It was always going to be a difficult morning for Alan. He’d been wrong, you see.



Just over a year ago, Jones, the Sydney broadcaster, told Malcolm Turnbull he “had no hope of ever being the leader, you have got to get that into your head”.

And here the upstart was, the leader of the federal parliamentary Liberal party. Tuesday 15 September 2015. An offence against the universe, the settled universe where Jones dictates and everyone else obeys.

As the sun rose on Tuesday, Jones was expressing the crotchety confusion that many white men of a certain cellared vintage express in Australia now that other people, less important people, can occasionally get a word in.

Alan had known “this man” – Malcolm Turnbull – “backwards”. Perhaps frontal knowledge would have supplied the vital clue that the member for Wentworth would persist against Alan’s firm prediction, that he would listen to the voters and reach the obvious conclusion the Liberals had only one shot left in their pre-election locker – unseating Tony Abbott, the leader Australian voters wouldn’t forgive.

Alan was still hopeful that the Nationals would rebuff the amorous advance of the ReturnBull and refuse to govern in coalition. The day was yet young.

Perhaps. Perhaps, the eternal perhaps, cut across the usual breakfast currency of Alan Jones, which is certainty.

Alan’s displeasure was so vivid and protracted he failed to notice Abbott’s former colleagues out in force, peppering the airwaves from first light with gestures of peace, love and unity.

Canberra’s post-spill end of lease cleaning was under way in full force – even Kevin Andrews was suing for peace. “I’ve always liked Malcolm.” (Tony who? Oh, that guy. Terrific, but flawed. We are so grateful for your service. Man this is hard. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?)

Alan didn’t want to be alone – after all, what does misery love? – but he didn’t want to be disagreed with either.

Who could come on to chart the decline of Canberra civilisation beyond the screened talkback calls featuring various people tearing up their Liberal party membership cards?

Ah yes, Andrew Bolt. Andrew’s soothing observations provided an opportune moment for a sip of water, a moment’s mindfulness. One mustn’t rasp during the revolution.

“It’s Malcolm Turnbull first and the Liberal party second,” Bolt noted to Alan, reflecting his close study of the situation.

Perhaps Malcolm had changed? But the problem was clear. The Liberals still had a leader “far to the left of where most Liberals are”.

The base was unhappy. “There are many, many, many Liberal voters absolutely appalled by what’s going on.”

Andrew and Alan and Appalled: a trifecta of outrage.

The big question. Would Malcolm learn from his past offensive Malcolmness?

Well, perhaps. And now, after 30 minutes of garment ripping, we came to the nub of the issue. “He’s reached out to me,” Bolt noted to Alan, evidently pleased. “We’ll see if that continues.”

Perhaps a slight harrumph could be heard, followed by a laugh straight out of musical theatre – “project to the back, Jones, breathe from the diaphragm.”

“Me too,” Jones said, voice rising only a little. “I’ve had plenty of calls.”

Would Malcolm continue with this pleasing trajectory, listening to his betters? Could humility be learned?

Again, that eternal perhaps, straining against certainty.