A Tongue‑in‑Cheek Guide to the Fungus of Federal Politics

By Andrew Klein

Dedication: To my wife – who taught me that the best way to deal with mushrooms is to observe them from a safe distance, and never, ever take them seriously.

Introduction: The Edifice on the Hill

Canberra’s Parliament House is a remarkable building. It is built into a hill, with grass growing over its roof. Tourists walk on it. Children roll down it. It is, in architectural terms, a green roof – an environmental gesture, a symbol of harmony with the land.

But there is another way to see it.

The grass on the roof is not a metaphor. It is habitat. And habitats – as any naturalist knows – are home to fungus.

This guide documents the fungal species that have colonised the political landscape of Australia. They are not edible. They are not medicinal. They are not, strictly speaking, mushrooms – because mushrooms, at least, have a purpose in the ecosystem. These specimens do not.

They are parasitic. They feed on decay. They thrive in darkness. And when exposed to light – the harsh, unforgiving light of accountability – they fade.

This guide is dedicated to the naturalist Sir David Attenborough, who has documented the wonders of the natural world with patience, precision, and grace. He has never, to our knowledge, documented the political fungus of Canberra. This is not a criticism of Sir David. It is a confession: some specimens are too peculiar even for him.

Part One: The Environment

The Parliament of Australia sits on Ngunnawal land. The building was opened in 1988, replacing the provisional Parliament House (now the Museum of Australian Democracy). It was designed to be open, accessible, and transparent – with grass on the roof to symbolise the connection between the people and their representatives.

The grass, however, proved to be fertile ground for fungus.

The political environment of Canberra is characterised by:

· Perpetual darkness – Question Time is held at 2pm, but the windows are frosted. Sunlight is discouraged.

· Rich organic matter – Lobbyists, donations, and corporate hospitality provide abundant nutrients.

· High humidity – Hot air rises, and in Canberra, it never dissipates.

· Lack of natural predators – The media, once a fearsome creature, has been domesticated. Fact‑checkers are endangered. Journalists now feed on press releases.

In this environment, fungus thrives.

Part Two: The Species

1. Fungi horribilis – The Stinker

Common name: Albo

Habitat: The Prime Minister’s Office

Appearance: Grey. Mushy. Releases a foul odour when approached – a mixture of spin, vacillation, and recycled talking points.

Diet: Decaying Labor traditions, union donations, and the faint hope that history will be kind.

Impact on environment: Blocks sunlight from reaching lower‑ranking mushrooms. Contributes nothing of nutritional value.

Distinguishing feature: When prodded, emits a sound – not a roar, not a squeak, but a murmur. The murmur translates roughly as: “The Coalition did it too.”

Edibility: Not recommended. Causes indigestion, nausea, and a persistent feeling of betrayal.

2. Amanita mortifera – The Death Head

Common name: Richard Marles

Habitat: The Deputy Prime Minister’s Office (when he can find it)

Appearance: A mushroom that has been told it is a truffle. Poisonous. Not because it intends harm – because it is inept.

Diet: Defence contracts, press releases about AUKUS, and the accumulated confusion of being simultaneously everywhere and nowhere.

Impact on environment: Takes up space that could be occupied by a competent fungus. Occasionally falls over.

Distinguishing feature: When asked a direct question, performs a remarkable transformation – it dissolves into a cloud of vague statements and references to “processes underway.”

Edibility: Fatal. Not to the body – to the spirit.

3. Mycena confusa – The Confused Mushroom

Common name: Penny Wong

Habitat: The Senate, but also the Cabinet Room, but also international summits – it is difficult to say, because this mushroom is never quite where it appears to be.

Appearance: Looks like a mushroom. Talks like a mushroom. Is not a mushroom.

Diet: Diplomatic cables, legal advice, and the occasional principled stand – which is immediately regurgitated.

Impact on environment: Creates confusion among neighbouring fungi. Other mushrooms are never sure whether to treat it as a friend, a foe, or a mirage.

Distinguishing feature: When approached, emits a sound – not a defence, not an attack, but a legal opinion on why it cannot be held responsible for its own actions.

Edibility: Not poisonous, but not nourishing. Eating this mushroom will leave you as confused as it is.

4. Russula toxicus – The Red Menace

Common name: Pauline Hanson

Habitat: The Senate, though it also appears in shopping centre food courts and on Facebook pages with Comic Sans fonts.

Appearance: Red. Showy. Attracts attention. And poisonous.

Diet: Fear, resentment, and the occasional fish and chip.

Impact on environment: Releases toxins that kill nearby mushrooms – not through competition, through exhaustion. Neighbouring fungi simply give up trying to reason with it.

Distinguishing feature: Has no stem. Appears to float. This is not a biological adaptation – it is a trick of the light. Closer inspection reveals that the mushroom is actually supported by a structure of corporate donations and media amplification.

Edibility: Causes hallucinations – not the interesting kind, the kind where you find yourself agreeing with it and then spend the rest of the day wondering what went wrong with your life.

5. Coprinopsis atramentaria – The Inky Cap

Common name: Peter Dutton

Habitat: The Opposition Leader’s Office, though it has also been spotted in border security briefings and Liberal Party factional meetings.

Appearance: Solid. Sturdy. Appears to be made of dark, impenetrable material. But touch it – dissolves.

Diet: Tough talk, law‑and‑order rhetoric, and the occasional deflection about Labor’s failures.

Impact on environment: Casts a long shadow. Other mushrooms grow in its shadow, hoping for protection – but the shadow is not shelter. It is suppression.

Distinguishing feature: When exposed to sunlight – for example, during a press conference where actual policies are discussed – the mushroom undergoes autolysis. It digests itself. The process is not pretty.

Edibility: Do not consume with alcohol. The combination of this mushroom and a clear policy platform is known to cause severe toxicity.

6. Psilocybe chaos – The Hallucinogen

Common name: Barnaby Joyce

Habitat: The Senate, but also rural pubs, television studios, and any location where coherence goes to die.

Appearance: Unpredictable. Sometimes tall, sometimes short, sometimes horizontal.

Diet: Public attention, media appearances, and the occasional policy position – which is immediately metabolised and excreted.

Impact on environment: Causes neighbouring mushrooms to see things. After exposure to this fungus, otherwise sensible mushrooms begin to believe that the Nationals are a serious political party, that regional Australia is thriving, and that Barnaby Joyce is a reliable source of information.

Distinguishing feature: The mushroom’s mycelium extends in all directions, connecting to donors, media outlets, and the ghost of Sir Joh Bjelke‑Petersen. It is impossible to trace where the fungus ends and the ecosystem begins.

Edibility: Eating this mushroom will cause vivid hallucinations. You will see a man who was sacked from the frontbench, then returned, then sacked again, then returned again – and you will be unable to tell whether you are watching politics or a reality‑television reboot.

7. Fungi vacillatum – The Waverer

Common name: David Littleproud

Habitat: The Nationals Party Room – which is less a room and more a weathervane.

Appearance: Indistinct. Could be a mushroom. Could be a ghost.

Diet: Polling data, focus groups, and the faint hope that no one will ask him a direct question.

Impact on environment: Causes neighbouring mushrooms to lean – not in a direction, but away. Away from controversy, away from accountability, away from anything that might require a position.

Distinguishing feature: When exposed to carbon dioxide (i.e., the hot air of a leadership challenge), the mushroom leans. Not towards the light – towards the exit.

Edibility: Consuming this mushroom will leave you with the vague sense that you have eaten something, but you will not be able to remember what, or why, or whether it mattered.

8. Mycoplasma inanimata – The Lifeless Sponge

Common name: Katy Gallagher

Habitat: The Senate, though it is also found in the Finance Ministry, where it absorbs public money and releases nothing but press releases.

Appearance: A pale, rubbery growth that seems to have no internal structure. When pressed, it compresses – then springs back, unchanged.

Diet: Taxpayer funds, Senate inquiries, and the accumulated inertia of the public service.

Impact on environment: Absorbs nutrients from the soil – nutrients that could have gone to schools, hospitals, or renewable energy projects. Leaves behind a residue of process.

Distinguishing feature: When questioned, the mushroom does not defend itself. It does not attack. It simply repeats – the same talking points, the same evasions, the same bland assurances that everything is under control.

Edibility: Eating this mushroom is like eating a sponge. It fills your stomach – but provides no nourishment, no pleasure, and no memory of having eaten.

9. Coprinus comatus – The Lawyer’s Mushroom

Common name: Mark Dreyfus

Habitat: The Attorney‑General’s Office, though it also appears in any location where legal jargon can be weaponised.

Appearance: A tall, thin mushroom with a black spore print – the colour of printer ink and legal robes.

Diet: Legislation, parliamentary privilege, and the occasional human rights violation – which it carefully re‑frames as a “procedural matter.”

Impact on environment: Produces a dense canopy that blocks sunlight from reaching smaller mushrooms. The legal canopy is not shade – it is obfuscation.

Distinguishing feature: When disturbed, the mushroom releases a cloud of spores – each spore a footnote, each footnote a qualification, each qualification a delay.

Edibility: Not recommended. The mushroom is not poisonous – it is indigestible. Your stomach will churn, your mind will wander, and you will emerge from the experience with no clearer understanding of what you have consumed.

10. Lepiota ignorabilis – The Forgettable Mushroom

Common name: The Backbencher

Habitat: The outer benches of the House of Representatives – a dark, neglected corner where sunlight never penetrates and nutrients are scarce.

Appearance: Small. Brown. Interchangeable.

Diet: Whatever falls from the tables of senior mushrooms. Occasionally receives a crumb of attention – a committee assignment, a question on notice – but quickly forgets it.

Impact on environment: Negligible. These mushrooms do not harm the ecosystem. They do not help it. They simply exist.

Distinguishing feature: When exposed to light – for example, during a leadership spill – the mushroom expands. Not through growth – through panic. It will say anything, promise anything, pledge anything – until the light moves on. Then it shrinks back to its original size and forgets.

Edibility: Eating this mushroom is like eating cardboard. You will not be poisoned. You will not be nourished. You will simply wonder why you bothered.

Part Three: The Life Cycle

The political mushroom does not follow the life cycle of its biological cousins. It does not begin as a spore, grow into mycelium, and fruit in the autumn rain.

It begins as a donation.

The donation germinates in the dark soil of party funding. It sends out mycelial threads – lobbyists, advisors, media consultants – that connect to other mushrooms, forming a vast underground network.

The mushroom fruits when the conditions are right: when the media is distracted, when the opposition is weak, when the public is not paying attention.

It releases its spores – press releases, sound bites, carefully staged photo opportunities – into the air. The spores drift. They land on the fertile ground of the 24‑hour news cycle. They germinate into headlines.

But the mushroom, unlike its biological cousins, does not die after fruiting. It does not wither. It does not return its nutrients to the soil.

It persists.

It feeds on decay. It thrives in darkness. It grows.

And when the light finally comes – when the public wakes up, when the media remembers its purpose, when accountability is more than a word – the mushroom does not die.

It fades.

Not into the soil – into the shadows.

Where it waits.

For the next donation. For the next distraction. For the next fruit.

Part Four: Conclusion

The Parliament of Australia is built into a hill. The grass on its roof is green. Tourists walk on it. Children roll down it.

But beneath the grass – beneath the soil – the fungus grows.

It does not grow quickly. It does not grow dramatically. It grows slowly, patiently, inexorably.

And when the sun sets – when the tourists go home, when the children are asleep – the mushrooms emerge.

Not to feed. Not to reproduce. Not to contribute.

To be.

And that – that – is the tragedy of Canberra.

Not that the mushrooms are poisonous. Not that they are inedible. Not that they are, in the end, fungus.

But that they are taken seriously.

By the media. By the public. By themselves.

They believe they are oaks.

They are not.

They are mushrooms.

And mushrooms – as any naturalist knows – are best observed from a safe distance.

Andrew Klein

“The mushrooms are not the problem. The problem is the ecosystem that takes them seriously.”