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Australia’s most dysfunctional rock & roll family, the Lathams, were spawned by that mother of all bad haircuts, Mark Latham, on the campaign trail somewhere out in the badlands of New South Wales, Australia. At the time the medicos thought it pancreatitis, but it was simply the pain of hatching the bastard seed that would become the vehicle for Mark’s malice and revenge on all of Australia. So, the Lathams were born to do his bidding. More froth than a brace of political biographies. More dirt than a sunny day on the steps of parliament house. More scandal than a Canberra massage parlour. More mayhem than a media conference, where the din of lens glass smashing on the unforgiving concrete of ruined ambition is the only sound left. More monster in a handshake than ever before. The Lathams have been unleashed.