Campaign Diary - Day Fifteen

Sir Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh!

The Prime Minister's political genius reconfirmed!

When news of the knighthood reached the workhouse floor, dozens of serfs were so overcome with excitement that they zoomed between the gypsum picking machinery clattering into one another at full pelt! Hilarious.

Several spontaneous choruses of 'God Save the Queen' followed, before Rasputin, the workhouse wombat, had his fur cut, royal poodle style.

I must admit that as I watched the frolicking serfs from behind the bullet, odour and semen proof glass, I felt a twinge of envy at our brilliant Prime Minister's ability to connect with the common man. Sadly, it's not a talent I inherited from my father, Winfield Sylvester Livemore Babcock
Beyoncé Berry, the 12th Lord Lamington. 

However, by midday, so many smiling serfs began to wear thin so I had them pressure-hosed with vinegar and then halved their daily gruel break to 4 minutes.

That sorted them.

Gypsum production was soon back on track and the only sign the morning's festivities was Rasputin wandering around, regally.

Campaign Diary - Day Fourteen

Campaign Diary - Day Thirteen

Campaign Diary - Day Twelve

Absolutely dominated today’s 4am campaign conference call.

I wasn't even bothered that Treasurer Timbo was on the call or that I’d yet to receive his written apology for his continual sullying of my workhouses.

I was hardly able to restrain my excitement and barely made it through our customary campaign call opening.

I managed ‘God Save the Queen’.

I squeaked through the traditional Tory toast to Rupert (‘…and may his blood be bottled. Amen and Ayn Rand’).

I barely held it together as the Premier began the call proper, blah-blahing about a 50 metre tall lizard – ‘that we're not calling Godzilla' –  awoken overnight from its ancient slumber by dredging at Abbot Point, the enraged beast then obliterating Mackay – ‘not that anyone will notice' - before heading south - 'towards Ashgrove, ah Brisbane'.

I couldn’t wait any longer.

'The LNP must build a spaceport in Ipswich!' I exploded with gravitas.

Campaign Diary - Day Eleven

Voters can be a fickle lot.

This was highlighted again by a conversation I had with a chap on the hustings today.

I don't know his name.

Generally, I don't care to ask serfs for their names as, in my mind, they tend to blend into an amorphous, cannon-foddery mass.

However, this serf stood out as he immediately reminded me of one of the Algernons I knew at Eton.

Not Algernon Moreing.

Not Algernon Yelverton with the wooden teeth.

And not Algy Lacey who was pals with Bigglesworth.

The other Algernon.

The one the lads used to beat with a soap in a sock.

Campaign Diary - Day Ten

Doorknocking.

Most politicians hate it.

It takes you out of your comfort zone.

Dealing with serfs on their doorsteps.

Confronting their abject poverty.

Their smells and odours.

Their twitching.

Their haplessness and hopelessness. 

Their lack of fine German automobiles.

However, I'm not an ordinary politician.

Campaign Diary - Day Nine

Skipped today's 4am campaign conference call.

Still ticked off with Treasurer Timbo for his holier-than-thou attack on my serf workhouse empire.

I'm certain he's going soft.

He was clearly the 'senior government figure' who tipped off the UN last July about the enhanced encouragement measures I implemented at my gypsum picking factories.

I'll tell Timbo what I told Ban Ki-moon: Tasering isn't permanent and it increases gypsum production three-fold!

Regardless, I shan't talk to the Treasurer till I receive his written apology.

Until then, he can get knotted. He's off the Christmas cravat list.

Anyway, enough about him.