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

permit these guards to refuse entry to the underage, or the obscenely drunk? Do the proprietors not reserve the right for additional, constructive discrimination? And in turn, do we, as a society, resent this practice? Do we think it illiberal, or ineffective? Of course not. The underaged, the pissed, the gang-affiliated, and those with inappropriate footwear — they can still roam freely. Just not on this particular dance floor. See, the beach is our dance floor, Sophie — and I’m head of security. And I won’t tolerate these finned pricks in our premise. I won’t. And I make no apologies for that.’

‘Prime Minister, if I could bring you back to the original question. Bob asked if you thought the aged pension was sufficient, given the rising costs of living.’

‘It’s a great question. But let me tell you something: the aged pension is academic if you’ve been eaten by a shark before retirement. Right? It’s a moot point. There’s no inflation in heaven. You’ll want for nothing. Finest welfare state you’ll ever know is in Christ’s kingdom. Leaves the Swedes in the dirt.’

‘Prime Minister—’

‘Bob, I’ll tell you something else you won’t find in heaven: terrorists. Wet ones, or the human kind. In fact, there’s heaps of things you won’t find in heaven: asthma, self-doubt, data entry. Great place. What you will find is an infinite smorgasbord, offering the warmest contentment. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?’ But then the Prime Minister’s face was twisted slightly by profound contemplation.

‘But can you have children in heaven?’ the PM asked himself aloud. ‘I’m not sure … Actually, it seems unlikely, now that I think about it. Offers a shortcut. The babies would be queue jumpers. Our Lord and Saviour would have noticed this loophole. So I guess procreation’s out. That might be a downside for some.’

Suddenly, arms flung skyward.

‘Prime Minister, do water-polo players go to heaven?’

‘That’s an excellent question. What’s your name?’

‘Margaret.’

‘Margaret. Thank you. You know, this is what I like about these things, Maggie. Can I call you Maggie? When I escape Canberra, I find incision. I hear questions that cut to the bone. I love it. Now, I’m not a theologian, Maggie. I’m not a man of the cloth. I make no special claims to spiritual insight. But I will say this: water polo demands the best of you. It’s a test. Of fortitude, talent, camaraderie. You’re treading water, for the love of Christ. I have no doubt that these blessed men and women will rise to the kingdom of heaven. Consider their grace above water — and their grim, violent determination beneath it. Seems to me like their souls have already been tested.’

You could feel it. The temperature rising. Before he strode onstage, the psychic warmth of the audience was tepid — they were pre-emptively bored, frustrated. Now something was happening. Something beguiling. Something unprecedented.

‘Prime Minister, you said earlier that people can’t have babies in heaven. Can you expand on this? My wife and I have thought for a long time about having children, but, for a few reasons I won’t get into, we haven’t, and now we feel like maybe we’re too old.’

‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Frank.’

‘Frank, I love the candour. Cuts right through me. In the best way. I’m starting to feel like we’re gathered ’round a bonfire tonight. Sharing yarns. Roasting marshmallows. Thank you. And remind me to get out of Canberra more often, okay? Nothing there but frost and knives.

‘Now, babies in heaven. Big question. And, Frank? It makes no sense to me. For the reasons I gave. They’d be queue jumpers. I’m Catholic, and I grew up knowing that some demanding vetting goes on before you pass those gates. And they’ve got bigger bouncers than me. So to be born into heaven? Doesn’t seem right, Frank. Have ’em now.’

‘But my wife is 42, Prime Minister, and I’m 45.’

‘Well, that’s a pickle. Gets complicated after a time. But are you denying us another prime minister? Perhaps. An exquisitely skilled painter of monkeys? Maybe. And Frank, let me remind you of the contentment available up there. It’s all-you-can-eat, mate. Ribs, lobster, blissful surrender. Whatever you like. I reckon that answers to your Earthly discontent.’

‘Do you mean that we won’t bring our regrets to heaven?’

‘Exactly. Next question.’

‘I have one, Prime Minister,’ the moderator said. ‘Your opponent is absent tonight. Why?’

‘I’ve already explained this.’

‘Yes, but perhaps you’d like to explain it again for this audience.’

‘I’ll debate him if we can agree to terms. So tonight isn’t an alternative to a debate, Sophie. It’s in addition to one. And, frankly, I think the worth of tonight’s forum is now self-evident. Tonight is an opportunity to listen attentively, and to respond candidly — to have a conversation unspoilt by political aggression and point scoring. See, a debate is a great way of suggesting scrutiny while actually deflecting it. That hasn’t happened tonight. Tonight, the good people have had communion with their government’s leader. Warm. Unvarnished. Respectful. I can’t speak for them, but I can tell you that I’m better for it. I know Aussies a little more, and I hope they can say the same of me.’

I thought the last bit was undeniably true.

‘In the final minutes we have tonight, Prime Minister, is there any appeal you’d like to make to the Australian people?’

‘There is something on my mind, Sophie. A certain confusion. Is confusion “on” your mind, or “in” it?’

‘What’s your confusion, Prime Minister?’

‘I’d like to ask a question of the Australian people. It’s not one they can, or should, answer now. I guess it’s more of an intellectual exercise. But it stems from a few sleepless nights I’ve had. Some troubled rumination.’

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t square all the sentiments. See, I follow the polls. We’re not supposed to tell you that. We’re meant to affect some noble indifference. And not just to the polls, but to all of it — the columns, the endless TV chatter. I’ll cop to it: I read and hear this stuff. We all do. We’re not above