Australian politicians have raised their voices to the heavens about the fact Anthony Mundine is refusing to stand for the national anthem when he fights Danny Green on Friday night.
It’s at least heartening to know they can make a noise – some, particularly the Prime Minister – have been as quiet as tea-cup puppies lately when confronted with moments when they’ve had to speak up.
“I don’t agree with him,” the Prime Minister growled, his secretary doubtless bogging her tweeds in shock at the sudden noise from her master’s office. “Our national anthem unites all Australians: everyone from our first Australians, to the newest baby in the arms of a migrant mother.”
Thank God, Malcolm, that you’ve spoken up on immigration! We thought you had no opinion on the matter. It’s just a shame you didn’t think to mention your doting adoration of immigrants when you were on the phone to Donald Trump earlier in the week. Guess you were doodling dollar signs on your blotter and momentarily zoned out of the conversation, slamming your palm to your face when you hung up and realised you’d missed your chance to show some minerals. But then, representing your people when in dialogue with international counterparts is “not my job”, as you say. Talking about the boxing, apparently, is. You gutless garbage bag of bacteria. Get a job.
And then there’s Cory Bernardi – a rower once, but a politician today. You know what they say about rowers – that they’re always led by their cox – and Cory didn’t disappoint in showing how much testosterone surges through that brain of his.
“I’ll be ringside on Friday night,” he bellowed, the Jesus on his necklace nearly wetting His sackcloth in fright, “and I’ll be sure to let Anthony Mundine know my thoughts.”
Oh, Cory … what a man! You’re gonna’ give a boxer a piece of your mind. How impressive! Your biceps must burst the seams of your Van Heusen whenever you so much as unzip to piddle. You’re hard – harder than hard. “Hardy Bernardi”, that’s who you are. I’ll bet that’s what the ladies whisper as they slither all over your trim front lawn in the mornings, gagging for the moment when your muscular fingers scissor the slats on your Venetian blinds so you can flash a heroic smile, just a hint of wolfish danger in the lone Coco Pop that’s stuck between your tooth gap. You bible-belting bucket of thrush.
As for Pauline Hanson, she loaned us the contents of her Jupiter-sized brain with regards not just Tony Mundine, but also Jessica Mauboy, who will sing the anthem on Friday night.
“I think she is beautiful and has a fantastic voice,” she shrieked. “Who cares what Anthony Mundine is saying?”
You know, I once saw a person who looked a dead ringer for a lizard with a rusty Steelo pad stuck on its head, but I didn’t comment, Pauline, because I’m not a judge at a beauty pageant, just as you’re not paid to be a music critic.
Exactly who do these simpletons think they are? We employed them to do an important job, and that job is to keep the machinations of society turning; to grease the wheels of industry, manage the national finances, and keep our sewerage from splashing back in our faces – to shovel our crap, basically. Yet the moment they assume their positions at the coalface they make like preachers, art curators and weird calisthenics instructors, barking orders as to when we should sit or stand while certain pieces of music are playing.
Put any of these creeps into the jaws of a crucial international moment – one that may, quite possibly, spell curtains for the planet – and they wither like ancient party balloons. But throw a play fight, preceded by a tune, and they roar with the rhetoric of titans.
Malcolm, Cory, Pauline and others: Just as we don’t need the plumber to comment on the contents of our underwear drawers, we don’t need your docile opinions about the things we do for kicks.
Do your jobs and shut up.