The honours system or a system in dishonour?

How the Order of Australia became a badge of dishonour, and why it might be time to scrap it altogether.

When the Order of Australia awards were announced in 1975 as a replacement for the antiquated British honours system that Australia had held for decades, conservative thinkers were incensed. Monarchists were similarly outraged and openly hostile, suggesting the new system was a “Bunyip Aristocracy”, and deplored its lack of historical legitimacy.

Others claimed that honours needed to be rooted in long tradition to carry real gravitas, questioning whether a new local system could ever match the centuries-old British awards in symbolic power.

Meanwhile, on the left, there were deeper concerns about the very existence of an honours system in a nation that prided itself on egalitarian values. Critics such as historian Humphrey McQueen noted that many prominent Australians – Alfred Deakin and Rupert Murdoch among them – had refused such honours, arguing either that they had already been sufficiently rewarded or that such recognitions were better suited to others. Paul Keating, widely regarded as one of Australia’s more transformative prime ministers, also declined the award, despite his substantial achievements in economic reform, Indigenous affairs, and foreign policy.

The Order of Australia was designed to function alongside the British system initially, but from 1992 onwards, it stood alone. It consists of four tiers: the Medal of the Order (OAM) for local service, Member (AM) for more significant contributions, Officer (AO) for national-level impact, and Companion (AC), intended to recognise those whose work has had a profound effect on the nation or the world.

Yet the process, though meant to be rigorous and independent of government influence, has not always functioned as intended. Nominations are supposed to be anonymous, community-driven, and vetted with stringent checks on referees. Having provided references for such awards in the past, I’ve seen the system work well – recognising tireless community workers whose names would never appear in headlines, but who gave decades of unpaid, often invisible labour to others. For them, the award was a simple gesture of gratitude – an official pat on the back from the state.

But the integrity of the system has been repeatedly tested. If a nominee becomes aware of their nomination prematurely, or if they attempt to nominate themselves, their eligibility is voided. And yet, when you examine the list of past Companions, the suspicions raised by conservatives back in the 1970s appear eerily prescient.

Among the honoured are figures of dubious moral standing – crooks, spivs, political hucksters and corporate shonks – some of whom eventually relinquished their awards under pressure or scandal, such the former High Court judge Dyson Heydon, who resigned from the Order of Australia in 2022 following findings of sexual harassment. It’s a list that, while including many admirable Australians, increasingly resembles the kind of club Groucho Marx once joked about: one you’d rather not be part of, precisely because of who else is in it.

The rewarding of failure

The revelation that Scott Morrison is to be appointed a Companion of the Order of Australia should mark the end of the honours system altogether. For many, Morrison stands as the most underwhelming, divisive and damaging prime minister in the history of the federation – a leader whose tenure was marked not by distinction, but by secrecy, cruelty, and profound misjudgement.

His management of the COVID-19 pandemic saw the virus spread rapidly and with devastating consequences. He infamously claimed “it’s not a race”, and delayed the delivery of vital medications and supplies. His role in disembarking passengers from the Ruby Princess in March 2020 remains unclear, but it’s a decision that allowed infected people to go into the community, and the spread of the virus from this case resulted in 28 deaths and over 900 infections. The management of the pandemic, under Morrison’s watch, proved to be a disastrous failure.

His crowning “achievement”, the AUKUS deal, locked Australia into a decades-long strategic and a $380 billion financial commitment, funnelling vast public funds into the American defence industry with little more than speculative promises in return. His secret self-appointment to five additional ministries not only undermined cabinet government but also made a mockery of democratic norms and transparency.

Worse still was his economic management. As Treasurer, Morrison oversaw policy decisions that widened inequality, ignored structural issues, and pursued ideological rigidity over evidence-based action. And as Prime Minister, he presided over Robodebt – a scandal now infamous not only for its illegality, but for its cruelty. This automated welfare scheme unlawfully pursued vulnerable citizens for debts they didn’t owe, leading to widespread trauma, financial despair, and, tragically, suicides. Morrison has neither apologised nor faced true consequences for the policy. And now, someone has decided he deserves the nation’s highest civilian honour.

His appointment stains the awards system. It diminishes the meaning of every medal handed to a humble community volunteer, an unsung teacher, a lifelong carer. It tells Australians that failure, dishonesty, and cruelty in high office will still be rewarded – if not by the public, then by a panel cloaked in respectability. It casts the entire honours structure into disrepute. What is the point of a national award if it is granted to those who left the nation bruised and broken?

There is a deeper philosophical question too: why should already prominent and well-compensated individuals receive even more praise, when so many Australians who live lives of quiet service go without recognition? In a society that values equality, should we be showering political elites – especially those who used their power to diminish others –with vainglorious validation?

What exactly are we rewarding Morrison with? His flagrant abuse of power? His botched pandemic management? His callous response to natural disasters? His vanishing act during national crises? Or is it simply the hollow idea that holding high office, no matter how badly is, in itself, enough cause for celebration?

Scott Morrison deserves no honour. He should be remembered not for leadership, but as a reminder of how far Australia can fall when competence and accountability are thrown out the window. To grant him the Companion is not just tone-deaf; it’s an insult to the lives he failed, and to the very idea that honours should reflect integrity, service, and sacrifice. His name does not elevate the Order of Australia – it drags it into the dirt. He may have been prime minister, but he brought no honour to the role and, as such, does not deserve any honour at all.