Daggy Dads and State Daddies: Theorising the Masculinities of Australian Men Political Leaders

Introduction

Australian politics has historically been regarded and structured as a men’s domain. Manhood and masculinity have been considered integral to the political legitimacy of a leader who must provide protection and security. However, political masculinity is not static—it changes across time and along party lines. Former Labor prime minister Bob Hawke, for example, portrayed himself as an “Aussie Larrikin” and a “man’s man” but was prepared to show a softer side, cementing his “image as a caring bloke [which] reinforced the belief that he would protect citizens” (Johnson 2021, 12). Hawke’s successor Paul Keating, on the other hand, presented a suave, sophisticated masculinity while also displaying a particularly aggressive “alpha maleness” in parliament. Former Liberal ¹ prime ministers John Howard and Tony Abbott both capitalised on the mood of the post-9/11 era by assuming a strong fatherly/grandfatherly protector role, promising to keep Australians safe while tacitly reinforcing their fear and uncertainty.

In recent years, leaders have been expected to balance hardness with compassion and empathy, or, like Abbott, risk being seen as too aggressive and hypermasculine. This is clear in the gender performances of former Labor leaders Kevin Rudd, who mobilised a “modern metrosexual” masculinity, and Julia Gillard, who countered Abbott with a form of protective femininity (Johnson 2013, 19, 21). Former Liberal leader Malcolm Turnbull echoed Keating’s cosmopolitan masculinity, though his alpha maleness arose from wealth and business success rather than a display of aggression.

I have identified the emergence of two overarching Australian political masculinities during the COVID-19 pandemic. First, the traditional “Daggy Dad” of former Liberal Prime Minister Scott Morrison, which centres the nuclear family and paternalistic protection. Second, the “State Daddy”, embodied by recent Labor leaders, including current Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, who perform an empathetic and nurturing masculinity focused on social provision. In theorising the State Daddy and Daggy Dad I will expose the partisan nature of political masculinities. It is crucial to examine political leadership masculinities as “it is through explicit embodied practices that masculinities reveal one’s politics” (Messerschmidt 2023, 14). I argue that the emergence of the nurturing State Daddy marks a strategic departure from the traditional Daggy Dad, exposing the limits of paternalism and reflecting a growing demand for more inclusive, empathetic leadership. This shift has the potential to redefine political legitimacy and broaden electoral appeal, particularly among women.

This article will explore these emergent political masculinities, their origins and their mobilisation. I will begin by discussing relevant literature theorising masculinities, political masculinities, gendered discourse, and my research approach, before mapping the dominant masculine tropes in Australian history. I will then theorise the Daggy Dad and State Daddy typologies, tracing how and why they emerged, how they were embodied by men political leaders, and how they resonated with the electorate. Finally, I examine how these identities were mobilised against one another during the 2022 Australian Federal Election.

Politics and Masculinities: A Review

I draw my understanding of gender from the work of Judith Butler, particularly the concept of gender performativity. Gender is a cultural norm that regulates the materialisation of bodies (1990, 10). It is additionally a “form of social power”, a mechanism that produces and normalises masculinity and femininity—cast as oppositional—intertwined with the hormonal, physical and performative practices that comprise gender (Butler 2004, 48). Masculinity, then, only exists in contrast to femininity—it is “inherently relational” (Connell 1995, 68). It is also plural. Hegemonic masculinity refers to the culturally dominant patterns and celebrated forms of masculinity, which reproduce patriarchy by validating and rationalising “competition and hierarchy among men [and the] exclusion or domination of women” (Connell 1995, 54). Subordinate masculinities typically include “whatever is symbolically expelled from hegemonic masculinity”, such as femininity and homosexuality (Connell 1995, 78–79).

In line with hegemonic masculinity, political masculinities are likewise not static—they change depending on political expedience and popularity, especially when there is a possibility of competition. Valerie Sperling (2015), for example, has examined how Russian President Vladimir Putin’s machismo is central to his political legitimation. His assertion of power over other men in a “process of ‘topping’ makes challengers appear relatively less masculine and, thus, less powerful” (Sperling 2015, 30). Michael Messner (2007) argues that the modern man political leader, at least in “the West”, must balance toughness and strength with compassion and care (usually for women and children), or risk being perceived as hypermasculine and violent. This hybrid hegemonic masculinity prioritises “muscle” and only sporadically demonstrates compassion to prevent being regarded as too effeminate and therefore politically illegitimate (2007, 475).

Previous scholars examining the gendering of the nation-state, politics, and parties have used the language of the family. Myra Marx Ferree (2020, 899) connects the emergence of liberal democracies with the “construction of collective masculinity as power”. Extending Carole Pateman’s (1988) analysis of the sexual contract, particularly her study of fraternal relationships underpinning democratic institutions, Ferree argues for the use of the term “brotherhood state” instead of “patriarchy” for the masculinist displays of political leaders in established democracies (2020, 899, 903). Likewise, though specifically looking at the US, George Lakoff (2004) uses the language of family to describe two differing views of the nation held by the two major political parties. The strict father (Republicans) views the world as a dangerous and competitive place in which there are “winners” and “losers”, and it is a leader’s role to raise self-reliant children (citizens) with discipline and obedience. The nurturant parent (Democrats), on the other hand, provides a gender-neutral perspective in which it is our collective responsibility to work towards a better world. Empathy and responsibility are core values for those who endorse this model and who believe that government must provide services and infrastructure to support these values. While the strict father assumes the paternal protection of the family/self-reliant citizens, the nurturant parent focuses on protecting workers, the environment, and public health. This paper will both draw from and add to this literature by providing a new term—the State Daddy—to categorise an even more nurturing kind of political masculinity.

A parallel can be drawn between Lakoff’s strict father and Iris Marion Young’s identification of a tendency toward masculinist protectionism with the increasing securitisation of the US in the post-9/11 era. Arguing that this follows a patriarchal logic linked to “the position of male head of household as a protector of the family, and, by extension, with masculine leaders … as protectors of a population” (2003, 3), Young theorises that masculinist protectionism arises from fear of a threat, real or imagined. Yet any protection thereby offered can be gained only in exchange for subordination of women and children (citizens), who must forfeit decision-making autonomy and instead trust the judgement of a man leader. Extending this idea, Carol Johnson (2013, 2022) identifies how man political leaders draw on protective masculinity to mobilise emotional response. Johnson prefers the term “protective masculinity” as this allows for varying and even alternative forms of masculinity, such as former US President Barack Obama’s empathetic style, mobilising largely positive emotions. Applying this idea to the Australian context, Johnson identifies varying ways in which prime ministers have enacted protective masculinity to deploy emotions that are both shaped by, and wielded against their political opponents (2013, 24).

However, it is crucial not to mistake protection for care. Protective masculinity is embedded in patriarchal power relations and adheres to traditional understandings of masculine identity, such as competition, dominance, stoicism, and aggression, that can be damaging to those who display these traits and to those around them. Drawing from Johnson's and Young’s works, Katarzyna Wojnicka (2022) argues that protective masculinity remains hegemonic and is, in fact, opposed to “caring masculinity”. While protective masculinity depends on power and control, caring masculinity rejects man domination (Wojnicka 2022, 5). Karla Elliott (2016, 240) theorises that caring masculinities “embrace values ... such as positive emotion, interdependence and relationality.” Men can successfully enact a caring masculine identity if they “relinquish the power associated with traditional masculinity,” although they thereby risk “social ostracism by not conforming to expected masculine roles” (Elliott 2016, 254). Likewise, Wojnicka (2022) identifies how caring masculinities are crucial during times of crisis, such as the COVID-19 pandemic, when aggressive and dominating masculinities fail to meet the needs of men as well as those they subordinate. Caring masculinities provide a nourishing alternative and can “offer the potential of sustained social change” (Elliott 2016, 240).

By drawing on and extending this literature, this paper advances current understandings of political leadership masculinity. I introduce a new framework for understanding political leadership masculinity that applies both within Australia and internationally, offering scholars a tool to identify similar patterns in other contexts. The paper shows that the dominance of traditional, protective masculinities has been challenged by the rise of more empathetic and inclusive forms of political leadership, signalling a broader cultural shift that resonates with a more diverse electorate. Importantly, my analysis of progressive political leadership masculinity contributes to a field too often preoccupied with the masculinity of conservative and populist leaders (Hearn 2024, 4).

Research Approach

This research is underpinned by a critical feminist approach, which ultimately seeks to understand and challenge the systemic inequalities and power structures that perpetuate gendered oppression (Hesse-Biber 2007). To achieve this aim, critical feminist scholars often rely on discursive analyses of various oppressions and gendered phenomena both in everyday life and institutional arenas, like politics (Gannon and Davis 2007). To theorise my State Daddy and Daggy Dad typologies, I draw on Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA) to “expose strategies that appear normal or neutral on the surface, but which may in fact be ideological and seek to shape the representation of events and persons for particular ends” (Machin and Mayr 2023, 5). Importantly, CDA sees discourse as “socially constitutive” and thus shaped by social, cultural and political contexts. Therefore, it is crucial to analyse not just the text, but consider it in relation to its immediate, situational, socio-cultural and historical contexts (Sengul 2019). Through a CDA of relevant texts, I uncover “strategies that appear normal or neutral [but] may in fact be ideological and seek to shape the representation of events and persons for particular ends” (Machin and Mayr 2023, 5).

CDA often lacks clearly defined guidelines for data collection and sampling (Wodak and Meyer 2009). Sample sizes in CDA can vary significantly depending on the scope of the project. It is common for CDA studies to focus on a small number of texts, “even just one or two” (Machin and Mayr 2023, 206). This aligns with principles of purposive sampling, with scholars often selecting text “according to the interest of the analyst, where perhaps they have observed ideology in operation” (2023, 206; Sengul 2019). In line with this approach, I selected both visual and written texts that exemplified either the Daggy Dad or State Daddy typology. While the scope was primarily on Australian samples, due to the broader application of these typologies I also included specific international examples. Considering the performative nature of both typologies, which targeted public attention, the texts were often selected due to their social media popularity or notoriety.

In line with CDA, my analysis extends beyond simply analysing what was written or said to focus on “the styles and strategies of the language users—how they say things” (Robson 2011, 372). Lexical choice was of particular interest as the selection of some words over others often indicates the opinions of the “speaker about a person, a group or their actions” (van Dijk 2000, 39–40). I drew on Gillian Dyer’s (1982) semiotic analysis of visual texts, which comprise four categories: representations of bodies; of manner; of activity; and props and settings. Dyer’s framework allows for an explicitly gendered examination of the meanings communicated in these texts. Recognising that socio-historical contexts are crucial to understanding the development of particular political masculinities, I will now trace the evolution of Australian masculinity.

The Evolution of Aussie Masculinity: From Digger to Battler

What does it mean to be a “real” man in Australia? The dominant “Aussie” masculine trope is defined by whiteness, working-class status, able-bodiedness and belief in loyalty, mateship, patriotism, and egalitarianism. Andrea Waling (2020) traces the evolution of this from the early to mid-nineteenth century with the initial development of an Australian identity. Following Federation and the First World War, the ANZAC myth became a coping mechanism in the wake of the senseless slaughter of soldiers, particularly in the Gallipoli campaign. According to this mythology, the ANZAC “diggers” are brave, loyal to their mates, and willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of the nation (Bromfield 2018). However, the myth is inherently exclusionary, rooted in whiteness and androcentrism, and “reaffirms in the national imaginary that the nation is a white possession” (Moreton-Robinson 2005, 3).

Keating and Howard, in particular, drew strategically on these enduring myths of the digger (Bromfield 2018). Keating redirected the narrative from Gallipoli to the Kokoda Track in World War II, promoting a vision of Australia as part of the Asia-Pacific rather than the British Empire (McDonald 2017). Howard, on the other hand, deployed the digger mythology as a defining element of his (masculine) nationalist project, sceptical of multiculturalism and dismissive of critical histories of colonisation. He also leveraged it to promote participation in the “war on terror” (McDonald 2017, 413), reinforcing his image as a protector. ²

Building on the myth of the digger, the “Larrikin” has likewise become an inextricable part of traditional Australian masculinity, a “trickster” figure evoking an affable nostalgia. Initially seen as the “scourge of urban colonial society,” larrikinism was mythologised after the First World War (Bellanta 2012). Following the “larrikin revolution” in popular culture during the 1960s and 1970s, when credibility required a concealing of bourgeois connections to embrace a working-class image, this persona became more widely adopted and adored (Bellanta 2012, 186). The Larrikin is working-class, authentic, iconic, brash, egalitarian, anti-authoritarian, macho, outspoken and—above all—lovable. Like the digger, however, the Larrikin is a product of a “literary pissing contest” to create an image of Australian manhood: “despite the presence of Aboriginals, women and migrants at the sites of democratic struggle, larrikinism became seen almost exclusively as the domain of a straight, white, working-class bloke [—] a reckless collectivist desperate for male affection” (Blaine 2021, 14).

Many Australian political leaders have tried to appeal to, if not emulate, the Larrikin. Hawke, known for his “devotion to the four planks of Australian masculinity: sport, gambling, hitting the piss and promiscuity”, was not only considered a larrikin, but the Larrikin (Blaine 2021, 27). Yet this was an image carefully adopted by a middle-class Rhodes Scholar to win over the working-class base and endear himself to white-collar workers (Coventry 2023, 479). In contrast, the “decidedly unlarrikin” Rudd’s “ocker ³ colloquialisms” were frequently derided as inauthentic (Bellanta 2012, xiii). As with hegemonic masculinity, few men can fully adopt a Larrikin persona. This is an idealised view of Australian masculine identity—something to feel nostalgic about, rather than to embody.

The more realistic version of the Larrikin is the “Battler” who, at his core, is supposed to represent “mainstream” Australians. The Battler is regarded as the “every bloke” but, like the Larrikin, this is a limited and limiting identity almost exclusively referring to able-bodied, white, working-class masculinity (Whitman 2013, 51). In fact, it is because of his “normative averageness” that the Battler is placed at the centre of what it means to be an Australian, while informing our collective understanding of “correct” ways to do gender, race, class and sexuality (Whitman 2013, 52). The Battler was infamously co-opted by then-opposition leader Howard during the 1996 federal election campaign to win over a subset of Labor voters in blue-collar jobs with socially conservative views who “battled” to “get ahead” (Dyrenfurth 2007). Battlers are workers, not “dole-bludgers”, and they span suburbs, (white) religions, and the working class and petit-bourgeoisie (Scalmer 1999). Whiteness is central to this identity, forged in the battle against the “other”. The Battler is the protagonist of (white) Australia’s history as well as its moral centre defending “a fair go”, traditional family values, and Australia’s “way of life” (Dyrenfurth 2007, 226).

The popularity of these masculine tropes has waxed and waned. (Men) political leaders have channelled these myths—either by embodying the image or embracing the rhetoric—to mobilise political legitimacy, or “pass the pub test” in the eyes of “ordinary Australians”. Leaders' adoption of certain masculine tropes reveal not only how they want to be perceived but also how they envision the electorate, the nation, and their defining values.

What is a “Daggy Dad”?

The “Daggy Dad” performed by Morrison is a more recent descendent of the Larrikin and Battler. According to the Australian National Dictionary Centre (2017), “dag” ⁴ refers to an “unfashionable person ... lacking style or character”. Following his ascension to the prime ministerial role in 2018, Morrison carefully cultivated his image as the suburban “Daggy Dad”—the likable but ordinary blokey neighbour who loves sport and having a beer at the pub. The Daggy Dad combines the normative averageness of the Battler with the traits of protective masculinity—an everyday patriarch tasked with guarding his household from economic insecurity, political correctness, and foreign threats. Based on a traditional view of the nuclear family and heteronormative gender binary, it reinforces and upholds patriarchal power. It is for men, not women and children.

Daggy Dads claim to provide financial and physical protection, whether to family members or citizens, in exchange for subordination to their masculine authority. Using staged photographs that show him building a backyard chicken coop (figure 1) or a cubby house for his daughters, or wearing boardshorts and thongs when working from home, while also making constant casual mention of “Jenny and the girls” (his wife and children) during press conferences, Morrison created an “everyman” character that balanced blokiness with an appearance of compassion and traditional family values. Soon after becoming Liberal leader, Morrison described himself in conversation with a commercial radio station host as a “mortgage belt Liberal”:

I’ve got a mortgage like everyone else. I’ve got two young kids, nine and eleven, going to school. That’s the centre of my life, is my family. The values that come out of being a dad, the values that come out of just living a life in the suburbs of Sydney (Blaine 2021, 6).

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Figure 1.

Morrison building a chicken coop, October 4 2020. (Instagram: @scomo30)

This self-characterisation is a perfect fusion of blue-collar larrikinism, suburban conservativism, and the traditional paterfamilias.

It has become crucial for Australian prime ministers to win the high regard of the Battlers, who are no longer rusted-on Labor voters and whose power as swinging voters can decide elections. Working-class masculinity is thus a potent cultural resource and, even if it does not occupy the dominant position, it has a “great deal of legitimising power” (Whitman 2013, 53). Those who aren’t born into this culture must therefore “authenticate themselves” by appropriating stereotypical traits associated with working-class masculinity to align with the Larrikin or Battler and “shield their middle/upper-class identity” (Whitman 2013, 52). Career politicians—like Morrison—masquerade as working-class to gain power. As Blaine (2021, 8) contends, “prime ministers are elected by parochials: aka Quiet Australians, or bogans ⁵ ”, who are not tertiary educated and predominantly live in the outer suburbs or regional towns from the “decentralised convict states of New South Wales and Queensland, where rugby league has been the main winter passion of the proletariat since 1908”. Rugby league was created by working-class Australian men in the early twentieth century in response to the exclusivity of the rugby union fraternity. Associated with values of egalitarianism and social democracy, it has long served informally to “[uphold] a separate working-class identity, reinforcing a sense of common interests” (Moore 2000, 61). Previously a lifelong adherent of rugby union, a middle-class sport anchored within the affluent Liberal-voting suburbs of Sydney, then-treasurer Morrison switched to rugby league in 2016. Morrison’s passion for his local team, the Cronulla Sharks, became a defining feature of his public persona and he was frequently photographed in a Sharks jersey. Yet this was a strategic move to appeal to outer-suburban working-class electorates who traditionally vote Labor.

Morrison’s mobilisation of the Daggy Dad was also a charade. As a tall-poppy “toff” from the affluent eastern suburbs of Sydney, Morrison needed to reinvent himself after winning a leadership challenge to become prime minister in 2018. He manufactured the Daggy Dad, with a matching Sharks scarf, to appeal to aspirational Battlers in outer-suburban electorates by emulating the bloke next door, even creating his own nickname—“ScoMo”—to accompany his new identity (Blaine 2021, 7). This played a key role in his election victory as it enabled him to challenge the narrative that the Coalition supported the “top end of town” (Johnson 2020, 96). Morrison created—and identified with—the anti-elitist “quiet Australians”, a term he associates with “hard-working” (white) Australians who get on with life. They are modest suburbanites, unpretentious, and ordinary, who “want secure jobs, low taxes, a strong economy and to be ‘kept safe’, whether from boatloads of asylum seekers, ‘radical Islamic terrorists’, or bullies at their kids schools,” to protect what they believe to be the Australian way of life (McKenna 2019).

In contrast are the elites, who have been portrayed by Morrison—and Howard before him—as a threat to the average Australian. This rhetoric originated in the “culture wars” over Australia’s values and identity in the late 1980s and 1990s (Johnson 2000). Anti-elite discourse was mobilised politically by Howard, particularly during the 1996 election campaign in which he argued that Battlers had been betrayed by a Keating Labor government preoccupied with elites and their causes. Howard’s rhetoric implied that “ordinary Australians” are not “Aboriginal, Asian, homosexual, lesbian, feminist or migrant” (Johnson 2000, 65). Though promising the Battlers a “comfortable and relaxed” Australia, Howard sought to mobilise resentment of “elites” and to demonise unemployment, cut welfare, push traditional “family values” and “foster patriotic breast-beating and Anglo-Saxon grievance” (Scalmer 1999, 12).

Drawing on Howard’s culture war, Morrison likewise used his Daggy Dad image to pit the quiet Australians against the “elite”—angry inner-city “dissidents” who fight for political reform, climate action, and social justice. Crediting the quiet Australians for his 2019 electoral win, Morrison praised them as “a compliant congregation” (McKenna 2019), while denigrating political engagement as showing the contemptuous attitude of the noisy elite. In a late 2019 speech proposing new laws to ban protestors from boycotting companies, Morrison argued that the aim of progressives was to dictate “what you can say, what you can think and … at its heart deny the liberties of Australians” (Karp 2019). Likewise, Morrison criticised the June 2020 Black Lives Matter protests in cities around Australia for “dividing” and “inconveniencing others just trying to get to work” (Hurst 2020). Through the Daggy Dad persona, Morison could not only appeal to and identify with the quiet Australians, but positioned himself as a leader who would represent the interests and values of a silent majority who had not been adequately heard in public discourse. It was a way to mobilise traditional values, economic stability, and a desire for minimal government intervention.

Yet this persona brought responsibilities that Morrison failed to meet after winning the 2019 election. As a Daggy Dad prime minister, he was expected to protect the quiet Australians in outer-suburban and regional electorates but instead fled to Hawaii for a family holiday while Australia burned during the worst bushfires on record and, when he returned, made it clear he “did not hold a hose” (Johnson 2021, 19). Likewise, he failed to protect Australians during the 2022 Eastern Australian floods—the worst in half a millennium—by delaying the declaration of a state of emergency and the provision of relief for nearly 2 weeks (Lewis 2022). At the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, as a masculine protector Morrison readily employed war metaphors and invoked the digger mythology, framing the virus as a “threat” from which he would protect Australians and “our way of life” (Williams and Greer, 2023, 96). Although he initially kept Australia safe—largely resting on the hard work of state premiers (Duckett 2022)—he was widely criticised for the vaccine “strollout”. ⁶ When Omicron hit, Morrison took a laissez-faire approach, advocating “let it rip” which resulted in thousands of deaths, millions of avoidable infections and significant economic impacts (Duckett 2022; Williams 2024). Rather than protecting Australians, Morrison encouraged individuals to take “personal responsibility” in the face of fires, floods and plague with the aim of lowering expectations of government as a site of collective response. By failing to provide financial or physical protection, Morrison fell short of the masculine protector role central to the Daggy Dad persona. This identity is not only fundamentally “oppositional to recognising the needs of citizens (who need care and not protection)” (Wojnicka 2022, 11), but exposes the empty rhetoric at the core of protectionism.

In line with the patriarchal foundations of this persona, the Daggy Dad must also keep women safe. It must be noted that this kind of protection is not driven by women but is a fiction of the patriarchal imagination, valorising “‘good’ men who protect their women and children …[from] ‘bad’ men liable to attack” (Young 2003, 13; emphasis added). However, in February 2021, Brittany Higgins, a former Liberal staffer, spoke out about her alleged rape by a colleague in a Cabinet Minister’s office and a subsequent cover-up, sparking revelations of a toxic and sexist workplace culture (Sawer and Maley 2024). Morrison was criticised for lacking empathy and for prioritising political considerations over support for Higgins, with his broader handling of workplace culture and women’s safety seen as inadequate and reactive (Williams 2023). In response, over 100,000 women, victim-survivors and allies protested nationwide, demanding an end to gendered violence. After refusing to face the march, Morrison stated in parliamentary Question Time that it was “a triumph of democracy” that so many could peacefully express their “genuine and real frustrations”, because, he added, “not far from here, such marches, even now are being met with bullets” (Williams 2023, 277). As one journalist noted, Morrison “speaks almost exclusively to one cohort of voters: men at risk of voting Labor” (Murphy 2021). Likewise, the Daggy Dad performance is not aimed at women; the limitations of its offer of masculine protection were exposed when it was necessary to protect citizens during crises.

What is a “State Daddy”?

Before discussing the traits of a “State Daddy”, it is worthwhile to explore the origins and connotations of the term “daddy”. The term originated in US working-class Black LGBTQIA+ communities (Schaufert 2018), but this “black gay vernacular” has since spread to broader LGBTQIA+ and kink communities (Rodríguez 2014). Examining the use of the term in queer BDSM communities, Rodríguez (2014, 58) identifies how it functions during sexual play as a “convenient and portable [label] to describe gendered relations of care”, outlining the power dynamics of a sexual relationship. Daddies can possess power to either (consensually) punish and discipline or inspire admiration and love, yet are ultimately responsible for the care of their partners. It is a term of endearment—Daddies are “nurturing, caring, guiding” and are therefore looked upon as mentors, role models, and providers (Franklin et al. 2020, 11). The identity is not dependent on parental status—Daddies roleplay an idealised father figure, combining paternal care and responsibility with the “authority of a dominant sexual partner” (Schaufert 2018). The term has gained wider use in recent years, entering the vernacular of heterosexual communities in a frequently humourous context due to its subversion of fatherhood (Schaufert 2018). Its popularity surged with the rise of social media, particularly through the “daddy meme”, which plays on the term’s sexual connotations.

“State Daddy” is a uniquely Australian term that appeared on social media during the 2020 and 2021 COVID-19 lockdowns. Extending the humour of “daddy memes”, young Australians created State Daddy renditions to affectionately celebrate men Labor state premiers for their protective pandemic measures centred on collective care. Western Australian Premier Mark McGowan was regularly referred to as a State Daddy for his pandemic response, including snap lockdowns and state border closures, which saw the state become one of the few places in the world to eliminate community transmission. Aside from a handful of cases—followed by swift re-introduction of protections—Western Australia remained largely COVID-free from April 2020 to December 2021. McGowan’s decision to follow a zero-COVID policy, against the wishes of the Morrison government, ignited a meteoric rise in his popularity that led to a historic landslide victory for Labor in the March 2021 state election and a reduction of the Liberal opposition to just two seats (Paull 2021). Memes depicting McGowan as a sex symbol circulated on social media, with one woman posting a photo to Instagram of her tattoo of McGowan drinking a beer alongside the words “State Daddy”. A limited-edition of McGowan-inspired “State Daddy O’s” cereal was launched as a “tribute to Western Australia, and how we as a state remained steadfast during these tumultuous times” (State Daddy O’s 2021). These examples showcase the humour of the term while reflecting a deeper sincerity and appreciation of a leader who prioritised constituent safety. Unlike Morrison’s artificial Daggy Dad persona, the State Daddy label arose from genuine affection.

A State Daddy, then, is a man leader who is seen to be at least semi-attractive, caring, and responsible. While Daggy Dads align with Lakoff’s (2004) understanding of a strict father, State Daddies embody the nurturant model defined by collective responsibility and empathy, provision of public services, and protection from real (not imagined) threats like disease. It is a compassionate masculinity that rejects stoicism and aggression while valuing communication and collectivism (Wojnicka 2022). Daggy Dads are conservative, committed to traditional gender and family norms, and offer protection that centres on power and control, while State Daddies espouse a more progressive ideology and are perceived as attractive, especially to the heterosexual female gaze. The protection promised by Daggy Dads relies on a hierarchy of control that demands “subordination and recognition of their ... authority” (Wojnicka 2022, 11), and is ultimately rhetorical. In contrast, the State Daddy embodies care—both in terms of “caring about” others’ needs and “caring for” those needs through active responsibility (2022, 11). Yet State Daddies can nevertheless fail to “relinquish the power associated with traditional masculinity,” identified by Elliott (2016, 254) as crucial to successful performance of a caring masculine identity. State Daddy masculinity still preserves men in positions of power, but it is less aggressive in its approach and, unlike traditional counterparts, does not overlook women’s issues or decision-making expertise. Rather than creating an imagined fear through which to keep the population subordinate, they mobilise positive emotions, such as feelings of hope, pride and collective care. The State Daddy label is partly tongue-in-cheek, blending irony with Australian humour, yet it effectively captures the caring masculinity embodied by certain leaders during the COVID era.

State Daddies are the antithesis of the “strongman” political masculinity exemplified by US President Donald Trump, former Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro, former UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson and Russian President Vladimir Putin before and during the pandemic. All four leaders exhibited a strict father model of crisis leadership that subordinated women, children, and “weak” men, upholding patriarchal hierarchies with disastrous pandemic outcomes. While Trump and Bolsonaro embodied “dominating masculine necropolitics”—exercising power to “determine who may live and who may die, and who is disposable and expendable” (Messerschmidt 2020, 190)—Johnson represented a privileged “elite” English ruling-class masculinity, “intimately bound up with class, race and Empire” (Waylen 2021, 1160). Putin, who over the last two decades has perfected a hypermasculinity dependent on strength and physical prowess, has recently shifted to a hegemonic paternalistic type (Kuteleva and Clifford 2021). As the “father of Russia”, Putin has sought to “justify statist policies, the centralization of power, and political authoritarianism” while reproducing nationalism and white supremacy (Kuteleva and Clifford 2021, 313–15; Sperling 2015). As Lakoff (2004, 8) has previously identified, strongman leaders favour self-interest over collectivism and reject nurturance, care, and social programs designed to protect. State Daddies, however, align with the nurturant model, of which empathy and responsibility are core values while “protection is part of the progressive moral system” (G. Lakoff 2004, 12).

While the term “State Daddy” is grounded in the Australian context, it has broader international application. Canadian Premier Justin Trudeau gained global popularity for his good looks, feminist stance and focus on gender equality, in contrast with his conservative predecessor, Stephen Harper. Vogue named him one of the “10 Unconventional Alternatives to the Sexiest Man Alive”, lauding him as “sexy, feminist, and capable of balancing a baby on one hand”, while InStyle called him a “political thirst trap” (Remillard et al. 2019, 68). While the leaders mentioned in this paper are all white, the State Daddy identity is not limited to white men. Obama could retrospectively be considered a State Daddy as he drew on a more empathetic style of protective masculinity that was less macho, less securitised, and more socially compassionate than his predecessor George W. Bush (Johnson 2013). Domestically, by emphasising care and compassion, Obama inspired Americans to invest in a future inclusive of diversity, introducing policies that benefited women, LGBTQIA+, and racial minorities (Johnson 2022, 19). ⁷ Obama was also regarded as a young, attractive, good-looking man and praised for his charisma (Bligh and Kohles 2009).

More recently, UK Labour Prime Minister Keir Starmer has been dubbed “the new Downing Street daddy” by users on social media (Beanland 2024). Defeating the increasingly conservative Tory party and appointing a cabinet with a record number of women in July 2024, Starmer could indeed fit the label. In the US, Democratic Vice-Presidential nominee Tim Walz straddled the State Daddy image and a literal dorky dad, with many online praising his “big dad energy” and empathetic masculinity (Warzel 2024). Unlike Morrison, Walz’ “dad” persona appeared to be genuine and arose from real public affection, especially among young voters on social media. Nicknamed “Tampon Tim” by some of his opponents to smear him for his gubernatorial policies on free menstrual products in schools, Walz also embodied many State Daddy characteristics, with a kind, caring and secure masculinity that supports women, LGBTQIA+ rights, and challenges patriarchal norms.

It must be clarified here that President Donald Trump is not a State Daddy. During the 2024 presidential campaign, reactionary pundit Tucker Carlson roused rally attendees in Georgia by likening Trump to a stern father-figure, insisting that:

There has to be a point at which Dad comes home … and he’s pissed … And when Dad gets home, you know what he says? … You’ve been a bad little girl and you’re getting a vigorous spanking right now. And no, it’s not going to hurt me more than it hurts you. No, it’s not. I’m not going to lie. It’s going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me. And you earned this. You’re getting a vigorous spanking because you’ve been a bad girl, and it has to be this way. (Mahdawi, 2024)

Trump supporters have since been calling him “Daddy” and “Daddy Don” at campaign rallies and on social media. As a patriarchal and authoritarian masculine protectionist persona, which enforces obedience through punishment, “Daddy Don” aligns with Lakoff’s “strict father” model. During the campaign, Trump portrayed himself as a protector and even saviour of women, telling those in the audience at a Pennsylvania rally:

You will no longer be abandoned, lonely or scared … You will no longer have anxiety from all of the problems our country has today … You will be protected, and I will be your protector. (Helmore, 2024)

At a rally in Wisconsin, he vowed to protect women “whether [they] like it or not (Helmore 2024). Trump’s dominating, paternalistic masculinity (Messerschmidt 2020), which mobilises fear and subordination, is the antithesis of the State Daddy, which is compassionate, caring and inspires hope. The State Daddy is for women, whereas misogyny is central to Trump’s identity.

What all State Daddies share, then, is their relatively attractive appearance, focus on issues of equality, and embodying of a caring masculinity to rival the traditional conservative masculinity of their predecessors. ⁸

The Daggy Dad versus the State Daddy: The 2022 Federal Election

The 2022 Australian Federal Election was ostensibly a battle between the Daggy Dad and the State Daddy. Morrison focused on the swinging man voter with his “bulldozer” leadership masculinity and “blokey” campaign platform centring economic management, men-dominated manufacturing and construction industries, and national security (Williams and Sawer, 2023). His first campaign advertisement exemplifies the Daggy Dad persona. Depicting Morrison at work late at night in his office at Parliament House, we see flashes of his wedding ring while he remarks in a voiceover that “things are tough” and offers hope through job creation, small businesses, and trade schools. His voice is unusually deep and his speaking style calculated to emulate the “every bloke” whose vote he seeks. This advert demonstrates how Morrison uses the Daggy Dad persona to “authenticate [himself] through the appropriation and performativity of certain working-class traits … often at the centre of cultural and social understandings about what it means to be Australian” (Whitman 2013, 52).

In contrast, Albanese campaigned on a platform of rebuilding the woman-dominated “care economy”, with major commitments to health care, aged care, and childcare, as well as addressing issues of gender equality such as violence against women and the gender pay gap. His State Daddy masculinity rejected paternal domination in favour of care and collaboration, centring traditionally “feminised issues”. The care sector featured prominently in the ALP campaign as one particularly hard hit by the pandemic and one that Morrison repeatedly failed to support (Williams and Sawer, 2023). The State Daddy image directly contrasted with the Daggy Dad persona as a more caring masculinity that appealed to the female rather than male gaze. Albanese, then, effectively mobilised his caring masculinity against Morrison’s increasingly faltering protective paternalism, highlighting many of Morrison’s weaknesses and especially his unpopularity with women.

Physical attractiveness is integral to the State Daddy image and Albanese’s campaign team made sure he would meet this expectation, transforming the Labor leader with a makeover months prior to the election. Undergoing what in colloquial terms could be considered a “glow up”, Albanese lost 18 kg, adopted a stylish new wardrobe, and even picked up a suave new pair of glasses, all of which contrasted with the dishevelled look preferred by Morrison and other right-wing leaders, such as Johnson or Trump. Seeking to appeal to the female gaze, Albanese posed for a Women’s Weekly photoshoot and an “at home” interview for the March 2022 edition, looking fit, well-dressed, and modern (figure 2). Once the magazine hit the stands, many took to social media to profess their attraction to his new look, while a meme juxtaposing a photo from the shoot with Morrison in boardshorts and thongs circulated widely on social media (figure 3). Early in the election campaign, 2021 Australian of the Year and advocate for sexual assault survivors Grace Tame interviewed Albanese for digital women’s fashion magazine InStyle Australia, which went to press with a presidential-style black and white profile on the cover (figure 4).OPEN IN VIEWER

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Figure 3.

‘Jenny I need you to go shopping’. Source: Twitter, @KylieParkerCA, February 24 2022

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Figure 4.

Georges Antoni/InStyle Australia. 28 April 2022

These images could be defined as examples of a “thirst trap”, a colloquial term used for a photograph or video posted on social media with the intent of inspiring (“trapping”) sexual attraction (“thirst”). Due to patriarchal gender norms, women are assumed to be the “passive object of the gaze” while heterosexual men are usually spectators (R. Lakoff 2003, 173). The State Daddy thirst trap subverts this norm by inviting heterosexual women to be the observers. However, the State Daddy does not become a passive object, he continues to hold power and agency as a political figure in a society in which masculine performance is associated with “domination, power, hardness and activity” (Braid 2014, 78). Ultimately, it can serve as a tool to further accrue political legitimacy.

Similar “traps” were set by other state Labor leaders. In the leadup to the 2022 South Australian election, a photograph of then-opposition leader Peter Malinauskas portrayed him in “hot dad” mode at the Adelaide Aquatic Centre, posing shirtless with his children to show off his toned physique and a more involved approach to fatherhood (figure 5). This received significant positive media and social media attention. Such political thirst traps are not limited to the Australian context. For example, prior to the 2022 French election, President Emmanuel Macron’s official photographer released several “behind-the-scenes” photographs of a relaxed Macron, reclining on a leather couch in an unbuttoned white linen shirt. ⁹ Thirst traps are a useful tool for State Daddies not only to differentiate themselves from Daggy Dads, but to add a corporeal dimension in signalling their commitment to women voters.OPEN IN VIEWER

The Coalition ultimately brought a hi-vis vest and a hard-hat to an unequivocally gendered election and lost. As former deputy Liberal leader Julie Bishop astutely noted on election night, “women did not see their concerns and interests reflected in a party led by Scott Morrison” (Maley 2022). Perhaps, then, the State Daddy label emerged on social media in response to Morrison’s failure to protect Australians, highlighting the disconnect between protective rhetoric and the reality. As Schopp (2000) explains, “the Daddy provides a useful answer to the Absent Father” and the failures of masculinity. The State Daddy addresses the leadership gap left by the Daggy Dad.

Conclusion

The State Daddy identity has been embodied by various Labor leaders during the COVID-19 pandemic and recent elections. As a more compassionate masculinity, it serves as an antidote to the conservative Daggy Dad, exposing the illusory nature of masculine protectionism. Instead of mobilising fear, State Daddies inspire hope, care, and a collective response. While this was true during the early years of the pandemic, this approach shifted with the adoption of the neoliberal “let it rip” ethos in response to the Omicron variant at the end of 2021 (Williams, 2024). Though this change was brought in by Daggy Dads Morrison and Liberal NSW Premier Dominic Perrottet, it has since been adopted by Labor premiers, such as Victoria’s Dan Andrews and even McGowan, who opened Western Australia’s borders in March 2022 after keeping them closed in the first Omicron wave. ¹⁰ Prior to the election, Morrison used “living with COVID” as a political wedge, presenting a binary choice between lockdowns and no protections. Though Albanese campaigned on a platform of care, including health, aged and disability care, he was less forthright about the impact of COVID on these sectors and only briefly mentioned the need for a “national strategy” to minimise the harm caused by the virus.

Albanese’s election victory allowed him to fill the leadership deficit left by Morrison. He could have redefined COVID leadership, reuniting a divided federation and regaining control lost to the state premiers to ensure the safety of all Australians while protecting the care industries that had been the linchpin of his election campaign. Yet the State Daddy identity was abandoned as Albanese prioritised the budget over health and “personal responsibility” over collective action, ignoring increasing case numbers, hospitalisations, and deaths (Williams 2024). At the height of the BA.5 wave, Australia reported the third-highest per capita case and death rates in the world, yet the Albanese government ignored health advice to reinstate mask mandates and other protections. Though the Albanese government promised to strengthen the healthcare system, this is at odds with the “living with COVID” approach which puts extreme stress on hospitals and results in high levels of disease and death. It appears that Albanese has abandoned a caring form of masculinity—at least in his COVID response.

The rise of the State Daddy during the pandemic shows that a different kind of political leadership masculinity is possible. Though this paper focused on the Australian context, the term reflects a broader global trend evident in leaders like Obama, Trudeau and, more recently, Walz and Starmer, who present an alternative to the traditional, patriarchal masculinities of their conservative counterparts. Caring masculinities foster societal gender equality and are particularly beneficial during crisis (Wojnicka 2022, 12). Furthermore, the popularity of this label indicates the power to be gained from mobilising positive emotions, such as care and pride. Though now largely abandoned by Labor leaders, State Daddy masculinity is still a possibility in the future for any leaders who choose to follow this path.