Fuck Off Scott Morrison, You Patronising Berk

It’s baffling enough that we have a Hillsong-ass Prime Minister born and raised in Sydney’s toffish eastern suburbs that has seen it fit to graft himself onto the Shire like a tick on the thigh of a staffy. But that he seemingly discovered ordinary people like sport only around six months ago and has been carrying on like he was born wearing footy boots ever since is something else entirely.

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And yet here he is, Scott Morrison, beer swilling class tourist everyman, swanning about the cricket – the day before it started, mind you – handing out wild platitudes about it being a “great summer” in one breath, and thoughts-and-prayersing the countless fire ravaged communities dealing with the brunt of an unprecedented national disaster in the other.

Great summer of cricket hey ScoMo! You beauty. Sink a tinnie. Sweat through your Chesty Bonds for the boys. Stick around long enough so the cameras know you were there and then hop back into the Government state car and get out of there!

It’s galling enough that he’s faffed about destroyed communities spewing store-bought empathy through the kind of taut-skinned facial expressions that make it patently clear he views every action in terms of votes gained or lost.

But that he’s now doling out empty platitudes on social media about “our” boys and “our” firefighters is the drizzling shits.

It’s the kind of puddle-deep moral fortitude that got us into this mess in the first place; a generation of windsor knotted cowards more concerned with cupping the balls of dying industry than doing anything that might so much as pebble the boat, let alone rock it. All that political stagnation and festering culminating in a leader being the highest flying midge; an inept dork who’d fart blood into his y-fronts if someone told him that’s what an apprenticeship was.

Fuck off with this, Mr Prime Minister. With all of it. Fuck right off mate.