There comes a time in the life of every 57-year-old accountant-turned-political-firebrand-turned-deputy-prime-minister-turned-bond-ban receiver when they find themselves staring at a video they didn't know they made. starring an hour he can't remember, lying in a suit next to a planter outside a kebab shop in Canberra, cursing a blue stripe and otherwise speaking 86 types of Ewokese to someone who isn't actually he was at the end of his phone upside down.
Friends, Barnaby Joyce reached this point four months ago. And at the end of last week, he emerged from the bottom, 15 kg – and, curiously, several facial shades – lighter, looking for all the world a newer, less fire-fighter red man.
Image: Marija Ercegovac.Credit:
According to success stories, it was as satisfying as accidentally stumbling upon a later episode The biggest loser and watching a chastened contestant, with traces of wheatgrass and his own horrible post-workout stench, survive an elimination challenge after being forced to bench press his own starting weight with discarded cheesecakes and regret.
Barnaby's downfall, and his subsequent story of redemption, had it all. A very public extra-marital affair, an unexpected pregnancy, a pre-Christmas country wedding with matching Akubra hats, a spiraling mental health situation, the pressure cooker of Canberra's political scene and (finally) enough booze to leave half of Manuka feeling like it's been worked over by a powerful batch of cooking sherry.
And then, Pachelbel's canon/the Rocky main theme/Paul Kelly's At Your Door (cut where it doesn't belong, because who knows what Barnaby has on high rotation on his Spotify playlist), a glorious plot twist. A period of deep introspection (in a house inhabited by two small children, whose very presence, as we all know, does not lend itself to any kind of introspection), a resolution to leave the demon's drink, and (presumably) another and an infinitely more flattering shade of Revlon foundation.
For those of us who thrive on good fortune in Canberra on a Wednesday night story, it was practically poetry. And then, as always, bloody Barnaby had to ruin the script by opening his mouth.
Recalling the impetus behind his decision to quit grog, he didn't cite a long-running, bravely fought and entirely forgivable battle with alcoholism, nor did he give us a hitherto undisclosed moment when he was acting prime minister, he had too many. Friday night drinks and he drunkenly flagged down the joint defense chiefs in a short-lived attempt to declare war on Tasmania.
What happened, apparently, was that after suffering his first mental blackout on the trail in February, later emerging with a hangover for the ages, he accepted his doctor's instructions not to mix pills and booze and quit alcohol, cold turkey.
