Political Corrections

with Mungo MacCallum

Cat and mouse with an elusive rodent

Keen observers of the political scene will have noticed that our beloved Prime Minister paid a fleeting visit to the northern New South Wales electorate of Richmond last week.

At least, those who watch television will have. The ones who merely live in the electorate almost certainly missed it, as they were intended to, the peasants. The visit was not for the likes of them.

Indeed, it was not even for the party faithful seeking to protect the endangered local member, the Minister for Children Larry Anthony. It was purely to provide settings for Howard's photo opportunities, and was conducted in an atmosphere of secrecy more suited to the testing of biological weapons in a dictatorship than the conduct of politics in a democracy.

But then, this has been Howard's style for many years. Not for him the open forums favoured by Mark Latham or casual meet-the-people outings of the local member (he tried one in his own electorate at the weekend and was rather shaken by the reception, which included being addressed as a piece of dog excrement).

Howard the control freak much prefers the security of a friendly radio interview, or the carefully staged television grab in which the other performers are less his fellow humans than his props. And thus it was for those of us who played Chase the Rodent in Richmond, a marginal seat whose voters may well think that they deserved better.

Even on the night before Howard arrived his itinerary was still top secret; only on the actual morning was it revealed that he was to visit the Boral plant at Murwillumbah as his one and only appearance in the electorate. But even this turned out to be a cruel hoax. When I arrived at the plant 20 minutes before Howard was due, I was informed than (a) he would be at least an hour and a half late and (b) I wouldn't be allowed in anyway because my name was not in the secret dossier held by two large men in black suits and dark glasses with funny things in their ears: these were the Controllers of the List, and if you were not on the list, then off you were pissed.

After watching Doug Anthony speed through the blockade laughing derisively I turned reluctantly for home, but was rung by a friendly mole who told me that Howard was now headed for Stott's Island instead; apparently his minders had decided at the last minute that the wooing of the green vote would look better staged in rainforest remnant than in a timber factory and Boral would just have to wait.

Somewhat surprisingly there were no serious barriers at Stott's Island; the majority of the men in black suits were still with Howard, who as usual was running late. The media bus was there, with the unfortunate contingent detailed to travel with Howard; they were mightily unhappy about their mystery tour, which they complained yielded few opportunities for questioning Howard and absolutely no stories.

One commented that it would be nice if the rodent could visit a cheese factory, a remark that proved prescient. Incongruously, a pathology van arrived: someone mentioned that there was no point in trying to get blood out of the Prime Minister.

Howard finally arrived with Janette, who is looking eerily like Hyacinth Bucket and was greeted by Larry Anthony in a silly hat and a 94-year-old conservationist named Bruce Chick, who launched into an enthusiastic description of the local flora. Howard's eyes glazed over and his already fixed smile became ever more rigid; after all, taking him to a nature reserve is about as natural as taking Bob Carr to the footy. Eventually, for no reason except television, he and Chick walked across a wooden bridge and back again.

He then held a brief press conference in which most of the questions were about the electorate of Wentworth and none were about the electorate of Richmond; he managed to interpolate that Richmond was a very important electorate and that no one wanted to chop down old growth forests, a judgement which must have come as a surprise to many of his supporters who want to very much indeed.

It was at this point that Paul Taylor, discard of the dairy industry, burst through to offer him some old cheese on behalf of the working people of the Tweed, announced that Howard and his mates were past their use by date and departed with a cry of "Go Labor!" and an admonition to the men in black suits: "Pretty ordinary security, guys." They looked suitably embarrassed; the television contingent thought it was marvellous. They, at least, had a story.

The Howards were bundled back into the big white car (C1, with flag flying) and went belatedly to their secret ceremony at Boral; then back to Coolangatta to be flown to Grafton and the chance to meet some real people, or at least a favoured few personally selected by the office of the member for Page, Ian "Mad Dog" Causley.

For most of those travelling with them the whole day was pointless and maddening; for the public at large (the "all of us" for whom Howard allegedly governs) it may as well not have happened at all. The only comfort I could take from the whole charade was that the Howards seemed to be having just as terrible a time as everyone else.

And they have another five weeks of it to go. Serves them right.