A Private Audience With Dom Perrottet
As the doorbell’s rousing rendition of Ave Maria fades, the door opens and the smiling face of NSW Premier Dom Perrottet greets me. “Come in,” the Premier says warmly, beckoning me through the ornate golden doorway.
As I wade through the heaving, writhing mass of children that cover the floor of the entrance lobby, I note the exquisite works of art on the walls: mostly Renaissance depictions of the deaths of martyrs. I remark that they must have cost Perrottet quite a sum, but the Premier casually responds, “Oh no, you get them for free when you’re a senior member of - oh sorry, forgot myself for a moment there.”
Leaving the lobby and passing into a pleasantly appointed sitting room, I make the acquaintance of a smiling blonde woman. “Allow me to introduce Helen, my pet woman,” Perrottet says genially. The woman leans over to whisper in his ear. “Ah, yes, sorry, I mean my ‘wife’,” he clarifies. “Helen takes care of most of the day-to-day business around here: cooking, cleaning, childbirth and so forth.” As if to emphasise his point, Helen quietly gives birth to a baby in a corner while the Premier and I take a seat on a large leather sofa.
The people of NSW already know Dom Perrottet the politician, Dom Perrottet the leader, Dom Perrottet the sinister disciplinarian. What I’m aiming for today is to get an insight into Dom Perrottet, the MAN. I begin with the simple question: “Who is Dom Perrottet?”
“Oh no, it’s not pronounced like that,” the Premier corrects me. “It’s actually pronounced Perrottet.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr Perrottet,” I say. “So tell me, who is Dom Perrottet?”
“Dom Perrottet is the Premier of New South Wales,” the Premier responds. There is a long tense moment, during which we gaze steadily into each other’s eyes, the silence broken only by the faint sound of mopping coming from Mrs Perrottet.
After several minutes, I ask, “Can you elaborate?”
The Premier stretches out his long, lean legs, brown from the sun and glistening with sweat as they protrude from his tiny, skin-tight shorts. “Well, there are many things that go to make up a man, aren’t there,” he muses, idly flogging himself with a knotted rope. “I think at heart I am a family man. There is nothing more important to me than my hundreds of children, and I think that as a father I bring those values to my job.”
“So you see yourself as the father of the state?”
“Well, not literally - I did not inseminate the state’s mother, and NSW was not pushed through a human birth canal.”
“No, not literally, I didn’t actually think you were literally the state’s father,” I clarify. “But figuratively?”
“Oh, figuratively, yes,” the Premier agrees. “The Premier has to be the father. That’s why Gladys was so bad at it: she had no experience of being a father. She didn’t realise that while there are times you can give the state a hug and teach it to ride a bike, there are also times you have to shout at it and hit it with a belt.” As if to illustrate his point, he picks up an ornamental candlestick and hurls it across the room, striking a passing toddler in the face.
I bring up the thorny subject of religion. Many people, I say to Mr Perrottet, have suggested that your religion has too great an influence on your political decision-making. How do you respond?
The Premier laughs heartily and responds with a lengthy and good-natured explanation of the relationship between his political beliefs and his faith. As I don’t speak Latin, I ask him to repeat it in English. He happily obliges.
“I don’t think there is any reason why a devout Christian such as myself cannot effectively govern on behalf of all the citizens of New South Wales,” he says, snacking on a wafer. “Sure, I draw strength and inspiration from my faith, like so many other people, but I don’t let religious doctrine impinge on my political actions.
I ask why, if that is true, he last week introduced a bill to Parliament that would legalise the burning of heretics. He laughs. “An identical bill was proposed by Jack Lang in the thirties,” he points out. “Would you call Jack a religious maniac?”
I concede the point and apologise: the Premier lets me off with just ten Hail Marys. When I’m done I ask what he likes to do to relax in his time off.
“Well, as we all know pleasure is a sin, so I try not to enjoy myself too much,” Perrottet replies, carefully pulling his own fingernails out with pliers. “When I get home from work I usually just eat dinner, impregnate Helen, cleanse my impure flesh with scalding hot water, and then cry myself to sleep. But I imagine most premiers would have a similar schedule. I know Mark McGowan does.”
And on weekends? “Weekends I like to spend with my children, warning them of the dangers of the outside world. I think it’s a parent’s duty to teach, but to also be open to what your children can teach you. So I am teaching them about sin, and they teach me what their names are.”
At this stage Helen Perrottet re-enters the sitting room, leading two goats on leashes, and asks whether I will be staying for dinner. I politely decline, and Helen releases one of the goats. The Premier offers me a glass of wine, which I also politely decline after observing how excitedly he licks his lips while holding it out.
Our interview is nearly at an end, so I ask Perrottet one final question. What is his vision for NSW? He thinks for a long time, rubbing hot candle wax into his nipples as he does so. “I want to make this state the envy of others,” he says. “I want to make this a rich state, a prosperous state, a hard-working state, a fit, toned state, a state with just a hint of mischief in its eye, a state that hides its wild passions beneath a cloak of chastity. I want to make this state a state that you would like to raise a family in, or if you don’t have a family, a state that you would bring the family you kidnapped in another state to. Most of all, I want NSW to be the state that everyone thinks of when they think about the Blood of the Lamb.”
With that the lights suddenly went out. When I awoke I was in a cornfield, naked and with no memory of any of the above. I smiled. New South Wales was in safe hands.