The Day Australia said NO

 

Malcolm had been bashing back the Kaurna Country Blewitt Springs Syrah for the best part of the afternoon as the sun beat down on his hatless head. As the 6pm close of voting approached, he was engaged in a conversation with Teal MP Allegra Spender by the seawall at his Harborside mansion, and became overcome with a generosity of spirit. No doubt as inspired by the heart as by his alcoholic intake, Malcolm made an offer to entertain some of her ‘Wentworth for the Voice’ volunteers at his Voice Referendum Day party.

Allegra texted a couple of select booths, which happened to include mine at St Matthias on Oxford St. It’s a long story. After attending a ghastly Politics in the Pub event put on by Allegra at the Imperial Hotel, Paddington, they got my mobile number and I somehow got signed up for ‘Wentworth for the Voice’.

This did not involve much, and I decided to play along for some fun. At one stage a kid showed up at my house on an eBike with a YES poster and some stickers for my garbage bin which I gratefully accepted but never displayed.

Afterwards, I was asked to attend a booth on VOICE polling day which I accepted in the hope it would involve sausages and onions. I did not fit the profile of a typical Allegra volunteer, being a fifty something white male with a generous waist size.

I stood out alongside the bright-eyed millennials and stern, skinny Nannas who are the typical progressive stormtroopers. I could not even fit into a standard issue YES23 T, but had to make do with an XXXXL Hawaiian shirt from Lowes with a print that looked vaguely indigenous.

When the text came through from Allegra, I was just finishing my 3rd sausage sandwich for the afternoon, with barbecue sauce and onions. Would we like to come down to the Turnbull mansion to watch the vote come in with Allegra? Hell yeah! So, we all packed into the Prius and headed on down the hill.

During my time on the booth, I had successfully managed to ingratiate myself with my ‘Wentworth for the Voice’ crew by repeating a series of trite platitudes: This Is a Unique Moment for Hope and Optimism In Australia, By Voting Yes, Noone is Losing Anything, Waking up to a No Vote would be a Tragic Moment for Australia, etc.

As we drove down Ocean Street, we noticed Dave Sharma overtaking us in his white Vespa. Apparently, news of the Turnbull party had begun spreading on Moderate twitter and Dave had set out to take vengeance with his daughter riding pillion, clutching a dozen Manning Valley free rangers.

Dave had not got over Malcolm refusing to back him in in the battle for Wentworth, and planned to egg the party. Unfortunately, his throwing arm proved to be as weak as his politics, and the eggs barely made it over the Turnbull’s wrought iron gate.

When we arrived, some eggshells and yolk on the driveway were all the evidence we could find of Dave’s frenzied attack.

We were rushed out to the lawn where the party was in full swing. The votes were starting to come in and all eyes were on a big screen set up near the pool tuned into the ABC Referendum coverage (naturally).

Drinks were flowing and the buffet was loaded with the main course of smoked kangaroo, venison mettwurst, croc jerkey, native greens, native-inspired dips, cheese, and crackers.

We were late arrivals, as the other guests had been instructed to arrive in time for a Welcome to Country ceremony, due to be performed at 4pm on the day of the Referendum.  Malcolm and Lucy had booked the deluxe package from the Metropolitan Local Aboriginal Land Council ($560 Welcome + $360 Didg + $112 Weekend/Public Holiday/Outside Business Hours, all prices ex. GST) for the Voice celebration party, which would be attended by a select group of sympatico thought leaders in politics, business media and arts.

The dress code was informal, so guests had begun arriving at the Turnbull’s sprawling Point Piper home in harbourside Sydney around 3.30pm wearing an assortment of YES Campaign T-shirts, bearing slogans such as “History is Calling”, “If You Don’t Know, Ask Me” or "Right Wrongs: Write YES For Aborigines”

All had followed a similar routine on the day of the vote, taking a photograph or video of their completed YES ballot paper and then adding it to their socials along with a triumphant post, “My Heart is Full”, “I’m sending a huge shout out of love to mob!” “Humbling to support First People’s recognition through the Voice in the Constitution today. Such an historic day” #respect #voteyes #VoteYes2023

Others posted a selfie on LinkedIn, Twitter or FaceBook showing their hand raised to display YES scrawled on their palm in black ink. This approach offered the advantage of placing an indelible stamp of virtue on their own personal brand (while keeping the privacy of the ballot box sacrosanct).

Westpac Head of Marketing and ‘Chief Brand Officer’ Annabel Fribence shows her indelible virtue on LinkedIn.

It was a warm day in Sydney, so Lucy and Malcolm, each wearing neat shorts and matching white VOTE YES T-shirts featuring an indigenous drawing of Uluru, had stood out front to meet guests. They began trickling in around 3pm: prominent journalists from the Guardian and ABC, daughter Daisy and the kids, local member Allegra Spender and family, along with assorted financiers and captains of industry committed to the fight to Net Zero (and funding the Teal takeover in Wentworth).

All were ushered through to the manicured lawn at the rear of the property facing the glittering Harbour.

There was a distinct lack of Eastern Suburbs A-listers, who had instead opted to attend a rival Voice party around the bay at Fairwater, where Mike Cannon-Brookes promised a performance from the Bangarra Dance Company, a set by Yolngu hip hop artist Baker Boy, and a drone display culminating in 2500 individually coloured drones coalescing to form a pre-invasion map of the First Nations of Australia.

Well, millionaires can’t compete with billionaires, Malcolm reflected, as he surveyed the delightful First Nations feast that had been prepared for his guests by a Filipino catering firm Lucy had found online.

This began with a buffet containing an assortment of indigenous delicacies: Kangaroo sausage rollettes w/ Pig Face mustard pickle, emu egg shortbread and bush jam, topped with lemon myrtle butter cream, and myrtle and wattle seed date slice.

These delights were to be washed down with copious tins of Tropical Lager Coral'ation (TLC), a limited-edition non-alcoholic craft lager brewed by First Nations owned and led, Sobah Beverages.

For those who preferred wine with their wattle seed, a selection from winemaker and proud Wirangu and Kokatha man Paul ‘Pauly’ Vandenbergh had been obtained. The Kaurna Country Blewitt Springs Syrah 2021, produced in collaboration with Chalk Hill Wines of McLaren Vale, went particularly well with the rollettes.

As the guests stood around delighting in the views, the antipodean antipasto and the blazing afternoon sunshine, the chatter was indescribably Sydney. “We just bought a Tesla!” Have you eaten at Josh Niland’s Fish Place, it’s just divine!”, “So looking forward to SXSW Sydney. Have you got tickets?”

Then, just in time for the appointed hour, Welcome celebrant Tony Nonaga-Weyou Cumboo Gullock Smith came sloping down the drive

Malcolm and Lucy took a double take as he wandered in resplendent in scoop shorts, black thongs and a plain Green T-shirt with a prominent VB logo. A Le Coq Sportif duffel bag slung over his shoulder contained his ceremonial attire and native instrument.

“Gidday, I’m Tony from the Land Council,” he announced as he proffered his hand. The Turnbulls responded in kind while attempting to suppress a fit of violent blinking at the sight of this pasty white individual with a full head of striking red curls who loomed in front of them.

“Ahh, yesss. The Welcome Man, come in, come in, you are most welcome,” gushed Malcolm.

Lucy quickly cut him off.

“You can’t welcome him Malcolm, he’s here to Welcome us!”

“Naah, that’s totally fine,” said Tony. “Really nice of you to welcome me to your fine house, but I’m here to welcome you to a country!”

This was accompanied by a broad grin and a generous wink.

“Now, show me where to get changed,”

Apparently, Tony preferred to slip into his indigenous attire immediately prior to the Welcome to Country, rather than in the car.

Malcolm and Lucy returned to their guests while Tony was led through the house to a downstairs guestroom by one of the security staff. As he passed through the Turnbull hallway, Tony admired the artwork on display: a sad looking young girl in a Bill Henson photograph, the Archibald Prize nominated portrait of an ebullient young Malcolm by Bill Leak, a Martin Sharp, a Margaret Olley and a bunch of indigenous drawings containing dots arranged in no particular order, and no indication as to whether they had been hung the right way up or upside down.

Malcom, Casual but Intense.

After a short interlude, Tony emerged wearing a loose-fitting loincloth, barefoot and bare chested. A threadbare cloak, stitched together from ancient platypus and sugar-glider skins, was draped over his bony white shoulders. A white emu feather headdress only served to further highlight his bright red curls.

After slathering on a bucketload of Factor 15 sunscreen in acknowledgement of the conditions, Tony had applied a series of stripes of red ochre paint across his cheeks, nose and forehead, followed by a layer of white ochre dots (placed carefully inside the red ochre to enhance visibility).

He had also tucked a pack of Winfield Blues and a lighter into his already bulging loincloth.

“OK, lead on, Macduff,” he announced to the bemused Maori handling security for the day.

The hubbub was building on the lawn as the expectant crowd grew ever more excited about claiming their rightful place in history. All of the socials were trending in the right direction, nobody knew anyone who was even thinking of voting NO. God, there were so many YES volunteers in Wentworth it was like Allegra 2022 all over again.

The drinks were flowing and, like Tony, the universally fair-skinned crowd made liberal use of convenient sunscreen dispensers located on a side table to protect them from the blistering sun.

The chatter became somewhat subdued as Tony emerged onto the lawn clutching a battered digeridoo. The crowd cast their eyes over their remarkably pale celebrant. He casually slunk over to a podium that had been setup by the pool, placed in front of a sole Aboriginal flag, and tapped on the microphone, “Nagangbi ngayagang Tony,” he announced in a broad Aussie accent to blank stares and an uncomfortable hush.

“Hey, that’s ‘Gidday I’m Tony’ in Dharawal language. Gather round I’m about to welcome you’se all so let’s get this party started, hey!”

This lifted the mood considerably, and a few of the crowd responded with a righteous cheer as they moved from the buffet to the podium for the scheduled Welcome to Country.

“Djimbay, that’s another Dharawal word,” began Tony. “It means thirsty, and Jesus I could murder a beer, so let’s get this show on the road. “

A few of the less well-heeled in the audience permitted themselves a grin.

“OK, I’d like to pay respects to our elders past and present, I’d also like to pay respect to you guys and your families and your ancestors no matter where you come from.”

“Now I’m going to play my didge.”

After wheezing into the wooden tube for a minute or two to no great effect, Tony finished with a short postscript: “On behalf of my family I’d like to thank you for letting us share just a very little bit of our culture with you today.

“For those of you who are Australian, this culture, this history, the songs and stories … it all belongs to this land. So, it belongs to all of you guys as well. Thank you and welcome.”

And with that he was done. The upbeat and inclusive tone of the Welcome was a concern to many, and Malcolm made a mental note to make a complaint to the Land Council on Monday, but he invited Tony to stay for the party anyway, to which he quickly acquiesced.

Seeking to immediately wet the whistle, Tony grabbed one of the Tropical Lagers from an ice bucket, bent his neck backwards and began chugging.

After sculling the entire can in a heartbeat, he wiped his mouth and complained, “That was weak as piss, what is it a mid-strength?”

He then scanned the back of the can and let out a howl, “Jesus, non-alcoholic beer, What the fuck, Malcolm?”

The chastened former PM signalled quietly to a staffer to bring a 6 pack of full strength Peronis from the bar fridge, which mollified Tony somewhat. He settled in to demolish the full half dozen.

Meanwhile it was time to move onto the next phase of the celebrations, Kate Miller-Heidke performing an A capella version of the Goanna smash hit Solid Rock.

And now you're standin' on Solid rock
Standin' on sacred ground
Livin' on borrowed time
And the winds of change
Are blowin' down the line

Yeah!

After the late start to the Welcome ceremony, and Kate Miller-Heidke adding a rendition of the Warumpi Band’s Jailanguru Pakarnu as an encore, time was ticking towards the close of the polls at 6pm.

Tony Nonaga-Weyou Cumboo Gullock Smith had finished the Peroni six pack and was onto the reds. He had caused a brief moment of consternation after whipping out an authentic bullroarer and flinging it around his head a few times to create the signature humming sound.

Unfortunately, the bullroarer had come into contact with the head of one of Allegra’s daughters and had drawn blood. They stemmed the flow with a napkin and found some Bettadine in the kitchen. Tony was convinced to put it away so the incident passed.

After turning up late with the Wentworth team after the polls closed, I grabbed a glass of wine and sidled up to Tony, whose emu feather headdress was becoming skewiff and who was beginning to show signs of being under the weather.

As he dragged on a Winnie blue, Tony, a plasterer from Minto, known as Tony Smith to his mates and family, explained his background. Apparently, his great great grandfather was Mickey Johnson, crowned Aboriginal King of Illawarra in 1896, who had knocked up an Irish girl who was his great great grandmother.

After several generations, the Irish lineage had triumphed, hence the pasty white skin and red hair, but he was able to leverage his much-diluted aboriginal ancestry for paying gigs as this, aided by the rare platypus and sugar-glider coat handed down from King Mickey. An unusual circumstance, as such heirlooms were typically burned on the pyre after their owner’s death.

I confessed I had some knowledge of the Aboriginals of the Illawarra, as my own great great great grandfather had worked as a woodcutter there clearing the forest for farmland after arriving  with his family from Ulster in the 1840s, According to family lore he had lost a lung as a young man after being speared by a native, who might have even been King Mickey or one of his tribe!

As we looked up from our pleasant conversation, we noticed the mood at the party had changed dramatically. There were concerned looks and furrowed brows as the poll numbers were broadcast on the ABC. People began glancing anxiously at their Twitter feeds.

“OMG” “WTF” “This can’t be happening” Booth after booth, seat after seat, the landslide had begun.

Tony and I topped up our glasses with indigenous shiraz as the Voice was slowly being crushed.

Many in the crowd were in tears. Malcolm retreated to his study for a large whisky as the full scale of the disaster became apparent.

He glanced at his socials where someone had reposted a tweet “Referenda scorecard: Tony Abott 2 -Malcolm Turnbull 0”

Ater swearing violently and repeatedly, and immediately dashing his whiskey glass against the wall, Malcolm emerged back onto the lawn where only a few stragglers remained, including myself and Tony. Most had begun wandering off into the night as the result became obvious, clutching their complementary Indigenous tote bags (made in Vietnam) containing a selection of Aboriginal themed gifts including a Bruce Pascoe Dark Emu beer 4-pk, Jukurrpa Aboriginal Coaster Set and a bar of Jala Jala Treats’ Wattleseed Mylk Chocolate.

Tony was in no condition to drive, and the Wentworth Prius was long gone, so we appealed to Malcolm to stay for the night. He just glared and mentioned a cheap motel on New South Head Road, the Edgecliff Lodge.

With that, his burly Maori ushered us out the gates and we found ourselves wandering the streets of Point Piper, one in a loincloth and the other a fat man wearing a comical shirt.

I called an Uber but the driver refused to pick us up, so it was a long hike to the Golden Sheaf at Double Bay where we just managed to sneak into the Public Bar. The crowd there were oblivious to the Voice, having progressed from the afternoon program featuring The Everest at Randwick to betting on the Harness Racing and the dishlickers.

They barely raised an eyebrow at Tony’s loincloth and platypus coat, so we ordered a series of Emu lagers and whisky chasers and settled in for the evening. It would prove to be a long night …