Infiltrating The Mountain Lair Of Troll King Tony Abbott

Once upon a time, high in the mountains, ruled the king of the trolls. Tony Abbott – for that was the Troll King’s name – held court in a palace of stone and glass under a grassy hill, at the heart of an enchanted city.

Unwise travellers sometimes sought the Troll King’s hall, toiling into the high country and along the broad, eerily empty boulevards of his slumbering capital. But the King had placed a powerful glamour on the bridge across the lake (guarding bridges being the specialty of mountain trolls), so that when pilgrims tried to drive across they found themselves trapped on unexpected off-ramps and endless, disorienting roundabouts.

The Troll King’s dark magic also extended far across the sea. He could make small boats and their desperate passengers simply disappear!

Now, the trolls who come from far-flung electorates to hold their stinking revels in the Troll King’s noisome hall are not to be confused with the hobbits of the Australian Labor Party. For while the hobbits also dwell under the hill, they are feckless creatures who squabble among themselves as children do.

Their leader, Billbo, is in two minds about policies. “Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anyone sees in them.” Only after much gentle persuasion from the benevolent wizard Christine the Green – and a hearty second breakfast – will these stubborn little people shed their natural reticence and adopt a policy or two.

Foolish Humans Cannot Out-Troll A Troll

Many years ago, the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen told the tale of Peer Gynt. This inveterate boozehound and lecher stumbled into the Troll King’s hall when, hungover from carousing with three dairymaids, he hit on the King’s not bad-looking daughter. But the Troll Princess did not give up her greatest gift lightly; merely by lusting after her, Peer impregnated her with a hideous half-troll, half-human baby.

In that story, the Troll King posed Peer a riddle: what is the difference between troll and man? Here is what he told his guest:

“Out there, under the shining sky, among men the saying goes: ‘To thyself be true.’ Here, we trolls say: ‘Troll, to thyself be – enough.’”

Down in the digital valleys, the windows of humble share-houses were lit by the gentle glow of LED screens. It was a cosy sight. Inside, the humans were recoiling from the loathsome acts of the Troll King.

“Abbott has got the culture war he wanted,” fulminated yeoman scrivener Ben Eltham. “As it turns out, I think the left will fight.”

And fight they did – with each other. Eltham’s fellow villager, Jeff Sparrow, argued that the humans had forgotten the lessons they learned during the miserable reign of Troll King John Howard. Sparrow unfurled his wings and let fly: “By all means, let’s fight. But let’s not do so on the terrain of our opponents.”

Such faith the humans had, believing they could vanquish the King when they could not even vanquish their own disagreements. “Don’t feed the trolls!” they twittered to one another.

But the greatest trick the Troll King ever pulled was convincing the world he wasn’t a troll. This, in turn, made his human foes look ridiculous when they angrily tried to challenge him. Fairness? Pah! Compassion? Pshaw! Troll King Abbott craved not these human values. He was a troll, to be sure — and as Ibsen had warned us, trolls do whatever is enough to divide and disarray their enemies.

The villagers were left raging futilely against him, unable to cross, shaking their iTorches and Pitchforks. They needed a champion. Someone tricksy, with plenty of experience in dealing with trolls. Someone whose tongue was as silvery as his foxy hair…

In The Hall Of The Mountain King

Tony Jones gazed down Commonwealth Avenue. He could hear strains of music coming from inside the grassy mountain, where the Troll King’s troll-cabinet was in the midst of some most repulsive celebrations.

On foot, Jones could penetrate the roundabout glamour. He made his way nimbly across the bridge towards the hall, using his Walkley-winning parkour skills. He saw the bones of feminists being sucked dry and tossed onto the dirt floor as she-trolls looked on approvingly, shielded from similar fates by their sex appeal.

Elsewhere, trolls were wiping their greasy mouths and their greasier posteriors on scientific briefing papers, and washing their hands in finger bowls filled with sacked public servants’ tears. Christopher Pyne, the troll in charge of higher education, was boasting with shrill glee about his planned cuts to human universities. “We aren’t bound by the previous government’s policy decisions,” he chortled, to the mirth of his troll companions.

Environment troll Greg Hunt was pleased that the poor humans had risen to his trollish abolition of the Climate Commission, by pouring their own dwindling funds into a new Climate Council. “It’s a free country,” he smirked, “and it proves our point that the commission didn’t have to be a taxpayer-funded body.”

Looking over this Bruegelian scene was Troll King Abbott himself, on his dais amid a gaggle of uncomfortable-looking teenage netballers. “If you girls want to keep demonstrating your skills I’ll humbly watch and wish I was younger again,” he leered, unhurt by the bit of body contact he was enjoying.

Court jester Andrew Bolt was bumbling around, ranting about global warming to anyone who would listen. Snatches of his comedy routine reached Jones, who by now was poised in a corner, having wriggled through a nearby service hatch. “…terrified the public with preposterous scares about a warming that hasn’t come…” Bolt burbled. “Journalists became propagandists, even witch-hunters. And the biggest cabal of them gathered in the ABC.”

“I wish Abbott had the stones to de-fund the ABC, but I doubt that he ever will,” confided a small and especially stupid troll to his neighbour. Whatever he’d planned to add gargled and died as Jones administered a swift elbow to his throat, felling the troll instantly.

The sound caught Bolt’s attention. “Global warming spruiker Tony Jones!” he screeched, his jester bells a-jingle with agitation. “This week he scrapped his usual panel format to give the floor to just one guest – Canadian eco-extremist David Suzuki, here to preach his message of frying hell!”

The hall fell silent with fear. And though he hid it well, none was more afraid of Tony Jones than the Troll King.

“Yes w-well good evening Tony, let me ask you this,” the King began. “What’s the difference between troll and man?”

Jones’s mouth quirked up at the corners, and he cocked his head: an unmistakably troll-like gesture that caused gasps of recognition among the onlookers. “I’m going to take that as a comment,” he said.

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Mel Campbell is a freelance journalist and cultural critic. She is the founding editor of online pop culture magazine The Enthusiast. Her debut book, Out of Shape: Debunking Myths about Fashion and Fit, is out now. 

Illustration by Matt Roden.