It’s a helluva risky business writing a column about Barnaby Joyce at the moment. Not because he’s doomed and you might find him rolled out of office like a dangerously bulging tin of deeply dodgy potted meat before you can get the piece to your editor. He’s doomed, but it’s a slow-motion train wreck. He’ll probably last until the weekend.

No, it’s risky because just when you think you’ve got this thing nailed down, it gets worse.

Barnaby Joyce is doomed. Now, it's just a matter of when. Credit:Alex Ellinghausen

It started out as gossip of a purely personal nature. Joyce, now and forever to be known as The Beetrooter thanks to some cruel and magnificent bastard on Twitter, was rumoured to be cheating on his wife. Given his willingness to not just cast aspersions on other people’s private lives, but to punitively legislate against them, that was enough for a lot of punters to call him out on social media. But it wasn’t enough for the Press Gallery in the real media, and they’ve been throwing themselves an awesome pity party ever since.

For all of the high-minded journalistic waffle about private lives being private (unless, you know, somebody like Joyce decides to pass laws about them) and the need to verify rumours before writing news, it turned out there was plenty of crunchy and nutritious news value to be had in the Beetrooter’s shenanigans.