“I would like to keep our place like it is and I guess (joining the) Liberals would be natural.” This was the important announcement this week from a colourful and in no way unhinged Sydney resident, Kate McCulloch of Camden, after she had successfully prodded at her local council to reject a proposed building site for an Islamic school.
This, of course, was after she’d appeared on television wearing an oversized Akubra hat that had Australian flag postcards stapled to it like a misguidedly patriotic entrant in a primary school parade, blithely referred to our general Muslim population as “the ones that come here”, and then rounded off by declaring that famous colonials John and Elizabeth Macarthur would no doubt be on Team McCulloch were they a) alive and b) remotely concerned with local education-based planning issues. She certainly couldn’t be accused of being dull.
What the Liberal Party made of her coy public flirtations can only be a matter of speculation. Presumably they spent the ensuing hours changing their locks and answering the phone using a comedy accent and repeating the words “Brendan Nelson? Nobody here by that name, sorry”, though this is, of course, guesswork.
Who knows, perhaps a wild-eyed maverick with a fondness for controversially divisive politics and potentially slanderous quips may be just the thing they’re looking for. Wilson Tuckey won’t live forever, you know.
With folk like Tuckey and McCulloch in mind, I’ll proffer this alarming truth: you can never hand pick those who appoint themselves as mouthpieces for your particular cause. And more’s the pity, too. No doubt there were a small number of Camden residents who may well have opposed the Islamic school solely on planning grounds and would have quietly preferred rabid “get orf my land” types like McCulloch to shut the hell up and let them handle things, but those few, it’s sad to note, never made it to the papers. What was that Groucho said about not wanting to belong to any club that would have you as a member?
As a young lady with left-leaning tendencies, I’m far happier when the acerbic wit of comedian Jon Stewart steps up to bat for my side, rather than the interminable musical stylings of John Butler. It could be an entirely personal thing, but a well-timed satirical knockknock joke seems able to prick a few more consciences than an eight-minute marimba solo.
Bill Hicks is infinitely preferable to the caterwauling of the Dixie Chicks, Stephen Colbert is hands-down more punk rock than Rage Against the Machine will ever be, and Chris Martin from Coldplay seems a nice enough chap but should almost certainly stop writing about coffee beans all over his hands and just play the piano.
Michael Franti’s another sanctimonious prig the left may be relatively pleased to get rid of. If I see one more interview where he pads around barefoot proclaiming to be a “citizen of the Earth” I’m going to stab someone. Why can’t he be a spokesman for baby-kicking and identity theft? At the very least I’d feel less guilty about throwing things at him every time he busts out that tepid bumper sticker rhyme, “We can bomb the world to pieces, but we can’t bomb it to peace.” Right-wing redneck homophobic logging whale-killer extremists: take our Franti. Please.
In terms of conservative comedians you’ve got the inherently amusing Ann Coulter, creator of such outstanding zingers as “My only regret with (Oklahoma bomber) Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to The New York Times building” and, “It would be a much better country if women did not vote.” Last I heard she had a sold-out run at the Hammersmith Apollo with her one-woman stand-up show AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted. Or wait, maybe that was Ice Cube. Anyway, she’s no doubt doing wonders for the cause.
The same can’t be said of the vast majority of Stormfront members who appear to have trouble with spelling, no doubt sadly setting the cause of white supremacists back a couple of decades or so, and I don’t know whose side serial pest Peter Hore is on, but if he ever professes a love for literature and the Tote Hotel in Collingwood, I’m switching teams.
Musician Alice Cooper’s a rabid conservative, a fact that no doubt thrills Mr and Mrs Middle America, particularly when the one-time Vincent Furnier wraps himself festively in long-suffering boa constrictors or pretends to hang himself on stage while wearing make-up.
Who in their right mind would want their personal politics represented by a man who once sang the words, “Thrill my gorilla/ Where were you when the monkey hit the fan?”
At least Johnny Ramone made decent music and had a nice haircut. And in the end, isn’t that all you want from the spokesperson of your cause? Someone offer Mrs McCulloch a cup of tea and a sit-down—she’s inflicting some major damage.