I'm only going to say this once and I'll deny it if you dare repeat a word. I feel sorry for Barnaby Joyce.

He looked like the world's saddest dollop of potted meat yesterday, melting in the sun, and for one brief, shining moment, yes, I felt his distress.

Despite being wrong about nearly everything, his woodenheaded numptyness comes from a place of love.

He loves this land, even as he consigns it to perdition for the profit of foreign coal companies.