First of all I would like to announce that I am dedicating this post to my journalistic hero (political division), Michael Brissenden. His Canberra round-ups on the 7.30 Report were hilarious, accurate and really, really snarky. He always dug up the most fabulously unflattering footage of all the pollies and put on a super-derisive tone in his voiceovers and I miss him dearly. COME BACK TO ME MICHAEL!

Anyway. Dramaz ahoy in various Labor Governments today as Channel Nine revealed NSW Labor pollie Michael Costa was trying to make a deal to only approve K.Rudd’s computers in schools programme if they were paid $245 million as a secret kickback. No one was surprised.

Seriously. We’re not idiots. We all know the entire NSW Labor government is dodgy. It is, in fact, entirely possible most of our MPs have only made it into cabinet because they are part of a Stonecutters-esque underworld body where the rewards come in the form of political power and requirements for membership are a double chin, an Italian surname and a complete and utter disregard for ethics.

Who pushed the Lane Cove Tunnel through? We did, we diiiiiiiiiid!

Let’s call them the Ragazzi Club. And as the alternative to our beloved Ragazzi Club is Barry O’Farrell, let’s also just assume we’re stuck with them for awhile.

I have two massive problems with this turn of events, and both have to do with the fact that the whole thing leaked … because Federal Treasurer Wayne Swan left his Secret Government Officialzz Correspondence folder in the Channel Nine studios.

Really? REALLY? How can this keep happening? First the British Spy leaves his FOR BRITISH EYES ONLY file on the tube. Now Treasurer Wayne leaves his BLACKMAIL LETTERS manila folder on the chair at a news station. Surely the only thing that one really needs to remember as a holder of national or party secrets is that one doesn’t tell people. Or show people. Are there any other requirements to secret-keeping I have missed? I think not.

It’s like when you rob a bank, the first rule that you learn from the Big Book of Thieving is that you never leave your giant white cotton bag with the dollar sign on it behind in the bank. Sigh. This is rudimentary stuff, bitches. I am shocked you’re all doing so badly at it.

Now just you make sure you hold onto that box real tight there, Wayne honey!

But more importantly, not-Michael-Brissenden on the 7.30 report tells me the papers were memos from Michael Costa to the Federal Government. On paper and in typing. With names on them. I am starting to despair for the country right now. Surely the Ragazzi Club can do better than this?

Let me explain. By the time I was about twelve Mama Sassy had taught me that there are certain rules we follow in a civilised society to make things more orderly, simpler, and more pleasant. We call it etiquette. When you stay the night somewhere, you say ‘thank you’. When you see someone knocked up on the bus, you offer them a seat. And for the love of God, when a man writes a blackmail letter, he doesn’t put his name (or fingerprints) on it. He does it in cut out letters from the Woman’s Day glued onto white A4 paper. Like a gentleman.

Were these boys raised by wolves? I am tres perplexed. And I feel 99% certain June Dally-Watkins would be too.

I am also … I believe the closest word to the pain I am feeling is DEVO, that Alexander Downer is leaving politics. Our favourite bread-and-butter pudding of a man is quitting Aussie politics to become the United Nations’ Special Envoy to Cyprus. I know this will hurt Jessica most of all, but the plain truth is, it hurts me too. I love Alexander Downer. Adore him. It’s nothing to do with his policies because I don’t even know what his policies are. Who cares what a man has done in terms of policy when we have this?

I’ll miss you, A.Down. I’ll miss your cascades of meaty, wobbling jowls and the way they frolic and dance like angels below your mouth when you speak. I’ll miss your gay schoolboy curls, and your round rosy cheeks. But most of all, I’ll miss your voice. Listening to your Adelaide diction is like lying on a stuffy, sexless, uncomfortable white-person double bed while it’s strewn with a rain of ripe plums. It’s quite lovely. Farewell old friend.

In other news, it has come to my attention that, as much as our State and Federal politicians love a junket or a freebie, there is one thing that they are tragically neglecting to spend out hard-earned cash on: injectables.

See all those little lines on K.Rudd’s forehead? We call them marionette lines. Most definitely not there before the election. Also, nothing that a little botox wouldn’t solve. And, if the effects of stress have caused lines that are noticeable even when the forehead is at rest, maybe a little restylane as filler to smooth things out. If you’re wondering, it’s like collagen, but synthetic and not made using animal products. Everybody wins!

For Brendan, definitely a little muscle paralysis between the eyebrows to start. And a trough filling procedure using restylane beneath the eyes would take away almost all of his eyebag issues.

People can’t trust someone who doesn’t look like as though they fully trust themselves and their own judgment. Remember that, kids. Once you’ve found all the top-secret paperwork and ACME atom bombs that you left in bathroom stalls and on buses, I think you should all look into this.

Because I’ve bored you enough, that’s probably enough for today. This may be a regular thing, or, because I’m fickle with a ludicrously short attention span, this may never happen again. You will have to wait and see.

Last night, with about five hundred screaming and over-excited women, I saw the Sex and The City movie. I won’t spoil it, but I will say that in it, Miranda sits down at a table, draws a thick black line down a sheet of lined paper, and starts trying to turn her husband Steve into a list of PROS and a list of CONS.

(If you’re wondering, the fact that he always flashes his naked white butt is not on either of the lists).

It’s a flashback to series four, where confused Miranda decries a pros-and-cons approach to relationships as ‘judgmental’ and Carrie sagely points out:

So am I, and as I left the cinema, I did.

Pros:

Samantha has had some amazing work done, and it gives me hope for my future.

At one point Carrie roams the street in pyjamas, a calf-length caramel fur coat and a sequinned beanie. That is some champagne Little-Edie-Grey-Gardens fashion magic right there.

My ticket was a donation to the very worthy Tour de Cure.

Cons:

I left with an simmering sense of vague depression, and without a good thirty points of the IQ I had when I walked in.

And as I read my list back I couldn’t help but wonder: when it comes to love, when things get too confusing, is the answer really still as simple as a list of pros and cons?

You see lately, my man Saint Kevin and I have been having some problems. Let me explain.

Pros:

In the beginning he was so sweet, doing things he knew I’d love without me even having to ask. Always willing to say sorry when he knew he was in the wrong.

But maybe, like Miranda, in making a commitment to him I made him, in the long-run, complacent.

Cons:

All of a sudden, he hates my taste. He never wants to do or see what I want. He argues with me over what we should watch and always chooses the dvd.

And what is a couple without common interests? Sure we still both love Cate Blanchett films, but is it really enough? He doesn’t even enjoy drinking until we have alcohol blackouts anymore.

It turns out the things I thought were important to us, what we talked about for our future, just aren’t priorities to him.

Mum did always tell me that a happy marriage is built on shared goals and values. Actually, I lie. Mainly she always told me “there’s nothing wrong with marrying someone with money,” but she said that other stuff sometimes too.

Or, when it comes to matters of the heart, do we need to use our hearts instead of our heads? Is love a matter of silencing your inner critic, throwing logic out the window, and following your gut?

I think I’m willing to take that chance. Let’s settle it this way: Saint Kevin, I know Parliament isn’t sitting next week. Tuesday lunchtime, if we both make it to the mid-point of our two neighbourhoods by midday, it means we’re willing to start again. You overturn the solar means test, I forget about the Bill Henson debacle, and we start again. Deal?

See you in Goulburn, baby.

I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now. Wayne Swan has imposed a tax on alcopops. This is (allegedly) not a tax grab. It will (allegedly) help curb binge drinking among teenage girls. Binge drinking! The scourge of our society!

I was by turns scathing and indifferent to this, until I realised that my beloved Smirnoff Black Ice is an alcopop. Not the Black Ice!

And while I’m not exactly a teenage girl, I’m pretty much the same mental age. Am I so hatefully irresponsible that the Government has to take away my playthings? Why does Ruddy hate me so, when all I did was love him?

So once I had a Black Ice or two to calm my nerves, I started to think about this, as rationally and carefully as a half-drunk woman can.

I thought perhaps a tax can work. Perhaps women will look at the shoes in the window of Apex and decide not to waste their pennies on that breezer now that it’s so pricey because there are better things to buy. Just like the taxes on cigarettes are curbing their smoking habit. God knows they certainly won’t just buy something else to drink. *cough*sarcasm*cough*

Oh. Well, maybe even if they’re only drinking fewer alcopops in a night they will be better behaved, and less likely to pass out in gutters, pash ugly men, accidentally flash their vajayjays and vomit in the toilets at The Eastern. Because we all know that men drink alcopops less often than women, and they are brilliantly behaved. As are women who drink wine.

*coughcough*omgIcantanybemoresarcasticthanthis*cough*

So I had another half a Black Ice and a slice of pizza and thought perhaps this tax is but the first step towards taxing all booze, which probably would calm down drinking in general because once you run out of money altogether, there’s nothing left to do but jump in a cab home and run out on the fare (if you’re reading this mum, don’t worry, I never do that; you’ve seen me jog, there’s no way I could ever outrun a cabbie. I put it on my creddie, like a lady).

And I thought – as I moved into the morally outraged part of my drunkenness – THIS IS BLOODY RIDICULOUS. If this useless tax does anything other than line the treasury’s pockets I want no part of it. We are a land of drinkers!

A land where rum was ingeniously smuggled in underground tunnels to Sydney pubs!

A land whose sporting teams survive by virtue of alcohol sponsorship!

When my ancestors came to this country in the 1800s the first thing they did was get off the boat. And the second thing they did was start a brewery and make a tidy living. It’s historical.

Just think of all the things booze does for us. What lubricates our awkward parties? What helps us express our grief after funerals? What helps us take in enough calories to store up fat for the winter? What do we give our surly relatives who don’t like anything for Christmas? What do we use to christen ships?

And more importantly, what does binge drinking that aforementioned booze do for us?

Helps us make new bffs. Helps us express rage. Helps us find love.

I say ask not how you can stop binge drinking. Ask why you would ever want to.

[Edit: The lovely Eddie has informed me that some alcopops now come with FREE CONDOMS. So they even encourage safe sex. I rest my case.]

I saw him in the flesh today. Little K Rudd, I mean. Saint Kevin. (For foreigners, Saint Kevin is our lovely and fearless recently-elected prime minister).

I am happy to report that in person his hair is even whiter and shinier than it is on television. He is also kind of cuddly-looking, and smiley-faced, and completely terrible at small-talk. Love him.