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.

Campaign Diary - Day Eight

Strongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrongstrong.

Strong.

I had a bottle of strong Cayetano del Pino Palo Cortado Sherry with lunch.

Also, strong choices for Queensland.  

Campaign Diary - Day Seven

Today's 4am campaign conference call focused on the scourge of youth unemployment. 

I'll admit, the scourge was news to me.

The Premier informed us that in some areas of Queensland, up to 35% of young serfs are unable to find work. 

It's 20% in Ippy, Lamington.

Furthermore, an overwhelming majority of Queenslanders consider this not only a problem but also blame the LNP for it.

You could've knocked me over with a feather!

What right did they have to blame us, the Government?

Campaign Diary - Day Six

Delighted that the Premier today announced another $18 million for the struggling Ashgrove electorate, where, quite coincidentally he is the local member.

This brings the total spent in this poverty stricken enclave to a paltry $130 million.

Sighs of relief have been exhaled across Queensland.

In particular, I pray the $1.5 million the Premier provided for stage 2 of the Walkabout Creek upgrade is sufficient for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation cancel it's airdrop into Waterworks Road. I understand that Bill Gates had suspended his fight against malaria in the third world until he was certain the people of Ashgrove were able to kayak freely on Walkabout Creek.

I don't deny that the Premiers announcement has me in frenzied anticipation of the $130 million that the LNP will now undoubtedly spend in Ippy.

I am nothing if not a genuine representative of Ippy serfs.

Campaign Diary - Day Five

The first Saturday of the campaign and the local Labor ratbags were out on the streets of Ippy again.

I tell you, the do-gooder who emancipated the serfs from the workhouses  has much to answer for!

Ha! My last laugh fast approaches.

Three weeks from tonight, two hundred LNP supporters in top and tails will be gathered in Berry Manor's Grand Hall toasting my famous victory.

A great many tall tumblers of Old Raj gin will be consumed!

Campaign Diary - Day Four

Slept through the 4am campaign conference call after Barnaby Joyce and I stayed up sinking tall tumblers of Old Raj gin well into the early hours.

Barnaby's a regular guest at Berry Manor, almost part of the furniture.

(In dim, drunken light I've often mistaken him for the mahogany tallboy Joe McCarthy presented me for my work on his committee. 'Don't dare put that glass on me Lamington!', Barnaby crows if he sees me squinting with tumbler in hand).

Our friendship stretches back to his days as a bouncer and the night in 1986 when he ejected me from the Wicklow Hotel in Armidale. 

I'd been burning up the dance floor, putting on a show with moves I'd mastered at Studio 54.  

New England had never seen the likes of it.  

However, near midnight, trouble brewed when my perfect pelvic thrusting to 'The Timewarp' from The Rocky Horror Picture Show entranced several women, enraging some local mouth-breathing ruffians.

There was some pushing and shoving before Barnaby intervened, escorting me from the premises. He saved those lads from a jolly good flogging and also my political career. 

We've been fast friends since.

He's been on sabbatical at the Manor for the last several months, preparing for the final examination that will fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a certified Hip Hop Grandmaster.

Each day he paces the Manor grounds, avoiding the flamingos, practicing his performance piece -  Big Daddy Kane's 'Sex According to the Prince of Darkness'.

'Baby you're bound to perspire, when I use
the nipples on your breasts just like a pacifier'

The Federal Minister for Agriculture can lay down some wicked rhymes.

I suspect, once he's a certified Grandmaster, he'll finally give into Jay Z's pestering to leave politics and join his world tour full time. 

But I digress.

At midday I had coffee with Verity Barton, the urbane and passionate public transport advocate who represents the electorate of Broadwater for the LNP.

Ms Barton and I meet in Ippy each each week as part of the Premier's 'Young LNP MP Mentoring' program.

I admit I'd initially hoped to take the Member for Lytton, Neil Symes, under my wing.

Neil's male, but besides that, he and I share a legal background.

I'm past president of the Queensland Law Society, Neil was criminologist in the Woolies deli department. I don't deny I envisaged professional partnership in the lucrative world of smallgoods litigation. This is the LNP after all, entrepreneurial to our core.

But it was wasn't to be.

However, I'm happy to report that Ms Barton won me over the moment she described rail passengers as 'icky'.

'You've a future minister on your hands here, Berry!', I thought.

The first issue we discussed at our mentoring meetings was her lack of transport.

Unusually for a Tory MP, Ms Barton doesn't have access to private aviation or a hovercraft. It was a deplorable situation.

'Oh Lord Lamington', she said supping her Caramel Macchiato, 'I'm have to drive myself everywhere!  I just don't know how I can afford the petrol and maintenance on my $200,000!'

This was problem, I agreed.

She drew a deep breath.

'It gets worse', she continued, 'Coming along the highway this morning, several times I heard a totally weird beeping from my rear view mirror. I've no idea what it means'.

I didn't either.

'I'm sure it's nothing to worry about', I soothed, 'I suspect it's just a respectful beep to mark the passing of a Tory. I'd ignore it'.

Ms Barton said she would do just that and the beeping became something of a joke at the beginning of our meetings.

'Did you hear any beeps this morning Ms Barton?', I'd josh.

'Ten of them Lord Lamington!', she'd guffaw, 'And I expect I'll hear ten more on the way home!'

I'm certain she's destined for greatness in the LNP. Her star is on the rise. Not bad for a woman.

Today she mentioned something about a fine and losing her licence but my mind had drifted to falconry.

Nothing important, I'm sure.

Until next time.

Lord Lamington.

Campaign Diary - Day Three

Nothing significant to report from Thursday's 4am campaign conference call with the LNP brainstrust - the Premier, Slugger Seeney, Treasurer Timbo and me.

The Premier was upbeat.

He told us he'd continue his strategy of telling the media that if he were to lose Ashgrove (margin 5.7%) then the LNP would certainly and automatically lose government (required State-wide swing +10.5%).

'You can't argue the maths', he concluded.

Slugger Seeney immediately, and coincidentally, suffered what he would later describe as a hysterical coughing fit, that forced him to leave the call.

With the Deputy Premier gone, Timbo gently explored the Premier's strategy using words like 'bizarre', 'looney' and 'akin to burning both paddles before sailing your leaky canoe on raging Shit Creek'.

'Relax Timbo', the Premier said, 'Jarrod and I have been workshopping this for days'.

I wasn't able to tell if this had assuaged the Treasurer before he fell victim to the same sudden coughing ailment as Slugger and was unable to continue the call.

The Premier and I were left alone on the phone.

'That's certainly a nasty cough they have', the Premier said.

'Probably contagious', I replied.

'Not too much I hope', the Premier said, 'They'll miss the party for my crushing win over the Jones woman'.

'Quite', I said.

We exchanged small talk about Countessa Hardlinger and then I asked when he might pay a campaign visit to Ippy but, unfortunately, the connection became suddenly faulty - from his end at least - and he rang off.

Later, after lunch and a snooze, I took my CanDo signs into Ippy to wave at serfs and passing vehicles.

The experience had me thinking.

Until recently, I'd been in furious agreement with Treasurer Joe Hockey's statement that the 'poorest people either don't have cars or actually don't drive very far in many cases'.

It's logical. If you're scrapping shillings for tripe, how could you afford a Maserati Quattroporte?

However, today several hundred cars passed me that clearly contain poor people (or rich folk dressing down for a skid-row fancy dress party). I failed to spot a single Rolex, silk pocket square or $200 haircut.

So the poor do travel by car. At least in Ippy.

I remain shocked that they all insist on steering their own vehicles.Where are their drivers? A Maserati Quattroporte isn't complete without a gentleman named Basil chauffeuring you to Gina Reinhart's Summer Soiree, dispensing tall tumblers of Old Raj Gin at command.

Until next time.

Lord Lamington.

Campaign Diary - Day Two

This morning's 4am conference call was a brief affair.

The Premier had to dash to the Coast for radio interviews which gave Slugger Seeney, Treasurer Timbo and I only a few moments to congratulate him on yesterday's performance.

'Booyah! Booyah!', we harked in unison (though Slugger may have said 'Bovril! Bovril!').

After the Premier left the call, we mused for a while about which electorate he might shift to, should the unimaginable happen, and he lose Ashgrove.

Seeney wanted his 'good friend Campbell' confined to the South East. Timbo was thinking Indooroopilly. However, I quickly convinced them on the merits of Ipswich West. Sorry Choaty.

At 8am, I breakfasted with Federal President of the Young Liberal Movement, and noted RM Williams fancier, Ben Riley.

Rilo is a unique and unrestrained political mind and he offered some insights into campaigning while we enjoyed our croissants and tall tumblers of Old Raj gin.

'Lamington', he said, 'You've got to increase your constituent contact'.

I was flummoxed and, even through the gin fog, Rilo sensed my bewilderment.

'You know', he continued, 'Your constituents'.

'My serfs?'

'No, your constituents'.

'Serfs..?'

'...Constituents'.

Then, using a series of hastily drawn notes drawn on the table linen, he explained that serfs - sorry constituents - vote in elections and these votes determine not only their local member but the government.

'Hell's bells Rilo, you must be jolly joshing!', I said, 'I rule by divine right. Why, I'm mentioned by name and title in the bloody Magna Carta!'

Rilo made a face. Must have been the caviar.

'No Lamington. You were voted in by these people and you have to be nice to them. At least until February 1'.

'And not shoot them with blunderbusses...because that's been my strategy since 2012'.

'No Lamington. No shooting. No hovering menacingly over their house in your dirigible. You have to play nice'.

There was a short pause before we both broke into uncontrollable cackling.

'Oh, Rilo', I hooted, 'You almost had me there! Constituents! Ha! Next you'll be pulling my leg about climate change'.

And with that we drained our gins and fetched the blunderbusses for a spot of serfing.

Campaign Diary - Day One

Welcome!

I'm pleased LNP HQ has asked that I keep a diary of our undoubtedly triumphant 2015 Queensland election campaign.

I can't say I'm surprised.  

No less an expert than Paul Kelly from The Australian calls me 'the most curmudgeonly and cantankerous observer of Australian conservative politics writing today'. And he should know! Curious readers are encouraged to purchase a copy of my bestselling essay 'The Ten Top Torys who Saved Christendom from the Climate Alarmists' available on my website and in audio book (as read by Billy J Smith).

But I digress. 

Day 1 of the 2015 campaign began at 4am and my daily conference call with the Premier, Slugger Seeney and Treasurer Timbo. These phone calls are an opportunity for the LNP brains-trust to strategise the day. (We gave the Borg the number for Patty's Pizza at Burpengary instead, which he calls religiously at 4am each morning. Ha!)

Pleasantries were quickly dispensed with (Slugger updated us on a promising new sheep dip he's trialling) and then the Premier told us he would visit the Governor later that morning to call an election.

He was silent for a few minutes when Timbo pointed out that the Governor was on holiday and that the acting Governor was filling in.

'Tim Carmody', the Premier muttered finally, 'Bleijie's Bloke?'

We treated this as rhetorical and quietly waited several minutes for his teeth grinding to peter out.

After the conference call and breakfast, I took a quick tour round the Ippy electorate (well, those sections on the route from Berry Manor to the coffee shop and back). 

No sign of electoral unrest here. 

Besides, I'm certain the LNP will invest to the same level in Ippy as they did in Countessa Hardlinger's campaign for the Federal seat of Blair. No doubt LNP planes pulling 'Vote for Berry' signs will soon be a constant sight over the electorate. 

Finally, my predictions for election day.

1. The Premier will score a smashing victory in Ashgrove, relegating Labor's Kate Jones to 6th place behind the Australasian Amalgamated Pigeon Fanciers Party.
2. Prime Minister Abbott will be a constant presence here during the campaign. We've already purchased Queensland State of Origin jerseys for Tony and Peta!
3. The LNP will retain all but one of our 73 seats. We'll lose Ipswich West to the Australasian Amalgamated Pigeon Fanciers Party. Sorry Choaty.

Until next time.

Lord Lamington.