The news that the Federal Government was about to be defeated made me think about the fact that Stephan Harper (or a reasonable facsimile thereof – I can never tell the difference) had signed my ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ upon my retirement. The least I could do in return is offer Steve some advice concerning his campaign – in particular, that he keeps getting his ass handed to him because he’s a dour, no-fun, party-pooper who needs to consider adopting the tradition of running Parliament in his socks.

The ‘tradition’ began with my arrival in Ottawa (I didn’t find anything in Hansard to refute my claim), though it wasn’t the first thing I did upon my arrival there – finding an apartment, starting my new job, commencing doctoral studies at Carleton, figuring out the bus schedule and learning to deal – after ten balmy years in Victoria – with snow, freezing rain, and a frigid wind that blew unabated off the frozen vastness of Hudson’s Bay. I became acquainted with gloves, scarves, thermal layers, earmuffs, and Sorel boots – and the joy of discovering that just because you are standing at a bus stop, doesn’t mean that a bus is going to stop in a snow storm. One stormy morning I left home, the buses weren’t even slowing for me so I walked about a mile to get to another bus route where they were stopping – about another half mile up the road. I finally got to my connection, and again no buses, so I ended up walking to work, only to arrive there three hours late. Then to be told by my director that the storm was getting worse and she was sending everyone home.

What I learned very quickly about surviving an Ottawa winter is that you need to take every opportunity presented to party your way through it. Okay, so maybe that was just my way of getting through one, but there did seem to be a significant number of party invitations to accept, and simply surviving the journey to get there really did deserve some kind of celebration. Side note here to Stephan – you need to throw some parties … invite Mike, Jack and Gilles over for some mulled wine, break out the guitar (remember what the sax did for Bill Clinton’s image), roll a couple doobies (consider it field research on the benefits of medical marijuana use) and have a good time. Life is too short to run around acting like the love-child of John Diefenbaker and Robert Stanfield. Try to incorporate ‘fuddle-duddle’ into your vocabulary, sport a paisley cravat and if you’ve got the moves, definitely pirouette at every opportunity. Maybe take some dance classes, Steve, a man has to have some rhythm to his life … think Salsa – a step forward, a step back, it’s something the electorate can understand.

One Christmas I accepted an invitation from a group of women at work to attend a party at the Parliament buildings hosted by Eugene Whelan – he greeted his guests resplendent in his green Stetson, cowboy boots, and dapper suit, giving away massive magnums of wine as ‘door prizes’ – one of which I was fortunate enough to win. I shared the wine with the women at my table and told them about the ‘sock surfing’ we used to engage in at Robb Road in Comox – particularly on days when the floors were freshly waxed. The basic premise of ‘sock surfing’ was to crouch on the floor in your socks and have two friends grab your hands and start running down the hallway dragging you along until you got enough momentum to keep going on your own. The women had never heard of this and I remarked that the marble floors in the main hall of the Parliament buildings looked very suitable to this activity. Fortified with copious amounts of red wine they were game to try it.

We gathered by the Christmas tree in the main hall, and tossed whatever would slow us down in a pile, but kept the wine bottle. The women democratically voted that since I was the one presenting the motion that I should be the first launched down those freshly polished halls. Despite my time at the gym, I was a bit of a ‘dead weight’ for them and the best we managed was a group ‘header’ into the Christmas tree.

One young woman, wearing a beautiful plaid kilt, matching cap and sash, and thankfully, black leotards, decided she could do better – she crouched down, with the four other women pulling and me pushing, we got her going and let her ‘whip’ down the hallway … only to plop onto her back and – legs in the air – slide to a stop at the feet of a security guard who had come to investigate. The shock of having a beautiful young women ‘skirt up’ at his feet seemed to momentarily freeze him and we took the opportunity to retrieve her, and make for the nearest ‘exit’ where the women found refuge by pushing me through a doorway into the woman’s washroom. Side note to Stephan – if you ever find yourself taking refuge in the women’s washroom to escape a media scrum, take note that the TP is stiff enough to make origami Christmas decorations! And Steve, if you think I was really making origami, then you need to get out and meet more Canadians – we have been described as “a people who can make love in a canoe” … a Parliamentary washroom is a luxury liner in comparison.

Eventually we decided to make our way back to the party but we got ‘busted’ by security before we got there. Mr. Whelan came out to see what the fuss was about and when he heard our story told security that we were his guests and to leave us in his care. He invited us to join him for more refreshments and to hear more about how we tried to run Parliament in our socks and laughed appreciably about our antics.

Thus it is this fine tradition of ‘sock-surfing’ that I will pass onto you Steve, as you can use all the help you can get. And if have some fun doing it, you might just make an impression on the electorate – there are worse ways to be remembered. So consider running Parliament in your socks some time Steve – just because you are a Conservative doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re constitutionally constipated … John A. MacDonald never did.