Rather than a trial by fire on the campaign trail, young Scott Morrison enjoyed something of a career as a child actor in the 1970s, appearing in a number of television commercials — including one for Vicks cough drops with the catchy jingle, “Vicks’ll lick a ticklin’ throat”.

This ability to sell would come in handy later in life when, after university, Morrison took up a career in tourism.

Parlaying a gig with the New Zealand Office of Tourism and Sport (Morrison’s maternal grandfather was from New Zealand, hence the Kiwi connection) into a role as managing director of Tourism Australia, in the mid-2000s Morrison presided over the controversial “So where the bloody hell are you?” campaign featuring Lara Bingle.

Today, though, the sales pitch is a lot tougher.

Rather than flogging cough drops or holidays, Morrison now has to convince the voting public to again put its trust in a Coalition government that has lost 38 consecutive Newspolls and whose party room has been through a traumatic and divisive change of leadership.

And he doesn’t have long to do it, either.

The next federal election is widely tipped to be held after next May’s federal Budget — which gives him nine months, at best, to get on with the job.

It’s a big ask for the 50-year-old son of a police commander and local government official (John Morrison was local councillor and, in the mid-1980s, mayor of Waverley) whose introduction to politics was handing out how-to-vote cards for dad at the age of nine around Bronte Beach, where he grew up.

So who is Scott Morrison?

Those who follow politics will know the basic outlines.

Having won his seat of Cook in the Sutherland Shire in 2007 — he took over from the retiring Bruce Baird after a contentious preselection — Morrison shot to prominence when the Liberals came to power in 2013.

As Tony Abbott’s Immigration Minister and with a mandate to clean up the asylum-seeker mess created by the chaotic policies of the Rudd-Gillard-Rudd era, Morrison had his first taste of national controversy and, ultimately, success when he inaugurated Operation Sovereign Borders, fulfilling the Coalition’s campaign promise to “stop the boats”.

Later, as Malcolm Turnbull’s Treasurer, he would be tasked with getting the budget back on track, something he did when he announced this past May that the government would return a $2.2 billion surplus in 2019-20, earlier than expected.

A huge Cronulla Sharks fan, he tipped his beloved team to beat Newcastle as he headed into the party room meeting that would elevate him to the highest office in the land. And he name-checked them again in his first media conference as prime minister-designate yesterday afternoon.

A devoted Christian, in his maiden speech to Parliament 10 years ago he spoke frankly about his faith and the role it plays in society, quoting the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah for inspiration: “I am the Lord who exercises loving-kindness, justice and righteousness on Earth; for I delight in these things, declares the Lord.”

A strong and fiercely loyal family man, Morrison and his wife Jenny endured multiple rounds of IVF treatment before finally having what one friend described as “two blonde miracle girls” around two years apart.

At first glance, it all seems like the sort of CV put together by a man who has never taken his eyes off the prize.

But that perception runs counter to the realities of someone who, until he was given the keys to the Lodge, was more of a suburban everyman known around the shops and surf clubs of Cronulla than a high-flying politician who will now be representing Australia on the world stage.

Those who know him say that he has little time for the trappings of office. On visits to The Daily Telegraph as Treasurer, on at least one occasion he showed up driving the family 4WD with an adviser riding shotgun — a far cry from the Comcars and entourages other politicians seem to thrive on.

Likewise, the idea of Morrison as a factional headkicker or hard-core “happy clapper” (as some refer to his religious affiliations) is debunked by those who have known and worked with Australia’s 30th prime minister over the years.

“Personally I thought he was a capable boss,” says one individual who used to work with Morrison.

“He’s conservative with good tactical and strategic thinking,” he adds, but when it comes to being part of a voting bloc, “factionally (he) likes to shop around” — something which may give comfort to some conservatives disappointed by his party room victory and concerned about his perceived loyalty to Liberal powerbrokers.

And while he makes no secret of his faith — he and his family attend a Pentecostal church in the Sutherland Shire whose one-part worship, one-part rock’n’roll services perhaps are a far cry from the Uniting Church services where he found God as a teen — Morrison is no Bible-basher out to impose a Handmaid’s Tale-style theocracy on Australia.

Instead, Morrison has been quite clear to say that “the Bible is not a policy handbook, and I get very worried when people try to treat it like one”. Despite being firmly in the “No” camp during the same-sex marriage debate, a former colleague recalls that when he came out as gay, Morrison “dealt with it great” and that it was a “non-issue”.

This image of a pragmatic everyman extends to his family. Morrison and his wife met in church when both were young, and he has been fiercely protective of their privacy as his profile has grown ever greater.

One radio presenter recalls interviewing Morrison when he served as immigration minister; he had brought his daughters with him to the studio but they were not to be mentioned on-air, the hate that was being directed at him was so great.

On occasion, though, he has lifted the curtain on those closest to him.

One such moment came when last year Morrison told the story of his brother-in-law Gary, who suffers from multiple sclerosis.

It was just after handing down the 2017 budget as Treasurer, and Morrison was defending an extra 0.5 per cent Medicare levy from 2019 to help fund the National Disability Insurance Scheme, or NDIS.

Telling the assembled journalists of Gary’s struggles after being diagnosed as a young father with four children, Morrison spoke with a mix of emotion and pride at his philosophical attitude to the disease, and society’s response to it: “He said, ‘it’s not flash being disabled, it’s not flash. But if there’s anything good about it,’ he said, ‘it’s that you’re disabled in Australia’.”

Now, though, privacy is less of an option for Morrison and his family, who have now been thrust firmly onto the centre of the national stage.

For the boy from Bronte who once did TV spots selling cough drops, it’s his biggest role yet.