The ex-prime minister for uncontrolled rage-farting.

Well, that ScoMo comeback was really something, wasn’t it? An hour-long masterclass in gurning like a fluff-bollock. A supersized street pizza of furiously marmalised bullshit and wonder beans. The denial of his own shadow. The absurd gaslighting and the bonus round of more absurd gaslighting. The total absence of grace or class, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the ridiculous melodrama and preposterous double-downs, the thin veneer of stuff that was not entirely true, the Presidential panic nuggets dipped in Australiana.

Oh, how I have missed this blithering opportunistic bag of toxic gas and his horse-humping contempt for anyone who doesn’t do what he says.

Has it been that long since we finally detached this fucking guy and his legion of alien face-sucking parasites from our violently sucked faces? For suddenly, it all seemed like a dream. Not the performative cruelty and rabid macho militarism. Not the lies and ineptitude and administrative malfeasance. But waking from them.

Because there he was again, doing what he does so well.

A sweaty, glassy-eyed sack of snaggled fangs and malice with a pound of raw liver in one hand, a laser pointer in the other, and a laugh like a myrmidon howl as he reminded everyone that he was prime minister and they weren’t, “So what the fuck would you know, Andrew?”

All Scott Morrison lacked was the wolfpack of obedient hyenas at his heels because, for once, he didn’t dare have them there.

He literally couldn’t trust them.

That was one of the many takeaways from his encore performance, an astonishing vortex of self-pity, arrogance, and uncontrolled rage-farting. He sprayed chunks of his half-chewed story all over the assembled press corps, the viewers at home, and any stray dogs that happened to wander past and fall under the terrible thrall of those doleful, bloodshot eyes.

Amy Remeikis, bless her, has done the work of a saint, capturing and mounting the murder hornet swarm of the former PM’s half-truths, excuses and justifications for feeding hundreds of years of convention and precedent into a giant meatgrinder. It was his version, I guess, of Otto von Bismark’s sausage maker. The Westminster system extruded as a nightmare salami of Keith Pitt flavoured gristle and bone.

You can enjoy her listicle of the top ten glaring inconsistencies in Smoko’s not-so-mea-culpa here, but the TLDR is that he couldn’t possibly recall whose jobs he stole until all of a sudden he could. He didn’t dare tell anyone what he’d done, except for a couple of wideboys from The Australian. Of course, he trusted his ministers, except when he didn’t. It was all about the pandemic until it was really about the dolphins. And these were just administrative arrangements that had nothing to do with administering anything.

Got it?

I hope so because otherwise, Scotty’ll have to come back and drown out more questions with the sound of his own voice and our collective gagging of despair, like a fist-sized pill, forced down the throat.

And what would be the point of that?

This fucking guy showed us who he was long ago.

He was not worthy of the office.

He did not respect it nor the people who entrusted it to him.

He just liked the trappings and the props.

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, the intertissued robe of gold and pearl was all thrice-gorgeous ceremony and the least of what he felt himself entitled to. The power was desirable for its own sake but devoid of further significance or intention.

I suppose we should be grateful for that. And that he’s gone.