A Sweet, Simple, Sloganeering Sort of Girl

Monnnica, the business manager of the New Blak Greens, sighed quietly to herself as she opened the curtains to the party’s Melbourne shopfront. Another day, another day of boredom. This wasn’t really what she’d expected when she signed up to work with Australia’s most Blak, radical, feminist and warlike politician.

She put the kettle on, and while it came to the boil sorted the envelopes that had been pushed under the door. The usual three piles: Abuse (enormous), Donations (significant), and Incoherence (large).

For the next hour or so all was quiet. Monnnica (actually Monica, but revolutionary spellings were so necessary these days) did her Sudoku, had another tea, went next door for a Danish, rang her mum, and operated her online business – she ran a nice quiet earner on garden design. Around 11.15 a noisy rumble announced the arrival of the Blak Party leader, president for life and chairwoman of the board. Senator Thorpie, on the back of a bikie boyfriend’s Harley, had arrived.

“G’day, Mon’,” she trilled as she came through the door. “G’day, Linda” – they were all on first names. “Any news?”

“No. Your auntie rang. Auntie 923 it was.”

“OK, I’ll get right back to her.

The Harley started up again, and rumbled off, and for the next hour Senator Thorpie drank coffee, ate a Danish, rang Aunties 411, 742, 812 and 923 – the aggro one – and had another coffee. It was nearly time for lunch, but she squeezed in a quick dash to the nail parlour three doors down, where she had a standing appointment on Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays (demos and abusing police officers permitting).

She came back and asked the best advisor for some clarification. The local radio station had called the Senator a “bikie moll”.

“What is a bikie mole anyway?  Isn’t a mole one of those small spiky animals?”

“No, that’s an echidna. A mole is an American/European burrowing animal. But it’s actually M-O-L-L as in ‘toll’.  I believe it’s a reference to the girlfriend of a gangster, and is in fact derived from the American gangsters such as Al Capone in the 1920s.”

“Al Capone – never heard of him. Sounds like a pizza-place owner.”

Something stirred, though, in the back of her mind about an incident … yes, that was it, the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. She made a mental note to check the Lyndall Ryan’s map for the death count. Some rotten place, this Australia of theirs, where even Italian migrants can turn up and butcher Indigenes with impugnity. 

After lunch it was time for the yarning circle. One by one they came through the doors, the elder ladies of Melbourne. The room dividers were pushed back; hair adjusted, folding chairs brought out, bags unpacked, and soon a big crowded circle had formed. The ladies had their balls of yarn, the knitting needles began clicking and nattering broke out non-stop. Thorpie was right there.

“What’s happening with your Bill, Janice.”

“The swelling’s died down, but he won’t — unfortunately, ha ha ha.”

The yarning circle was a great opportunity for ladies to get together and knit, and what was best, it was taxpayer-funded.

Eventually the professional scone-catering ladies arrived, and soon everyone had two or three, the jam and cream were being circulated, the strawberries too, and round the corner – to keep the noise down – the three coffee machines were going full blast, producing flat whites and cappuccinos. Thorpie’s secretary had picked up the coffee machines on a grant. One thing she knew for a certainty – mention “First Nations” anywhere in the opening paragraph of a funding application and you’ve as good as got the grant.

Yarning circles were fun, but eventually the ladies started packing up. Janice, the unofficial leader of the pack, stopped by the Senator on the way out. They had a five minute natter about babies and makeup and the price of fish, all of the important things.

Then came that time, the same every day, when Thorpie donned the persona of the Proud Blak Radical. It was a bit tiresome: five days a week for an hour or so each afternoon, but the senatorial pay packet came to more than $200k a year and that’s a tidy sum.

So, from 4pm to 5pm, Thorpie cast off the real person she was: the knitting, coffee-drinking, kindly young auntie who was really, truly really interested in craft work. She put on the cloak of New Zealand possum skins ($200 from a Chinese supplier) and became the better known bitter and ranting harpie, spitting press-release headlines at her advisors:

♦ “Pay the rent! Blak Tax must be 50% of everyone’s incomes!”

♦ “Tear down all statues of anyone white! Except Bruce Pascoe!”

♦ “Treaty not Voice! Blaks must tell everyone what to do all the time!”

♦ “Down with the monarchy! Rename Victoria as Blakland!”

There was sometimes confusion, which required the intervention of her invaluable advisors:

“Down with Senator Hanson-Young!” Senator Thorpie dictated, only to be stopped by a polite cough from Advisor Suziii.

“No, you hate Senator Pauline Hanson, the one from Queensland with the red hair. Sarrrahh Hanson-Young is the South Oz one who thought Sea Patrol was a documentary, not a seaborne soapie.”

But at least it was only until 5pm. Then it would be time to pack in another day at the office. Bikie Boyfriend would be here soon. It was chicken parmie night at the local pub, with karaoke afterwards. Senator Thorpie would show them! Her rendition of Abba’s “Money, Money, Money” was much loved locally. So, too, was her shouting of the bar thanks to a federal grant for community outreach.

It was tough to be the most radical truly Blak ex-Greens politician in the country, but someone had to spend the taxpayer’s money.

Zeno once worked as a political advisor for the Labor party, but left because it wasn’t Left enough