How to survive a sex scandal

My bum rap

Sir Les Patterson was caught with a nubile research assistant with his trousers down – but got off scot-free

‘M olest me, Les. Molest me in my workplace, you dirty old devil!’ The replay on the CCTV screen froze on a shot of my bum. The boardroom at Oz House was as full as a pommy complaints box – with Australian dignitaries, all old mates, shitting themselves. Otherwise, the boardroom was very quiet.

On the screen, I recognised Chantelle Pugh, one of my nubile PAs and a trusted member of Team Patterson. I looked around the room. There was the picture of Betty Windsor on the wall; some bastard had forgotten to replace it with Charlie.

Naturally, on the evidence of the hidden CCTV camera, my politico colleagues were a bit concerned that their own extra-curricular activities were similarly under electronic scrutiny. Most, if not all, research assistants in the office had had more than one distinguished visitor in her workplace – or, in the case of Bronwyn Cheknik, workplaces.

The reason for all this snooping is that the Labour Government wants the electorate to believe it’s cracking down on political immorality in high places – and every happily married man knows where those high places are located. Are you with me? So I was the sacrificial kangaroo. I was Patterson the patsy.

But I only got rapped over the knuckles because I know where too many bodies are buried. The PM was a nice bloke, and I’d helped him out of a few tight corners, some of which were very tight indeed. With me?

My colleagues were pretty understanding as well about my peccadillo (more pecker than dildo), considering most of them were fully paid-up scallywags themselves.

A few Labour PMs ago, I really did our bloke a favour.

Prior to that, I’d given him a sweetener: a lovely vintage Persian rug and an original Renaissance artwork of a Chow sheila with a green face on velvet, both from Kuala Lumpur.

I was trying, on behalf of a developer mate, to get demolition permission to bowl over some ‘colonial’ building in Melbourne. One of the last.

I knew the PM could sort out those heritage bastards who were standing in the way of one of the biggest shopping malls in the Southern Hemisphere in Australian history, and the Chows and their money were on the table. So it was a lay-down misère.

Then I heard on the grapevine that there was a rundown emu farm on the Queensland border of bloody nothing.

I persuaded the Australian Prime Minister to spend half a mill on that shit property in the outback. Everyone laughed at him, but I told him to hang on.

Well, about 18 months later, the emus had all carked it, but the Indonesians offered my eminent mate 20 million big ones for that shitty bit of nothing.

Turns out it’s full of uranium worth a zillion. Even after they had squared off the Aboriginal owners and their shonky Sydney lawyers, there was still a shitload left in the pot. The PM was as happy as a pig in poo.

But he owed the Indos big time, didn’t he? A bit of payback was required. There are more ways than one to bribe a head of state, and our bloke wasn’t too smart at international wheeling and dealing, though he’d come a long way from selling Toyotas on the Parramatta road.

Of course the bloody Indos used the poor bastard to the hilt – concessions here, mining rights there, deals worth a zillion. Even I got a finder’s fee – a week in Jakarta for two with all the trimmings.

Sadly, my wife, Gwen, God love her, couldn’t make the trip because they were running a few more tests on her that week, and I was forced to rub along without her. Me and Meredith Acropolis went instead.

My Gwen was off with the fairies thanks to the three Vs: Valium, vodka and Vera. She loves that TV show. She watches it mostly for the fashion tips. I was in strife again for going the grope – at a Christmas party of all things!

I bet little Jesus saw a thing or two going on with the shepherds and shepherdesses when he peeped out of the manger. Well, I was sent for ‘counselling’ by a not unco-operative shrinkess*, but I was fed up. I’d served Australia selflessly for donkey’s years, and what did I get?

Counselling! I want out. I’m sick of bloody woke. With my international credentials and my grasp of pretty well everything, I’m starting the new year on Les Patterson’s terms.

It’s not generally known that I groomed Tony Blair, and one of his team leaked it to me that old Tone makes a bundle on the lecture circuit. Particularly in the US. The Seppos† lap up his story about how he talked the heartless Royals into leaving their funkhole at Balmoral Palace and coming down to London to chuck a few daisies on Lady Di’s casket.

Boy, do they love that ‘true’ story!

The exclusive agency that handles Tone suggested a title for my lecture tour: LES PATTERSON, MUSINGS AND APERÇUS. To be perfectly honest, I’ve never done either of them, but if I wanted an audience of wall-to-wall pillow-biters and freckle-punchers, then that would be the perfect title.

In my search for a top job, I had an interview yesterday.

‘What is your greatest weakness, Sir Les?’ asked the too-clever-by-half interviewer.

‘I reckon it’s honesty,’ I replied, after a moment’s reflection.

‘I don’t think that’s necessarily a weakness,’ said this smartarse.

‘I don’t give a f**k what you think,’ says I, quick as a flash.

Have a good one!

LES

* A female psychiatrist † (Aust coll, obs) Hypocorism for septic tanks – Yanks