Politicians are the new rock, discuss.
Last night I had a hot date with my very best friend in the whole world and in the dying throes of the evening (wedged between glorious hot sake, tittering snobbishly at the 'No Nuclear Weapons' sign above the Hard Rock Cafe, and gaping, slack-jawed, at waddling Brighton socialites pouring out of The Producers) we stumbled into the European where 'Hollywood' John Thwaites was dining.Since I have a habit of turning girlishly weak at the knees at the mere sight of mildly left-wing politicians, I proceeded to a) blush, b) forget where I was and c) begin instantly and cunningly planning something to say to him. Should I do it straight away and face the unenviable reality of gushing: 'Oh Mr. Thwaites, I thought your speech about banning sprinkler use between 10am and 5pm to put in place permanent water savings was simply darling . Would you mind ever so much signing my breasts? That's 'Ms' as in M-S." and then having to sit two tables away occasionally catching his eye and waving awkwardly? Or should I wait until the last moment, having only half-listened to my beloved Gabi bemoan the tragic combination of post-natal depression and epilepsy (not hers) whilst working and re-working the perfect witty bon mot throughout dessert?
No matter how keenly I edited my one-liner though, it never seemed to ring true. 'Mr. Thwaites, I find the State ALP's policies to be utterly luscious .' Hardly - they've really seemed to mong up business with the unions, and there's a little too much Kennett-esque secrecy about police files and council planning for my liking. 'Mr. Thwaites, I love you.' A little forward, and certainly a bald-faced lie. I barely know him, and can't say I find his policies on eco-housing all that razz-inducing. 'Mr. Thwaites, you certainly fill out those red speedos when you compete in the annual Portsea Pier-to-Pub race. May I touch your penis?' Inappropriate, particularly at the European, and sure to embarrass his young female companion.
In the end, Gabi tolerated my agitated fiddling right up until we paid the bill, when she leaned over and said: 'I'd leave him alone if I were you. It's not the time or the place' and I was suddenly off the hook, leaving with nothing more than a backwards glance in Hollywood's direction, as if to say: 'Next time we meet, Mr. Thwaites...next time...'
