Katter: the Satire and Substance
Comments Off on Katter: the Satire and SubstanceI: Satire
Bob Katter is many things. A fool is not one of them.
When the Akubra floats in over half an hour later than scheduled, a writhing mass of people have long since spilled out of Badger and into the cold evening air. While in many ways socially amorphous, this mass is held captive by a common desire. Students and nonstudents, of varying political convictions and geographical extractions, yearn not for an evening of enlightenment. Rather, they crave what is practically guaranteed from the event’s headliner: a mélange of stories, outbursts, and giddy countenances. Perhaps more accurately, a continuum of Katterisms.
Despite the eruption of cheers provoked by his arrival, he slumps into an acute angle before the crowd, as if defeated. This action signals much more than his newfound status as an octogenarian—the audience is transfixed by him, and he knows it. He has not said a word, but the evening is already his. The theatrics, however, are yet to begin. Katter is a true extrovert; all of his being depends on the attention of others. Accordingly, the first five minutes are used to test the loyalty of the audience. Once confident in this, he flies out of the gate and obliterates the track.
The microphone, on which his fellow panellists depend, becomes redundant after the first question. Questions themselves are soon given a similar fate, battered by the flourishing dynamic between Katter and his audience. Laden with political intrigue and personal significance, his stories are met with delight and giddy confusion. Members of the audience can be heard asking each other about his political views, as if they actually matter this evening. To a large degree, Katter is acutely aware of this point—as the enthusiasm of his audience burgeons, so too does the magnitude of his presence. Rise, orate, slump, repeat…
…satiated is the thirst for spectacle.
Long after his copanellists have disappeared, Katter remains the nucleus of the room. Stopping short of genuflecting, waves of people move inward bearing an assortment of objects, hopeful that each will be marked by the golden Sharpie. Once again, the hopes of all are satisfied: photographs, arms, and progress pride flags ecstatically leave the nucleus, bearing the glimmering hallmark of some undefinable ecstasy. The spectacle does not end at a felt tip. Eager for an interview that is denied by the night’s utilitarian calculus, we are told to arrive at Parliament House by eleven o’clock the next morning.
II: Substance
Sitting eagerly on the couches in the reception room, we are greeted by an outgoing group of schoolgirls. Through partially pursed lips, we are mordaciously instructed to “have fun!”, as though such an act is inconceivable. Their departure gives us a clear pathway to our objective, a story, the contents of which remain without clear definition. To seek anything of the sort now would be utterly futile, for it is not what the people so rabidly crave.
We are escorted into the office, and a series of artefacts is carefully arranged on the coffee table before us. The crisp Akubra, plate of assorted Arnott’s biscuits, and new copy of An Incredible Race of People complete what already feels like a permanent retrospective exhibit. Framed images of Labor’s “Red” Ted Theodore and the Country Party’s John McEwen join Katter to form a tripartite of superficial contradictions, underpinned by a collective fondness for interventionism. By now, we expect apparent political discrepancies to give way beneath rational inquiry, revealing a complex and longstanding ideological unity—or nothing at all.
Both substrates may be uncovered in the ensuing conversation, depending on how much one already knows. Katter knows a lot, and if he detects interest, he wants you to know just as much. At his insistence, the interview pauses while his staffers search for a copy of de Soto’s The Mystery of Capital. We haven’t read it, and he knows that he’d probably make a lot more sense if we had. What appears to be the sole remaining copy in his office is thrown between the Akubra and Katter’s own book, and we’re once again moving at speed. No matter what we might glean from either text, it is readily apparent that we are facing a very different Bob Katter. It is not soliloquies about crocodiles, nor outbursts over genealogical questions, that throw us off course. It is his composure, his studious discipline, that disorients us.
It’s time for the portrait, and disorientation persists. While the Akubra accompanies us to the desk, the subject, whose silhouette is so often defined by this hat, wishes not to wear it. He sits, hatless and comfortable, against a backdrop of the Australian and Eureka flags. A delicate equilibrium between care and haste is illustrated by the manner in which these flags are affixed to the venetians. At a glance, they might be flying proudly in the Innisfail wind—either way, I refrain from getting too close. Suddenly, he is brandishing a painted clapstick and chanting the chorus of Don Spencer’s Didgeridoo:
Didgeri, didgeri, didgeridoo
Listen to the song of the didgeridoo
The land is red, the sky is blue
The sound of Australia is the didgeridoo
Why? Perhaps one could glean a reason from the books in his office. If you asked him, he’d have a reason. Then again, are actions ever truly ameliorated by subsequent explanations? Can you explain away the impulse?
After Katter disappears, we speak once more with his staffers. Acutely aware of what may become of this, they offer a final glimpse into the inner mechanisms of the Katter PR machine. They make clear to us their awareness of the fact that much of what is seen is satirised. Their job, fundamentally, is to ensure that there’s some substance behind the satire. In our company, his presence seems to lack the self-satirising properties which command rooms and reposts alike. This is not to suggest that such properties represent the difference between self-control and delirium, as tomorrow’s furore over genealogy will demonstrate. Nuance can only account for so much.
Perhaps those schoolgirls ought to have been at Badger fourteen hours earlier. More generally, perhaps one cannot have the substance without the satire.
Henry Carls