ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

The Prime Minister’s speechwriter has told The Advocate this morning that he wonders why he even bothers going to work anymore because Scotty rarely sticks to the script he gives him.

“I mean, I go to so much effort to make him sound articulate and intelligent and he trips over the pronunciation of ‘barre’ for 40 seconds,” Mark O’Reardon, who’s been writing Scott Morrison’s speeches for the past few weeks.

He spoke to our reporter in a Canberra petrol station this morning at 3:57 am.

Mark and The Advocate were both there to buy cigarettes and corn chips.

“That’s not even the worst thing. Did you catch the speech on Monday night? Look me in the eye, mate. Do you think I put the words, ‘trampoline venue’ in his speech?”

Our reporter shook his head.

Mark then asked the attendant if he had any salsa. The attendant said they only had mild. Mark sighed and decided to get himself two Golden Gaytimes instead.

As our reporter and Mark walked back down Captain Cook Cresent toward their respective couches, he went on to say he’s morbidly interested in what happens moving forward.

“Wonder what he’ll say next? I think we’re going into a full-blown Kiwi-style lockdown on Friday, maybe he’ll say something like, ‘You can’t go anywhere, but you can play golf but only if it’s Stableford rules. Or something like that?’ I don’t know, mate,”

“Maybe, I’m just tired. Looks, it’s not as if Scott’s a deadshit or anything, it’s just that he can’t help himself adding his own little ScoMo-isms into the speeches I write him. Sometimes, I just feel like grabbing him by the lapels of his Tom Ford suit jacket and shaking him until he understands that he needs to stick to the fucking script and be clear and concise with his messaging.”

It was at this point in the walk that Mark and our reporter realised they didn’t have a lighter between them.

So Mark flagged down a passing motorcyclist and asked to light his cigarette on the bike’s exit manifold.

The polite Yamaha jokey obliged and soon Mark and our reporter were back on their way deeper and deeper into the heart of Griffith.

“Anyway, see you tomorrow my friend. This is me.”

Our reporter watched Mark disappear into the darkness down Jerrabomberra Avenue.

More to come.

