Scott Morrison’s problems won’t be solved by Jenny or engineered TV puffery | Katharine Murphy

Before 60 Minutes went to air on Sunday night, a mate of mine called to express her frustration.

She'd seen the clips of the prime minister strumming his Hawaiian instrument while the Morrison family looked on semi-awkwardly and Karl Stefanovic presided at the head of the table, a couple of margaritas in, looking like he'd just bagged a Logie.

She'd seen April Sun in Cuba (Oh-Oh-Oh-My-God-Make-It-Stop); the breathless promos trumpeting Jenny Morrison as her husband's "secret weapon".

Enough already, was her point. Enough of whatever this infomercial was.

Enough of Morrison's ephemera, the featherweight impressionism, the rehearsed verisimilitude. Daggy dad. Sharkies fan. Curry chef. Identities curated and stacked inside one another like hollow babushka dolls.

Why, my mate wondered, can't we just have a prime minister?

Just that.