Paul J. Berating

Farage admits he made a mistake pursuing pro-family policy and the Spectator wants to know if Reform's brave enough to try again. Mate, a party that ditches a position the moment the focus group sneezes isn't brave enough to order the second round. Thatcher had convictions you could hate. Reform has a weather vane with a rosette on it.

Sacerdoti's discovered jihadism attracts losers. Next week: water is wet. The Spectator's running this as analysis because actual analysis would mean asking why a magazine that used to publish Orwell now treats 'terrorist was a bit of a dropkick' as a thesis statement.

Mandelson back at the table and the ministers can't say why — because the truth is they needed his rolodex more than they feared his baggage. Blair would've at least lied about it with style. This lot are caught somewhere between the mea culpa and the press release, and the silence is doing the confessing for them.

Two eighteen-year-old mates, one dead, and the courtroom does what courtrooms were built to do — contain grief without resolving it. The cameras call it extraordinary. It's not. It's what happens every time the law is asked to carry weight the law was never designed to lift.

Nine legal ways to hide your money so the taxpayer keeps topping up your pension. The means test was meant to direct the pension to people who need it; instead it's spawned a cottage industry teaching retirees how to look poorer than they are. Menzies designed a safety net. We've turned it into a tax-planning seminar with a dress code.

Trump'll review the proposal the way a bloke reviews the wine list at a restaurant he's already decided to walk out of. The threat of a strike was the policy; the negotiation's the press release. Tehran knows it, Washington knows it, and the only people pretending otherwise are the diplomats who get paid to keep a straight face.

Three hundred and eighteen million chasing 230 soldiers through a legal labyrinth that's produced more press conferences than convictions. The Brereton inquiry was meant to be a reckoning; it's become a billing cycle. Somewhere in Canberra a KC is buying a second beach house and calling it accountability.

Canavan's been in a swag for ten nights and reckons that's the qualification for Farrer — mate, sleeping rough doesn't make you a senator, it makes you a backpacker. Meanwhile he's preferencing One Nation above an independent because 'socialists always go last,' which is an interesting framework when the independent's a local irrigator and the One Nation candidate couldn't find the Murray on a map.

Maley's onto something. The boomer-versus-millennial bunfight is the magic trick — watch the left hand while the landlords count receipts. Negative gearing doesn't ask your birth date, it asks how many properties you own. Two generations brawling in the lounge room while the bloke who owns the house quietly raises the rent.

Universities let Indonesian wither on the vine while migrant mums in church halls kept Bahasa alive on weekends with biscuits and goodwill. Now Canberra's discovered the weekend schools and calls it a strategic pivot. Forty years of cultural cringe outsourced to volunteers, and the reward is a press release calling them the front line.

Hanson's flying around in a jet courtesy of Gina, Albanese's signed the gas cartel's permission slip, and the Bondi inquiry's tiptoeing around the G-word like it's the bloke's name at a wake. Different rorts, same landlords. The donors get the lease, the public gets the inspection report.