I am trying to get on every television station in the country. It isn't easy, because they keep going in for close-ups when what I need is a long and unbroken wide shot. I mean, I could try to climb on stage, but Kerry O'Brien might coat-hanger me.

I'm feeling pretty guilty. While Nick slaves away tirelessly, analysing, you know, the results of the most-important-election-in-a-generation, I'm prancing around the place pretending to be a political journalist and trying to figure out ways to get to the bar without lining up. It's hot, and beer sounds good right about now.

The National Tally Room is a veritable clearing house of media celebrities and politicians this evening.

Barnaby Joyce is sitting in front of us. Stirring shit up, probably. One of the Chaser boys is currently walking by me. Prowling, almost. Very slinky.

Barnaby has just gotten up and the Chaser moves in for the kill. It suddenly occurs to me that a Chaser ambush is taking place less than a metre away from me.

I know what I have to do.

I rise to my feet, pivot on the spot, walk past the sketch with all the swagger I can muster (not much), and look directly into the camera with a gaze of steely, sexy indifference.

Political journalism can go to hell. I am going to be a star...