The Speechwriter by Martin McKenzie-Murray (best biographies to read TXT) 📕

‘That were disputed.’

‘They found him, didn’t they?’

‘I think the issue with the film, putting aside the morality of torture, was the centrality of it in finding Bin Laden.’

‘Did they, or did they not, give that motherfucker a bath?’

‘I can’t stress this enough, Jason,’ John said. ‘It’s not a bath, and we’re not turning my floor into a black site.’

‘Fine.’ Jason shook his head.*

[* ‘I don’t get this, Toby.’

‘Get what?’

‘The dates are all over the place here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re referencing a film, yeah, that hasn’t come out yet.’

‘No, they’re not.’

‘You’re not fucken reliable, mate.’]

‘What else can you suggest?’

‘Surveillance. I’ve been looking into some spy shit. Tiny cameras. Motion sensors, night-vision. Can order them. Just need to figure where to put ’em.’

‘How much?’

‘One, two grand.’

‘Is this authorised?’

‘You’ll have to speak with the secretary.’

John rapped his pen on the table. ‘I’ll ask her today. And none of this leaves this room.’

Having recently considered the department’s liability under OH&S laws, the Wizard quickly authorised the operation. Sick leave was up dramatically, and the elevator was now conveying the stench to other floors. When the cameras arrived, John, Jason, and I stayed back late and discreetly positioned them.

The cosmic Sherpa

Sky News was defending pedos again. This seemed to be happening a few times a week now.

‘The teacher in question here has merely asked a 12-year-old boy to lick his penis like a kitten licks milk.’

‘There’s no sex.’

‘None.’

‘I’m bewildered by the conviction, to be absolutely honest.’

‘Well, there’s an agenda here.’

‘There’s absolutely an agenda.’*

[* Garry says he’d ‘fucken love them to try that shit in here’.]

Cam the Intern was completing his replica of Westminster Abbey made entirely of erasers. ‘There’s 2,684 in total,’ he told me proudly, as he glued together the final pieces of the second tower. Inspired, I asked Abigail to order 4,000, so I could build St. Stephen’s Basilica.

A week later, John was yelling for me. I was no longer grateful for work, and fervently hoped he was commissioning another time-travelling hit on an infant tyrant. ‘The Minister is speaking at the opening of the Newtown Gallery of Bad Art.’

‘Jesus.’

‘That’s the brief.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t ask why, Toby.’

‘The Minister doesn’t even like good art.’

‘And Stanley wants you there.’

‘At the launch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they fucking hate you, Toby.’

This had Stanley’s fingerprints all over it. Despite having the Arts portfolio, the Minister was proudly philistine. There’d be few people he loathed more than gallery owners who curate ironically. But Stanley had obviously spied an opportunity to boost his master’s inner-city cred, even if it required the Minister assuming the role of lame uncle, and deferring to the maddening pretensions of his hosts.

Today, I suspect some crude arithmetic: the gallery was in the Minister’s electorate, a swathe of inner Sydney that the Greens, commensurate with gentrification, had been slowly encroaching upon for years. Offering funding and his imprimatur to the gallery might be useful, because the only people who could appreciate a gold-plated dumpster filled with dead possums were Greens voters.

I can now imagine Stanley in his yacht shoes and undercut, studying the results of the previous election, gravely determining that the Greens might be a threat, and believing that this blandly cursory analysis was richly insightful. ‘The Greens have opened a front on us, sir,’ he would say. ‘We must fight them in the cafes, in the galleries, in the memes.’

I went online to find the gallery’s prospectus. For $40,000 you could purchase a skateboard with a coiled turd on it. They only accepted BitCoin. Beneath a photo of a man ironing a Whopper were these helpful words: ‘$hrillst3r fucks shit up … sick of the mental dungeon.’

That the Minister would attend this event, much less feign respect for it, was surprising. Stanley’s pitch must have been persuasive.

I opened a blank document, typed the word ‘Art’ and stared at it until its familiarity began dissolving. Then I kept staring until it was a small, alien arrangement. ART. A.R.T. A … R … T … The phone startled me from my trance. It was Stanley. ‘It would be hard to fuck this up, Toby,’ he said, ‘but if there was a man for that job, it’d be you.’

‘Appreciate it.’

‘The Minister can’t be a try-hard. He can’t be seen to be ingratiating.’

‘The whole point is for him to ingratiate himself.’

‘You missed my qualifier. The Minister can’t be seen to be ingratiating.’

‘Fine.’

‘The Minister’s subtlety will be the real art that night. He can’t pretend to understand their interests, but he does understand the importance of artistic expression in a healthy democracy.’

‘Stanley, that’s neither artful nor subtle.’

‘See you at the speech, Toby. Bye, bye.’

I googled ‘inspiring art quotes’.*

[* ‘Don’t mind some art. I’ve seen this hyper-realistic stuff, yeah, which makes you think, “How the fuck did he do that with some hair and toothpaste?” [A brush and oil paint.] Skilful shit, and I respect it, but it doesn’t give the imagination much to do, does it? Leaves ya cold. Which is why I’m fucken drawn, Toby, to the more impressionistic shit. If you’re gifted, a few strokes can suggest the world, but your mind’s gotta work a little. Quiet work. Very subtle.’]

The gallery was a repurposed flour mill, with a skate bowl sunk in the middle. When I arrived, two naked skaters were making gracefully entwined patterns. A DJ was playing Tom Waits backwards. Waiters in baggy denim overalls offered trays of drinks and raw salmon. I declined the fish, took the wine, and found a quiet corner to hopefully dissolve in. I looked around at the art: from the floor rose a giant pyramid of dead beetles, against which rested its title card: ‘Pancreatic Summer’. Next to this was a plastic squid with a Rubik’s cube for an eye. Enigmatically, it was untitled.

The organisers had the power to discomfort the Minister, and they clearly cherished it. It elevated their stature, that they might lure a politician to a cave of decadent, self-conscious oddity and refuse to limit his embarrassment. When the Minister arrived, nervously ushered in by Stanley,