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I don't like it . . . One Nation
leader Pauline Hanson looks down from the public
gallery in the Queensland Parliament in July 1988
with, from left, party state director Peter James, Ian
Petersen and Heather Hill.
Picture: Anthony Weate |
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By 1996, Queenslanders had had enough of Labor — in Goss's
words, they were "waiting on their verandas with baseball
bats". Goss took the first hit in the Mundingburra by-election
which cost him his majority; Labor Prime Minister Keating the
second.
The 1996 federal election brought to the political stage a
flame-haired former fish and chip shop owner from Ipswich,
Pauline Hanson.
Disendorsed by the Liberal Party before the election, she
won the seat of Oxley — safe Labor and the only Queensland
seat to withstand the anti-Whitlam tide in 1975 — as an
Independent.
Her maiden speech six months later, in which she railed
against Aborigines, immigrants, Asians, economists and various
other targets, was seized on by the shock-jocks like Alan
Jones and John Laws. Suddenly she was leading a political
party — well, actually more of a small company — and stumping
the country.
In the next state election, thanks to preference deals with
the Liberals and the Nationals, One Nation candidates won 12
seats but promptly disintegrated into a rabble.
Every time Hanson was interviewed by some smart-alec,
slick southern journalist, her approval rating would rise in
Queensland, where paranoia and suspicion grow like mould in
summer.
Hanson's appeal was simple: she wasn't a politician and
didn't pretend to be one. She was good at homing in on the
problems caused by globalisation and technological advance but
woefully short of solutions.
Every time she was interviewed by some smart-alec, slick
southern journalist, her approval rating would rise in
Queensland, where paranoia and suspicion grow like mould in
summer.
By 2001, Prime Minister John Howard had brought
disaffected, former One Nation voters back to the traditional
conservative fold, thanks to his stance on boat people.
Hanson, perhaps distracted by criminal charges against her,
failed to win a Senate seat. She might have gone, but the
problems she barely articulated remain.
The
most remarkable political turnaround in 2001 was not Howard's
success, but that of Queensland Premier Peter Beattie, right.
Late the year before, the Labor Party was giving off the
same odour as a bucket of prawns left out in the tropical sun;
electoral rorts claimed his deputy Jim Elder, former state
secretary and backbencher Mike Kaiser and various candidates
and advisers. They looked like bringing down the Beattie
government.
Instead, the confessed media tart went directly to the
people with stunts including scaring the daylights out of a
shark with which he briefly shared an aquarium. More
importantly, Beattie apologised (to the voters, not the shark)
and vowed to clean up the mess; the electors accepted his mea
culpa and his vows; they returned his government with a vote
not seen since pre-split days.
If possible, the wide Peter Beattie grin became larger.
The state's political history is rich and colourful, for
Queensland has had its share of rogues. It's not alone, of
course. In NSW, Rex "Buckets" Jackson, enslaved by the punt,
did time for copping money in return for early release of
prisoners.
But in the array of crooks in politics, few would surpass
Labor's Keith Wright and Bill D'Arcy, both guilty of sexual
offences against children.
D'Arcy is still inside and likely to remain so for a long
time; Wright is out, seeking redemption in NSW.
Not even that sinful place is likely to provide a job with
children for that former Baptist lay preacher.
