Peter Costello, Malcolm Turnbull, death by essay writing and reading and enough already fair knights

(Above: Dame Nellie Melba liked the sound of her own voice. But then so did a lot of other people. Can the same be said for Peter Costello? And at least you can find her image on a hundred buck note. I fancy the visage of Peter Costello on a dud two cent coin).

Doing a Melba is a phrase now so hoary and wreathed in the mysteries of time that it's like explaining the what, why and wherefore of a peach melba.

But it comes about from the many farewell tours launched by the canny Dame Nellie Melba as she sought to bolster her retirement funds (Wikipedia here).

Now it's not enough that we regularly have Peter Costello doing his vanishing cat, "just one last thought before I go", Melba routine in the Fairfax rags. Suddenly the editor of The Australian has decided that we need yet another extract from The Costello Memoirs, simply because an updated paperback edition is going to hit the remainder bins next week. Well actually the front of shop for a week, and then the remainder bins.

As always, the self satisfied smirk exudes from the pages into the world in a way which makes smug complacency and self satisfaction seem like a way of life. But I particularly liked this bit, which might remind you of the Black Knight in Monty Python or the "I coulda been a contender" speech in On the Waterfront:

If the election had been held 12 months later, when the instability was apparent, the Coalition would have done much better -- in all probability it would have won -- since it had such a lead on economic management.

Hey GFC is that the best you've got. If we'd been in, we coulda whupped your hide. Sure and I could've been champeen of the world, if I'd happened to be Muhammad Ali. If, if, if. In all probability. Blather, blather, blather.

Meantime, for the love of the lord, can someone explain to editors that the world is over Costello, and point him in the direction of the private sector or a retirement home. What's that, the private sector doesn't have much use for a complacent, smug self satisfied gherkin? But he could have saved the world:

Before the 2007 election, when I warned of economic risks, no one wanted to hear it. The general consensus was that the economy was strong and other issues such as global warming were more important.

Why Nostradamus ain't got nothing on our pistol packing Pete. He warned us all, he told us all. Gee, I must have misheard all that blather about how great the economy was doing - provided Peter and the gang kept running the show - right before the election, and right before the rug got yanked out.

There's plenty more blather here, under the header A time of your own choosing, which I guess is a reference to how Peter Costello is intending to make an impending departure at some time in the near future, going towards a setting sun somewhere near the horizon of lost verbiage. Except this sun somehow never manages to set. As if we're Al Pacino trying to get to sleep in the land of the midnight sun.

Meantime, in what seems likely to become a death by a thousand essays for the electorate, The Australian has also decided that now would be a good time to publish a Malcolm Turnbull riposte to the blather of Chairman Rudd (under the header A debt to the future).

There's a real danger here. Politicians are going to put loon commentariat columnists out of business by going directly to readers.

But what's the point? Turnbull writes in the style of an Akker Dakker: "tedious spin", "philosopher-king issuing edicts from on high", "poll-driven", "changes with the seasons", "economic meanderings", "breathtaking, Orwellian disregard for the truth", "the great helmsman", "reckless and irresponsible decisions", "the heaviest price", "foolish and reckless gamble", and so on and on, as if the solution to the tedium of Chairman Rudd was to offer yet more verbose tedium. 

And worse, Turnbull has written it in a series of statements seemingly designed for recycling as tweets so the twits can read them in pre-digested pap form.

Remember the good old days when a man was a man, and he was the silent, laconic type. Gary Cooper mebbe. If there were some things he couldn't walk around, he'd walk straight through them. Didn't have time for jawboning when he could be out doing. Fixing things with fencing wire and a stocking from his true love.

Well I guess politicians never did conform to that stereotype - jibber jabber is their stock in trade - but if we can hold one main thing against Chairman Rudd, it's the introduction of the dueling essay (with introduction, development of points, forceful restatement of the main themes, and strong conclusion) into the nation's political life.

Enough already. Just get back to calling each other twits, and for the love of the lord, keep it short and sweet. Succinct.

If a prime minister cannot answer those questions effectively in 6000 words, we can only assume he doesn't have the answers.

By my count, it took Malcolm Turnbull 2,988 words to tell us that Chairman Rudd didn't have the answers. Which doesn't mean that Turnbull has any answers - except the obvious one. 

Oh pick me, pick me, shrieks donkey, me! Me!

Now if this pair keep on going with their essays at ten paces, the commentariat columnists will start dropping like flies, and sites like this, dedicated in a verbose way to the verbosity of loons, will also wither and die.

Come on lads, back to the main game. You're a twit. No, you're a twit. No, you're the twit. No, you're the twit with heaps of freckles. 

Now here's an example of refined political discourse we're looking for:

Black Knight: Come on, then! (kicks Arthur again)
Arthur: (on the ground) What?!?
Black Knight: (kicking him again) Have at you!
Arthur: (getting up) You are indeed brave, sir knight, but the fight
is mine!
Black Knight: Ohhh, had enough, eh?
Arthur: Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no arms left!
Black Knight: Yes I have!
Arthur: LOOK!!!
Black Knight: Just a flesh wound! (kicking Arthur again)
Arthur: Look, STOP that!
Black Knight: Chicken!!! Chicken!!!!!!!
Arthur: Look, I'll have your leg!
(The Black Knight continues his kicking)
Arthur: RIGHT! (He chops off the black knight's leg with his sword)
Black Knight: (hopping) Right! I'll do you for that!
Arthur: You'll WHAT?
Black Knight: Come 'ere!
Arthur: (tiring of this) What're you going to do, bleed on me?
Black Knight: I'm INVINCIBLE!
Arthur: You're a loony....
Black Knight: The Black Knight ALWAYS TRIUMPHS! Have at you!!
(hopping around, trying to kick Arthur with his one remaining
leg)

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and, with a mighty swing, removes the Black
Knight's last limb. The Knight falls to the ground. He looks about,
realizing he can't move.

Black Knight: Okay, we'll call it a draw.
Arthur: Come, Pasty! (they "ride" away)

Black Knight: (calling after them) Oh! Had enough, eh? Come back and take
what's coming to you, you yellow bastards!! Come back here and
take what's coming to you! I'll bite your legs off!