Mark Riley: Tourette syndrome jibe mortification may be a turning point for Anthony Albanese

Living with a disability is no laughing matter. Anthony Albanese knows that.

Which makes the Prime Minister’s brain snap in the Parliament this week even more extraordinary.

We all make errors. Particularly reflexive ones in the moment.

But accusing Angus Taylor of having Tourette syndrome was a shocker.

Some of Labor’s fellow travellers were quick to insist it was merely a joke.

Not so long ago, such insults were celebrated as an expression of the great Aussie character, they say.

Lighten up, they say.

They wonder if Australia has lost its sense of humour.

It hasn’t. It has just grown up.

And so should they.

Tourette syndrome is not funny. Particularly to those who have it. And their families.

Anthony Albanese knows that, too. It’s why he corrected himself immediately in the Parliament.

And it is why, as disappointment among the families of many Tourette’s sufferers built to anger, he walked back into a practically empty chamber in its final minute of sitting on Tuesday night and apologised again.

And he didn’t just apologise. He is as good as hurled himself prostrate at the feet of public opinion.

“I made comments that were unkind and hurtful,” he said, taking a moment to compose himself.

“I regret saying it. It was wrong. It was insensitive. And I apologise.”

It was an extraordinary moment.

Why? Because although Anthony Albanese delivers many discursive, detailed, thoughtful speeches, very few average Australian voters hear them or want to.

But they did hear of this moment. And their reactions to it will help form their opinion of him as a leader.

That’s why his response was so important.

Seemingly little things in politics can have big consequences.

I’ve been observing prime ministers at close quarters now for over three decades. I’ve never seen one deliver such an abject apology about their own actions.

Indeed, I’ve seen more stubbornly refuse to say “sorry” because they apparently saw an admission of error as a weakness of character.

Albanese’s colleagues say the sincerity of this act of contrition demands that he now be forgiven. And they are right.

But the moment shouldn’t and won’t be forgotten. It should stand as an example of how hurtful comments can be when delivered without due thought.

Even the Prime Minister can do it.

Housing Minister Clare O’Neil said on Sunrise this week that Albanese is only human.

That moment proved it to be so.

It’s a fair point. But prime ministers have a duty to be better than the average human.

They are standard-bearers for contemporary Australian values and, as such, are held to a greater measure of expectation and accountability.

This, too, is something Anthony Albanese knows.

It was in his face in that brief moment in the Parliament on Tuesday night when he made the second apology.

He was genuinely chastened. He was deeply disappointed in himself. He was contrite.

The last time the country had seen him appearing so disconsolate was almost a year ago to the day when the Australian people comprehensively rejected his Voice referendum.

It was a turning point.

As this column observed at the time, the profundity of that rejection has changed not just the reflexive confidence of the Prime Minister but his entire government.

It has left a nagging feeling in the back of its collective mind about its ability to keep the people engaged with its political narrative.

There are examples where it has.

The stage three tax cuts are a big one.

But Peter Dutton’s uncompromising approach to Opposition — denying the Government any cheap wins — has effectively amplified the Albanese administration’s aching self-doubt.

Much of the goodwill that helped carry Labor back into government has now disappeared.

That happens to governments.

It is not always fatal.

The trust of the people is hard to earn. But it is easily lost.

Once lost, it is extremely difficult to win back.

But it can be done with hard work, discipline and leadership expressed through a government’s actions and — equally importantly — its words.

That is also something Anthony Albanese knows. And it isn’t funny.