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.
'What the flaming fuck!' Slugger Seeney crowed.
'What's this Lamington?’, the Premier said flatly. He sounded weary, no doubt from the campaign trail.
'Mr Premier', I said, ‘You remember the Ippy cycle track project we announced’.
'No, not really'.
‘The cycle track at Raceview you promised to build on the condition I was re-elected’.
‘Ah, no’.
This surprised me as, just two days earlier, we had stood together on the site of the proposed cycle track in Raceview and the Premier had clearly said the LNP would only built the track if ‘this bloke’ – pointing at me - was re-elected.
‘Nevermind’, I said, ‘I'm afraid the promise of a cycle track won’t be enough to keep your Lord in Ipswich. The serfs are in revolt. We’ve got to go grander’.
‘With a spaceport?’
‘Absolutely'.
‘In Ipswich?’
‘Yes’.
‘Ipswich, Queensland?’
‘We’ll call it Ipswich Interstellar’, I said, the phrase humming in my mind. ‘It's a winner. You know alliteration is 90 per cent the battle in politics’.
The Premier was silent. I continued.
‘Ipswich Interstellar will have three launch pads linked by eight lane highways. A whole field of those gigantic golf ball radars. Sprocket workshops. A rotating telescope. A wind tunnel. A bunker full of defected Russian rocket scientists. A secure underground facility to store the alien bodies.’.
No one said anything.
‘Honestly’, I said, ‘You have to wonder why we didn’t think of this earlier’.
‘I’ll tell you why Berry’, Treasurer Timbo interjected gruffly.
‘This doesn’t involve you Treasurer’, I barked, silver hairs rising up over every square inch of my body.
‘Bullshit it doesn’t. How are you going to pay for this?’
‘Everyone’s seen the Strong Choices ads, Treasurer’, I countered, ‘Even after we’ve spent half the asset sale cash securing Ashgrove, we’ll have billions left’.
‘You mean asset leases, don't you Berry?’, the Treasurer said coldly, 'We all need to be precise with our language'.
‘Yes, quite, asset leases. Definitely not sales. Nevertheless, we’ve got billions to spend'.
‘Ok’, the Premier said, ‘How much…and keep in mind this isn't a commitment, not even one I'd give a radio shock jock...would this spaceport cost'.
'28.3 billion'.
'What the flaming fuck!' Slugger Seeney crowed.
Timbo snickered.
'Oh, alright then', the Premier said jauntily, 'that should be a dawdle to explain to Queenslanders'.
'Absolutely'.
'I tell you what, Lamington. Show me definite plans and we'll talk more about it. Until then, do you think we can get back to this dinosaur stomping towards Ashgrove?'
Well, that wasn't a no, was it?
