Calooh! Callay!" The opinion polls pointing to the possibility of a Labor victory at the next federal election are frabjous news.
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But even as we rejoice, a sobering thought occurs.
It is that, soon, we may no longer have Scott Morrison and his painfully unpleasant, hypocrisy-a-day prime ministership to complain about. Will there be counselling for those of us devastated by our loss of this emotionally essential resource?
I am reminded of the psychological-emotional importance of having things to complain about by Theodore Dalrymple's piece Complaints and Complaints in the February New English Review.
"Like the great majority of people," Dalrymple divines, "I like to complain."
"Remove complaint from my thoughts or conversation, and I should have very little to think about or say. Offered the choice between a world in which there was nothing to complain of or about, and a world (such as ours) in which there is much reason to complain, I should unhesitatingly choose the latter. In the former, I should complain that there was nothing to complain about."
Dalrymple, an Englishman living quite comfortably in a comfortable and quite well functioning corner of England, goes on to describe how unnerving he finds it when his natural inclination to complain is thwarted.
He describes for example a recent transaction, as a patient, with his local health system. The coming experience had seemed to offer such promise of things to complain about. "I was already rehearsing in my mind what I would say and working myself up into a pleasant froth of righteous indignation."
Alas, everything, frustratingly, turned out to be whinge-bluntingly impressive in its efficient and courteous professionalism.
"I was disappointed, cheated of my opportunity for indignation!" Dalrymple reports, aghast at the state of "mental vertigo" this left him in.
His point about the importance to us of our froths of righteous indignation turns the thinking Australian mind to thinking of what things in our lives yield us the most deliciously whinge-worthy fruit.
And when I do this I note with alarm that I have developed an unhealthy dependence on Scott Morrison. He is so abundantly offensive to me in so many ways that, like a stupendously vigorous weed-tree expanding in a garden and blotting out and overshadowing everything else, he has left the once rich and varied garden of my complainings an otherwise barren place.
So it is with envy these days, that I read the Letters to the Editor (newspapers' Letters pages are a daily proof of Dalrymple's thesis that complaining is central to most of what we do and say) and see the sheer variety, the twinkling galaxy of things others think worth complaining about.
But here caution is required. Dalrymple fancies that "There are, of course, complaints and complaints".
"Some ... point to general problems that affect many other people or the whole of society itself. A complaint is then emblematic of something beyond itself and may even become socially useful or necessary. Complaint that is merely about oneself is often akin to whining, and often serves to justify descent into the psychological swamp of resentful self-pity."
Yes, when and if the election result robs me of the big, important repertoire of complaints about Scott Morrison's prime ministerial crimes against human decency I won't want that void to be filled, as the Letters pages so often seem filled, with niggly-wriggly mini-complaints from the swamp of resentful self-pity.
But I take heart! Surely what will save left-leaners from just such a post-Scomo swamp, enabling us to keep focused on complaining's bigger pictures, will be the Labor government's inevitable breaking of our leftish hearts.
Ultra-conservative Liberal governments cause us one species of pain and conservative Labor governments - because in our naivety we expect so much more of them in matters of truth, reform, justice and decency - cause us (as those expectations are routinely dashed) a uniquely different pain and a different smorgasbord of complainables. Scott the Humungous Scaremonger lies that Albanese is terrifyingly "left wing" when, really, voters have no more rational reason to dread what an Albanese government will do than they have that their teddy bear will attack them with a machete.
I am already rehearsing the complaints I will have about the cautious, tory, believe-in-nothing, all-the-way-with-the-USA Albanese government, working myself up into a pleasant froth of righteous indignation about its dashings of my idealistic expectations.