Shortly after vacating the prime ministerial office, Malcolm Turnbull headed north to Manhattan with wife Lucy — there they have remained. It is time we check on their wellbeing.
Malcolm sits, watching TV. Lucy is in the kitchen.
LUCY: Malcolm. Would you like a cuppa and bagel? What are you watching?
There is no response.
Lucy enters the living room.
For Christ sake, Malcolm. Get over your funk. What on Earth are you watching?
MALCOLM: An old episode of Graham Kennedy’s Blankety Blanks.
LUCY: Blankety Blanks?! Seriously! This is ridiculous. What’s been is best left in the past — including your old job.
MALCOLM: I know. But there’s never been a more exciting time to be in Sydney and Melbourne — and here we are, stuck in Manfuckinghattan.
LUCY: Manfuckinghattan? Malcolm, we are in the best part of the most exciting city in the world! Go for lunch somewhere and you may bump into George and Amah Clooney, Madonna, Sean Penn, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, just to name a few.
Go to lunch in Canberra and who will you bump into?! Peter Dutton, Tony Abbott, Kevin Andrews, Eric Abetz, Mathias Cormann. I could go on.
MALCOLM: Yes, but I could bump into Joe Hockey or Kevin Rudd here.
LUCY: I know, but you’d have to be really unlucky for that to happen.
MALCOLM: I am really unlucky. What they did to me is fucked. Look at what we could have done if we were in Melbourne.
LUCY: What? You could go on one of your stupid tram rides to nowhere, taking selfies with everyone unfortunate enough to be on the same tram as you.
MALCOLM: No Lucy. Winx won the Turnbull Stakes. The Turnbull Stakes! That’s our name. Imagine it. Me, Prime Minister Turnbull, presenting the award to the winner of the Turnbull Stakes. How exciting would that have been?
And in Sydney, my Roosters won the NRL. And where is our family home? In the eastern suburbs, right near the Roosters’ headquarters. I could have presented the Premiership Cup to them. Another Turnbull triumph.
And, it was Winx’s 28th win in a row. And her 32nd win from 38 runs. How exciting!
LUCY: 38. Isn’t that roughly around the same number of Newspolls you had as Prime Minister?
MALCOLM: Pretty close.
LUCY: How many of those did you win?
MALCOLM: Not many.
LUCY: Maybe if you’d won a few we wouldn’t be stuck here in Manfuckinghattan? What am I to do with you? I can’t have you mope around the apartment all day. Seriously Malcolm. You’ve never been like this before. You haven’t even kissed me since we’ve been here.
MALCOLM: I’m sorry. I keep seeing the ghostly images of Tony Abbott and Kevin Rudd everywhere, even when I go to kiss you. It’s horrible.
LUCY: I know! We’ll go out for a meal and a bike ride in our matching cycling outfits. You can wear your lycra.
MALCOLM: Why not? That’s a good idea. We’ll go to an African food restaurant. At least there I can be sure I won’t bump into Peter fucking Dutton. I’ll get changed.
LUCY: Good! That’s more like the Malcolm I married.
The Turnbull's change into their matching outfits, grab their bikes, go onto the road outside their apartment and cycle towards Central Park. They stop at the lights.
LUCY: You scrub up well in your lycras.
MALCOLM: Thanks. I feel good. Great idea. Great fun. So exciting cycling in New York.
BYSTANDER: Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Your accent. I’d say you’re Australian.
MALCOLM: Very good. You picked it. Have you been there?
BYSTANDER: Yes. I was there not that long ago. Mainly in Melbourne. Great city. Lots of cyclists everywhere. From what I remember, your Prime Minister loved cycling.
MALCOLM: As a matter of fact, I was Australia’s Prime Minister.
BYSTANDER: I knew it. I knew I’d seen you before.
Malcolm beams a generous smile.
BYSTANDER: You’re Tony Abbott!
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