In the end, there was nothing much to interpret. There was no magic, no mystery, no hidden depths or tugging complexity. It’s true the vibe of things was all over the place, catastrophically so. But ultimately it was just John Howard being John Howard — still alive, still flailing, still a national embarrassment. Symbolising, parabolically, the wet-dog smell of everything that’s marked conservatism as a wasteland of intellectual thinking for over 30 years.
The nation’s great pretender, that great charismatic bundle of dishonesty and masked and unmasked bigotry, had last week found himself proselytising at a Tories-united last-gasp global saloon in the United Kingdom. And there he sat, in a scene impressive for its feral intensity, plodding on, drifting in and out of dreamy Howard-time in an unbecoming spectacle of grandiose delusion.
“Multiculturalism,” the long-time moral derelict told the inaugural Alliance for Responsible Citizenship conference in London, “is a concept that I’ve always had a bit of trouble with.” As he said it, he hit chords of faint defiance, petulance and a note or two of something approaching honesty, as if mildly frustrated it’s taken until the end of 2023, all 84 of his birthdays, to tell us what he really thinks. As if none of us ever really had a clue.
But in truth, this was Howard’s moment, his time to shine, and he was flying high — like a sky-diver in righteous free-fall. Delirious at this glorious opportunity to internationally embrace his inner bigot and dispense with the tedious weight of moral clarity, basic reason and whatever gaping void has long passed for his conscience.
“I take the view that if people want to emigrate to a country,” he continued, “it’s on the basis that they adopt the values, the practices and standards of that country, and in return they’re entitled to have the HOST—!” Host? What host? Trumpy Howard was suddenly jumpy Howard. Only nobody knew why, what had inspired the abrupt turn. “…citizenry respect their culture without trying to create some kind of federation of tribes and culture,” he finished in an undignified gurgle.
Then you see it: host citizenry. The source of his jitters, the Sartrean splitting of his mind. No wonder this grifter looked momentarily perturbed. The word host must have briefly flashed an image of First Nations peoples in his head. What else? How preposterous, how unutterably insane, this indecorous connoisseur in historical denialism and defender of British imperialism was thinking. Still, you could see him telling himself, at least he nailed the “federation of tribes” bit — that perfect panorama of unadulterated vulgarity.
And so on he marched, the country’s forever empty conscience, shaking off the thorny contradiction as any brazen conservative spear-thrower would: speaking in earnest, speaking reality into existence, saying the unsayable in his sometimes lumpy but basically monotonal blah-blah-blah voice of faux sincerity. “You get into terrible trouble with [multiculturalism],” says jabber John, flapping his arms about with unseemly stiffness, the lambency searching in vain for some hint of humanity on his shameless face.
The camera then flashed to the interviewer, who was leaning in and squinting, really squinting, and nodding in a way that impressed upon everyone watching that he knew what the hell Howard was on about, even if no one else did. What a hero. Howard then slurred and sludged out a few more words, finally muttering something audible about a “progressive barn dance” and “institutionalised difference”, at which point every dead-eyed attendee at this blazing nirvana of right-wing group therapy more or less found themselves on the same page. Cue the unserious applause.
This is modern conservatism stripped bare. A disturbing glimpse into the vasty deep of what passes for high-tide right-wing thinking today. No scurrying or inconsolable violins, just a sheer mental brutalism enthralled to some head-bobbing lizard code of survival. Mental it is, and mental is where they’re at.
So it was fitting, really, that the overriding theme of this tawdry three-day conference, headlined by Jordan Peterson, that “rule of law guy” Republican Speaker Mike Johnson, a cavalcade of high-profile climate sceptics, anti-woke crusaders and failed former Liberal leaders from Australia — Tony Abbott and Scott Morrison among them — was civilisational decline.
Catastrophism and doom — those prophets that spell the end of everything — were by rights the order of the day, with endless speeches about endless greatness. So much greatness, oppressive amounts of greatness. But not winning. Because winning would have been off-message and off-brand. The narrative proposition of this rotating cast of unhinged weirdos, moral degenerates and conspiracy theorists was pandemonium. Pandemonium at home, in our schools, our institutions, on our streets, in our energy policies and at the quiet burger bar.
This, after all, was about confronting, head-on, that “mighty coalition” of powerful cultural and economic elites who dominate everything and everyone, threatening to undo all that is good and wonderful in our world.
Lapping up this pablum was an inflamed rump of lackeys, fire-breathers and hard-liners from Australia — a polyp of self-described true believers including Andrew Hastie, Angus “fantastic” Taylor, James Paterson, Catholic Archbishop Anthony Fisher and, not least, Jacinta Nampijinpa Price. The intellectual sharp edges of the country’s right, united in some desperate cause, some romance of unreality, to help Tories-the-world-united defy the crushing failure that is Francis Fukuyama’s declaration of “the end of history”, as though they’ve forgotten the pathetic state of Dutton’s opposition.
In a nod to our generous nature, Price echoed Howard’s remarks, telling the conference that “we’re here to help” should any country need some “tips on how to push back” on identity politics — that “ridiculous ideology”. The evidence suggests she hoisted her chin in tandem with her solemn declaration, her face twisted in some intense super-frown — like a Roman effigy, just waiting to be toppled by nasty woke elites someday. But for now, this “so be it if it happens” potential prime minister was being greeted with a roaring ovation.
So far, so good, thought Price. Yet Price was never the star, much the less point, of this right-wing loser fest. Everyone was there to reinvent themselves and, more importantly, to do the impossible and reinvent their movement — this once-great but now ineffably grotesque movement — before it trundles off forever to the gravitational pull of oblivion’s door.
It was a do-or-die, now-or-never mission. Make that die. Make that never. There was nothing inspiring about this obscenity parade. Not if the Australian Christian Lobby’s Lyle Shelton is any guide, who tweeted that the crowd had been treated to Howard’s “brilliant best”.
And so there it is. An anthology of decline foretold. The apocalyptic vibe of this movement seems destined to write itself into every story and every speech of gloom, and, probably, the movement’s crushing demise. A story arc, headed for a fatal collision with history, unable to realise that to be a true Tory these days, you probably have to stand for everything that Howard and this right-wing rabble are not.
