Barnaby Joyce has split his trousers.The self-proclaimed best campaigner in the country has been in and out of the car on campaign stops in Albury for the Farrer by-election and his beloved wedding strides, purchased in London, have given up.
It’s just another day on the trail for the one-time young Nationals maverick who has spent 21 headline-grabbing years in Parliament. Over the past two decades, Joyce has become someone easy to caricature but much harder to define. Especially when you look at the diverse causes he’s championed — and vocally opposed — over the years. Now, he’s in the midst of a second coming (or third or fourth coming, depending on who you ask) with One Nation.
The former deputy prime minister announced he was quitting the National Party in a short statement to the chamber before question time on the final sitting day of 2025. Eleven days later, in one of the worst-kept secrets in Australian politics, he joined Pauline Hanson’s burgeoning party.
HITTING
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Under Joyce’s big hat and the bushie bluster, there’s a sharp political brain that’s always on.
As we drive between Albury and Howlong on the campaign trail a week before the Farrer by-election, the 59-year-old does a whip round the car, polling people’s predictions on what the primary vote will be for the four main contenders for the seat.
This is a common parlour game among politicos, to test both testing their own assumptions and testing others’ knowledge.
He returned to that conversation during a live interview on election night, once it became clear that One Nation candidate David Farley had won a thumping victory.
“I was talking to a journalist from (The Nightly) and I said we’d get 42 per cent and everyone laughed at it. I marked it down a bit, I didn’t want to be hubristic,” he told the ABC. (At that point in counting, the One Nation primary was bang on 42; it dropped to 39.5 once all the votes were returned. This reporter’s notes show Joyce predicted 44 per cent.)
It’s a demonstration of the skills he uses on the campaign trail, synthesising what people say to him to add data and anecdotes to his policy stash.
HITTING
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Under Joyce’s big hat and the bushie bluster, there’s a sharp political brain that’s always on.
As we drive between Albury and Howlong on the campaign trail a week before the Farrer by-election, the 59-year-old does a whip round the car, polling people’s predictions on what the primary vote will be for the four main contenders for the seat.
This is a common parlour game among politicos, to test both testing their own assumptions and testing others’ knowledge.
He returned to that conversation during a live interview on election night, once it became clear that One Nation candidate David Farley had won a thumping victory.
“I was talking to a journalist from (The Nightly) and I said we’d get 42 per cent and everyone laughed at it. I marked it down a bit, I didn’t want to be hubristic,” he told the ABC. (At that point in counting, the One Nation primary was bang on 42; it dropped to 39.5 once all the votes were returned. This reporter’s notes show Joyce predicted 44 per cent.)
It’s a demonstration of the skills he uses on the campaign trail, synthesising what people say to him to add data and anecdotes to his policy stash.
Campaigning is always more about listening than telling people who already know who you are, who you are, he explains.
He loves it and believes his skill is a combination of an innate ability to read people and two decades of practice, aided by watching his WWII veteran father talk to fellow farmers. A year on from the Federal election, anger at being put into “forced hibernation” by then Nationals leader David Littleproud, sidelined from the campaign, still lingers.
“I know my weaknesses and I know my strengths and I’m one of the best campaigners you’ll come across and one of the best fundraisers you’ll come across,” Joyce says. “Now I’m back on my toes doing it and I’m moving voters. If David was so good at campaigning, where is he?”
On the pre-poll booths in Albury (“I’ve spent days of my life on polling booths,” Joyce estimates, “it’s the grunt work of Australian politics”), everyone is broadly friendly — at least, they are a week out from the big day. Later in the week, there’s a run-in between senior Liberal Senator James Paterson and a One Nation volunteer that receives widespread attention.
Joyce takes photos for a group of Nationals volunteers and warmly greets a passing young Liberal. But in Howlong (population 3000, footy team Howlong Spiders), the whole thing nearly goes pear-shaped when the lead volunteer for One Nation stops Joyce and mentions he’d heard the politician had had a haircut.
“Geez, news gets around,” Joyce says — but the colour drains from his face when the volunteer adds: “You didn’t pay.”
There’s a contained panic as he works out how to deal with the issue, handing cash to a staffer who gets on the phone to the barber, which morphs into anger when he learns there’s a social media post about it.
Later he and Farley film a social media video addressing the haircut walkout. Joyce is scathing about the teals and the tactics of independents, saying they get desperate when they can see they’re losing.
He had a clash in an Albury pub on the night before we speak, with people getting in his face and asking why he supports Israel.
“They just want to poke you, get you riled up,” he recounts the next morning.
On the pre-poll booths in Albury (“I’ve spent days of my life on polling booths,” Joyce estimates, “it’s the grunt work of Australian politics”), everyone is broadly friendly — at least, they are a week out from the big day. Later in the week, there’s a run-in between senior Liberal Senator James Paterson and a One Nation volunteer that receives widespread attention.
Joyce takes photos for a group of Nationals volunteers and warmly greets a passing young Liberal. But in Howlong (population 3000, footy team Howlong Spiders), the whole thing nearly goes pear-shaped when the lead volunteer for One Nation stops Joyce and mentions he’d heard the politician had had a haircut.
“Geez, news gets around,” Joyce says — but the colour drains from his face when the volunteer adds: “You didn’t pay.”
There’s a contained panic as he works out how to deal with the issue, handing cash to a staffer who gets on the phone to the barber, which morphs into anger when he learns there’s a social media post about it.
Later he and Farley film a social media video addressing the haircut walkout. Joyce is scathing about the teals and the tactics of independents, saying they get desperate when they can see they’re losing.
He had a clash in an Albury pub on the night before we speak, with people getting in his face and asking why he supports Israel.
“They just want to poke you, get you riled up,” he recounts the next morning.
| Credit: Danella Bevis/The West Australian |
ORANGE WAVE
The Farrer by-election was the first concrete data point for the major parties on whether One Nation’s soaring vote was real or a pollsters’ blip. Multiple polls showed the minor party overtook the Coalition in February, after years of languishing around single-digit levels of support. How does Joyce think his influence now compares to when he was deputy prime minister to Malcolm Turnbull and Scott Morrison?
“Does anybody really think that I’m not changing politics?” he replies.
On the question of who influences Joyce, the answers are wide and prefaced with the disclaimer, “I’m going to sound like a wanker”, before citing Roman emperors Diocletian and Julius Caesar for their dynamism, John F. Kennedy’s oratory powers, Winston Churchill’s resilience, Dwight Eisenhower because “no one was gonna muck about with him”, Colin Powell, “an incredibly honourable man”, and conservative Queensland hero Joh Bjelke-Petersen, who “just got things done”.
“They’re honourable, and they’re dramatic, and they take risks for the right reasons, and they keep their people safe, and they bring about prosperity,” Joyce says of his heroes.
Is that how he hopes people will see him?
“I don’t know, they’ll make up their own mind. I’m sure they’ll say wonderful things after I’m dead.”
It’s clear that Joyce’s departure from the Nationals was driven primarily by a personal clash with Littleproud.
Staffers observe that he’s less stressed since jumping ship, less constrained away from the strictures and infighting of the Nationals, and more able to just “be Barnaby”.
Returning to the topic on our second day on the campaign trail, I ask if there’s more to it than a personality clash.
He responds with a 10-minute diatribe about his “pathological dislike about the intermittent power industry” and their “swindle factories” riding roughshod over his local community with renewables projects — including an attempt to install a transmission line through his own property.
“I’ve absolute disdain, no respect. I see them for exactly what they are, and backed in by (Mike) Cannon-Brookes and Malcolm Turnbull and Andrew Forrest,” he says, practically spitting the names in disgust.
In contrast, Joyce sees himself as a voice for the powerless, in some cases in concert with his wife, Vikki Campion, who pens a weekly newspaper column.
It’s clear that Joyce’s departure from the Nationals was driven primarily by a personal clash with Littleproud.
Staffers observe that he’s less stressed since jumping ship, less constrained away from the strictures and infighting of the Nationals, and more able to just “be Barnaby”.
Returning to the topic on our second day on the campaign trail, I ask if there’s more to it than a personality clash.
He responds with a 10-minute diatribe about his “pathological dislike about the intermittent power industry” and their “swindle factories” riding roughshod over his local community with renewables projects — including an attempt to install a transmission line through his own property.
“I’ve absolute disdain, no respect. I see them for exactly what they are, and backed in by (Mike) Cannon-Brookes and Malcolm Turnbull and Andrew Forrest,” he says, practically spitting the names in disgust.
In contrast, Joyce sees himself as a voice for the powerless, in some cases in concert with his wife, Vikki Campion, who pens a weekly newspaper column.
Much of that work happens on the road: car rides prove a chance to make phone calls in between the gladhanding, hat-signing and showing support to his candidate on the campaign trail. It is time to keep in touch with the family and hear from constituents.
Helping people is just as much a part of campaigning, and the “good local member” aspect will be crucial if Joyce changes his mind about running for the Senate at the next election and takes another tilt in his seat of New England.
“If it became apparent that we’re going to win a bundle of Lower House seats, then I’ll probably have to stay in the House of Representatives and try and win a House of Representatives seat. Because they’re going to need a leader,” Joyce says.
That would hurt the Nationals, who will be desperate to win New England back.
Joyce insists he’s still good mates with Matt Canavan, once his protege and now his direct competitor since he took over from Littleproud as Nationals leader in March.
“This is like when you go into the football paddock, you play for your side,” Joyce explains, returning to a metaphor he uses repeatedly in our conversations. “If I’m up against Matt, I want to see Matt’s best game. It means he doesn’t respect me if he plays his second-best game.”
Others around them say that friendship has turned to dust, although a source close to Canavan says the pair continue to speak regularly.
A lengthy parliamentary service means Joyce has formed working relationships all over the place, including with Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, who he describes as someone he can work with and who understands brawls in the chamber aren’t personal.
Similarly, he’s known Pauline Hanson for decades — at times as opponents and occasionally campaigning together — a fact he says many don’t understand when trying to fathom his switching parties.
“(Supporters) call us Auntie Pauline and Uncle Barney. That’s how people see us,” he says.
Joyce insists he’s still good mates with Matt Canavan, once his protege and now his direct competitor since he took over from Littleproud as Nationals leader in March.
“This is like when you go into the football paddock, you play for your side,” Joyce explains, returning to a metaphor he uses repeatedly in our conversations. “If I’m up against Matt, I want to see Matt’s best game. It means he doesn’t respect me if he plays his second-best game.”
Others around them say that friendship has turned to dust, although a source close to Canavan says the pair continue to speak regularly.
A lengthy parliamentary service means Joyce has formed working relationships all over the place, including with Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, who he describes as someone he can work with and who understands brawls in the chamber aren’t personal.
Similarly, he’s known Pauline Hanson for decades — at times as opponents and occasionally campaigning together — a fact he says many don’t understand when trying to fathom his switching parties.
“(Supporters) call us Auntie Pauline and Uncle Barney. That’s how people see us,” he says.
HIGHS AND LOWS
More than most politicians, Joyce has had big highs and even bigger lows throughout his career — including the very public breakdown of his marriage, after which he and now-wife Campion, formerly his media adviser, lived in a caravan on the outskirts of Canberra for a time.
The lows do hurt, he says, but he knows that people want him fighting.
“Look, I’m incredibly blessed that the Australian people have been so forgiving. I woke up one day on a footpath. Next election, my vote went up,” he says.
“People know my faults. I don’t hide from them, and people know them. But I didn’t stand to be a local pastor. I stand to be a local politician.”
He bemoans how the advent of smartphones and a culture of filming every movement has sanitised politics, and speaks fondly of the wild old days in the notorious Canberra nightspot, the Holy Grail.
Everywhere we go across Albury and nearby Howlong, people do double-takes when they spot Joyce, including in the pub over a lunchtime beer. Many request photos “for my mum”.
The political veteran says winning elections creates the biggest highs. He likens it to winning an Olympic medal, and repeatedly reels off his records: winning the biggest ever swing when he first ran for New England (a 29-point jump to the Nationals; a record eclipsed the week after we talk by the 33-point swing to One Nation in Farrer), and the only person to have held a Senate seat then held a Lower House seat in two States.
“People know my faults. I don’t hide from them, and people know them. But I didn’t stand to be a local pastor. I stand to be a local politician.”
He bemoans how the advent of smartphones and a culture of filming every movement has sanitised politics, and speaks fondly of the wild old days in the notorious Canberra nightspot, the Holy Grail.
Everywhere we go across Albury and nearby Howlong, people do double-takes when they spot Joyce, including in the pub over a lunchtime beer. Many request photos “for my mum”.
The political veteran says winning elections creates the biggest highs. He likens it to winning an Olympic medal, and repeatedly reels off his records: winning the biggest ever swing when he first ran for New England (a 29-point jump to the Nationals; a record eclipsed the week after we talk by the 33-point swing to One Nation in Farrer), and the only person to have held a Senate seat then held a Lower House seat in two States.
“I imagine the time will come, possibly, where I lose, and then I have to accept that, too, but you know, I’ll move on,” he says.
In Joyce’s second first speech, to the House of Representatives, he spoke of wanting to get into politics since he was a child (in his first first speech, he quoted Rudyard Kipling’s If in full to Senate colleagues).
What’s keeping him there, two decades on? He almost walked away, he says, but Littleproud trying to push him out made him more determined than ever to stay.
“It’s innate in Joyces, we don’t like being beaten,” he tells Campion on the phone while discussing his sons’ athletics carnival — an observation he expands upon when asked about it later.
“We’ll be polite. But if you challenge us, we will take you on. We’re not going to be pushed around.” But he can see a life after politics, back on the land, with his people.
“I don’t want to die in politics,” he says. “If my life flashed before me on my dying days, I can assure you, none of that, none of that recollection of my life would be about being in politics.
“It would be about my daughters, my sons, Vikki, as well as (ex-wife) Nat, about my parents, about the property, about all those other things. All those precious last minutes, not one will be occupied by thinking about politics.”
“It’s innate in Joyces, we don’t like being beaten,” he tells Campion on the phone while discussing his sons’ athletics carnival — an observation he expands upon when asked about it later.
“We’ll be polite. But if you challenge us, we will take you on. We’re not going to be pushed around.” But he can see a life after politics, back on the land, with his people.
“I don’t want to die in politics,” he says. “If my life flashed before me on my dying days, I can assure you, none of that, none of that recollection of my life would be about being in politics.
“It would be about my daughters, my sons, Vikki, as well as (ex-wife) Nat, about my parents, about the property, about all those other things. All those precious last minutes, not one will be occupied by thinking about politics.”
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