“I know,” I replied. “There’s Milo everywhere and Susan’s furious with me.”

“No, there’s a spill on for the Labor leadership!” Nick said. “I’ve been making some phone calls and I reckon you’ve got the numbers to have a crack.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really.”

I was gobsmacked. How far a simple boy from Resevoir had come; from engineer to accountant to Prime Minister of Australia. It was the proudest moment of my life and I was determined not to let the chance slip away.

“What should I do?” I asked Xzennophone.

“Leave the campaigning to me,” he said. “You just worry about the vote tomorrow. Make sure you’re there shaking hands and networking. Wear something striking.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where’s the vote?”

So on Thursday morning I arrived bright and early at Templestowe Primary School, ready to greet MPs on their way to the ballot box. I wandered around for ages but I couldn’t see any voting booths, sausage sizzles or anything. I couldn’t even see any adults, although they had to be somewhere because there were kids everywhere. Eventually, a man came up to me and said that if I didn’t get out of the school immediately he’d call the police. I asked if he was a Labor MP and offered him my hand. “Steve Fielding,” I introduced myself. “Next Prime Minister of Australia.”

“I’m the principal,” he growled. “And you’re trespassing on my property so get out.”

Deflated, I turned for the main gate. “Oi!” shouted the principal as I walked away. “Is that supposed to be a bottle?”

In the end, the vote didn’t go my way and we now have our first female Prime Minister in Julie Gillard which is certainly historic but is bound to cause problems and is unlikely to be sustainable. I mean, she’ll inevitably have to look after her kids when they’re sick or ferry them back and forth to choir practise — the role of Prime Minister is a busy one, kids get hungry, and dinner doesn’t just cook itself. Plus, she’s an athi athee not God believer which points to an underdeveloped intellect. I mean, Julie, do you seriously think the earth just built itself hundreds of thousands of years ago? Did the pyramids and Ayers Rock and the Statue of Liberty just materialise out of thin air? And you claim to have the capabacity to lead this country.

So anyway, given that Julie will quickly be seen by the electorate as too silly to lead it, I’ve still got a shot at becoming Australia’s first family Prime Minister. To this ends I’ve signed a 12-point contract with Austria’s voters, building on and improving the contract points signed by opposite leader Tony Abbott. My full contract, with detail, will be released soon, but in the meantime here are the highlights:

Point one: Restore the budget to surplus within one year and clear all debt. This is two years faster than Tony or Julie and will be achieved through the printing of more money — a measure so simple it beggars belief that the others haven’t thought of it first.

Point two: Restore cabinet government. I promise to consult widely with Susan on all matters of policy.

Point three: Reject the Great Big New Tax on Mining. In fact, all taxes will be abolished in favour of a flat, egalitarian tax. Probably about two per cent.

Point five: Enforce our borders. Boat seekers will be sent the back of the queue and there will be no more free Apple Macs.

Point seven: Take direct action on water and the environment. I support both, and will implement simple, practical measure such as, “If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.”

Point nine: Help stay-at-home mums with unlimited paid parental leave at twice the minimum wage. Prostitutes and prisoners need not apply.

My contract with the people is the gospel truth and I invited the media to come and watch me sign it so that everyone could be confident that I was serious. But nobody showed up which is probably lucky because my crayon was a bit blunt and my signature looked a bit like a drawing of a yellow river.

Until next time.

But me, I’m my own greatest asset for my campaign.

You see, unlike Rudd who you can’t trust whether scripted or unscripted, and Abbott who you can’t trust unless it’s scripted, I can be trusted at all times whether I’m speaking off my cuff or off a script that Susan’s written for me. I speak from the heart and the ability to lie is not even in my DMA. Politics is about representing people and honouring the trust they’ve put in you to represent them, and every single Victorian who voted for me trusts me not to lie.

Unless a lie is necessary and honourable, which sometimes it is. So I’ll lie when it’s necessary.

You see, my father always told me to tell the truth unless by telling a lie you can do a greater good or tell a greater truth. So, for example, when I went on my self-funded trip to the USA to investigate all of the both sides of the climate change story and only really investigated one of the both sides of the climate change story, I told everyone that I had investigated all of the them because it was really important that the results of my investigation were taken seriously. I told a little lie but it was for a greater truth.

And when I backflipped on my support for the alcopops tax I told everyone it was because I had decided it was no longer a good policy, when actually I changed my mind because I wanted everyone to keep paying attention to me. This was a justifiable lie because the greater good was my continued presence in the Australian Parliament to offset the self-interested major Parties.

Even the word “family” in my Party’s title is okay because our members’ religion’s ideals align perfectly with the ideals held true by their families. And an R-word doesn’t alliterate as nicely with “First” as an F-word.

With Steve Fielding, you know that you can always trust what I say as the truth, and even if it’s not the truth it’s a lie that’s better than the truth. With Steve Fielding, you know that you don’t have to check to see if I’m reading a script to know if I’m worth listening to. With Steve Fielding, you know that I always put my cards on the table, show my hands, and bargain in good faith.

And that’s the Gospel Truth.

Until next time.

But my point is that never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be an accountant when I grew up. Not many people know that I was an accountant before I was in control of the Senate; humble beginnings, I can hear you say, but from little things big things grow. As an accountant I probably have a much more intimate knowledge of economic and taxation matters than most ordinary Australians, and I often have to step in at dinner parties and in meetings with colleagues to pour some hard facts on uniformed speculation. Like this one time, Barnaby suggested that we should just print more money to pay off debt and I gently scolded him, pointing out that the cost of the extra plastic and ink would completely wipe out any benefit gained.

One of the things that happened while I was a working accountant was the introduction of the GST. The GST, for those of you who don’t quite understand, is a tax on goods and services. Services, for those of you who don’t quite understand, are the sorts of things delivered by state governments — health, policing, garbage collection etc. Every time you buy a good (except for birthday cakes which are exempt) or use a service, you pay $10 to the federal government. This money is then deposited into the state governments’ bank accounts to pay for more services like public libraries.

Complicated, I know, but try to stay with me.

This week the country Prime Minister has been talking to the state Prime Ministers at their COGA meeting about changing the way the GST money is shared around and spent on hospitals. Now, nobody doubts that the nation’s hospital system is getting worse, and everybody knows that the finger-pointing and blame game games are mostly to blame for this terrible state of affairs, but healthcare is far too important to be used a political football and there are many, many both sides to the story to be considered. That’s why I’m angry and disappointed that instead of just fixing hospitals the Prime Ministers are squabbling over who gets what GST money and who gets to spend it. Enough is enough.

There is heaps and heaps of GST money. Consider that each year I probably consume about 50 loaves of bread, 12 jars of Vegemite, 15 tins of Milo, 100 litres of milk, and 200 Chicken Heroes (and those are just the staples of my diet); plus I might use a hospital once or twice, get my garbage collected every week, and usually get questioned by the police once every couple of months; and I pay $10 each and every one of those times. Just on my own I reckon I pay easily over $100 in GST and I’m only one of 21 million Australians! Clearly, there is enough GST revenue to fix the hospitals once and for all.

So, the other day all-but-one of the PMs came to an agreement about changing the carve-up of the GST, with Western Australia’s Colonel Barnett holding out. Because it wasn’t a yoonani yunany younanny all of them agreeing on it at the same time agreement the changes will have to go to Parliament, and as the holder of the balance of power in Canberra I will be required to make a decision that will have serious repercussions for all Australians. And to think that once upon a time I was just a simple accountant!

But with great power comes great responsibility, and I take my responsibilities extremely seriously. Unfortunately, details of the changes agreed upon are sketchy at best, and I am still quite vague as to the exact proposal I will be balancing power on. I have spent all week trying to gain access to the CAOG negotiations, mindful of my need to be totally across this issue, but I have been foiled at every turn. I have inundated the offices of Kevin Rudd, Joan Brumby and Kerri-Ann Keneally with faxes and emails asking for them to let me into the circle of talks, but nothing. A cynic might suggest that these people, charged as they are with great responsibility by the people of Australia, aren’t taking their responsibilities seriously. How am I supposed to vote on something I know nothing about?

I am a humble man and I have been honoured by the voters of Victoria with a great burden. Even though I was a bit upset about missing out on the dinner party at Kirribilli Lodge during CLAG (I even faxed the Lodge chef my food preferences: no middle brown food but light brown and dark brown is okay) this is not about me. I intend on discharging my duties diligently in this healthcare GST matter and I will do my best to get across the issue despite the obstructionist tactics of the Prime Ministers. Further, I will ensure that I do not make my decision until all media outlets are carefully paying attention to me so that I can clearly communicate my reasoning to the electorate. My people of Australia deserve no less.

Until next time.

I hate Senate holidays on their own as it is, but I hate them even more when they coincide with school holidays because my kids are home with me. Two days ago my son snuck up quietly behind me while I was looking in the fridge for the devon and shouted out, “BOAT SEEKERS!” I jumped literally out of my skin and did a little bit of wee in my pants. It took my son about four minutes to get the footage out of his mobile phone and onto YouTube, and I was on the phone to Conroy reaffirming my commitment to the web filter that very evening.

Last night the whole family was sitting around watching TV (the kids and I get to stay up until 9:30pm during holidays) when that new Victorian road safety ad came on. “Don’t be a dickhead,” boomed the voiceover and my son turned around and said, “yeah, Dad.” We were all a bit shocked; Susan bit her bottom lip really hard but had to wipe up a fleck of snot that came flying out of her nose. I’m really sick and tired of these kids — they have no respect at all for their elders — so in response to my son’s attitude I tried out a line I’ve heard all the teenagers using lately. “Your mum’s a dickhead,” I told my son, and 40 seconds later I was in my bedroom without dessert and grounded for a month. I hate it how Susan always takes our kids’ side.

This morning, still furious about last night’s events, I decided to use my special powers for good and release a press release about the road safety ads. There are too many swears in today’s society and politicians shouldn’t be encouraging our kids to use more swears. We’re just a slippery slope away from perhaps the S-word and even the F-word being used in government campaigns, and from there it’s just another slip before it’s the C-word or even the J-word. Once upon a time there were no swears in society and society was a better place for it. A dirty mouth is a sign of a dirty mind, my Dad always told me, and society’s mind is getting dirtier and dirtier every day. I was elected on a clearly articulated platform of stopping the rot and upholding decent family values and that’s exactly what I will do once I make as many people as possible pay attention to me.

I called up Xzennophone to make sure that he wasn’t going to steal my thunder because he often trumps my press releases with his own press releases; Xzennophone tends to write my thoughts, but so much thinkier than I think. I asked him if he’d seen the road safety ad with the swears in it and he said he hadn’t, although he had just seen a great YouTube video of an Australian Senator dropping a jar of mayonnaise on the floor and screaming “Jesus fuck!” at the top of his voice. I hung up the phone and got back in touch with Conroy proposing an outright ban on YouTube at the very least, and ideally on the entire Internet.

Since I’m grounded I’ve got nothing to look forward to until Senate goes back except for Easter which is awesome for the chocolate bit but a bit of a drag because of the church bit. Why can’t we just celebrate the miracle of the holy rabbit laying the chocolate egg in the cave where Jesus was sleeping by eating instead of praying? Sometimes this church and religion thing can just get a bit much. Last Sunday my pastor gave me a reading to do at home and wants me to have a chat about it with him next week. I’ve read the passage about a hundred times but it still doesn’t make much sense. I think I’ll just tell the pastor that it’s about God and Jesus and sin and miracles and swearing and stuff, and then throw a media stunt to distract his attention.

Until next time.

I immediately sent a text to Nick Xzennophone, asking him if he’d ever been on the telly before. He answered yes, so I asked if he’d ever been on the ABC before. He answered yes, so I asked him if he’d ever been on the Q&A before. He answered no, so I told him that I was going on Q&A and he wasn’t. I signed off, “Regards Steve”, even though I don’t really have any regards for him. Xzennophone can be such a media whore sometimes so it’s nice to get one up on him now and again.

Within an hour I was packed and ready for my flight to Sydney. In the car on the way to the airport Susan explained to me again and again how the television gets sucked up into the camera and then goes flying along a cable to a big metal tower that throws the pictures through the air to television sets across the land, but no matter how hard I tried to visualise and understand this magic I simply couldn’t. I guess I’m a simple kind of guy who’s happy just accepting it as one of those mysteries of God that are all around us. Life’s easier that way.

The ABC woman said that a car would be waiting at Sydney Airport for me but I couldn’t for the life of me find the driver. After thirty minutes of standing there, twiddling my thumbs like an idiot, I called the ABC woman to find out what the heck was going on. She told me that she would call the driver and get back to me. A few minutes later a guy who’d been standing near me holding a sign the whole time answered his phone, looked around, and walked over to me. The silly idiot had written half of his sign wrong which is why I didn’t know he was looking for me. My first name isn’t “Sen.”.

Arriving at the studios I was taken to a dressing room which looked just like in the movies. There were light bulbs around the mirror and comfy chairs and everything. I changed into my TV outfit and headed over to the makeup department. The girls there were lovely although they said my Diamonte shirt would probably make the television cameras flare so it would be best if I changed into a plain business shirt. I immediately sent a text to Susan asking her to post my rhinestone shirt to Sydney by registered post.

Before I knew it I was lead into the studio and seated between Julie Bishop and some guy called Richard Dorkins. I’m not shy to admit that I’m absolutely terrified of Julie Bishop. She reminds me of that story that I think was in the Bible about the woman who turns you to stone if you make eye contact with her, and I make sure to keep my eyes cast safely downwards whenever I’m near her. Problem is, she kept brushing up against my leg because the chairs were so close together – lucky I had blanky on my lap.

The Dorkins fellow was a bit strange. A lot of people seemed almost in awe of him but his hair is very scruffy and his clothing looked like it came from Vinnies. He smelled nice, though, and at least his scruffy hair was obviously clean; I had to resist the urge to run my hand through it. When Tony Jones was talking to me before the show he said something about a possible clash between me and Dorkins about religion or something, but how can I have a religious clash with somebody who doesn’t believe in religion? Curious.

Before I knew it the opening credits were rolling and Tony was introducing the panellists. As I saw the camera panning along the desk towards me I started to freeze up and my veins ran cold. “Not now, Steve,” I told myself, “the whole world is watching.” So I grabbed blanky with one hand, Julie’s hand with my other hand, and flashed a beaming smile up the camera, along the cables, and out of the big metal tower. I knew then that this show was going to be a piece of cake.

But then I was asked if I was a creationist or an evolutionerist. I’ve spent the past five years rehearsing my answer to this one because it’s something that my detractors want to use to attempt to delegitimise and discredit me. I’d even rehearsed my answer in the car with Susan earlier that day; Susan repeatedly asked me the question and I practised saying “NO!” in my best confident and semi-shouty voice. But with the eyes of Australia watching, and with Julie Bishop staring a giant hole right through the side of my head, my mind went blank and I heard myself tell the world I was a creationist. “Think fast, Steve,” I told myself, and so in a stroke of genius I mentioned that Kevin Rudd was a creationist too. Crisis successfully avoided. Steve Fielding: 1, ABC: 0.

For the rest of the show I performed brilliantly, articulately answering everything that was thrown my way and managing even to tie the idiot Dorkins up in knots of perfect logic. Hours of practise in front of the mirror paid off brilliantly with my hand gestures adding to my appearance of calm and studied confidence, and successfully distracting people’s attention from what I was saying. Even Julie Bishop was mesmerised by my hands which saved a few audience members from being turned to stone.

And in what can only be described as a miracle, I was saved from answering the final curly question by the show’s producers who cut me off due to the show running extremely over time. In that studio there was an atheist and a Pentecostal, and it’s clear whose side God was on that night.

Shaking Tony Jones’ hand as I prepared to leave the studio I told him that I was available most Monday nights as long as he called Susan a few days in advance so she could buy one less pork chop, and I really looked forward to being a regular guest on the show. I gave him my business card but Tony said he was out of his own cards, but not to worry anyway because he’d call me.

On the way out to my car I was asked by a producer if I’d mind sharing a ride with Julie Bishop. I walked to my hotel at the airport.

Until next time.

Having successfully re-heated my food after five frustrating minutes spent realising that I had to press the button next to the Post-in note arrow, not the arrow itself, I settled down in the lounge room to watch the DVD. But all of a sudden disaster struck when I stuck the DVD into the VHS machine without even thinking! What an idiot! Panicking, I frantically pressed EJECT on the remote control and the machine itself, but the disc wouldn’t come out. I changed the batteries and tried again but still nothing! I called Susan to ask what to do but her phone was on silent inside the cinema. Breathing deep to keep the anxiety at bay I knew it was time for some creative thinking.

Careful to unplug the machine so there was no chance of electrocuting myself, I picked it up, pointed the tape door towards the floor, and shook it with all my might. I could hear the disc rattling around inside but it just wouldn’t come out. By this stage I was nearly in tears, and I considered calling 000 but I decided to give it one more shot. Placing the machine on the coffee table I carefully inserted my hand through the door and grabbed hold of the disc. Success! However, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get my hand out of the machine.

Two hours later Susan arrived home with the kids and found me sitting on the carpet, bashing the video player connected to the end of my arm on the floor, and covered head-to-toe in all the butter and olive oil I could find in the house. It was not, I’ll admit, one of my finer moments. I was so overwrought with emotions that I couldn’t stop my son from taking photos on his phone and texting them around to his friends.

I spent the next six hours in the emergency room of my local hospital and my harrowing experience makes me supremely qualified to formulate and analyse this country’s health system. For starters, waiting lists are at crisis point as people in need go without necessary treatment. I had to wait for four hours before a doctor saw me! Four! I was attended to by many nurses but they were hardly taking their jobs seriously going by the level of giggling and photo texting that they were doing while they were supposed to be working.

The indignity I suffered, sitting there in the waiting room, was stinging. Our hospitals are supposed to be places where people heal their bodies and minds but mine were getting sicker. I vowed then and there to do something about health in this country.

Finally, I was examined by a doctor who removed the VHS machine and dressed the grazes on my hand. I asked him why the whole thing had taken so long and he said that hospitals are all under-staffed and under-resourced for the work that they were asked to do. I told him that I was a law maker (I heard Barack Osama say that phrase on the telly) and that I could do something about it. He stared at the puddle of grease on the sheet around my bottom and said he doubted that. I gave him my APH business card and said that I seriously was a politician, and after he’d called my office and described me over the phone to verify my credentials I asked him what was the one single thing that would most improve health. Money, he said, and lots of it.

As soon as I got home I emailed Kevin Rudd and told him that we should give more money to hospitals. Then I called my staff to tell them that this was a new policy. And finally I called Nick Xzennophone to tell him that it was my new policy and I thought of it first so don’t go announcing it himself and claiming it was his. Nick told me to say thanks to my son for the MMS. What’s an MMS?

And finally today, after months and months of my lobbying and tireless work on my behalf, Kevin Rudd has announced his health plan, modelled on Family First’s policy, which includes more money for hospitals. Excellent. But the good work is totally cancelled out by his bizarre decision to move all hospitals to Canberra. How on earth anyone could possibly think such an idea is a good one is beyond me. Just imagine how far people will have to travel for treatment if they live in Queensland, Victoria, South Australia, North Australia and the Western Terrortry! Madness.

As usual, this country’s government has taken a good, sensible idea and baked it by half. Australians are right to be sick of being stuffed around, and the impending travel for thousands of hospital patients will surely be the last straw for most voters. For this reason, it is imperative that you vote for Family First and common sense in this year’s referendum. You never know when it might be you waiting in a hospital emergency department with a video machine on your arm and butter dripping through your eyebrows.

Until next time.

“Son,” he said, “popular music is not quite what it seems to your young and innocent eyes.”

“How’s that, Dad?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, rock and roll is …” he trailed off and paused to gather his thoughts. “Rock and roll is the devil in the form of sound.”

“The devil!” I exclaimed, shocked. “Tell me it isn’t so!”

“Sadly, it’s true, son,” he said, giving me a big hug for safety.

“Do you mean to say, Dad,” I started to ask, close to tears, “that the devil might get inside me if I listen to popular music?”

“Not all of it, son,” he said confidently, “but a lot of it.”

By now I was terrified that my weekly tradition of watching Johnny Young might have been putting me at risk of being taken over by the devil. “Dad, please,” I wailed, “is Young Talent Time safe?

Having been asked this question, so terribly important to his son’s faith and self-image, my father closed his eyes and thought long and hard. Finally he opened his eyes and solemnly answered, “No.”

“Why not?” I managed to sob through the tears.

“Because of the girls,” said Dad.

“The girls,” I repeated, confused. “But I don’t care about the girls. The boys have much nicer voices.”

“You will one day very soon, son. And that’s when the devil gets involved.”

Ever since that day I have striven to protect me and my family from rock and roll music. My sacrifice began at the moment of the missed Young Talent Time concert and it continues to this day as we watch the TV on mute at home so as not to be caught unawares by the incidental soundtrack, Susan reading the closed captions aloud when they start to flash up too fast. The only exception has been dear Johnny Farnham who was one of my Dad’s favourites and who Dad assured me certainly didn’t have the devil in him, “Even if it looks like he’s eaten the Devil and the Devil’s pantry!” laughed Dad.

But the Devil’s rock and roll is very serious and not a laughing matter. The recent deaths of young Australians installing the government’s insulation have been used for political footballs for too long and it’s time to end the game and place the blame fairly and squarely where it belongs: rock and roll music.

The minister responsible for this debacle, Peter Garrett, is, as we all know, an ex-rock and roll singer from the band Midnight Vultures. For many years the Godless Garrett lived a Godless lifestyle of sex, drugs and loud music. If anyone is in any doubt as to whether Garrett was possessed by the Devil they need only watch a clip of him “dancing” on the Internet (sound turned down, of course) — that is not the dance of a man possessed by God. For years Peter Garrett made rock and roll music that rolled out the red carpet from Hell, through the speakers of boom boxes, and into the bedrooms of Australia’s impressionable youth. An evil, evil man.

And then Garrett, obviously responding to the Devil’s suggestion that he try to branch out so more people could get possessed, became a politician. To this job, instead of bringing the purity that we genuine politicians bring, he brought with him his Godless lifestyle and evil intentions. Putting on a suit doesn’t automatically give you values and morals and intelligence and respectability. The Devil was in Canberra.

So, Peter Garrett rode the bourbon train directly to Canberra, rock and roll heroin needles hanging out of his arm, and brought disgrace to the honourable calling of democratic representation by treating the people of Australia as his roadies, subjecting them to terrible working conditions without a ounce of care. Rock and roll music killed those poor tradesmen; you can take the devil music out of the boy but you can’t take the boy out of the devil music.

If Kevin Rudd is truly a God-fearing man then he will excommunicate Peter Garrett from Parliament immediately, and if Kevin Rudd won’t do it then the Australian voters should at this year’s election. Rock and roll music has killed already and it will kill again. The nation has been warned.

Until next time.

It all began last Tuesday morning. I was sitting in my Parliament House office putting the cardboard letters into the clear plastic sleeves on my new red pencil case when Susan suddenly burst in and convened an office meeting. I’d been trying to call her mobile phone for an hour and had left four voice messages asking for help to find an ‘S’, a ‘T’, an ‘E’, and a ‘V’, and was just about to leave another asking if I could use a sideways ‘M’ instead of another ‘E’. Susan told me to put it away and got everyone to gather around the main desk.

She welcomed everyone back for 2010, hoped we’d had a good break, before telling us that it’s going to be our biggest year yet with our biggest ever challenge in the shape of the election campaign. I cut in over the top of her and said that election campaigns certainly are tough because everyone’s paying attention to the Prime Minister and the opposition leader and it’s really hard for everyone else to get media attention even with big stunts, but there have been bigger challenges over the years, such as that time I accidentally ended up in the Senate Economics Committee instead of the Family First OH&S Ergonomics Committee because of a nomination form mix up. Susan said that this election challenge will be bigger, and that there would be no time for pointless stunts this time around because everyone will be flat out trying to get me re-elected using adult strategies.

At about this point I decided to stop Susan from making any more of a fool of herself due to her having one very serious point very seriously wrong. But I didn’t want to put her down in front of everyone so I patted her gently on the head and told her in my nicest voice, “It’s okay, Susan, because I don’t ever have to face an election, remember?”

After pausing and looking at me strangely for a moment, Susan reached over, patted me gently on the head, and asked in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “What did you think, Steve, that you were elected forever?” (“Or at all?” the work experience kid yelled out from the back.)

Seeing as though she didn’t take my subtle hint I decided to try for comedy. I smiled widely, held my arms out to the crowd, and said in a jolly voice, “Well, I didn’t have to do too much in 2007 and I’m still here, aren’t I?” Susan, obviously embarrassed by her foolish error, put her head in her hands and groaned. I rubbed her on the back, shook my head at the assembled staff in apology, and said in a conciliatory tone, “Why don’t you just leave the politics to the politicians, hey, dear?”

When I returned to work a couple of days later (the swelling was pretty bad the first day), and after I had hand-delivered the hand-written letters of apology to the staff, I went to see Nick Xzennophone because I felt quite silly sitting around the office in my son’s oversized Corey Worthington sunglasses (the bruise was on my cheek too.) I asked Nick if he’d started planning for his re-election campaign yet but Nick said he didn’t have to do anything this year and was looking forward to just taking it easy while all the attention was elsewhere. I patted him gently on the head and said in my nicest voice, “You know, Nick …”

After leaving Xzennophone’s office having promised to write apology letters to all of his staff I went and sat at Aussies Cafe and blew a quarter of my pocket money on a single hot chocolate, making sure they knew to make it extra cool so I didn’t burn myself. For the first time in as long as I could remember I felt really, really confused. Susan says that I have to fight this election but Nick says that he doesn’t. Yet we’re both Senators. It just doesn’t make sense. I asked the young girl who made my hot chocolate what was going on, but she didn’t know either. It was time to do some proper investigations.

Full of fierce determination to get to the bottom of this matter, I went back to my office and got on the computer. After I got the work experience kid to show me how to type an ‘@’ symbol, I sent a group email around to all the MPs and Senators I could think of asking them if they had to fight the election this year, and also asking if they had seen my Optimus Prime keyring that I lost last October. The thing about the keyring is, I saw Barnaby with it a few weeks later but he saw me seeing him and shoved it in his pocket with a mean smile on his face and gave me the rude finger. I’m too scared to ask him for it so I’m hoping to shame him into giving it back.

By Monday this week I had received less than a dozen replies to my email. Kevin Rudd’s office confirmed that he was running, as did Tony Abbott’s, although those two were obvious. Xzennophone replied personally and told me that my email had a virus called “Pentecostal Trojan” and all future emails from me would be deleted upon receipt. Barnaby also replied himself and said that he would indeed be going into battle against the evil Decepticons. Blast him to heck. The only other emails I got were from Malcolm Turnbull who said he would confirm or deny closer to the date, and from Peter Costello who said, “Obviously no, you fool.” So four yes, one no, and one maybe. One big pile of confusion and zero rhyme or reason. Is the system insane?

But being the intrepid investigationer that I am, I will not give up until I have clarity. This morning I emailed Steve Bracks, Anna Bligh, Mr Quentin Bryce, and the Queen, asking each of them if they will be up for election later this year. I almost sent one to Ray Martin as well until I remembered at the last moment that he hasn’t been on the telly for ages. Close call.

Until next time.

Xzennophone told me that he’d love to play but was too busy researching the asylum seeker issue because it was going to be a big one this year. I asked him what asylum seekers were and after he told me I was overcome with sympathy for the poor sods. But after Nick suggested a coalition with the Greens who hold a similar position to us I instantly decided that I was anti-asylum seekers, or anti-immigration, or anti-whatever it is the Greens are for. The Greens can pass around the friendship bong with whoever they want but I’m going to maintain the intensity of Australia’s borders.

With my thinking on the matter clear I decided that I too would do some research on the issue, but better research than reading reports, statistics and other one-sided information like Xzennophone was. The only way to see all of the both sides of the story is to go to the source of the story and see it for yourself, so I asked Nick where these “asylum seekers” (I do the inverted commas thing around my head every time I say it now) come from, and he told me it was places like Sri Lanka and the Middle East. I then went to talk to Susan and said that my zone one and two Metcard would definitely be okay for the Middle East given that we live in the middle of the eastern suburbs, but is Sri Lanka outside the city and would I need a V-line ticket? Susan suggested instead that I go to Christmas Island which is where the “asylum seekers” go to be processed after arriving in Australia.

Because I’m a doing kind of guy instead of a talking kind of guy, within 24 hours I had booked my flight, packed my warmest clothes to ward off the North Pole chill, and had instructed my office to send out a media release. Two days later I had landed at Christmas Island and, arriving at the detention centre, I introduced myself to the boss who looked me up and down and asked who I really was. I told him that I was really Senator Steve Fielding, accountant and engineer, and my office had been in touch. He humbly apologised and said he expected a politician to be wearing something a little more official than a woollen jumper, tracksuit pants, and ugg boots.

I was then taken on a tour of the facility and what I saw shocked me. There are rooms with beds, clean sheets and fluffy towels; there are relaxation areas with chairs, tables and televisions; and there are books, newspapers and board games. I mean, Australia is supposed to be an igali eggaly egalar equal country but I’m not allowed to have a bunk bed or unlimited TV hours at home so why should a bunch of queue jumpers who aren’t even Australians have them? At the end of the tour I had lunch with the “asylum seekers” in the dining hall (nice metal cutlery and ceramic crockery, I might add) and when I saw that they are allowed to put their own salt and pepper on their food I was furious; when I called Susan to ask permission she told the boss to put only a small pinch of each on my mashed potato.

In the evening I went back to the recreation room to talk to some of the “asylum seekers”. One of them told me he had spent over $8,000 on getting to Australia! That’s more money than I have in my Commonwealth Bank Dollarmite account! When I asked him how many Sri Lankan dollars that was he said they don’t use dollars. I asked him if they used stones or cows or something instead and he just glared at me and walked away. I tell you what, if these people can afford $8,000 for a boat cruise I can’t see how they could have it so bad at home.

But the absolute icing on the cake of this “asylum seeker” and detention centre rort was sitting in the corner of the recreation hall: a brand new Apple Mac computer. I’ve been asking Susan for ages if I can have an Apple Mac and she keeps refusing, saying that our two-year-old PC can do everything that we want to do perfectly well and it’s just a waste of money. I tried sulking but that didn’t work, with Susan angrily pointing out that there is no way her family is going to spend $2,000 on a new Minesweeper machine for me just because I don’t like the colour of the one I’ve got, and that $2,000 could be spent on much more important things like food for the kids or textbooks for their schooling. I interrupted her and pointed out that Macs don’t even have Minesweeper and Susan sarcastically asked me what on earth I’d do with a Mac then given that it took me 18 months just to learn how to play that.

Sitting there watching these non-Australians with access to an Apple Mac made me burn up inside with jealousy and a fierce determination to bring to an end the government’s unfair Macs for Boat People program. After a while I went up to the machine and asked the “asylum seeker” sitting nearest it if I could have a turn. After he helped me turn it on, and showed me how to hold the mouse, and showed me how to open a program, I jumped on Twitter to reveal this injustice to the world. The boat person asked what Twitter did but I told him he wouldn’t understand. The boat person then opened up some program called “Microsoft Word” and I asked what it did but he told me I wouldn’t understand.

So, I’m back in Australia now, Parliament is back this week, and I am going to make sure that fairness and justice will be brought to bear on “asylum seekers” and their rorting of the Australian taxpayer for extraordinary luxuries as rewards for their criminal queue jumping. Apple Macs and televisions belong in airport passenger lounges, not detention centres, and airports are where real asylum seekers should arrive. And as part of my research here I called up Flight Centre and asked how much a ticket from Sri Lanka to Sydney costs and I can confidently report that it’s much less than $8,000. This case is closed.

Until next time.

I didn’t even know I had an electorate office until two summer holidays ago. That year, when Susan told me to go there I thought she was saying “electricity office” and I called her a stupid idiot, poked my tongue out the side of my mouth, crossed my eyes, and did the crazy sign with my finger around my ear. After my two weeks’ grounding Susan drove me to my electorate office and told me to help my office manager do whatever needed to be done.

After introducing myself to the staff I asked them what they did all day. Apparently there are these things called “conspicuents” who I represent in the Senate and the electorate office communicates with them, and it turns out that I have a few million conspicuents because I represent the whole of Victoria because Victoria voted for me. When I was explaining this to my family over dinner later that night my son mumbled something about me only really having a handful of conspicuents and most of them are in the room right now.

Anyway, last week Susan came into the lounge room just as I was putting the finishing touches on the cubby house’s spiral staircase (made out of bricks, glue, and the Enciclopedeya Britanica Ensyklopedia Brittanica Incyc big set of books about facts) and announced sternly that it was time for me to go to the electorate office. I begged and pleaded and put my foot down but twenty minutes later Susan had confiscated my Bob The Builder tool belt and I was in the passenger seat of the car.

I’ve spent about a week at the office now and I’ve used my time there to walk around and and tell people what to do, given that I am technically everyone’s boss. I like to remind people of this fact by ending all conversations with, “… and just remember that the Victorian people didn’t vote for you.” One day we had a work experience kid doing some photocopying so I walked up, told him to do the photocopying more accurately, complete with my standard conversation ender, and he snapped back, “They didn’t vote for you either, Senator,” accompanying his last word with the inverted comma signals either side of his head. Later that day I saw him giving the receptionist a high-five.

But it hasn’t been all smooth sailing in the office. On my first day there the manager made me sort out the stationery cupboard, re-organising all the stock by height and colour. On my second day she made me lick envelopes and stamps for an electorate mailout. On my third day she made me organise the filing cabinet into reverse-alphabetical order. On my fourth day she made me organise the filing cabinet into Greek alphabetical order. Every couple of hours I had to go across the road and get a round of large muggachinos for everyone plus a weak hot chocolate for me. I tried to tell Susan that I suspected the work was beneath me but she told me to harden up and do as I was told or I wouldn’t get my regular Saturday Happy Meal.

Every now and again a conspicuent would come into the office with a question and the office manager would usually deal with them very quickly and effectively. There were only a couple of conspicuents that she sent through to see me in my office (I don’t really have an office there but I made one in the stationery cupboard using a bedsheet and a stapler, affixing a sign to the door that read, “Hon. Steve Fielding, Acc., Eng., Leader of Family Fist”). One of the conspicuents wanted to know what I was going to do to ensure that he and his male partner had the same rights as real families, and the other wanted to know when a large hole in his road was going to be fixed and told me that us pollies sit around all day playing silly games instead of working hard for our generous salaries and benefits funded by the taxpayer. I gave them both Nick Xzennophone’s private mobile number, thanked them for their time, and continued playing Minesweeper on my laptop.

Now that the summer holidays are drawing to a close I can’t wait for Senate to start back for the year. I know that my electorate office does really important work, and my conspicuents deserve the attention of the Senators they elected, but I have people to give them that attention on my behalf. Plus, when I’m in my Canberra office and Susan tells me to do a menial job I can just throw a media stunt and the gathered journalists make it impossible for Susan to make me do it.

Until next time.