Barnaby’s booze ban? I’m thirsty for the details

There comes a point in the life of every 57-year-old accountant-turned-political firebrand-turned-deputy-prime minister-turned-bonk-ban-recipient when he finds himself contemplating a video he didn’t know was taken, starring himself at an hour he can’t recall, sprawled out in a suit next to a planter box outside a Canberra kebab shop, cursing a blue streak and otherwise talking 86 kinds of Ewokese to someone who wasn’t actually on the end of his upside-down phone.

Friends, Barnaby Joyce reached that point four months ago. And late last week, he emerged from rock bottom, 15kg – and curiously, several facial shades – lighter, looking for all the world like a newer, less fire engine-red man.

Image: Marija Ercegovac.Credit:

As success stories go, it was as satisfying as accidentally coming across a back episode of The Biggest Loser and watching a chastened contestant, high on wheatgrass shots and his own horrifying post-workout stench, surviving an elimination challenge after being forced to bench-press his own starting weight in discarded cheesecakes and regret.

Barnaby’s fall – and his subsequent redemption story – had everything. A very public extramarital affair, an unexpected pregnancy, a pre-Christmas country wedding featuring matching his-and-hers Akubra hats, a spiralling mental health situation, the pressure cooker of the Canberra political scene, and (finally) enough booze to leave half of Manuka feeling like it’d been worked over by a potent batch of cooking sherry.

And then, cue Pachelbel’s Canon/the Rocky theme song/Paul Kelly’s To Her Door (strike out where not applicable, because who knows what Barnaby has on high rotation on his Spotify playlist), a glorious plot twist. A period of deep introspection (in a house inhabited by two little boys, whose very presence, as we all know, is not conducive to any sort of introspection), a resolution to quit the demon drink, and (presumably), a different and infinitely more flattering shade of Revlon foundation.

For those of us who thrive on a good riches-to-rags-to-riches-to-Canberra on a Wednesday night-to-riches story, it was practically poetry. And then, as ever, bloody Barnaby had to ruin the script by opening his mouth.

Recalling the impetus for his decision to quit the grog, he didn’t cite a long-held, valiantly waged, entirely forgivable battle with alcoholism, or regale us with a heretofore unrevealed moment when he was acting prime minister, had one too many at Friday night drinks, and drunk-dialled the joint chiefs of defence in a short-lived bid to declare war on Tasmania.

What happened, apparently, was that having suffered his first-ever mental blackout on the footpath in February, he surfaced later with a hangover for the ages, embraced his doctor’s instructions not to mix pills and booze, and quit alcohol, cold turkey.

“I disgraced myself and I just woke up the next morning and said, ‘that’ll do’, so I didn’t have another drink,” he said. “If I was [an alcoholic] it would have been impossible [to quit]. I would have been desperately looking around [for a drink]. I just literally woke up one morning and said, ‘that’s it’.”

That’s it? As iron-cast as Barnaby’s willpower obviously is, those of us playing along at home were hoping for … something more. Before-and-after photos of him in his jocks, holding a copy of the newspaper. A Mortifying Pre-Diet sidebar revealing a preference for double-deep-fried bacon butties and fruity lexia served from the cask, juxtaposed against its Virtuous Post-Diet successor: coconut water, endorphins and air. Footage of him competing in the Northern Rivers equivalent of Tough Mudder, carrying a couple of New England constituents across his shoulders for dramatic emphasis.

It’s not as though Barnaby is the first public figure – or even the first politician – to turn teetotal in office. Yesterday, NSW Premier Chris Minns revealed he’d been off the booze for two years, citing a stonking hangover following a friend’s birthday celebrations, coupled with the need to remain clear-headed in office, as the motivation for abstaining. Somehow, all of that seemed entirely in keeping with his clean-cut persona. But Barnaby’s antics in office have been infinitely more colourful by comparison. And frankly, we’re used to hearing everything about them.

Anyway, having completely shortchanged us on the details of his metamorphosis, the obvious question is, where does Barnaby’s tale of redemption go from here? Does he belatedly realise that anthropogenic climate change is a thing? Seek a prescription for Ozempic to help shift the last stubborn five kegs? Join a barbershop quartet with Julian Assange?

Or does he take his stiff (but newly slimline) upper lip back to Canberra and continue to be a thorn in the side of his political adversaries (and, on occasion, also his allies)? Whatever his next move, he deserves kudos for recognising that his dietary and lifestyle habits had to change, and then going ahead and changing them.

The rest of us, meanwhile, should rejoice in a choice made for Joyce, in full voice. If only he’d actually dish on the details.

Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.