Not that it always works. On one occasion we were the main attraction at an announcement of a new housing development that backed onto a river. Someone thought it a good idea to film Ray arriving on a boat with the project’s boosters decked out in a spivvy-looking white spray jacket and hat. He stumbled up the gangplank looking like a recently rescued Gilligan and suffered all sorts of ridicule. It was my fault. I had just assumed everything would be fine.
Clearly, I am a slow learner. This time my mistake is to trust John Endicott. He’s experienced. Sure, he isn’t the brightest, or the hardest working, but my instructions were simple.
‘Find a good, well-lit room in one of the city’s better hotels. Don’t worry about cost, we need to make this look as professional as possible.’
When the big day arrives I still haven’t seen the location. Mistake number one. I mean, it’s a meeting room in a reputable hotel, what can possibly go wrong? I find out half an hour before the big production is supposed to start. The tiny windows in the dark, dingy room are high up, providing a view of a nearby wall. It’s horrible. Ray is due to arrive in ten minutes for a quick run through the PowerPoint presentation. That’s how keen he is, turning up early for a practice run. The only other time he does this is on budget day. Endicott is waiting for me with a big smile on his face, supposedly happy the chairs are arranged in straight lines or something. He’s unprepared for my first words: ‘What the fuck is this, John?’
‘What?’ is his predictable response.
‘This, Ray’s biggest event of the campaign, is to be held in a fucking shoe box? Will all the TV cameras even fit in here?’
‘You said, you wanted …’
‘Did you even come down and look at this room before you booked it?’
‘No, I …’
‘Are you fucking kidding me? This is a fucking disaster. Go and find the manager and tell him we want a better room. Preferably one where we don’t need a fucking torch.’
‘We can’t,’ he says weakly. ‘I already saw the manager and he said we’re lucky to get this room because all the others are booked out.’
I try to calm down. ‘Mate, go and find him and at least find out if there is some way to improve the lighting in this joint so it doesn’t feel like we’re doing the press conference underground.’
As he disappears, Harry wanders in. He walks to the middle of the room, looks up at the ceiling, turns 360 degrees, looks at me with an expression of bewilderment and says, ‘Really?’
‘I know, I know, it’s not ideal.’
‘No, I’ll give you that. It’s not.’
‘But I think we’re stuck with it. Fucking John didn’t even look at the place before he booked it. But it’s my fault, I should have checked as well.’
Ray arrives, takes two steps into the room and asks: ‘So where are we doing this thing?’
There is a brief silence. ‘Ah, here, Ray. We’re doing it here.’ And with that Ray turns around and walks away. I chase him out of the room. ‘Ray, Ray, hold on.’
‘Mate, I am not doing this,’ he says, brandishing a copy of my lovely book, ‘in there. It’s half-arsed and unprofessional. It makes us look like the Opposition not the fucking government.’
‘I agree,’ I start. ‘It’s my fault and I’m sorry. I only saw it myself ten minutes ago and there is nothing I can do to change the location, although I have sent John to, at least, try to find some lights.’
I continue. Speaking fast. ‘We have two choices. We can do it or we cancel. If we cancel, the government’s first day on the campaign trail will go down the toilet and people will think we’re a bunch of fools. Or, we do it and trust the strength of the message to carry us through, no matter how shabby this place looks. I mean, it won’t be noticeable on the TV news and the newspaper and radio blokes won’t give a toss.’
He looks at me with those dark, beady eyes for around five seconds without saying a word, then turns around and walks away.
‘What do you want to do?’ I shout to his retreating back. ‘Are you coming back?’
44
Of course he comes back. Sure, it is five minutes after we are supposed to start, but then he breezes in and takes over the room, while simultaneously charming and frightening the assembled journos. It seems to go well. Sure, the older hands know what we’re up to. Phillips Jones gives me a smile on the way out as if to say, ‘Yep, nice try.’
Nevertheless, it is widely reported. The evening TV news features it heavily. It is our claim versus their counter-claim, but that’s fine by me. We spread the idea that they’re a bunch of economic illiterates and that’s as good as we can expect. It isn’t front page of the paper next day, but we get a solid run on page five, with a couple of the better examples broken out as an accompanying graphic.
Did it upset the other lot at all? Change their thinking? Who could say for sure. But what I do know, as we sit around the familiar table in our conference room the next day, is that a gift is dropped to us as if from the very gods themselves. The government’s big announcement for the day is being handled by Boyle and the Minister for Transport and we aren’t involved. I am here with Harry and Leo and Ray, who is in a relatively mellow mood, having forgiven me for yesterday’s calamity. It’s a shoot-the-breeze kind of moment, just chatting about what’s coming up, when suddenly the door bangs open and Masters stands there, with a look of sheer delight on her face.
‘Have you heard?’ she shouts. ‘Have you heard what the silly fuckers have done now?’
‘No. What?’ Ray jumps up from his seat.
‘Okay. Today they made their first big announcement of the campaign. Remember, this is the one they hope will set the tone for the next month. Something positive. What do you reckon it is? New hospital? New roads? New rail system? More money for schools?’
‘Get to the fucking point,’ shrieks Ray.
‘They want to sack 15,000 public servants.’
A quiet moment goes by as we digest this information. Then there is laughter. Uncontrollable, joyous laughter. Ray looks as delighted as I’ve ever seen him. Leo is doubled over and Harry is laughing so hard something is falling out of his nose.
After we calm down Ray asks, ‘Why? What the fuck are they thinking?’
‘They reckon they can save $1 billion a year by sacking the public servants, and that will pay for all the election promises still to come.’
There is a further silence. ‘Do you reckon we panicked them into making this announcement after what we did yesterday?’ asks Harry. ‘Surely, this is not the way they intended to start their campaign? I mean, it’s suicide.’
He’s right. This is a small place. Everybody likes to complain about the ‘bloody public service’ and what a bunch of lazy bludgers they are. Still, there are a lot of the buggers and they do vote. And at some level people do worry about this because they reckon the services they get—schools, hospitals, etc.—are pretty stuffed anyway and can’t reconcile how these will improve with fewer workers. So now we have a rolled-gold fear campaign that we can run every second between now and election day. There will not be a press release written, a press conference delivered, an interview conducted that will not mention the Opposition’s plan to ‘rip the guts out of this state with their extreme plan to sack 15,000 public servants’. We will ram it down the public’s throat; we will ram it down the Opposition’s throat until it becomes the defining issue of the campaign. People like to get up on their soapbox and denounce fear campaigns during elections. But you know what? They work.
I have an idea. We are overwhelming favourites to win this election, why not go out on a limb?
‘Bear with me here, but why don’t we match that promise? Most public servants will still vote for us, and it will free up a shitload of cash.’ Everybody looks at me like I am an idiot. Perhaps they’re right.
‘Ok, forget I said that.’
45
Nothing more has been heard from Cavendish. I am alternating between my hope that I have called
his bluff and he has backed off and the fear that he is waiting until the last week of the campaign when he can do the most damage possible. I’m leaning towards the second conclusion.
The Village Green project was supposed to have been discussed at the last Cabinet meeting before the election campaign started. It was deferred because it was seen as a bit of a political challenge and had the potential to cost our local candidate in the area a few votes. The delay was nothing to do with Ray. He told me he didn’t say a single word about the project when it came up for discussion. Bruce Fox has been photographed with Montague twice during the campaign. He’s even been quoted once in the paper to the effect that he believes Montague has the ‘experience to be a fine leader’.
Sloan came for a chat after he saw that in the paper, worried as hell, but we decided there was nothing we could do for the moment except to sit tight and see what happens next. I still haven’t said a word about it to Leo or Harry, and Ray said he hasn’t mentioned it to Boyle either. It’s a big secret to carry and at times I feel guilty that we haven’t told anyone else. Perhaps, we should just fess up? We will need all the brains we can muster to handle the fallout if the bomb drops. But Ray prefers we keep it to ourselves and the campaign rolls on. We have the official flash launch in the city with all the bells and whistles. Speeches from party worthies, testimonials from all sorts of people about why we are the greatest government in world history. Christ, we even wheel out some poor fucker shot through the leg in an armed robbery to talk about how pleased he is with Frank Boyle for toughening jail terms.
The other lot see what we have done for our launch and do the exact opposite. Their campaign launch is a barbecue in a park. It fits with their strategy of attacking us on the grounds we are all spin and no substance. They are ‘real people, with real solutions’ but to my mind, and I suspect most others, they look like a Rotary Club who want to run the state.
Our problem is just the opposite. We are too slick. People are starting to cotton on that while we talk a good game, sometimes we seem to forget what we are doing as soon as the press release has been binned or the press conference is done. The sales pitch is first class, our delivery less so.
This is not a problem for us yet, but there’s every chance it will be soon after the election. The media loves change and if a real crisis isn’t happening the good burghers from the newspapers and television world will be only too happy to create one for you. If we are re-elected, there are plenty in the media who will soon become bored with the story of ‘competent government performs competently’.
We have now settled into the routine of the election. My day starts at 5.45. Get up, have a coffee, iron a shirt, jump in the car and get to the office by 6.30.
Such is the adrenalin kick supplied by an election campaign I am no longer hoping for a car accident on the way to work. Perhaps the old competitive juices have kicked in. I was always told I had a bad dose of white-line fever when I played soccer. The notably laidback, relaxed figure I imagined myself in everyday life would go out the window once the whistle sounded and I would hare about the field, chasing every ball, winding up opponents, arguing with referees and generally being a pain in the arse. I did enjoy it.
For me, the election campaign is a football match. It is us against them, a grand final. And dear Jesus I want to win.
I am one of a team of four media advisers who start this time every morning. In political parlance we are the ‘rapid response team’. We prefer the ‘Breakfast Club’—although the name is a misnomer, unless you count five cups of black coffee as breakfast.
Our job is to scour the newspapers, the websites, Twitter, Facebook and whatever else we can find to identify stories that may cause us trouble during the day. The newspaper is our first port of call, just in case the Opposition has dropped them a story or policy we know nothing about. We know their campaign is being run on the barest of resources so we assume they will try and get as much free publicity as possible. This feeds into my political philosophy: ‘Always expect the worse and you won’t be disappointed.’
While we filter through the written word, the radio provides the background noise. I have the unadulterated pleasure of listening to Caldicott each and every day, while someone else picks up his commercial rival, and another the news on the FM kids’ channels. One of my jobs is to collate these scraps of information and deliver them to the 8.30 morning meeting, which is attended by the campaign director as well as various worthies such as Boyle and Sloan.
In general, I deliver a document divided into three headings: Announcement/Response/Future. If the other mob delivers a policy, or has a shot at us, I will detail exactly what has been said, outline our immediate response, and then recommend a course of action for the rest of the day. The last is the most important. It’s imperative we deliver our carefully sculpted responses to every Cabinet Minister and backbencher, who can then refer to them in case they’re quizzed by some nosy media type, or a pesky constituent, about the issue at hand. Sure, it looks weird if a bunch of our MPs are shown using exactly the same words and phrases, making it look as if they can’t think for themselves, but the alternative is far worse—they start to think for themselves.
The fifth member of our happy little group is Kurt Thompson, a Cabinet Minister and interesting character. He is also a lawyer so has that ability to talk under wet cement with a mouth full of marbles. In his early forties and slightly built he talks so softly you actually have to pay attention to what he is saying or you’ll miss the conversation. Yet, there is nothing soft about Thompson. He wears his ambition like a second suit and it’s obvious he has grand plans for himself. The Premier’s job is rumoured to be his aspiration. We in government see him as sharp and ruthless; the outside world sees him as one of the few nice guys in the government.
Thompson’s job in the morning is to be ready to go on air at any moment to rebuff a claim by the Opposition. If we can’t get the relevant Minister on the phone within thirty seconds, then Thompson is sent in as campaign spokesman brandishing his fire hose to dampen things down. He is perfect for the job. With his soft measured voice he can at least sound calm and reasonable even if he is talking total nonsense. Sloan is uncomfortable with Thompson doing this job, but he has to wear it since the campaign director, Giles Martindale, a supposed tactical genius brought in from national office, has decreed it be so.
Sloan hates Thompson. During a moment of happiness, just after I joined, Sloan tried to impress on me how united Cabinet is. He even called Thompson a mate, and at that stage I had no reason to doubt it. I ran into Thompson in the long, echoing marble-floored corridors of parliament one day and he asked me if Ray was around. These were my innocent days so I said I’d check and get back to him. Sure enough I returned to the office and Ray was there, so I called Thompson and delivered the good news. ‘Ray’s here if you want to come up.’
Forty-five seconds later he was in Ray’s office. He left thirty minutes later all smiles and thanks. Thirty seconds later Sloan summons us in to demand: ‘Who let that fucker in here? I have just had to put up with him for half an hour demanding $20 mill for some bullshit project down in Environment.’ We all muttered, nobody claiming responsibility, putting it down to an accident of timing. On the way out I said to Harry: ‘I thought those two were mates. I’m sure Ray told me he was a good bloke.’ Harry just laughed and kept walking. Maybe Ray sees him as a threat; a potential leadership rival once Boyle goes. Whatever’s the case, it was the last time I invited a minister to the office without clearing it with Ray first.
I can appreciate why Thompson is good at what he does. He’s a slick politician, and friendly, approachable, and seemingly interested in what you have to say. Even when you gave him advice he doesn’t agree with, he’ll let you down gently. He’ll say: ‘Yep, Jack, I see where you’re going with that, and it could certainly work, but I reckon I might try this. What do you think?’
He’s so reasonable I found myself agreeing with whatever he’s proposing
, even if it’s diametrically opposed to what I suggested in the first place. I guess that’s what separates the truly talented politicians from the rest. Or, perhaps I’ve just been so beaten down by two years of working for Sloan that I just latch onto anyone who treats me in a half-decent manner. Still, there’s this nagging feeling at the back of my brain that he isn’t quite what he seems. That the friendliness is a touch too calculating, his attempt to be inclusive is more show than go. That he will cut you dead the moment you outlive your usefulness. No wonder he’s being tipped for the top.
The biggest problem is holding Thompson back. He’s desperate to get on radio. Desperate to engage with Caldy and the rest. I guess he thinks he’ll benefit if he’s seen, by outsiders at least, as pivotal to a successful campaign.
46
Election veterans will tell you there comes a moment in every campaign when you think all is doomed, that you believe you are about to be kicked out on your arse. Worse, that you will be unemployed in a couple of weeks. The moment smug complacency catches up with you and panic threatens to set in.
Our trouble starts with a poll. Indeed, in modern politics most trouble seems to start with a poll. For a start there are so many. So far in this campaign the local paper, the national paper, one of the commercial television stations and even a so-called ‘independent think tank’ have run some poll or other measuring our chances. Happily all of them have been positive … so far. The pollies will tell you these measurements of the feelings of the populace at any point in time means nothing. That the only poll that counts is on election day.
Liars, one and all. Just ask yourself how many leaders have been executed because of a run of bad polls. When word leaks out that X or Y is planning to release a new set of numbers it becomes the dominant source of conversation in every political office (government and Opposition) in the land. ‘When’s it out?’ ‘What will it say?’ ‘What have you heard?’ Media advisers in every office are implored by their masters to call in every favour they can think of to get the info first. Beg, borrow, steal, promise exclusive stories. Just find those numbers and find them quick. And dear god if those numbers come out and they show you are falling, or behind. Panic is not far away.
Never a True Word Page 16