SATIRE | I love Barnaby Joyce. He changed my life

Freeing me from the dirtbag's clutches was, for him, seemingly as easy as swatting away a persistent fly. The dirtbag scurried backwards on his feet and hands like a crab - never once taking his terrified eyes off his vanquisher, until out the front door. Barnaby was hired as a bouncer on the spot, and I had a new friend and mentor who taught me how to release the relief valve on my mind.

Think of this piece as a paean to a tough guy with the wisdom of a great monk, who unshackled me from my worst shame and allowed me to be myself.

Back in '87, pre-Barnaby, the Wicklow had a major image problem. It was under siege by dirtbags. I was a pretty ordinary bouncer, as were my colleagues, and we were ill-equipped to handle the avalanche of anti-social behaviour. But that changed when the future deputy prime minister was by our side.

Even at a young age, early into his accountancy degree at the University of New England, Barnaby was a man-about-town. He drove around Armidale in a jasmine-yellow 1977 Torana A9X Hatchback with a black bonnet and GST sports wheels. His elbow protruded from the window, and he honked the horn in response to greetings from people. To be sure, he was a popular man.

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But to dirtbags, he was the enemy: a seemingly immovable obstacle preventing them from plumbing the depths of their depravity. And, pathetically, they took revenge on him by constantly vandalising a crappy Holden Gemini he drove to work.

It was during this period that I developed an enduring real affection for Barnaby. However, I didn't truly understand him until I was provided with an unintended, uncensored view of his soul.

While looking for the toilet at a party at his house, I accidentally opened the door to his bedroom and was confronted by the sight of him dancing weirdly to strange music blaring from a stereo. Wearing saffron robes, he moved side to side on the spot while clapping - before flailing his arms in the air and chanting: "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare ..."

He turned around and saw me. But instead of freaking out, he calmly told me to close the door. He then said that I was privy to a side of him no one else knew. And while he certainly wasn't ashamed of who he was, he had intended to conceal Banke, his Hare Krishna persona.

"Mate, Banke was meant to be just for me," he said. "I can trust you to keep this to yourself, can't I?"

"Sure," I replied, honestly.

"Good." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Listen, Mark, it's important for the sake of your mental wellbeing that you don't suppress who you really are. I've got a feeling you do that. Am I right?"

Holy f**k, I thought. Are we really going down this road?

"You can trust me, mate," he said. "Just as I'm sure I can trust you."

So there I am, standing before "Bam Bam" Barnaby Joyce, the baddest bouncer the Wicklow ever had, and he's dressed as a Hare Krishna - complete with a shaved head and earthly-coloured face markings - and I'm deciding whether to tell him that I wear a wombat costume during sex, but go deeper: "Mate, I repress a sexual fantasy in which I'm Japanese and I harpoon a whale." My head slumped and I sobbed. "Oh God, what's wrong with me?"

"Mark, don't be ashamed of who you are. Embrace your true self. If you do that, I promise you this: you'll be a much more contented man, and your life will be much fuller. Don't you feel better already?"

I straightened, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Well ... Yes, I do." The Winnie Blue I dragged was particularly satisfying. "You know something. I've never told anyone that before."

He looked my square in the eye and said: "Be advised, mate. You must be very careful about who has access to that side of you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

I decided to tell this story, after more than 30 years of silence, because I want people to know that when I vote for Barnaby at the upcoming election, I will do so knowing who he really is. It's time New England does too.

Mark Bode is an ACM journalist. He uses satire and fiction in commentary.