Cracks showing in 72 hours of Peter Dutton’s campaign
As the clock counts down, cracks are showing for Peter Dutton as he lashes out and tries to wrangle a campaign that in 72 hours has gone wayward. James Weir follows in tow.
Federal Election
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After a tame weeks-long campaign where he avoided chaos and any situation that could turn him into a meme, cracks began to show in the final days for the usually unflappable Peter Dutton, with the opposition leader being confronted by hazmat-wearing protesters and, even worse, a giant display of free-range eggs that cost $14.99 a dozen.
Down in the dumps after Sunday’s Channel 7 debate where the hosts pulled a “gotcha!” question and tripped up Mr Dutton over the cost of a carton of yolks (he reckons they’re $4.20, for the record), the hopeful prime minister hit the ground running on Tuesday and whirled on down to a grocery store to acclimate himself with the price of produce.
In tow? A weary media contingent – who, in a desperate blame game as the clock counts down to election day, he’d just accused of being “activists not journalists”.
As the old adage goes: if a leader goes to a supermarket to gently squeeze a sweet potato and no photographers are around to snap it, does he really know how much it costs?
Mr Dutton – whose Queensland office was vandalised the previous evening – was determined to prove he’s a man of the people. Sure, he was visiting one of those posh grocers that sells boutique jam and $9 packs of seaweed biscuits – but everyone deserves a treat now and then.
Mr Dutton’s white BMW SUV pulled up out the front of Nowra Farmers Market in the southern New South Wales ultra-marginal Labor-held seat of Gilmore and he took determined strides past the display of del sapo melons ($6.99 each, he no doubt noted).
“Who’s that?” an elderly man spluttered with a scrunched face, as if the opposition leader was the person responsible for the foul smell of sewage that wafted across the car park.
“You’re in the way,” huffed one trolley-wielding woman.
Mr Dutton toured the grocery store as if it was the first time he’d ever set foot in one. He held a sweet potato in the palm of his hand and felt the weight, like it was a diamond pulled from the rough.
“When I think about you, I touch myself,” Chrissie Amphlett crooned over the store sound system.
Next was a voyage to the open-air dairy fridge where the opposition leader listened intently as market owner Paul Sassall regaled him with the ins and outs of potted yoghurt ($6.99, just in case there’s another quiz).
But then, right after a lecture on preserves and sauces, the atmosphere turned tense. And it wasn’t the chill coming from the dairy fridge.
Just before Peter Dutton was about to round the corner of an aisle and come face-to-face with a giant display of egg cartons (and their even bigger price cards), his minders seemed to frantically intervene – swiftly pivoting the leader in the opposite direction and hastily ushering him out of the store.
But his team weren’t the only ones raising the alarm. An hour later, an air raid horn sounded as nuclear power plant protesters in hazmat suits stormed a football field in nearby Sanctuary Point that Mr Dutton had arrived at to announce $3.5 million worth of upgrades for a junior sporting club.
Suddenly, the press-op was hijacked. The three men pretended to use their iPhones as Geiger counters and stretched out tape measures as they performed a skit criticising nuclear energy.
One of the protesters seemed to be wearing a CPAP machine over his hazmat suit.
South Coast Labor Council Secretary Arthur Roriss, who led the stunt, said they were “alerting people as to Australia’s nuclear future”.
“We’re just suited up for our own protection here,” he said.
“This is what the future looks like under a Dutton government … get used to the face masks, get used to the radiation suits, folks, because this is energy in Australia under a Dutton government.”
He said they “represent the workers that Mr Dutton expects to subject themselves to danger”.
As the men continued their spoof, a member of Mr Dutton’s team spoke to police who said they couldn’t do anything to stop it because it was a public space.
Across the field, Mr Dutton ignored the commotion and carried on the best he could by asking detailed questions about the junior footy players and their mullets.
“Is mum on to you to get it cut?” he asked a boy with a rather unruly mane, before suggesting the family is probably saving a fortune on barber bills.
Thinking on his feet in that moment, Mr Dutton boldly tied a braided rats tail to the cost-of-living crisis and he should only be met with applause for it.
After all, in this day and age, one must choose their luxuries: you either get a haircut or $14.99 eggs. But you can’t have both.
Then a group of teens rolled up on their BMX bikes and started heckling the protesters as well as Mr Dutton.
“You look like astronauts!” one of the boys yelled at the men in fake hazmat suits.
“Build us a skate park!” another yelled to the Opposition Leader.
Mr Dutton’s announcement was delayed and he was whisked away. Meanwhile, his team attempted to herd pesky journalists back onto the bus after they’d turned their attention to filming the zany protesters wrapped in plastic jumpsuits.
The Opposition Leader was already fed-up with the media covering his campaign. Just 24 hours earlier, he got his back up against the wall and took a swipe, labelling them “activists not journalists”.
Clearly things are getting toxic. Might be time to borrow a fake hazmat suit from one of those zany regional protesters.
Facebook: @hellojamesweir
Originally published as Cracks showing in 72 hours of Peter Dutton’s campaign