Up the Greasy Pole: a year in the life of Senator Frank Bragger
By John Black, Michael Macklin and Chris Puplick
Mandarin, Melbourne. 1992. 273 pp. $14.95.
Reviewed by Tony Smith
Up the Greasy Pole is unlikely to win any literary awards, but it should take some political prizes. Three former senators from different parties here cooperate in a way which former members of the lower house would probably not understand.
Bragger is no doubt an amalgam of their reminiscences, but is certainly no compromise candidate. He represents the worst shortcomings of every aspect of our parliamentary system — of elections, parties, the legislature and the executive.
Bragger leaves the reader with no doubt at all about whether it is the cream or the scum which rises in the turbulence of Australian political life. He is a product of the many forces which shape our politics — general apathy, vested interests, exploitation of the system, corruption and lack of any principle beyond self-interest.
Typical of Bragger's "former" colleagues is the character who would book himself onto a free return first-class meal flight from Canberra to Sydney. This would save him $7 at the dining room while costing the taxpayers some $400! These are not wistful memoirs but a devastating indictment. Bragger's wry approach might well mean that this is a far more effective critique of our parliamentary system than volumes of academic complaint could achieve.
Occasionally, the editors of Frank's reminiscences interrupt the Flashmanesque adventures of their hero to inform the reader about the way things really work in Canberra. Alas, all too often there is no discernible difference between Bragger's deplorable behaviour and that of our real life representatives.
So now, as they sip their Bundy and cokes, the 4000 citizens of Parliament House can flip through Greasy Pole trying to identify characters they know — or pieces of them. Who, they might ask, is John Litel, the industrial relations minister, and who the pair of ministers known as "Laurel and Hardy"? Who is our first female PM, and where did the editors learn about the manner in which Sam Wren etches "I love you" into her drive? On second thoughts, that one is easy — the same place Canberrans learn everything else — from the driver of a Comcar.
In some respects, this is a dangerous guessing game. While it
does seem incredible that anybody would be likely to volunteer themselves as suitable models for such unflattering portraits, it has happened in the past. The last time an author attempted to create a believable image of a politician for serious literary purposes, a senator sued for defamation or something similar, with the result that the book had to be pulped and reprinted without the offending passage.
Fortunately, others have a sense of humour and smaller ego, or perhaps refuse to recognise themselves — as, for example, the senator deemed "too rude to be of any use". This senator has made her reputation terrifying public servants in Estimates Committees by demanding that they keep track of the amounts of our money they spend. Anyway, it keeps the cats, fat and thin, on their toes, and that is what parliament is supposed to do.
If you have to be rude to scrutinise the executive, then rudeness seems warranted. But Australian voters must realise that there are some in positions of power who exploit rudeness for their own political gain. Clearly, Prime Minister Keating decided over the Christmas break that parliamentary clashes were the only arena in which he could stamp his authority on his own party and demonstrate to the electorate that he had some superiority over his shadow.
Keating has exploited parliament, particularly in question time, to such an extent that it would be difficult for anybody reading the 1992 Hansards to escape the conclusion that Bragger is not so bad after all.
And if the government approach does not seem excessive, that may be due to the limitations of Hansard, which does not incorporate actions such as: P.M. here blows an enormous raspberry or make observations such as: Here Honourable Members of the Government fell about laughing at the Opposition's embarrassment. Max Gillies must be wondering whether political satire is still an honest profession.