I’m not a conspiracy theory kind of guy but to my well-trained conspiracy nose the timing of the election announcement has a stink of conspiracy. There are 350 days in the year and it’s too cute times half to think that Julie Gillard, in her decision to choose that one day, was completely oblivion to the fact that I was fighting the Tabilan in Afpakistan. Julie knew exactly what she was doing and if I didn’t know any better I’d even think that there was a hint of sexism in her decision to put me at a distinct disadvantage in this election.

But I’ve faced a lot of challenges in my time and I may not be the brightest tool in the shed but I am as tough as nails so I’ve decided to fight on regardless of the unideal circumstances. They don’t call me The Decider for nothing.

Last week I was out doork-nocking for ages and ages. I must’ve done at least a dozen streets around Templestowe and a couple in Bulleen, and as anyone who knows how big Victoria is knows, I’m going to need to keep up a cracking pace to cover my whole electorate. On Thursday afternoon I knocked at the door of a single-story brick house. A middle-aged lady answered.

“Are you the milkman?” she asked, looking me up and down.

“What? No, I’m Steve.”

“What do you want?”

“I’d love to chat to you about the forthcoming federal election if you have a moment,” I told her. “Can I come in?”

The lovely lady made us a pot of tea and we had a good old natter in her lounge room about the issues that are important to her. We seemed to be very like-minded about issues such as drink binging, wind turbulines, and Motel Christmas Island. Things got a little tricky, though, when she asked me to comment on some of the others’ policies.

“What are your thoughts about the NBN, Simon?”

“Steve,” I reminded her. “The NBA?”

“NBN.”

“Um, well, I support it, I guess,” I stalled. “These Tim Tams are amazing; I’m never allowed to eat them at home.”

“Really? So the government’s on the right track with it, then?” she continued.

“The government? Is it a government policy?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I oppose it then,” I concluded.

When I got home I asked my son what an NBN was.

“Let me Google that for you, dad,” he drawled.

“OK,” I said, waiting.

“No, I’m not really going to Google it for you,” he said. “Go do it yourself. And wash all that chocolate off your face while you’re at it.”

I tried to log into the computer but for some reason it was suddenly asking for a password. I texted Susan for the password and she replied, “No”, but that word didn’t work in capitals, little letters, mixed or anything. I gave up and called Xzennophone.

“What’s an NBN?”

“It’s the government’s proposed new super-fast broadband internet network,” he told me.

“But we’ve already got internet,” I protested. “Why do we need a new one?”

“This is the same internet but it’s going to be heaps faster.”

“How fast?” I asked sceptically. Already I can’t type fast enough to keep up with Barnaby on MSN chat.

“Really fast,” said Nick. “Fast enough that things like education and health and business will increasingly move out of the physical world and onto the internet.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “Like Tron?”

“Yes,” sighed Xzennophone. “Like Tron.”

That evening I sat at the kitchen table making letterbox pamphlets out of craft paper and Clag. While I cut my face out of a green square I thought about the NBN, and I hated to admit it but the idea sounded really good so how on earth could I oppose it? Deep in thought, absent-mindedly licking the brush, the answer suddenly came to me like a thunderbolt: if I can’t oppose it, I should improve it.

I rushed out to tell Susan about my new policy.

“You’re talking about a brand new university large enough to provide a quality tertiary education to possibly millions of people simultaneously. We’re probably looking at billions of dollars here. How do you propose to pay for such a thing, Einstein?” asked Susan.

“Print more money.”

Susan’s face fell into the palm of her hand.

“Paper’s very cheap,” I assured her.

The next day I was back out on the streets and my new internet and education policy was front and central in my sales pitch. I knocked at the door of a second-floor apartment and a young man let me inside. He turned out to be a university student and was very interested in my policy.

“You mean,” he asked, “that I could get a degree without having to leave the house?”

“Yes, you could.”

“And I wouldn’t have to go to any lectures or tutes?”

“That’s right.”

“And I wouldn’t have to pay a thing?”

“Not a cent,” I assured him.

“What’s this university called?” he asked.

“Tron University,” I told him. “It’s tronline.”

“Dude, that is awesome,” he said, giving me a high-five. “Hey, one more question …”

“Go for it,” I said.

“Are you supposed to be a bong?”

Until next time.