The Prime Minister keeps a diary. He calls it his ‘legacy document’. You are not supposed to be reading this. His office describes it as “a fabrication.” But to be fair, his office describes most things as a fabrication, so make of that what you will. Dear Diary. Somebody kissed my forehead at the footy on Friday and I let they/them. AJ broke the all-time try-scoring record and I was on that field before security could blink. With the people. My people. Like Whitlam at the steps. Like Hawke at the Cup. Thirty thousand screaming fans and me, running, sweating, grinning like a man who’s just been told he’s won something. Which I haven’t. Not lately. But it felt like it. Security called it a breach. I called it democracy. It was very diverse. A lawyer went on the radio saying they can’t fine the fans without fining me. Five and a half grand. Fine me then. I’ll pay it with the fuel excise. That’s the Australian way! Ah, the fuel excise. The more they pay at the pump, the more we collect. I know I shouldn’t enjoy that. But I do enjoy it. I enjoy it very much. Quietly. In the diary. Jim wants a rebate before the budget. Well, let’s not be hasty. Meanwhile everyone’s blaming me for fuel prices. Me! Ships are on fire. A strait is closed. But it’s Albo’s fault that diesel’s three bucks, and the farmers don’t care. F**k the farmers. They’re all voting for Pauline now anyway. And they smell of cows. Michelle put rates up again. Second month running. Fourteen increases under me. Fourteen. Morrison had one. Abbott, Turnbull and Morrison combined had one. But that’s not context, apparently. That’s just a graphic people share. Jim and Penny came in looking like pallbearers. Jim said demand is outstripping supply. I said what about the war? He said inflation was already too high before the war. I said well why didn’t you fix it before the war then, Jim. He opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he left. Then Penny looked at me in that way she looks at me sometimes. Is it pity? Or does she ‘like’ me? It’s hard to tell. Lakemba. Christ almighty. Tony and I went to the mosque on Friday for Eid. End of Ramadan. Sacred. Peaceful. Fifteen minutes in, a bloke starts screaming “Get out!” Another one calls me a putrid dog. A putrid dog. At Eid. A security guard tackled someone to the floor. They’re all screaming “Shame!” as we leave. Look. These people haven’t eaten in a month. I get it. Thirty days without food. They’re hangry. That’s a real condition. I get hangry when I skip lunch. And I’m the Prime Minister. Imagine doing it for thirty days. You’d call anyone a putrid dog wouldn’t you? Jodie says the photos make me look terrified. I wasn’t terrified. That’s Islamophobia. Which is an irrational fear. My fear was very rational. I was scared bloody shitless to be honest. But here’s the thing. And I’m only writing this because nobody reads this. I recognised Palestine - I lost the Jewish vote. I backed Israel against Iran - I lost the Muslim vote. And the punters reckon I sold out true blue Aussies, while chasing Muslim preferences in western Sydney - so I’ve lost the rest of them too. Three. Three demographics at once. I didn’t even know that was possible. It’s like bowling three wickets with one ball except the stumps are on fire and nobody’s clapping. But for some positive news - South Australia. How good is preferential voting? One Nation came second in the popular vote, with nearly 25% of the vote, but picked up only one seat (so far) to our thirty-two seats. That’s equity. And even better - the Liberals came in third. Their numbers are so small it’s practically a podcast audience. Australia loves me. Australia loves Labor. Of that there is no doubt.I did have a horrible thought in the bath yesterday though. What if Pauline’s been right? About all of it? For thirty bloody years? I sat there in that tepid soapy water, cleaning my unmentionables, and it was like being hit by a bus you’ve seen coming since 1996. Then I told myself, nah mate, she’s the fish and chip shop lady from Ipswich and you’re the bloody Prime Minister. From public housing. Six seven. Which got me counting. Fourteen rate rises, three lost demographics, one putrid dog, and a far-right, flame-haired, racist who wants to take us back to the Australia of the 50s and 60s, and who actually might be right about everything. I decided I’m still the best option. By elimination. So I ate some brie, and went to bed. Didn’t sleep. I remain, as always, on the right side of history. History has not confirmed this yet. But it will. Inshallah. Get full access to Rupert Degas at rupertdegas.substack.com/subscribe