FOR all the pomp and ceremony, the start to the big race is underwhelming – people of average intelligence boring us with rhetoric and false promises.
We’re off the polls, and if there’s one source of entertainment, it’s hearing from the first timers who believe they’ll “make real change”. Call me an old cynic, but really?
I often wondered what my vote was worth. There was a politician decades ago who filled a ute full of lollies and did a ride through the outback. It was rumoured another filled his with stubbies of light beer.
The lolly guy swore the strategy was more effective than corflute signage. No doubt that when your constituents are 400 miles apart, he was probably right.
I say I can’t be bought, but the more I think, the more I feel I might be open to a little bit of pork barreling. You see, it’s not about my vote as much as it is about a collective interest.
Promise to pretty up my backyard, and I’ll consider whether you’re worthy to be my local representative in Canberra. Anyone who’s lived in a marginal seat will know exactly what I mean.
Let’s just call it a noble case of mutual respect.
After all, there’s effort involved in lodging a vote. You wake up, get dressed, and Wanda sees it as an opportunity to get some shopping done. You know, “while we’re out”.
I like to think that with effort comes reward, even if it is only the satisfaction that I’ve either voted for the person I feel will represent me well, or maybe I’ve managed to stick it up those who’ve rubbed me the wrong way during the campaign.
Last election, I got rather angry as I numbered those on the Senate ticket.
I decided that the best way to air my grievances was to number them individually. I wasn’t angry that I was numbering from 1 through to 83, rather because as I made my way through the list, I was reminded about how those at the end of the ballot – those I was numbering 71, 72, and so on, had annoyed me.
The further I got, the angrier I got, eventually snapping the pencil on Number 81. I picked up the piece of broken graphite into my fingernails to etch out 82 and 83. Donkey vote, my ass (a play on words, Mr Editor).
Among the irritation was a guy on the television ads who interrupted prime time viewing with his monotone pitch for more jobs in regional Queensland, the woman who called a press conference for nothing but to say she was running for the Senate, and the group whose economic plan was to “improve the economy”.
Small things have a habit of getting under my collar, and what better way to get back at the dolts than to lodge a carefully-planned voting strategy which would have absolutely no bearing on the outcome of the election?
On the upside, we shouldn’t have Covid in the way of our democracy sausage this time around. Bunnings snags are okay, but nothing has the same flavours and smells as a banger burned on the barbecue of a national foundation.
Tomato sauce dripping from the corner of a bent over piece of bread makes the queue go faster, particularly when people move to avoid a share of the action.
All, fate would have it, except the politician who made the mistake of shaking my hand. The look on that man’s face was priceless as he tried hard not to wipe the red stain-inducing gunk on to a white shirt he’d fashionably unbuttoned to his chest hair.
Rule number 1, Mr Wannabe pollie: Pack a spare shirt when going out in public.
I’m sure I saw his face on one of the billboards, but do you think I could remember the name to match? Never mind.
I’m not large, but I’m a feral dragon when allowed two sausages in a carefully wrapped blanket. Wanda tolerates hers when smattered with a bit of onion, and Wags joined us last time out to rapturous applause when he swallowed a snag pointy end first.
I can’t wait to do it all again on May 21.
