“Politicians,” the vituperative satirist Auberon Waugh observed, “can forgive almost anything in the way of abuse; they can forgive subversion, revolution, being contradicted, exposed as liars, even ridiculed, but they can never forgive being ignored.” An exception to this appropriate rule might be the Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, who is desperately wishing to be ignored, at least regarding an interview he need never have done.
Despite presiding over a formidable majority in the House of Representatives and facing a Coalition opposition awaiting immolation at the next election, Albanese has managed to contract that every-politician’s disease: the gaffe. However secure they might be (votes, popularity, security of office), the threat of a gaffe to the political classes remains hauntingly perennial and eagerly awaited.
For Albanese, it all began with an interview on one of those podcasts best left to warble in cyberspace. But this is a PM eager to please, keen to be modish, so getting on the Bush Deep podcast (the warning is in the title) was just the ticket. Nothing weighty, nothing cerebral; just some social media bait for viral distribution to show hipness and (groan) accessibility. Unguarded, the PM fell for the casual prodding of the podcaster, Nikki Osborne. When confronted with an airy, vulgar game of Shag, Marry, Date – a variation of Shag, Marry, Kill – three options were offered like cast-off fruit: Kylie Minogue, Nicole Kidman, or Rhonda Burchmore. The unsuspecting Prime Minister decided, in a fit of panic (he had been married a mere six months prior), that Minogue deserved the trifecta. “You’d marry Kylie and shag her and date her?” the podcaster pressed. “All of the above… She’s terrific,” came the confirmation.
The media stables across the country blanched. The sisterhood proved stern and disciplinary. Parliamentarian Zali Steggall wondered why Albanese ever put himself into that situation, given Osborne’s known line in raunch. Melinda Tankard Reist, co-founder of Collective Shout, a grassroots organisation campaigning against the objectification of women, thought it “beneath him as a man, as a leader of this country especially, and it sets a very bad example. The bar is already low and this has taken it even lower.”
This, however, was not the end of the matter. While the hacks were wrestling with the idea that the PM might be crudely sexual (how important, how vital), another matter had somewhat escaped their attention. When asked by Osborne what “the most crap gift” he had “ever received on an overseas jaunt” had been, Albanese decided to tread on a mine he had left for himself. He spoke of receiving something “pretty strange, but ended up being quite good.” It transpired that the Japanese Prime Minister, Sanae Takaichi, had “brought a melon”. Well, a “couple of melons,” he elaborated. With gauche consistency, Osborne was there to lower the tone further. The Japanese leader “just came in looking like Pamela Anderson”. The mine duly went off. “She brought two,” bantered Albanese, “and they’re beautiful.” A mimicking act regarding the breasts topped matters off.
Then came the concern that confidential correspondence was leaked in the form of a July 13 diplomatic note reportedly sent to the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet by the Japanese government. It acknowledged “sensationalised reporting in the Australian media” regarding Albanese’s comments made in the podcast with Osborne. The communication noted no “ill intention” in the remarks of the Australian PM.
Observers from Japan were unimpressed. Waka Ikeda, a Budapest-based Japanese journalist, administered a worthy savaging in the Japan Times. The gift of Crown Melons from Shizuoka were “the most prized fruit in Japan”, a gesture of appreciation for Australia opening up its market to Japanese melons. “In Japan, a single Crown Melon can cost more than a fine bottle of wine.” But beyond cultural sensitivities, a cloddish Albanese had also shown how female leaders seemed to warrant different treatment. When it came to a billboard about the then Victorian Premier Jacinta Allan mocking her as a witch, it was deemed by the federal government demeaning, objectifying, belittling and offensive. Ikeda also noted how the mention of Minogue, “an Australian national treasure”, drew more irate commentary from feminist observers and the progressive press than a “joke about a visiting head of government”. In disgust, only one plausible conclusion could be reached: “On recent evidence, a woman may run the world’s fourth largest economy, stare down Beijing’s threats and still be reduced, by an allied prime minister, to two melons on a podcast.”
Former Japanese ambassador to Canberra, Shingo Yamagami, was also keen on firing off an instructive round or two in The Australian. “Prime Minister, please enjoy Japan’s sweet and juicy melons without thinking about a woman’s anatomy and instead focus on what our two countries must do together,” he scorned. This was accompanied by some lethal commentary. “Politicians come and go. Some are remembered for their accomplishments, while others are remembered for their gaffes.” While Albanese’s remarks might have been intended in a “lighthearted” way, he might well be most remembered for them “by Japanese who most value the friendship with Australia.”
Again, the significance of the fruit was mentioned. “Although Albanese recalled it as ‘quite strange’, there is nothing strange about Takaichi’s gesture. A crown melon is the most prized fruit in Japan and treasured as something special.” Such exemplary fruits were “painstakingly nurtured under intensive care in a special greenhouse.” One could cost as much as 30,000 yen (AU$270). Yamagami also reminded readers that Takaichi had been the subject of abuse by Japan’s own opposition politicians, derided for being US President Donald Trump’s “local wife” and mocked as “pan-pan”, the derogatory term used for prostitutes during the allied occupation of Japan after World War II.
A grateful opposition could scarcely believe this temperature rise, eager to pursue their own line on the melons regarding the leaked cable. “Do you know how the media obtained this sensitive diplomatic correspondence?” inquired Liberal frontbencher James Paterson of the foreign minister, Penny Wong. Initially wary, Wong admitted that she had seen “those reports publicly.” Paterson attempted another stab, wondering if the disclosed correspondence had arisen “to clean up the Prime Minister’s self-inflicted melon mess” and in so doing “risking a critical bilateral relationship”. Various members of the shadow cabinet thought the issue of the disclosed diplomatic cable worthy of investigation by the Australian Federal Police.
To temper matters, Japan’s current ambassador to Canberra, Suzuki Kazuhiro, doused the flames in a carefully worded statement. “We have been informed by the Australian side that Prime Minister Albanese did not make the comments in the way that has been reported.” Takaichi’s visit had seen both leaders build a “personal trust relationship”. Maybe – but Albanese’s conduct, aided by his dunderheaded advisors, was dazzlingly puerile and ill-judged. Will it stop here?
Dr. Binoy Kampmark was a Commonwealth Scholar at Selwyn College, Cambridge. He currently lectures at RMIT University. Email: bkampmark@gmail.com
