I was stewing in self-loathing in Mackay when, in 2007, I first met Albanese. He was on the hustings as the Kevin 07 juggernaut whirled around Australia like a tornado of change.

Albanese visited the city to support the electorate's debutant Labor offering, James Bidgood, a stumblebum candidate and even worse MP, whose catastrophic tenure ensured there would be no second election campaign for him.

Bidgood took umbrage over how I had portrayed him in a column, and I blurted: "Shut the f**k up!" I couldn't believe what I'd uttered, and expected a savaging from Albanese. But he said: "I like your style, mate. I could use someone with balls on my media team. Unfortunately, there's no vacancy at present, but maybe that'll change at some stage. I'll keep you in mind."

Six years later, I was working for the Sunshine Coast Daily when Albanese's senior media adviser called me with a job offer. I accepted immediately, then parachuted into Canberra like Rambo on meth. I was finally going to become a somebody. But how?

That question was answered when Albanese asked to see me on day one of my dream job. I marched into his Parliament House office, plonked in a chair and looked him in his beady eyes.

It was a spacious office with a big desk and a vintage black leather couch. A signed South Sydney jersey encased in glass hung on the wall. Albanese intently observed me, the tongue darting reptilian-like from his thin-lipped mouth. I shifted in the chair.

"As with all my new media hires," he said, "I want to see what you've got, Mark. So, in three days you will present to me your vision for ... well, me. I want to hear your strategy for getting me the top job. Prime Minister Albanese has a nice ring to it, eh?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

"So what do you say?" Albanese continued. "You up for the challenge?"

I sprang up and earnestly shook his hand. "Yes, Albo, I am. You won't be disappointed."

Sitting back at my desk, a terrifying reality struck me: I had absolutely no idea how to do this job. But I quickly expunged the negativity. For once in my underachieving existence I was going to soar.

The genesis of my strategy was the most disturbing incident I've ever witnessed. Aged 15, I was at McDonald's with my father, a severely obese man who, to my horror, dropped a Big Mac, reached for his chest and gasped for breath as agony contorted his shockingly red, screeching face. But as quickly as it began, it ended. He then wiped his brow with a hanky and resumed eating.

Dad died of a heart attack two weeks later. I thought of him as I stood before Albanese and three other members of his team: the senior media adviser, who was a thirtysomething man with a permanent sneer, a pretty blonde with a snorting laugh and a fortysomething obese man with a comb-over and an unfortunate name.

I cleared my throat in preparation for a presentation that would mark me as special and hopefully send me and Albanese to The Lodge.

I began by recounting the McDonald's incident, and how it had had a profound impact on me. I believed that it was high time a brave politician stepped forward and proposed the type of measures needed to effectively tackle the country's biggest public health challenge: obesity. "You can be that person, Albo," I said.

Twenty-nine years after I saw so graphically the pitifulness of gluttony, I was now in a position to effect real change.

Firstly, I proposed that obese people be barred from appearing in movies and TV series unless they play a character who loses weight or is ridiculed for being fat. Then I recommended that uniformed anti-obesity inspectors issue on-the-spot fines to obese people caught wearing inappropriate clothing. Repeat offenders, or those guilty of more extreme offences such as wearing a tank top, face imprisonment.

I was just getting started when cut short by Albanese saying: "You're having a lend, yeah? There's a hidden camera, yeah? Who put you bastards up to this? It was bloody Swanny, wasn't it?"

"This is no joke - far from it," I said. "I truly believe that proposing these measures will identify you as a remarkable politician. You need to do this, Albo, or you'll never become PM: you're too vanilla."

"Are you insane?" Albanese said. "Actually, don't bother answering that: you clearly are." He eyed his senior adviser.

The adviser glared at the obese staffer and said: "Well, what're you waiting for, Jet? Eat him!"

"Mummy!" I screamed as Jet lumbered towards me, mouth wide.

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