My Dinner With Albo

An encounter with greatness

The first thing you notice when you enter The Lodge, residence of the Australian Prime Minister, is the birds. Even as you make your way up the long, marble-paved driveway, you can see and hear them: thousands of parrots from all around the world, perching on the roof, the windowsills, above every doorframe. Students of history will know that these birds are the result of Alfred Deakin’s famous pronouncement: “As a parrot-keeper keeps his parrots, so does a prime minister keep his people”. Ever since Deakin’s day, the prime minister has maintained a huge population of parrots on the Lodge as a reminder of his duties to the nation.

Although the squawking of the parrots is delightful, once I am ushered into the entrance hall I must put all thoughts of ornithology aside, for I am here for a very serious reason: to access the thoughts and feelings of the man Rolling Stone called “Australia’s first black prime minister”, in an embarrassing error that was quickly retracted.

It is not, of course, the PM himself who greets me at the door, but his faithful retainer Friedrich, the hulking 100-year-old Panamanian rodeo clown who was the subject of much controversy in Senate Estimates in 2022 when it was revealed his salary had been classified as an agricultural grant. Friedrich takes my coat, then returns it after realising I had nothing on under it. He ushers me into an anteroom, where I sit among eleven or twelve visiting dignitaries from the International Olympic Committee who are here to discuss Albo’s surprising push for the 2040 Games to be held in Harare. One of the dignitaries confides in me that they have been sitting in this room for eighteen days, surviving only on the quinoa which occasionally falls from a hatch in the ceiling. As Friedrich returns and asks me to come with him, the dignitary passes me a note and begs me to tell his wife that he loves her. Later I unfold the note and discover it is a heartfelt poem about the Land Before Time film franchise. This mystery will never be solved.

Friedrich brings me to the dining room, where I finally meet Albo himself. Resplendent in his traditional prime ministerial kimono, and brandishing the shotgun which he won at the age of six as the prize for shooting the most mice at the Marrickville Easter Show, he bows deeply to me and asks how my flight was. When I tell him I came by car, he takes a deep breath and says, “Don’t worry, I’m not offended”, then takes his seat at the head of the table.

The dinner table is the same one that Edmund Barton built himself out of the tree that killed his father, and polished to a fine sheen. Around it sit our fellow diners: Deputy Prime Minister Tanya Plibersek, singer Kamahl, the Australian 1974 FIFA World Cup squad, Reserve Bank governor Philip Lowe, celebrity vet Katrina Warren, and a tall gaunt man in a black hood who the others refer to only as “The Arbiter”.

As I sit down, I compliment the PM on his home. “This is a beautiful house you have, Mr Albanese,” I say, which sparks a series of sharp intakes of breath from the assembled guests. Kamahl begins weeping softly, while Dr Warren leans over and whispers to me, “He goes by Albo, ALWAYS. You have insulted him deeply. He may now challenge you to a duel.”

Fortunately this does not happen. Albo smiles at me and says he understands, as I am new to the world of elite celebrity and had no way of knowing that I am a cretin. He admits that while most people who call him by the wrong name are executed instantly, he will spare me, as today is his birthday. I begin to say that according to Wikipedia it isn’t, but Dr Warren plunges a fork into my thigh to prevent me making any further faux pas.

The first course arrives: steak tartare with gladioli, prepared by Albo’s personal chef Hengist. As I tuck in, I ask Albo the question I’ve come here to ask more than any other.

“Albo, there is a rumour going around that you were raised by a single mother, but you have been reluctant to confirm or deny this. Why is that?”

The prime minister pauses mid-mouthful and bursts into tears. He pulls a golden rope, and the sheets fall off the structure behind him: an enormous baroque sculpture of a young Albo, depicted in the act of being raised by a single mother. I gape in awe and wonder. For the first time, the grandeur of Albo, the immensity and scope of his single-mother-raising strikes me full in the heart.

“I don’t like to make a big deal of it,” says Albo, stroking a large echidna that has climbed onto his lap, “But obviously all I am and all I have I owe to my upbringing, and that single mother. If I knew who she was I would shake her hand.”

But how does his upbringing influence his policymaking on a practical level? Albo has an answer for this.

“You see this?” he asks, brandishing the pepper shaker. I nod. “Let’s say that this is the government, and the pepper inside is taxpayers’ money.” He begins sprinkling pepper over his bowl of Rice Bubbles. “Now obviously it is the government’s job to give everyone pepper, but what happens if you get too much pepper?”

“You sneeze?” I venture.

“YOU SNEEZE!” Albo roars good-humouredly. “Now, answer me this: is it the government’s job to make people sneeze?”

There is a tense silence. The Arbiter holds up a daisy and plucks one petal from it.

“No?” I guess. The guests all burst into applause.

“Now,” says Albo, leaning back, “Do you really think I could’ve come up with that if I hadn’t been raised by a single mother?” A roar of approval comes from the Socceroos. I feel terribly foolish, and apologise for having doubted him.

“Think nothing of it,” says Albo, standing behind me and vigorously massaging my shoulders. “The thing you have to understand about me, you see, is that I fight Tories. It’s what I was born to do. Look, I’ll show you.”

Albo presses a button on the table and a panel swings out from the wall to my left. From the darkness within stumbles a naked Tory, covered with filth and half-crazed with hunger.

The Tory barks plaintively at Albo, who assumes a beatific look, takes three swift steps towards it, and punches it hard in the stomach. The Tory screams in pain and begins leaking a thick green fluid. Albo waves to me, then turns back to his adversary and pulls the Tory’s head off with his bare hands. The Socceroos roar again.

“So you see,” Albo says airily, returning to his seat, “the Labor project is not an easy one, but I think we’ll get there in the end. Now, dessert!”

Dessert is a true delight: a huge and precarious tower of lamingtons, each one imprinted with Albo’s face. I’m impressed enough by this - my admiration grows when I take a lamington in my hand and the Albo on it winks and asks me upstairs. Hengist has outdone herself. If there is any complaint to be made it is that the lamingtons contain a solid ball of lead at their centre, but this is a minor quibble.

It’s well-known that nobody leaves the Lodge empty-handed, and as I say my goodbyes Albo presses something into my hand. “Use it wisely,” he whispers emotionally. I look down. He has given me a human foot. Albo promises a big cash prize if I can correctly guess which former prime minister it was removed from. I promise to get back to him about this, when I bring round the VHS of I Live With Me Dad that he wanted to borrow.

As I wander down the driveway, wishing I’d asked someone where my car was, I muse on the evening just past. Have I really learnt anything about the most powerful man in Australia, or have I, like so many others, been a victim of this country’s slickest PR machine? As the parrots descend and knock me to the ground, tearing at my flesh with their cruel beaks, I wonder if I’ll ever really know the answer.