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Margie Abbott: 'He's a softie'

Margie Abbott has appeared on television to defend her husband, Opposition Leader, Tony Abbott , over claims that he is sexist and has a problem with women in authority.

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Good lord! Where does this leave Malcolm Turnbull? Will he be required to reveal he spends his evenings tenderly tending to the homeless among the Paddington lanes of his eastern suburbs Sydney electorate?

And when are we going to hear from Tim Mathieson about Julia's prowess at baking and decorating cupcakes, and how they occasionally weep together at an old episode of Lassie?

The revelation by Tony Abbott's inner circle of women that his personal inner goddess is alive and well tosses up dreadful challenges for the Australian political class. 

It gets even more complicated for Julie Bishop. Does she ''get'' men? And what might that mean?

The revelation by Tony Abbott's inner circle of women that his personal inner goddess is alive and well tosses up dreadful challenges for the Australian political class.

It would...if it were a story. You'd hardly think it was transfixing news that his wife and daughters loved him. If they'd formed a chorus line to declare that he was a rotter and a cad who secretly pulled the wings off butterflies; now that would be a story.

Still, the immense amount of newsprint devoted by News Ltd to the story of kind, gentle and loving Abbott, who sent a beautiful bunch of flowers to his wife for their last anniversary even though she'd said she didn't want anything!, exerted a sort of ghastly allurement.

How could you avert your eyes from the revelation that when Abbott's wife Margie wants to watch the footie on the tellie, Tony protests (sensitively, you'd imagine) that he'd rather watch the costume drama soapie Downton Abbey? Surely this could be the source of a fairly serious marital dispute, but apparently not.

Perhaps Margie understands that Tony is driven by a supernatural need to watch Downton Abbey. An abbey, you would be aware, is a Catholic monastery run by an...errr...Abbott.

Margie had to reach back a fair way for the bit about Tony choking up at a movie. The said film, The Year My Voice Broke, was made 25 years ago and is set in the tightly bound Australia of 1962. Figures, really.

Anyway, we really need a series of these sort of exposes to grant the form its real punch.

Is big gentle Joe Hockey, in fact, a wildman stud in the sack?

Does droning Wayne Swan transform into a silver-tongued devil in the privacy of his hot tub?

We hardly dare imagine what formerly unknown character traits Bronwyn Bishop might reveal away from the chamber of the House of Representatives, but you can bet it would be a ratings triumph.

What secrets, if any, are there yet to be told about the fascinating life of Peter Slipper?

And Christopher Pyne....please, please tell us he has a covert existence as a cigarette-smoking cowboy roaming the range, cussing and expectorating and jangling his spurs!