A Modest Member of Parliament [Bert Kelly], “It’s back to the tractor,”
The Australian Financial Review, December 16, 1977, p. 3.

I haven’t been writing much about the election campaign because I have been so busy beating up and down the land, imploring people to vote for me.

Mavis, too, has been out on the political trail and her political nose was quick to discover that there was a far too commonly held view in the electorate that I was getting rather long in the tooth. She gave me some urgent advice.

“Pick up your poor, tired feet higher, dear, and try to hide those awful wrinkles. Your opponent is such a nice young man and if he has any wrinkles he hides them under that imposing moustache.”

Fred, too, heard the rumour that the electoral currents were running against me and mainly on account of my age, though he was quick to point out that I had plenty of other disadvantages which he would retail if provoked.

But his crude and coarse comment that a mules operation was the best cure for wrinkles, was, I thought, unnecessarily cruel.

When he heard the rumour that I was in some danger of defeat, Eccles gallantly offered to come down out of his ivory tower to help. This threw Mavis into a state of blind panic.

“You must stop him, dear,” she said hurriedly. “You are in enough trouble without having his mournful message to carry around just when you ought to be projecting yourself as a bright and cheerful person and not nearly as old as you look.”

So Eccles stopped away and I plodded wearily around my electorate and was received with even more of the usual indifference.

Again, only the dogs of each town were glad to see me, or more exactly were glad to see my car which bore powerful and pungent challenges from the dogs of previous towns.

But the voting population were noticeably cool in their reception compared with the last election, so I began to get really anxious and this made me look ever sadder and older. Before I knew it, support was landsliding away from me.

So I started to panic and rush around in small circles with Mavis urging me on to frantic endeavour.

“You must win this time, dear,” she pleaded, “this is your last chance to be a minister so that you can have a state funeral so that you can have something to look forward to when you retire. Please try harder.”

So off I went, rushing aimlessly from place to place while my opponent was becoming more and more confident, and even younger looking as he ambled nonchalantly around.

I tried to rally support by hurriedly arranging some public meetings, but hardly anyone turned up. And I have a nasty feeling that those who did attend were probably persuaded to vote for my opponent after hearing me.

I tried to retrieve the position on voting day by driving recklessly around to visit the polling places, carrying cans of cold drinks to refresh my faithful workers who had promised, as usual, to resolutely man each polling booth.

I foolishly approached polling places where my opponent’s workers were handing their wretched little how-to-vote cards out and asked one of them for a description of the two candidates.

He was only too happy to oblige and for about ten minutes he painted a glowing picture of my opponent.

Then I asked him rather diffidently about the other chap on the how-to-vote (meaning myself), so he took another ten minutes to describe me, my advanced age, my alcoholic tendencies, my domineering wife, and my horrible economic adviser.

I wish I hadn’t asked him because it made me look sadder than ever.

As we watched the figures come in on Saturday night, Mavis at first refused to admit defeat.

“There will be some better boxes along in a minute,” she said cheerfully. “Things can’t be as bad as that.”

But they were and now I might find myself washed up on the political beach, feeling rather like a stranded and rather ancient whale.

I hoped for a while that the nation would go into mourning at the sad news, but my demise passed almost unnoticed.

Fred, however, was heard to say sourly, “Well now the old sod will have to go farming and earn an honest living again.”

I wish Fred had a nicer nature.

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EDITOR’S NOTE: Next week’s column will be written by “a modest farmer.”