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.
I met Ipswich Algernon when I was out with my a-frames again this morning, close to the local Labor louts and their treasonous signs.
I was resplendent in my camel-hair campaign blazer, supping my morning
coffee - 'Berried' up with a quart of Old Raj gin.
One lout had the cheek to smile at me. I sent my manservant Ferdinand over to sort him out.
I had no time for shenanigans this morning.
I was focused on judging the impact of the new campaign corflute I'm trialling in the second half of the campaign.
This features a photo in which the Premier and I are
fist-bumping above the enormous black text 'Vote LNP or we'll raze
your house'. In my non-bumping hand I'm wielding a crowbar, while the Premier twirls
a stick of gelignite. He has lit match between his teeth. Between us, a cartoon
mushroom cloud has split apart a cartoon house. Cartoon bodies are flying.
I'm quite chuffed with the corflute. It's getting a tremendous response around town. Both beeps and projectiles
from passing traffic are up 170 per cent.
I had just dodged another empty can when I spotted Ipswich Algernon.
He was striding along Brisbane Street, likely heading for the train.
He wore a dapper suit, his shoes had laces, his hair had been cut with
scissors and his neck was free of tattooed dragons. In short, he looked like a
LNP voter.
'Good morning', I said brightly, 'Lord Lamington, your local member of parliament'.
I held out the glossy brochure which detailed my lineage and my achievements.
Ipswich Algernon didn't take it.
I noticed he had those awful headphone buds stuck into his ears (honestly,
if you can't afford a string quartet to play your favourite ditties, you don't
deserve music).
Reluctantly, he removed the buds and I heard, to my dismay,
what sounded like ABC Radio National from the tiny speakers.
I also noted, too late, the goatee on his chin.
Jeepers, I'd engaged with a Trotskyist!
'Oh, it's you', Ipswich Algernon said dismissively.
At my elbow Ferdinand twitched, ready to splenectomy the disrespectful serf, but I nodded
for him to stand down.
'Yes', I said more brightly, 'I'm out speaking to constituents before the
election'.
'That'd be right', he said, 'We only see you when you want our vote'.
I tried to recall if I'd met him before to defuse his allegation.
I knew he wasn't on staff at Berry Manor and I couldn't recall him from my gypsum picking workhouses.
'You're not a member of the Ipswich Club then?', I asked hopefully, 'I spend quite a bit of my time on the club polo fields'.
Ipswich Algernon shook his head.
'Alright', he said, 'I'll give you a chance if you can tell me what you plan for Ipswich. And I don't want to hear any of the Strong Choices bullshit. Tell me, right now, how you'll improve the place if you're re-elected'.
There followed a pause so long that I could sense even Ferdinand's discomfort.
'Well', I said finally, 'I have secured funding for a cycling track in Raceview. Provided I'm re-elected, of course'
There was another pause, even longer and more uncomfortable than the previous.
Ferdinand was looking intently at his shoes.
'Well, that's just fucking amazing Lord Lamington', Ipswich Algernon said, 'You reckon we're so thick that we'd vote for you because we're being blackmailed over a cycling track?'
I stared at him, feeling instinctively under my blazer for the blunderbuss I'd left back at the Manor.
Ipswich Algernon continued at full-bore.
'At least Sean Choat is holding his electorate ransom over something they care about, rugby league, but you chose cycling. You couldn't even get that right'.
And with that Ipswich Algernon circled Ferdinand and I and stomped towards the station.
'You know', he shouted back over his shoulder, 'You should have blackmailed us for something grander. Something we might actually give two shits about. A magical chocolate factory, or a wizard school or a fucking space base!'
A space base, I thought, that does sound grand.
