Barnaby Joyce Breaks Ranks: Joins Pauline Hanson, Rocks Canberra

Paul Riverbank, 11/27/2025Barnaby Joyce ditches Nationals for One Nation, shaking up rural politics and Coalition alliances.

It wasn’t the kind of parting shot Canberra is used to — no grandstanding, no hint of revenge. The subtext: a leader who once shaped rural politics now confronting his own limits, after months on the backbench. Joyce didn’t mince words about broken machinery inside the Nationals. He spoke of effort stretched over years, hinting at conversations and battles out of public view, where the lines between policy and personality blur until even seasoned insiders struggle to parse them.

The Nationals’ net-zero policy — a bone of contention, almost mythical in its divisiveness — had always sat uncomfortably with Joyce. While the party recently abandoned it, you can’t help but sense the timing was off. For Joyce, the melody had stopped playing long before the rest of the band put down their instruments. He’d already slipped out the side door, leaving colleagues to pick over the chords.

But if the backbench is a holding pen, Joyce was never a man made for the sidelines. Rumour spread fast that the veteran might not stay idle for long. The next act? Not another run at New England, but a Senate tilt, and not for his old party. Talk turned quickly to a steak dinner — of all things — in Pauline Hanson’s office. The detail sounded too cinematic: wagyu, red wine, berry pie, cooked up on a sandwich press, laughter echoing down the hall. Cameras captured him and Hanson as though they’d been swapped in from a different era, each oddly at home in each other’s company.

In Canberra, symbolism is currency. That meal was no mere joke; it was a signal. When a former deputy prime minister bonds over red meat with Australia’s queen of populist protest, it snaps attention to shifting tectonics beneath the surface.

National Party leader David Littleproud tried to keep things civil — kept that door propped open, for show if nothing else. “He’s still a member of the party room, welcome as ever,” came the official line, though it was delivered with a tightness around the eyes. Matt Canavan, less diplomatic, made his feelings clear: “Do you really want to join the circus? Or stay with a team focused on real change?” It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. For some Nationals, Joyce’s flirtation with One Nation tasted of betrayal.

And yet, out beyond Canberra’s reach, things don’t feel as stable as they used to. One Nation’s numbers creeping up in the regions, Coalition support ebbing, disaffection running thick among the rural base — all the ingredients for an unexpected realignment. Joyce, never afraid to detonate a few bridges on his way out, seems less like a renegade, more like someone willing to hitch his wagon to the mood of the moment.

None of this is really about steak dinners, nor even about who sits where in Parliament. At heart, this is the sort of political crossroads where old certainties disintegrate: rural seats that were once bedrock, climate policies that fracture rather than unite. Pauline Hanson’s party, with Joyce as a potential running mate, stands to gain more than a headline. It threatens to redraw the rural map.

Joyce summed up his approach in a phrase only he could coin — “a front row forward, that’s where I like to play.” After a career built on bluster and bare-knuckle negotiation, he’s decided to upend the codebook altogether.

So what comes next? There’s little point pretending the story is over. With the Coalition scrambling, One Nation’s tailwinds growing, and the Nationals wondering who might be next to chafe against the party line, it’s safe to say Joyce’s move is more than a career coda. It’s a tremor — and the aftershocks haven’t even started.

Barnaby Joyce didn’t leave Parliament quietly, nor would anyone expect him to. He emerged on the forecourt, shoulders squared, a man familiar with both the limelight and the battlefield, but unable to keep the tiredness from his voice. Reporters crowded in, hoping for bravado. Instead, he offered a measured, almost resigned reflection: “You just get to a point where you’re living in bitter recrimination — or you simply walk away. I think that’s what I’m doing.”It wasn’t the kind of parting shot Canberra is used to — no grandstanding, no hint of revenge. The subtext: a leader who once shaped rural politics now confronting his own limits, after months on the backbench. Joyce didn’t mince words about broken machinery inside the Nationals. He spoke of effort stretched over years, hinting at conversations and battles out of public view, where the lines between policy and personality blur until even seasoned insiders struggle to parse them.The Nationals’ net-zero policy — a bone of contention, almost mythical in its divisiveness — had always sat uncomfortably with Joyce. While the party recently abandoned it, you can’t help but sense the timing was off. For Joyce, the melody had stopped playing long before the rest of the band put down their instruments. He’d already slipped out the side door, leaving colleagues to pick over the chords.But if the backbench is a holding pen, Joyce was never a man made for the sidelines. Rumour spread fast that the veteran might not stay idle for long. The next act? Not another run at New England, but a Senate tilt, and not for his old party. Talk turned quickly to a steak dinner — of all things — in Pauline Hanson’s office. The detail sounded too cinematic: wagyu, red wine, berry pie, cooked up on a sandwich press, laughter echoing down the hall. Cameras captured him and Hanson as though they’d been swapped in from a different era, each oddly at home in each other’s company.In Canberra, symbolism is currency. That meal was no mere joke; it was a signal. When a former deputy prime minister bonds over red meat with Australia’s queen of populist protest, it snaps attention to shifting tectonics beneath the surface.National Party leader David Littleproud tried to keep things civil — kept that door propped open, for show if nothing else. “He’s still a member of the party room, welcome as ever,” came the official line, though it was delivered with a tightness around the eyes. Matt Canavan, less diplomatic, made his feelings clear: “Do you really want to join the circus? Or stay with a team focused on real change?” It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. For some Nationals, Joyce’s flirtation with One Nation tasted of betrayal.And yet, out beyond Canberra’s reach, things don’t feel as stable as they used to. One Nation’s numbers creeping up in the regions, Coalition support ebbing, disaffection running thick among the rural base — all the ingredients for an unexpected realignment. Joyce, never afraid to detonate a few bridges on his way out, seems less like a renegade, more like someone willing to hitch his wagon to the mood of the moment.None of this is really about steak dinners, nor even about who sits where in Parliament. At heart, this is the sort of political crossroads where old certainties disintegrate: rural seats that were once bedrock, climate policies that fracture rather than unite. Pauline Hanson’s party, with Joyce as a potential running mate, stands to gain more than a headline. It threatens to redraw the rural map.Joyce summed up his approach in a phrase only he could coin — “a front row forward, that’s where I like to play.” After a career built on bluster and bare-knuckle negotiation, he’s decided to upend the codebook altogether.So what comes next? There’s little point pretending the story is over. With the Coalition scrambling, One Nation’s tailwinds growing, and the Nationals wondering who might be next to chafe against the party line, it’s safe to say Joyce’s move is more than a career coda. It’s a tremor — and the aftershocks haven’t even started.