Why politicians shouldn't promise

Rather than pouring hatred on politicians' broken promises, we should admit they're impossible to keep and give it all a miss

As a former journalist I can empathise with politicians, given that both professions occupy a regular place on 'least trusted profession' lists.

Both are held to understandably high standards. Both would need to be robots to avoid ever giving the appearance of bias, welded as they are to an unrealistic expectation that they are in no way humans of opinion. Both operate in the public domain, working for a public good, and thus the community feels ownership over their roles and work - often expressed as a license to complain bitterly.

Of course, the public should be holding both parties to account, just as each casts a critical eye over the other. Personally though, such accountability shouldn't extend to shouting at journalists at dinner parties.

But a big difference between journos and pollies is that the average newspaper reporter isn't required to make promises that they can't conceivably keep.

To make the obvious point; political promises are often broken, or, to adopt the Howard model, relegated to 'non-core' status.

Julia Gillard's entire career as Prime Minister has been coloured - and arguably hamstrung irrevocably - by her promise of 'no carbon tax'.

Tony Abbott elicited howls as he attempted to educate the public that measured press statements were fact, whereas heat of the moment promises veered 'gospel truth'.

Wayne Swan has been ridiculed for failing to produce a surplus that was only expected because he promised it would be so. Travelling back in time to become his own father would be no less torturous.

So, really, why bother?

Julia Gillard's promise of no carbon tax creates such anger because of its particular phrasing. Had she spoken honestly of not desiring a tax, but wanting to fix the issue, there would be no such lightning rod of a sound-byte  In fact, hanging politicians with their promises contributes to the broader problem of statements being cloaked in doublespeak, lest evidence be recorded.

Throughout Wayne Swan's surplus opus, did anyone really believe him? More accurately, did anyone honestly not foresee the possibility that delivery of such a thing may be outside his control? I don't think so. Instead, voters lampooned him for promising such a thing, then redoubled their hilarity when he failed to deliver.

There are a range of reasons why we now have a carbon tax and a deficit - some of them are out of the government's hands and some occurred after promises were made based on then-current evidence, rosily interpreted or not.

With the above in mind, wouldn't a more mature approach be to give promises the flick altogether? To have politicians stand up and say "this is my intention, and I will endeavour to see it through."

Such a system, of course, requires parties to have clearly outlined beliefs and ideologies, as well as a record of upholding those values we can trust. That way, rather than promises that are leaden with cynicism the moment they're spoken, we can vote for the party that is shooting for the Australia we most want to live in.

But that's a fight for another day.

  

Ultimate Chicken Victory

So the KFC in my hometown was just the worst.

Their lifeline, I think, was that in an isolated country centre of 20,000 people, they were serving a captive audience. It's kind of like when you buy a sausage roll on a country train and it costs $9.50 - what are you going to do about it? Grab a cheaper one as you rocket through the next town? 

So despite its awfulness, my friends and I would go to this KFC about once a week. What can I say? We were unhealthy nerds that needed a saturated fat fix on game night.

Each week, almost without fail, we'd meet at my house and catalogue how KFC and its dead-eyed denizens had mangled our order. One night they were out of buns. One night they were out of chicken. Most nights they'd just forget your fries or seemingly pile food into a bag at random and send you on your way.

This was such a long-running situation that, eventually, we had devolved into passive aggressive wolverines, rifling through the bag at the counter and checking for problems before leaving the store. I wrote an excessively long letter to head office and experienced a blissful two weeks where they paid attention to service before inevitably slumping back down into Hades.

See, I should point out that my standards for KFC are not super high. I'm not going to complain if the chicken is too dry, the burgers are too oily or if they give me massive heart disease - it's part of the deal. All I want is to point at something on the menu and then eat it.

After a kaleidoscope of complaints, I'd eventually figured out that asking for a refund was a no go, whereas asking for free food in compensation was a winner. I assume that monetary return could be tracked by head office whereas free food could be concealed, but I don't know. All I know is that if I ever asked for my money back they'd throw chicken at my mouth until I left.

So, one night, I order food for my fiance and I, and when I get it, I find her burger is not what I ordered. I gain the attention of the serving child.

"Hi dude. I ordered a Zinger burger and I didn't get it," I said.

"Yeah, we're out of Zinger burgers."

I explained that this could've been pointed out when I ordered a Zinger burger, been charged for a Zinger burger and been handed a bag under the pretence of it containing a Zinger burger, rather than what was, in reality, a bun with two crispy strips on it.

He was unmoved, unable to understand the source of my frustration.

In my mind, expected incompetence had now been reinforced by lies and false advertising, and my soul was seized by a white hot rage that could've incinerated any surrounding chickens into the rock-like, wafer-thin burger patties routinely pumped out by this particular establishment.

I asked for my money back. I was denied. 

"I ordered something. You took my money. I didn't get it. You lied and now you're arguing with me about it. Just give me my money back. That's totally fair."

The boy continued to act in all ways like his head was a fax machine that could only spit out the same faded message - "I can't give you your money back, EXPLANATION NOT FOUND" - over and over again. His instruction to deny refunds was clearly not reinforced by any subsequent knowledge.

So I attempted to force his hand by asking for the most ridiculous thing I could think of.

"Look, I'm not leaving until I get my money back. So either give me my money back, or give me all of your chicken," I said.

"What?"

"If you won't give me money, just give me all of the chicken you've got ready back there.," I said, gesturing at the bulging pile of cooked chicken pieces behind him.

"Sure," he said, and started piling the chicken into boxes.

I stood there dumbstruck. I was sure he was going to opt for a refund in the face of my ridiculousness. Nevertheless, I soon walked out with over 30 pieces of chicken. I beat a hasty retreat before the people in line behind me realised what my impotent point-making had cost them.

I called my buddies on the way home, telling them dinner was on me. 

I strode in the front door hoisting swelled, oily boxes of fried chicken above my head, bellowing in victory like a viking. I recounted the story with animated glee as I waved my justly-reserved drumstick like a broadsword.

We ended up throwing about half of the chicken away as we couldn't get through it before it spoiled. My victory, however, is immortal.