On Monday morning this week, Peter Dutton, leader of the opposition Liberal Party, introduced his son Harry to the microphone. Dutton clearly hoped that Harry — chisel-jawed and conventionally handsome to an almost ridiculous degree — would boost his party’s shambolic election campaign. Harry told the journalists he was “saving like mad” for a deposit on an apartment in Australia’s absurdly overheated housing market. It was a great everyman story — until the journos started asking Dutton himself whether he’d help his son cobble together the deposit.
He can afford it, after all. Dutton isn’t just a professional politician — he’s also a property developer who has made $30 million over the last thirty-five years from property transactions. Dutton refused to answer these questions, turning another moment in the Liberal campaign into a disaster. Not only did it look like a complete con, but the suggestion that Dutton might not help his son with a deposit seemed a denial of natural human sentiment. What bastard, being rich, wouldn’t break off a piece for his kids?
Political campaigns will go badly or well, and the temptation to focus on such can be depoliticizing, turning political journalism into review writing. But there comes a point where a party’s performance is so dismally bad that it marks an interpretable event, expressive of deeper movements in the political structure. In this election, Australia’s Liberal Party passed that point some time ago. In a matter of mere weeks, it has destroyed its own credibility on policy, the image of its leader as a man of decision and leadership, and its reputation for basic competence.
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Auteur: Guy Rundle
