Recent discussion at the Labor National Conference has revived debate about an Australian republic. Much of that debate focuses on symbolism and national identity. Less attention is paid to the practical question of how constitutional authority is distributed throughout the machinery of government.
By one fifteen, the coup d’état had reached the implementation stage.
This meant a steering committee.
The Prime Minister sat beneath a screen reading CONSTITUTIONAL RENEWAL: DELIVERY PATHWAY. Nobody had used the word coup since Communications discovered it tested poorly with women over forty in two marginal electorates.
‘We remove the Governor-General today,’ he said. ‘The people elected us.’
The Secretary of the Department cleared her throat. ‘They elected the House of Representatives.’
‘That is what I said.’
‘Not quite.’
The Attorney-General slid a folder across the table. ‘There is also a sequencing issue. Ministers hold office under commissions issued by the Governor-General.’
‘So?’
‘If we abolish him first, there may be a short period in which none of us has lawful authority.’
‘How short?’
‘Potentially permanently.’
The Prime Minister looked at the implementation chart. A red box marked REMOVE VICEREGAL OBSTRUCTION sat above a green box marked GOVERN WITHOUT VICEREGAL OBSTRUCTION.
‘Can we reverse those?’
‘Legally, no. Graphically, certainly.’
The Minister for Infrastructure raised the matter of the sod-turning ceremony. A sod would be turned at the site of the Republic Delivery Precinct at three o’clock. The sod-turn had been scheduled before the coup itself, because the events team had already booked the marquee, and the marquee was non-refundable.
‘The project is shovel ready,’ said the Minister.
‘The shovel,’ said the Secretary, consulting a briefing note, ‘is not project ready.’
The shovel remained in a loading bay in Queanbeyan. Procurement had approved its purchase but not its interstate transport, and Finance required evidence that overthrowing the constitutional order was a core government function before releasing travel funds. An exemption was possible, but the exemption form asked for the approving authority, and the approving authority was the position they were abolishing.
At Government House, the Official Secretary received the alert at one twenty-three. He read it twice, then looked at the clock.
‘Do they intend to arrive before afternoon tea?’
His deputy consulted the protocol. ‘They have not completed the security declaration.’
‘Then they cannot enter.’
‘Apparently they are bringing a shovel.’
‘Has it been cleaned?’
‘I’ll ask.’
There was also the induction. No visitor could proceed past the gatehouse without watching the workplace health and safety video, which ran for eleven minutes and had no skip function. It covered trip hazards, the location of the defibrillator, and the correct response to encountering a swooping magpie on the eastern lawn. Revolutionaries were not exempt. The protocol made no provision for them.
‘And Defence?’
‘The Chief of the Defence Force has been informed.’
‘His response?’
‘He is attending a compulsory workshop on psychologically safe command. A message was taken.’
‘And His Excellency?’
‘Presenting long-service medals to the Rural Fire Service until half past two.’
The Official Secretary nodded. One did not reschedule the Rural Fire Service. Whatever else fell today, that would not.
The proclamation, meanwhile, sat in a shared drive under the filename Proclamation_FINAL_v7_AGD_comments_USE_THIS_ONE. The Digital Transformation Agency had queried whether ‘hereby’ was plain English, and suggested ‘as a result of this document’. Someone from Services Australia had resolved all comments without reading them, which was procedurally decisive but legally void.
At one fifty-eight, the Department sent a fax to the Palace as a courtesy.
At two o’clock, Western Australia announced it would secede in solidarity with the Crown. The Premier’s statement was seventy words long and forty of them were about GST distribution.
At two twenty-seven, the Palace replied. The reply noted that the weather at Balmoral was unseasonably fine, and closed with best wishes.
None of this troubled the Prime Minister, because the Prime Minister had a letter. The letter demanded that the Governor-General tender his resignation by four o’clock. It was, he felt, the cleanest instrument available: direct, personal, unanswerable. He sent it into clearance at one fifty.
By two o’clock, Legal had noted that ‘demand’ carried litigation risk and substituted ‘invite’.
By two ten, the Department had observed that ‘resignation’ implied fault, and proposed ‘transition to emeritus arrangements’.
By two twenty, Communications had removed the second person throughout, on the grounds that ‘you’ tested as confrontational in the outer suburbs. The letter now referred only to ‘the signatory’.
By two twenty-five, someone in the Cabinet Office had corrected the signature block to match the Style Manual, and in doing so had moved it, because letters of this kind were signed by the person whose transition they effected, and the template did not permit deviation from the template.
The final version, cleared at two thirty-one, respectfully invited the transition of the signatory from office, effective on acceptance.
It was couriered to the Prime Minister’s suite at two thirty-five. He signed it at two thirty-eight. He had read the first paragraph, which concerned the weather and had tested extremely well.
At two forty, Cabinet approved an urgent submission authorising officials to prepare advice on whether authority existed to seek authority to proceed.
The letter reached Government House at two forty-one, hand-delivered, because the courier had completed the security declaration in April for an unrelated matter and was therefore the only member of the Australian Government currently authorised to approach the front door.
At two forty-two, the Governor-General, returned from the Rural Fire Service and reading the letter once with the mild attention of a man reviewing a menu he already knows, signed an instrument. The instrument accepted the signatory’s resignation as Prime Minister, thanked the signatory for his service, and wished him well in his transition to emeritus arrangements.
At two forty-three, the former Prime Minister asked whether anyone had told the media.
Nobody had. The media release was in clearance.
At three o’clock, afternoon tea was delivered as scheduled.
Satire. Obviously…
