Devil's advocate

THERE was a period of gloom, brief but profound, that descended once it was confirmed Wilson Tuckey had been given the flick by his electorate.

THERE was a period of gloom, brief but profound, that descended once it was confirmed Wilson Tuckey had been given the flick by his electorate.

Sure, whatever the good voters of O'Connor got up to on polling day was their decision and theirs alone but, still, we felt a terrible void yawning open in our heart and in the House of Representatives. Even Malcolm Turnbull's comment to Strewth last week that Tuckey's "contributions have always been sweet music to my ears" was transparently an exercise in tongue-in-cheek drollery masking the greyest of griefs. Now the sun has popped above the horizon and chased the shadows from the dark wasteland of our soul for, well, if not eternity, then for at least the rest of whatever remains of this parliamentary term. And that sun's name is Bill Heffernan. To have wished for the Heff to be making phone calls to Rob Oakeshott's house and introducing himself as "the Devil" (he's a sharp dresser, but we've never pictured him in Prada) would have been greedy. But to have such a gift delivered out of the blue is a cake with an awful lot of icing. And to have the Heff think "I thought I was talking to one of the kids" would suffice as an excuse is a cherry of monstrous proportions. Once we've reached the end of this column, we're heading down to the crossroads to make a pact with the Heffil.

Freedom of Joyce

RELEASED from whichever dark cell he'd been rendered to, Barnaby Joyce -- surely Mephistopheles to the Heffil -- was ready to air his regrets yesterday on Sky News. And the big issue to take care of was the, er, robust character of the unsolicited tips he shared with independents/mugwumps on election night. As Joyce reflected philosophically yesterday, "I'm not going to start lecturing to them, as I did the other night, about what they should or shouldn't do." Which is an admission of some calibre, yet barely more substantial than a snowflake compared with his other revelation: "I do bite my tongue." This was akin to learning Niagara Falls can turn itself off at will, but Joyce made it clear such self-restraint comes at a significant personal cost, judging by the extravagant lengths he subsequently went to in order to put things into some sort of perspective: "There are people making greater sacrifices in Afghanistan."

Mugged by reality

WHILE the nation trundles along merrily in caretaker mode, the mugwump juggernaut continues. Strewth reader Hope tells us, "In 1951, Australian author Irene Shackcloth published a children's book called The Muddles of Mugwumpia, about a kingdom plagued by the depredations of a silverfish. I'm almost sure that the silverfish was nibbling away at a magic flying carpet, to the grave danger of the King and Queen of Mugwumpia, who were flying on the carpet at the time." Well, if that isn't a big, fat metaphor, we'll eat our mouse mat. It gets even better when you examine the illustration captions: "They turned the palace upside down"; "Every morning there was a race to see who could reach the newspaper first"; "The Court Magician said 'Yojopijchijzirrup' " (take your pick) and, most uncannily, "Henrietta, is it usual to put minced horse-shoes in a fruitcake?"

A real cool Kat

STREWTH isn't alone in being mentally scrambled by the Bob Katter aura. Even reader Sheenagh Gyss, a reformed (in other words, former) southerner and Kat-Man constituent for the past nine years, admits to crossing the line from Katter detractor to Bob believer. In the interests of Strewth not feeling like a lone voice and/or pillock, we share with you Sheenagh's journey: "Every federal election, I go through myriad emotions about Bob Katter, ranging from dislike to embarrassment, but something has changed. Seeing him become a national powerhouse and global identity, I am finding him more endearing, and after seeing how he would change Australia's borders I am even more impressed. Forget creating North Queensland as a new state, we should secede from Australia and become the nation of North Queensland (worked in Korea). The leader of our new nation would, of course, be Bob." Dear Leader, Kat Bob-il?

An also-Rann

SINCE the sex scandal that dogged him during the March state election, South Australian Premier Mike Rann has had a strained relationship with the media, despite once successfully being able to control chunks of the fourth estate's stories on his government. The situation is starting to develop a whiff of irretrievability. Rann had another dummy spit at journalists on Sunday when, during intense questioning, he suddenly announced an end to household water restrictions from December 1. As Rann told assembled hacks: "I can see you're happy . . . what you've got, you've got time in the cars back to the studios to work out how you can switch that into a negative. Thank you." (Just fancy!) But it seems Rann was self-sufficient on that front, seemingly jumping the gun on the announcement and then yesterday cancelling public appearances and leaving Water Minister Paul Caica to explain "strict conservation" measures would, er, remain in force.