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Observing the men currently building the fence blocking the public from accessing the top of Parliament House this morning, the Prime Minister saw them sitting around in a circle at 10 am in some sort of ritual.

Malcolm Turnbull, intrigued by this Pagan-type doing, asked his driver to stop.

He strode confidently up the hill toward the workmen to ask just what in God’s green Earth they were doing.

“We’re on smoko, Malcolm,” said unskilled labourer, Darcy Feild, who didn’t even get up to shake the outstretched hand of the Member for Wentworth.

“I see. What’s that you’re drinking? Is that cigarette taking the edge off life? Ah yes. I imagine it would. I’ve never smoked much in my life, you see,”

“Only when Kerry Packer used to force me to. Anyway, is this what you do every day?” asked Turnbull.

“What, you mean enjoy a cold can of Monster and a John Player Special? Yeah, I guess we do, Prime Minister,” replied Darcy.

“You should try it some time. You know? You might even slouch like me a bit – like a bloke who’s broken shit up and thrown it in a skip all day? Maybe try getting shitfaced at the Club after work then get kicked off the courtesy bus for smoking? That’s how I live my life.”

Malcolm pursed his lips and help a fountain pen to them.

“Ok. I’ll give it a go,” he said, shaking Darcy’s hand before trundling back down the hill to his double-parked BMW.

And earlier this morning, closer to 12 than 11, Malcolm Turnbull kicked back in his office chair and cracked a big old cold tin of Monster and pulled the plastic wrap from a fresh deck of Peter Stuyvesant Classics with his teeth.

Spitting the wrap onto the floor, he flicked the bottom of the deck and pulled the highest jumping dart out and put it back in upside down.

“We used to do that in the 80s,” said Turnbull to a mortified staffer.

“Shit. Can you run down to The Nationals wing and get me a lighter? Nobody up here smokes anymore! Do you think Chris Pyne knows what it’s like out there in the trenches? With all the smokers? I think not!”

Upon the staffer’s return, Malcolm lit up, took a deep breath and let the headspins pull him into his seat like he was feeling 6Gs in a Hornet.

“Ah yes. I can see the attraction in this now,” he said.

“Marvellous. I haven’t felt so in touch with the nation since I went to Lou Reed back in 2004. Walking on the wild side I am, Lou. Vale my friend.”

More to come.



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