If there is one thing all leaders should be focused on, it should be maintaining trust. In our institutions and our democracy, and all those foundations which underpin it. Which is why it is so strange that the federal press gallery continues to hold its Midwinter Ball.
Thu 2 Jul 2026 09.56 AEST
Photo: AAP Image/Lukas Coch
Whether we acknowledge it or not, our society runs on trust. Trust that someone will stop at a pedestrian crossing or red light, that the driver next to you is not distracted or under the influence and as focused on staying in their lane as you are.
Trust that your children are safe in the care of educated professionals, of friends and family and loved ones. Trust that your favourite deli takes hygiene seriously. That the chicken producer adheres to regulations. Trust that most people don’t mean us harm, or that professionals with access to our data don’t abuse it.
It’s the one commodity that can’t be bought long term. We trust cautiously, but mostly without thinking. We are socialised to trust one another.
And as trust breaks down, so too does our society.
If there is one thing all leaders should be focused on, it should be maintaining trust. In our institutions and our democracy, and all those foundations which underpin it. Which is why it is so strange that the federal press gallery continues to hold its Midwinter Ball.
For those lucky enough not to know, the Midwinter Ball is run by the federal press gallery committee once a year, usually in the week before the winter break. Members of the press gallery control the invitations – you have to apply to buy a table, and MPs rely on being invited by those who have been approved to purchase access to the room. The big names in politics are scooped up pretty quickly – media organisations make their pitches to the political names of the moment, who then decide which table they will sit at.
Backbenchers, independents and minor party MPs often have to ring around media outlets to see if there are any spare tickets available (which, one imagines, is one of the worst jobs imaginable for a staffer).
The room is full with all the people and entities journalists are supposed to be holding to account – the big lobby groups and banks, fossil fuel representatives, tech and anyone else who sees power or influence in being in the room, as well as politicians – with the unspoken understanding the journalists have downed tools.
Treasurer Jim Chalmers, wife Laura Anderson, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese and partner Jodie Haydon at the 2024 ball. Photo: AAP Image/Mick Tsikas
There was a kerfuffle a few years ago, when the press gallery committee had to capitulate to pressure and remove the decree that the speeches given by the prime minister and opposition leader were off the record in terms of reporting. Those against the move complained that it meant the speeches would no longer be as cutting, arguing that journalists deserved “one night” to be off the clock.
But trust doesn’t clock on and off. And if the speeches are no longer interesting enough to be deemed reportable, that proves that the event itself should no longer exist.
Because if you can only have fun, or feel like an insider by knowing things the public isn’t supposed to know, then what is the point of journalism? What possible gain is there in prioritising inside jokes about journalists and politicians above public trust? Do we in the press gallery truly believe that it doesn’t damage our reputation as a whole by holding an invite-only event filled with the people we are supposed to be holding to account, or speaking truth to, filled with private conversations and dance floor selfies of jolly lobbyists and politicians?
Defenders of the event point to the money raised for charity, but the charity has become the pretence for the event itself. Putting aside that no one in the room will have thought to have asked why charity is providing a service government should probably be funding, money can be raised for worthy causes without a love-in with powerful vested interest groups, who want to be in the room because of the conversations and access it can provide – not just with the politicians, but with the journalists directly.
The event also directly sells access to politicians including the prime minister – a chance to play tennis with the PM is always a target for lobbyists and vested interests willing to pay for a more casual chat with the leader, with no risk of being overheard.
It’s a bad look, an outdated practice and it is only hastening distrust within media at a time where it is a much-needed commodity.
Because if we can’t differentiate ourselves in the media from those events we cover – the behind-closed-doors fundraisers, the cash-for-access events, and everything else that becomes a scandal arising from declared (or undeclared) events on the interest register, then what is it we are saying to the public?
No matter what the political ideology, or masthead, the running theme among those who are made to attend the ball by employers or “because it’s what is done” is that they hope to never have to attend one again. Mostly because it’s the worst of an awards night, a work dinner and an extended family wedding, all rolled into one.
Those who enjoy it tend to share an institutionalised mindset, where being seen is as important as where you are seen. But the price – public trust – is not one worth sacrificing. Especially now.
If journalists want to hold a journalist event, fine. But to pretend the Midwinter Ball does nothing to public perceptions of how close we are to the people we are supposed to be arms length from is as delusional as Angus Taylor’s ambitions to be prime minister.
Amy Remeikis is a contributing editor for The New Daily and chief political analyst for The Australia Institute
This piece was first published in The New Daily. Read original here.
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