What has the Hon Prime Minster Kevin Rudd and Socceroo Harry Kewell have in common? Both had scathing things written about them by journalists which, no matter which way you read them you wonder how the writer came to such outrageous conclusions. First off there was David Marr with his long article here.
Marr famously kicked it off with a mention of the phrase 'rat-fucking' and then went on to wind through Kevin Rudd's emotionally challenging childhood to come to the conclusion that what drives the Prime Minister is anger. This bit caught my eye:
"He doesn't trust his advisers to give advice, so they become glorified research assistants. Because everything is on the go at once and he's interrogating the detail of everything, nothing comes out until the last minute. Bringing work to a conclusion was focused around the next media hit. He loves an announcement.
"He is a strange beast behind closed doors. He is so focused on the day-to-day tasks that he loses the social niceties. They are neither here nor there. Staff are interrogated beyond what's reasonable to expect them to know. And if you don't know, the atmosphere changes. Not a blow-up. It becomes very quiet. But he doesn't deliberately push his staff to this point.
"For all the effort, he doesn't come up with particularly interesting solutions to problems. His policy positions aren't breakthroughs, not particularly new or exciting. After all that work, they are dull."
That above could possibly be accurate (or totally inaccurate). The problem is that it is not attributed to anybody, and it's a pretty damning opinion of the man's work at the end. In all honesty, I would hate to b damned by such hearsay, so even if it were true, the lack of attribution is a bit of an issue for me. This next bit of opinion spinning ad hominem stuff had me seriously wondering:
If Australia saw him through Canberra's eyes, he would be done for. Though he has led until now a formidably disciplined first-term government - few leaks, only one minister lost - negotiated the global banking crisis of 2008 with exemplary skill, pulled off the great symbolic coup of the Apology and routed two opposition leaders, the capital is tired of him.
He's seen in that little world of power as a weird guy and a failing prime minister. He puzzles his caucus, frustrates his ministers and irritates the press. A habit of making endless speeches at big public events has earned the man - known at various times in his career as Dr Death, Pixie and Heavy Kevvie - a new nickname: the Castro of the South Pacific.
Colleagues from his time as the key back-room boy in Goss's reforming government have an old joke they trot out whenever they meet to talk about those days of high hopes and disappointment. They don't remember him kindly. The joke: Rudd is a creature from outer space. The proof? Who but an android would say so often, "I am only human."
What's really worrying about this is that none of this concluding section of the account has any substance worth spit. Yet here are three paragraphs that are essentially bagging the guy in the name of reporting on how other people bag the man behind his back. It's hard to tell how this serves as journalism or serves political discourse in this country. David Marr went on to talk about his encounter with Rudd here. Kevin Rudd went ballistic at David Marr, and David Marr took that anger as proof that Kavin Rudd runs on anger.
Kevin Rudd's riposte this week was that it wasn't so much anger but incandescent rage that drives him. And that he has a long memory.
Now, I'm no Kevin Rudd fan. I understand he got voted in because of who he wasn't more than who he was. I preferred Mark Latham as leader of the ALP, and I don't really understand why Mr. Rudd likes making moralistic opinions on art be heard through his office as Prime Minister. The man is a joke when it comes to understanding the transgressive nature of good art. Even so, David Marr's article is as unfair on Rudd as Rudd was unfair on Bill Henson - and maybe that's why Marr did it - but I can't prove it. Whatever the case, it's a very misguided piece.
Then, there was Michael Cockrill is covering the World Cup over in South Africa, and after Australia's dismal loss to Germany, filed this article about Harry Kewell.
On Saturday (midnight, AEST), in Rustenburg, he gets the chance to prove he's got something left to give. At times in his career, Kewell has been a genuine star. And his long, arduous battle to keep his body together remains a tribute to his bravery, and resilience. But he's never been able to accept his diminished circumstances. Instead, he's chosen to deflect the scrutiny with hype. Kewell Inc is on the way up. Kewell, football player, is on the way down. And has been for years.
Now there is nowhere left to hide. If he's got any petrol left in the tank, he's got to show it, against Ghana. Preferably by starting the game, and finishing it. Preferably by providing a point of difference. Preferably by giving glimpses of the Harry of old. Anything less, and there's no more excuses. None.
If the Socceroos lose to the Black Stars, they're out of contention. With a new coach coming on board, there'll be a broom swept through a squad creaking at the joints. Believe it or not, Kewell is likely to be part of the clean out. A few years ago that was unthinkable. But a few years is a long time in football. 'Our Harry' knows that better than anyone.
Again, here's a bunch of statements about a man that has no attribution or evidence.
Now, you all know I hate soccer and Harry Kewell's stardom is neither here nor there for me, but it seems the guy has done more right for the cause of Australian Soccer than he has done wrong (or ill). He's been a stalwart, at the edge of his endurance at times. The characterisation here is that he's a prima donna who doesn't know he's washed up.
Naturally, Harry Kewell reacted with incandescent rage, and called out to Cockerill to show his face. Cockerill responded with this tart and nasty little article.
HERE I am Harry, where I was always going to be and where I'll be for the next few weeks. Covering the World Cup.
Not covering you, exclusively, I must admit. I like to get around. On Wednesday afternoon, when you seemed to be rather upset that I wasn't squeezed among the press pack at Ruimsig, tape recorder in hand, I was actually in Pretoria. Months ago I applied, and received, accreditation to report on South Africa's game against Uruguay. You can check if you like.
Perhaps if I'd known you were going to front the cameras - we're not generally told who Football Federation Australia are ''putting up'' in advance - I would have changed my plans. Come to think of it, no I wouldn't have.
You see, Harry, I spent a lot of years, a lot of energy and a lot of effort chasing you for quotes around the world. I was there when it all began for you in 1996 - in fact, I was there a long time before that - and I'm still here now.
Ninety per cent of that time, you've blanked me. The last time, four years ago in Yokohama, I made a decision there wasn't much point in the charade any more. Something I conveyed, quite clearly, to your manager, Bernie Mandic. So you got on with your life and I got on with mine. That's fair enough. There's plenty of athletes and plenty of journalists who don't get on. Nature of the beast and all that.
Except he wasn't there to take the anger (nay, incandescent rage) from Kewell. And he won't turn up to take his well-deserved beatings from the man. He's just talking tough from behind his keyboard, protected by the reputation of the Sydney morning Herald itself. Kewell's management issued a statement pointing out the actual errors in Cockerill's original article.Here's an example of one of the points rebuked and it's interesting:
Today you wrote that I told you, ''the football media was a joke, utterly irrelevant''. Again you are playing with the truth. Not only is the location of the conversation wrong but you have conveniently left out that I was speaking specifically about Australian newspaper journalists that cover soccer and quoted what Rupert Murdoch said about newspapers in general - ''Only 9 per cent [of the people] describe us as trustworthy, a scant 8 per cent find us useful, and only 4 per cent think we're entertaining (14 May, 2005).''
Yes, one does wonder about journalists, as does Harry's manager Bernard Mandic.
In both instances, one wonders why on earth the editor at the SMH thought either one of these character assassinations were worthy pieces of journalism to print, because in both instances the subsequent discussions have devolved into fierce rebukes and slanging matches. It's this kind of thing that's lowered my opinion of the SMH even more.
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