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.
I've always considered doorknocking to be politics at its purest.
There's no filter. No spin. No pressure to photograph your opponent pants-down with a tipsy wombat.
The IPA can't help you.
Janet Albrechtsen isn't holding your hand.
You're out on your own, proving your mettle.
All my political heroes doorknocked.
Churchill doorknocked. As did Menzies, Thatcher and Mosley.
I'm certain Reagan would have doorknocked had his star-turn in 'Bedtime for Bonzo' not made this impossible.
Today, I doorknocked in Raceview.
I had Ferdinand, my ex-MI5 manservant/ninja, on hand to carry my 'Sorry I missed you' cards and dispense extreme violence if I gave my special whistle.
I'm pleased to say no such violence was required.
Ferdinand pounded each door in turn.
If a sleepy serf appeared they confronted me, their lord and master, resplendent in royal herringbone and Ferdinand, two steps behind, gently stroking a Thompson gun.
Not a single serf refused my LNP brochure.
And after 11 minutes we called it a day.
As always, Ferdinand had a chilled thermos of Old Raj gin on hand that he opened as we returned to the Berry Blaster.
That's doorknocking, Lamington style.
