Parables for Life
By Dan Pullinger
I’ve had a little too much time lately on my hands and so I’ve been thinking. Thinking plenty. My mind has been wandering without restraint and there’s one thought it keeps returning to and this is it. The Edge is a crap guitarist. From the outside this seems a simple enough thought. The Edge is the lead, nay, the only guitarist in one of the biggest supergroups on the planet and he’s not very good at playing the guitar. That’s it. But dwell on this long enough and it becomes something that is so much more. Something symbolic and metaphorical about the world we currently live in. Stay with me on this. But first, here’s a quick history lesson.
Irish boy-band U2 burst onto the scene in 1980 with their catchy protest ditty ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’. They released more songs and albums and are still around. At some point in the 1990’s they strode the world stage like a rock-colossus despite the fact one of them couldn’t play an instrument very well. (I will concede at this point that ‘With or Without You’ is a great song, but technically speaking it’s the same four chords from start to finish and it’s the rhythm section and vocals that make it great, not the guitar.)
So, history will regard The Edge as one of Rock’s greatest guitarists by virtue of him being in a hugely popular band. Popularity does not equate to talent however, and let’s not ignore what a ridiculous stage name “The Edge” is particularly for a ‘musician’ that is far from ‘edgy’, but as usual I digress. The point I’m aimlessly drifting toward is this: The Edge is symbolic of all the talentless people who have found themselves in positions they are grossly unqualified to hold.
Let’s turn our gaze to the current crop of politicians that rule over us and how with cruel irony we can all see just how out of their depth they are except them. There’s a malignantly narcissistic thin-skinned man-baby game-show host currently calling the White House home. A tousle haired bumbling word-salad spouting Etonian that resembles an unhappy egg in No. 10 Downing Street. And here in The Lodge we have a holiday taking shouty Pentecostal who failed at marketing and was previously best known for asking the world where the bloody hell were we. Covid not-withstanding is it any wonder things are the way they are? These dullards and their swathe of enablers and yes-men couldn’t provide a vision for the future outside their own re-election if they tried. And it’s not just political leaders in way over their head. There’s a host of other Edges who have Steven Bradberry’d their way onto this list. Andrew Bolt. Ted Cruz. Michaelia Cash. Phil Gould. Lachlan Murdoch. Phil Tufnell. OK, that’s a bit harsh on poor old Tuffers. Lets swap him for Miranda Devine.
In all the chaos of the revolving door of Prime Ministers I believe Malcolm Turnbull didn’t get the eulogy he deserved, so I would like to dedicate the last few paragraphs to him and his legacy.
Thank you Malcolm for being the least worst. If the front bench is the ten plagues of Egypt you were merely the locusts. You were the Eichmann of this Reich. The Golden Staph in this petrie dish of parasites. The Cameron Bancroft in this team of political ball tamperers. Thank you for being the least bad. Thanks for having charisma you didn’t use. Thank you for having convictions you ignored. Thank you for the splendid policies you didn’t implement. Thanks for the lip service to ‘Battlers’ and ‘Everyday Australians’ and for blocking the inquest into your banking mates. Thanks for your passionate speeches on the importance of issues your government was busily defunding. Thanks for Robo-Debt, that money for the reef that can’t be used and a complete absence of political courage.
Thank you for your part in the national game of “Wheel of A-holes” that gave us our current leader which in turn also gave us a slightly damp towel as opposition leader. Vale Malcolm. Enjoy Tuscany.
The Mylestom author divides his time between calling bingo, instructing interpretive dance and freelance hostage negotiating