Drunk Politician's Late-Night Call

Alright, imagine this bloody scenario: It's late at night, and our dear Australian politician, let's call him Barry, is plastered. This bloke's had one too many with the mates, celebrating or maybe drowning sorrows over some political fuckery. He's wandering the streets of suburban Canberra, phone in hand, trying to connect with his wife who's miles away in a different state. Classic Barry, right? Now, this is just his side of the convo, but you'll get the gist.

"Hey love, yeah, it's me. No, no, I'm alright, just had a few with the crew. Bloody hell, politics, you know? ...Yeah, I miss ya too."

Suddenly, a thud as Barry misjudges his seating on the planter box and lands ass-first on the ground.

"Fuck! Shit! Bloody planter box jumped right under me! ...No, no, love, I'm alright, just fell off this damn thing. Yes, on the ground now. Graceful as a swan, I am."

There's a momentary pause as he collects himself, still lying on the ground.

"Nah, don't worry about me. I'm just taking in the Canberra night, flat on my back. Gives you a different perspective, you know? ...No, I'm not too drunk; I can still see straight, if I close one eye."

He chuckles, finding his own situation amusing.

"Listen, about tomorrow, I might've promised to join some godforsaken committee meeting at the crack of dawn. If I sound like I've been run over, it's because I feel like it... Yes, yes, I'll drink water. And no, I won't make a habit of this."

Sighing, he continues.

"It's just, with all the bullshit in the office, sometimes you need to let loose, you know? ...Yeah, I know you worry. I'll be more careful. Won't make a habit of planter-box surfing."

Barry attempts to change the subject, seeking some normalcy.

"So, how are things your end? Kids alright? ...That's good, that's good. Tell them I'll bring back some of that Canberra swag. A snow globe or something. Yeah, I know it doesn't snow here; that's the joke."

He starts to push himself up, grunting.

"Alright, love, I better let you go. I've got to figure out how the hell I'm getting back to the hotel. Might need to crawl at this rate... Yeah, love you too. Night."

After he clumsily ends the call with his wife, our protagonist, the very embodiment of grace under pressure (if that pressure is a metric tonne of booze), decides it's time to embark on the epic quest back to his hotel. Picture this: it's a chilly Canberra night, and our hero's navigating the treacherous suburban landscape, fuelled by a cocktail of stubbornness and too much beer.

"Right, which way's the bloody hotel again?" Barry mutters to himself, squinting at his phone as if it holds the secrets of the universe. "Ah, fuck it, I reckon it's this way."

He sets off, each step an adventure, making a mental note to avoid any more confrontations with planter boxes.

"Should've been a bloody navigator," he slurs, proud of his unwavering (though entirely misplaced) sense of direction. He passes a kebab shop, its lights a beacon of greasy hope in the night.

"Oi, kebab! That'll sober me up," Barry declares, veering off his path with the determination of a man on a mission. After a brief and slightly confusing interaction involving a lot of pointing and a few misplaced "thank yous," he emerges victorious, kebab in hand.

Armed now with sustenance, he resumes his trek, munching away and leaving a trail of lettuce and sauce in his wake. "This is the life, eh?" he tells a bewildered possum watching from a distance. "Politics and kebabs."

Suddenly, he stops, a thought striking him with the force of a semi-coherent idea. "Shit, I'm supposed to give a speech tomorrow. What's it about again? Democracy? Environment? Fuckin' economy?" He shakes his head. "Nah, it'll come to me. Always does."

As he wanders, his phone rings. Glancing at the screen, he sees it's one of his aides, probably wondering if he's been kidnapped or wandered into a ditch.

"Barry here," he answers, with what he imagines is the clarity and conviction of a sober man.

"Barry, where the hell are you? You have a briefing at 7 AM, and—" the aide begins, but Barry's not having any of it.

"Relax, mate, I'm on a spiritual journey. Embracing the common man's night out. It's research."

The aide sighs, a sound that carries the weight of a thousand facepalms. "Just... please make it back in one piece."

Barry promises nothing, ending the call with a cheerful "No promises!" and continues on his way, a knight errant in the quest for his hotel bed.

Eventually, the lights of his hotel come into view, a sight more beautiful to him than any sunrise. He makes it to his room, collapses on the bed, kebab remnants and all, and falls asleep instantly, a smile on his face. Tomorrow's problems can wait; tonight, Barry conquered Canberra, one dodgy kebab at a time.

And so concludes the tale of Barry's drunken odyssey. A story of resilience, fast food, and the unwavering human spirit. Or just a typical Thursday night for an Aussie politician. Who can say, really?