Mitchell Toy: The diary of an embattled MP
Dodging journos, hitting up wine bars and trying not to resign — this is a day in the life of one (fictitious) Spring St backbencher, who wishes his week was off to a better start.
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It’s a sitting week on Spring St and dozens of backbenchers are instructing their staff to update their Wikipedia pages while looking around for lunch opportunities.
But it’s not always sunshine and lollipops for the politically inept.
Here is the diary of a fictitious backbencher who wishes his week was off to a better start.
7am: Out of bed and grab the paper. Another story about my car accident last week - haven’t they got anything better to write? Nothing much in The Age so whatever, none of my friends will see it. Anyway I’m not resigning. Missus not saying much this morning. Bet she thinks I’m resigning. Think again!
8.30am: Arrive at Parliament House. Meeting with chief communications officer about what to tell journalists about the incident. He seems angry. Give him a list of excuses that should make it go away. He says it’s pretty much just a list of reasons why I shouldn’t be in parliament. Slams the table a lot. Hey, who got elected, pal? He’s not a representative of the people so what does he know. It’s not too serious, the car wasn’t even a write off. My car, that is. The other one sure was.
9am: Party room meeting. The boss mentions something about everyone pulling their weight. Seemed to look in my direction. Maybe he’s calling me fat. Fair enough lol! Everyone’s pretty upbeat about Red Shirts.
I guess if it’s up to a government to prosecute itself, it just doesn’t happen. I call out a witty remark about doing the same thing next election to see what happens. No laughs but they might not have heard. I need to be miked up like the boss.
10.30am: Committee work. Boring. Who has time to read all this stuff? Especially difficult if you’re a slow reader like me. Ask the clerk if this stuff comes in audiobook format and she laughs. Realises I’m serious and walks off.
Couple of texts from journos about the accident. I flick some back telling them where to get off. Everyone knows texts are off the record. Anyway I’m not resigning. Why do I need to do this committee stuff anyway? These departments seem to get in fine without us getting involved. Maybe we should just leave it to them. I joke to the boffins that I’m happy to leave it to them and they look at me funny, then agree.
12.30pm: Lunch. Wander across the road to the wine bar. Someone jokes my photo’s still on the banned list. Whatever. Really decent Pinot from South Australia. Feel a little embarrassed when a couple of staffers walk past and stare.
They must have noticed I’m drinking interstate plonk. That must be it. Better keep that off Insta! And actually hope I don’t get breathalysed. Bad memories of the accident. I’m not resigning though.
2pm: Take a wander around parliament. Everyone seems busy and can’t stop and chat. Get shut down by a teacher after inviting some high fives from a school group. She ushers then away and mentions something about drink driving. She’s been reading those lies in the paper. What would she know, I’m an elected representative. Not resigning.
Might pop back to the office for a bit of Angry Birds before a meet and greet at four. Love that game. Movie was garbage. They can never make good movies about video games. Except Super Mario Bros, of course.
3pm: Looks like those texts got into the online news somehow. Communications chief is trying to get a hold of me so I pop out to Treasury Gardens. He keeps calling so eventually I text saying it was off the record and we should make a complaint with the journalism regulator or whatever.
3.30pm: Bump into a TV journo near Cook’s Cottage. She must have been bloody following me. What a creep! Questions about the texts and resigning. I’m not resigning. It was the other driver’s fault. He was probably drunk too, they couldn’t breathalyse him when he was out for so long. So what if he was stationary, he was still behind the wheel. I’m going back to the house, go away.
3.45pm: Comms chief grabs me by the arm in Strangers and says I have to resign. Um, who elected you again? Explains I have to quit the party but they can’t kick me out of parliament. So what, I’ll just quit the party and sit as an independent. Like a rebel. I’ll look pretty good in party room meetings after that, hey. Then it’ll calm down and I’ll come back and be premier like I’m meant to.
4.10pm: Resign. That guy I sent the texts to is at the presser. What a cheek! I’m definitely complaining to the newspaper regulator or whatever. Jerk. Questions about whether I’ve apologised to the victim. Well I’m still waiting for an apology! All up it seems to go well.
4.30pm: Text around to see who wants a tipple. No answers.
6pm: On the news. More lies! Bloke from the other car talking from hospital. Who elected him? I’m still in parliament, so there.
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7pm: Pop home and see the missus. Not happy. Reassure her she’ll still be wife of the premier one day. And she’s still the wife of an MP. Mutters something about “maybe not for long”. I’m not resigning. Nobody elected her.
10pm: Bit of Angry Birds before turning in. Sitting weeks always do my head in.