he put it, to throw the switch to vaudeville. John Howard lacks that kind of easy mastery; in full flight he sounds like nothing so much as an aggrieved duck. But no one has ever accused him of lack of toughness.
[Chapter 14, p. 196-198]
And now for the nitty-gritty. For most of your career you will have been a loyal supporter of your leader, whoever he happens to be. This will always win you brownie points, even when your leader is demonstrably hopeless. The only possible exception to the rule is when it becomes obvious that your leader is doomed, and that the challenger unquestionably has the numbers. You may then say that, in the interests of party solidarity and to avoid ongoing divisions and bitterness, you will throw you weight and that of your supporters (mythical or otherwise) behind the new order - always bearing in mind the true, if cynical, adage: "Treason doth never prosper - what's the reason? For it it prosper, none dare call it treason." Even in the 16th century, Sir John Harington knew his politics.
[Chapter 15, p. 207-208]
It was at this moment [upon becoming Prime Minister] in his career that John Howard announced casually that rather than move to Canberra he planned to take over Kirribilli House, the Sydney harbourside mansion previously only available to prime ministers only when it was not being used by visiting VIPs. The ostensible reason? As a good family man he wanted to be near his son during his last year at school. Six years later the Howard family was scattered across the face of the earth, although still funded by taxpayers for everything from parking fees to conducted tours of Paris. But John and (especially) Janette were still ensconced at Kirribilli, and it would have take several tonnes of high explosive to remove them.
This was grand larceny on an epic scale: a theft of public property that would have made Ronald Biggs envious. But Howard received far less criticism for his audacious robbery than Paul Keating had received a couple of years earlier for his purchase of a new dining table for the Lodge. It's all in the timing. Seize the day; it will be a long time before you can act in such an untrammelled fashion again.
There is an old joke about the prime minister who, on coming to office, finds that his predecessor has left him three envelopes, to be opened in order in the event of a major political crisis. After a few months the first disaster strikes; the PM opens the first envelope and finds the advice: "Blame your predecessors." So he gets stuck into the opposition for its terrible failures and the mess it has left behind for his government to clean up, and it works; things return to normal. Then a bit further down the track comes a new predicament; the second envelope suggests: "Blame the media." So he lambasts the press, radio and television for their bias, their incompetence and their inability to report what really matters; and again things settle down. But once again an emergency looms, so the PM confidently opens the last envelope. This time the message is stark: "Prepare three envelopes."
It makes a nice story, but it's manifestly untrue; it it weren't, very few governments in Australia would survive their first year. For starters, there are many more scapegoats around than just the opposition and the media, and all of them can be used more than once. Over the years the Westminster system, under which minister take responsibility for their departments and the prime minister takes overall responsibility for the government, has been eroded to a vanishing point; one gets the impression that most of our recent leaders have had a sign behind their desks which reads: "The buck stops somewhere else." It is now normal for politicians to duckshove the blame for their own shortcomings back to the public service, which appears to accepts its role as an Aunt Sally more or less philosophically; after all, in spite of the constant stream of complaints the shiny bums never get fired, mainly because if they did they might start telling the truth about what went on.
On top of this it is now considered acceptable - indeed, almost compulsory - for incoming governments to politicise the upper reaches of the public service to such an extent that they have almost become subsidiaries of the governing party. Once again Howard has made this into an art form; not only is the executive level of the service itself crammed with like-minded zealots, but ministers have been encouraged to appoint sympathisers to any advisory bodies under their control. The idea of jobs for the boys and the spoils to the victors has always been a reasonably common perk of Australian politics, but successive Howard governments have taken it to an entirely new level. So follow suit immediately. Miss no opportunity to stack everything in sight with your supporters. You will be surprised and gratified to discover how many positions there are to fill.
[Chapter 16, p. 217-219]
[...] Even though you have by now suborned all those in your own party who are subornable, there remains the problem of the minorities who hold the balance of power in the senate.
This unrepresentative swill, as Paul Keating once described it (and every prime minister from either side of politics would secretly agree with him), almost invariably contains a mish-mash of riffraff, a sprinkling of amateurs, dilettantes, cranks and fanatics who, while knowing they will never have the awesome responsibility of government themselves, seek to subvert the clear mandate of the House of Representatives for their own ends, and my, don't they have fun doing it. Most of the time this doesn't matter; a hostile senate is just another body you can blame for your own failure to deliver your election promises, and while it can frustrate your program, your program is, after all, secondary to your maintaining power, as is everything else.
[Chapter 17, p. 236-237]
[...] Then, a few months into [John Howard's] prime ministership, a lunatic gunman went on a killing spree at Port Arthur, committing the worst massacre in white Australian history - forget all that black-armband stuff about the Aborigines, in whom there are no votes. Both the left and the right expected the usual reaction from Howard - more law and order, but no interference with the God-given rights of law-abiding citizens to own arsenals up to and including tactical nukes. But to everyone's astonishment the prime minister went for tougher gun control.
It was a masterstroke; it was seen as a difficult and courageous decision, an impression Howard reinforced by appearing at a protest meeting wearing a bulletproof vest. It was seen as confirmation that Howard really would govern for all Australians, that he was not after all a prisoner of the far-right. It was seen as the act of a statesman not afraid to take the unpopular course. Did I say unpopular? The polls said that no less than 92 per cent of the populace agreed with him. 92 per cent. You couldn't get that sort of consensus about the pope being a Catholic. Dissent was limited to a tiny minority of mainly nutters. And yet Howard was able to sell his policy as a brave and uncompromising stroke of leadership rather than the shameless populism it really was.
That, my boy, is brilliant politics. If you manage anything half as preposterous you are secure on top of the greasy totem pole.
[Chapter 17, p. 244]

From Satire -- or Sedition? by Jonathan Biggins (Currency House, Australia, 2006):

Quiet revenge was taken upon Mr [Piers] Akerman in the form of Drew Forsythe's bloated Bile Man, a foaming right-wing columnist, waging a one-man culture war [...]
[p. 29]
It is not the job of revue to have favourites, but to satirise politics of all persuasions. This 'take no prisoners' approach strengthens the validity of our criticisms, which become more difficult to dismiss as party-political grandstanding. On the other hand, it's hardly surprising that, in this decade of sustained right-wing government, the conservatives should find themselves more often on the receiving end than any other party. Whatever our personal political allegiances as writers-and we make no secret of these -- this is not a case of inherent bias, rather of unavoidable bias, given that the intrinsic role of satire is to specifically target those who actually wield the power and influence.
However, there are those who believe that an ideological position is imperative. Rod Quantock, for example, veteran of the political stand-up comedy scene -- he practically is that scene! -- has difficulty in offending the ALP As he said on ABC radio in the early years of the Howard Government:
I think there's a group of comedians who would be politically non-aligned, apathetic even. I mean to the point where there's a very popular view that all politicians are stupid, which is very helpful to politicians because you've dismissed them out of hand [ ... s]o there is a range of comedians [who] don't look very carefully at the issues [...].
Such blanket public cynicism is exacerbated in this age of an emasculated Opposition that is choked of oxygen by the bypassing of traditional parliamentary debate, Senate accountability and a tightly controlled Government media agenda.
Indeed, the tighter the Government's control of the national agenda becomes, and the more success fully John Howard exploits what has been described as 'democratic majoritarianism' by marginalising any opposition, the more vital satire becomes to our national well-being. It is Robyn Nevin's contention that the Wharf Revue 'provid[es] a service to the community, offering an oppositional viewpoint and a release from the frustration of a lack of engagement between the political process and the community'. And Rob Brookman echoes this sentiment: As the Government's media control and increasingly clever tactics stifle debate, the [Wharf Revue] provides points of resistance that can only be to the good. [It is] for people who feel battered by their impotence in the face of the monolith the Government has become, providing a sense of "I'm not alone".'
The phenomenon is not confined to Australia. The Italian elections this year were fought in extraordinary circumstances, namely that the lion's share of the country's mass media was under the family control of the incumbent leader, Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Political satirists became one of the few sources of an alternative viewpoint, not only on television but also in live performance, echoing the South African experience under apartheid, in which the theatre offered one of the few points of resistance.
[p. 29-31]

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