Pyne last night gave evidence of what I’ve suspected for a while now, that the Liberals think there are two kinds of money.
One is the money for Labor’s programs, and there isn’t any. The other is for the Liberals’ mates, and it’s Midas money, there’s no end of it, you can spin it out of straw.
There’s no limit, for instance, to the money available to search the sea bottom for a plane, though it may take five years. There’s no limit to the money spent harassing refugees on the Arafura, or bullying, beating and raping them on Manus. There’s no limit to what we spend, in billions, on the fuel rebate for the big mining companies. But don’t even think of the money for schoolkids’ textbooks and new shoes. Don’t even mention a raise in the minimum wage. That would be spending real money. And there isn’t any. There just isn’t any.
The money we spend, however, on, say, Sinodinos persuading O’Farrell to invest in our sewage wheeze — twenty million for him, half a billion for us — that’s a different kind of money. Funny money, if you like. Nod-and-wink money. Forged currency.
What this attitude betokens is like…the way the antebellum South regarded slaves. They deserved no reward for their effort, lifelong. They were slaves. And we, their masters, deserved more and more of the profits of their labour.
If ever there was class warfare, there it was last night, glinting in the smile of Pyne, as he faced down the Socialists and amusedly scorned them, waiting till the fuzz came and took them away in handcuffs. Begone, the smile said, I discard you. How dare you impertinently seek a just wage, a satisfying life. You are not my kind. Go off. Away with you.
He will get a bit of a shock when, as Morgan shows, he loses his seat. He is magnificently incurable, set in his ways, like ‘Little Boots’, Caligula. And the sword of Cassius Chaerea awaits him. And he doesn’t, he really doesn’t, know it is coming.