February 7: a day that should live in hilarity

Some pass without mention. Others are commemorated solemnly every year. This week, much will be said about the third anniversary of Russia's invasion of Ukraine.

But I'm not here to talk about that. That's best left to other, more qualified people.

No, the other February anniversary on my mind is the fall of Barnaby Joyce. A fall not from grace - he'd stepped off that ledge long beforehand - but from a planter box in a Canberra street on February 7 last year.

Upturned like a profane turtle in a suit, he was filmed by passers-by and quickly became an internet sensation. In the days following, chalk outlines appeared, marking the spot where he fell. A plaque was attached to the planter box. Mimics Instagrammed themselves in the same position. The one-time deputy PM became the meme that kept on giving.

But no Barnaby Day was declared. No small ceremony marked the anniversary. No re-enactment was staged. February 7 passed without pause for a political career left in a crumpled, angry heap on a warm summer night.

In fact, the florid Member for New England has all but faded from public view since his encounter with the forces of gravity. The rare occasion he appeared before the TV cameras, his new hat, large enough to have its postcode, stole whatever thunder might have come out of his mouth. The exception was that time last July when he likened ballots to bullets when he addressed a rally against wind turbines - that was another self-inflicted wound, perhaps fatal.

But Barnaby was back in the news last week. Revelations emerged that after seeing the planter box fiasco, Pauline Hanson tried to recruit him to One Nation.

She took to Facebook last Monday, saying she offered him a spot when it became apparent his Nationals colleagues wanted him gone. "I thought: No. I like Barnaby," Hanson said. "I like what he stands for. We're on the same page. We think alike, and we're out there and we say it the way we see it. So I asked Barnaby."

Not that another nail was needed in his political coffin but Hanson's endorsement ensured the lid was not coming off. Not ever. Word is there'll be no cabinet role for Barnaby should the Coalition win the next election.

But that's not all. The Nationals have imposed the "Barnaby rule", effectively banning Joyce from campaigning outside his electorate in the upcoming federal election. Far better to keep him out of sight and earshot than risk him putting his right RM Williams in his mouth. Or, worse, rebuilding his profile and threatening that little bloke who runs the Nationals.

Slipping the cone of silence over Barnaby - quite the engineering feat given the size of his hat - is a sad loss for those of us who like a bit of slapstick with our politics. In the absence of his gaffes and streams of unconsciousness, we'll just have to make do and replay the planter box video.

And come February 7 next year, gather around the spot in Canberra in remembrance of the man who fell to earth from a very low height and provided us all with comic relief from the grim business of politics.

It's a day that should live in hilarity.

HAVE YOUR SAY: Did you think there was ever going to be a way back for Barnaby Joyce after the planter box fall? Should he have taken Pauline Hanson's offer and joined One Nation? Is there a place for a colourful bloke like Barnaby in politics? Or has it all become far too serious? Email us: echidna@theechidna.com.au

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THEY SAID IT: "I've always loved pure, silly slapstick comedy. It always makes me laugh." - Kenneth Branagh

YOU SAID IT: Moving from a quiet coastal town into suburbia has been a noisy shock for Garry. But seeking silence can be terrifying.

"In the 1980s I had a job in a mine on King Island," writes David from Bendigo. "We would go down several hundred metres below ground. On occasion I would wander off from the group at work (don't know what the boss thought of that) and sit down in a rock chamber utterly insulated from all sound of the work or the world above. That silence was incredible. Kind of deafening; so complete. I found I loved it. I have sought it ever since. Just sometimes I find it in some meditation. I do live in a quiet suburb of a regional town, close to bushland, but of course, there is constant bird sound there (apart from the cockies that are beautiful too)."

Narelle writes: "Your column hit a nerve because I find the trend of needing to have background noise every waking moment annoying. I'm one of the few people I know who doesn't have music, radio or TV on in the background all day. I'm quite happy with my thoughts, the sound of birds, suburbia, and the dog barking up the street as I go about my daily routine, but I do acknowledge this may not be the case if I lived alone as I know many use sound media for company. Deep down I'm still the child at school who gazed out the window and daydreamed. Daydreaming used once be considered a waste of time, but perhaps it's time to rethink that."

"All my life I've found myself surprised by the number of people - a majority - who can't feel comfortable unless they have a radio or TV on, constantly, and often at so low a volume you can't hear the content," writes Span. "It's like a security blanket, or (as I've heard said) companionship. I have no trouble with silence, and as someone who enjoys reading - both fiction and non-fiction - I really don't want such pointless distractions."

Susan writes: "You're right. It's what we fear when the noise stops. I have Radio National - with all its repeats - playing beside me all night. It's the pains of the past and the hatreds today I can't bear."

"After a lifetime of noise and being constantly busy, my wife and I retired and bought a cottage in a country town," writes Murray. "Life is different. We don't even have a radio in the house, my wife does jigsaws and gardens, I mess about with my pigeons and my vegetables. The cats are our main cause for conversation. We turn the TV on in the evening, but we don't watch the mainstream news, it's more unwelcome noise. We are far from reclusive, but the noise of the world is tiring and tiresome. We are happy without it."

Tom writes: "There is of course a difference of perception in what you are discussing; we desire silence, meaning an end to boundless annoyances that plague us without prompting, the outside barrage of life that intrudes on our senses. And then there is what the boffins were testing, which is sensory deprivation - in this case, sound, a complete lack of sound. Our brains are not (normally) wired for that and unless you can hum to yourself or some such, then it would be very difficult to handle."

"Why are we subjected to a bombardment of music in every shop and cafe - and even in car parks?" asks Peter from Canberra. "Loud, beaty, irritating, distracting music seems inescapable. It's invariably the taste of the staff, not the customers. Oh for the days when Vivaldi's The Four Seasons played constantly!"

Mig writes: "Im blessed, my hearing declined with age, so I can let all the noise in by choice. It's wonderful growing old!"

"Ah yes, the horror of children singing and birds chirping - truly, nature's most diabolical torture devices," writes Mike. "How do I survive such an onslaught of joy and innocence? By steeling myself against their relentless assault with nothing but sheer determination and, when necessary, strategic deployment of earplugs. But I see your point. Silence, once so coveted, now feels like a trickster lying in wait. We finally get it, and what do we do? Panic. Reach for our phones. Find a way to fill the void. A quiet moment becomes a psychological thriller where the monster is our own thoughts."

Adam writes: "I am almost 60 years old and crave the sound of silence. Years of exposure to loud noise have left me suffering from tinnitus, with ringing and buzzing my constant companion. I am hoping that medical science or technology can provide a solution so that I may get to enjoy peace. My advice to everyone is to protect the delicate structure of your ears so that you don't suffer the same fate as me."