It was also where one of the titans did something so outrageous, so utterly inconceivable, that the ring would soon be returned to his finger for the party faithful to kiss; and his backside would be bared for his many detractors to do the same.

We arrived at the party just after 7pm. Some dozen cars were parked outside the home as I drove up the horseshoe-shaped gravel driveway. I parked the car. Sitting next to me was Barnaby Joyce, my longtime friend. He said: "I wonder if Mr Charisma will be there?"

"McCormack will definitely be there," I replied, "and so will most of the party's other MPs."

"Good."

"You're not gonna do anything stupid, are you? Mate, what's with the mischievous smile?"

"You'll see, Mark. You'll see."

Oh no, I thought.

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The immaculately refurbished wood home's front steps led to a sweeping verandah and French doors that opened on to a polished hardwood hallway. A fireplace in the large living room subdued the cold - as chatter, laughter and Frank singing New York, New York filled the room.

The donor, a short, fat man with a ruddy complexion, rushed towards us - his right hand cocked for a handshake. He enthusiastically greeted Barnaby and said: "So glad you could make it."

"No worries, Pat," Barnaby replied. "Do you know Mark Bode?"

The donor noted me with a mix of suspicion and contempt. "You write those weird columns, don't you?" he said.

"That's right," I replied.

"Well, I hope you'll respect the fact that you've been invited to a private gathering, and won't write about it."

"No worries, mate. I'm just here to have fun."

The donor left, and I asked Barnaby if he wanted a beer.

"Does an Eskimo shag his missus on a polar bear rug?" he replied.

When I returned with the stubbies, Barnaby was standing in front of the fireplace talking to Darren Chester, George Christensen and Michael McCormack. All I heard was McCormack say "the science on this matter is certainly not indisputable".

I handed the beer to Barnaby, who smirked and said: "You know what's indisputable? Mikey here never resonating with the Australian public, beyond a barely detectable beep."

"Barnaby, play nice," Christensen said.

"Come on, George, I'm only kidding. Mikey knows that."

Anger rippled across McCormack's face.

"Careful there, Mikey," Barnaby said. "Someone might accuse you of having a pulse."

"Maybe you guys should stay away from each other," Chester said.

"Suits me fine," McCormack said.

The donor threw a log on the fire. When that burned down, he threw on another. With Back to Black blaring from the stereo, I returned from the toilet to witness Barnaby giving McCormack a spray in a corner of the living room. The remonstration included a finger in the face. I rushed over and said: "How about I take you outside for a smoke, Barnaby."

"That's a good idea," McCormack said. "The guy's a disgrace. He dragged this great party through the mud. Well, you might like it in the mud, mate, but we don't."

"Ah, f**k you," Barnaby said. "I'm not gonna stand here copping criticism from a wet blanket like you. Love me or hate me, at least people know who I am. Mate, you're deputy prime minister and hardly anyone knows who you are. It's flamin' ridiculous."

People stared, and David Littleproud rushed over to tell them "to cool it".

"Let me tell you something for free, Barnaby," McCormack said. "The party chose me as leader because we needed normality after your disastrous tenure. You're on the nose big time. Hell, you would not have even been invited tonight but for Pat's insistence you be allowed to attend. He's one of the few people in the party who still supports you. And the only reason people know you is because your dirty laundry was aired in public so appallingly."

Barnaby smirked. "Your days as leader are numbered, mate," he said, then strode from the room.

"The guy's lost the plot," McCormack sniffed.

A short time later, Barnaby "pranced" towards the centre of the room like a catwalk model with dodgy knees - as, coincidentally, I'm Every Woman blared. Michelle Landry dropped a glass and it smashed on the floor. The donor fainted. And guests parted before Barnaby as if he were a leper.

He stopped beneath an elegant chandelier, on a Persian rug, and posed like a wasted model at the end of the runway - hand on hip. He wore a sexy black corset with suspender straps attached to black stockings, a lacy black g-string and black pin-thin stilettos.

The stereo was silenced. No one spoke. And Barnaby said: "I've had the doors and windows barricaded. There's no way out. And it will remain that way, and I'll remain dressed like this, until I have your word that I'll be returned to the leadership. Strewth, we can even make it look like I challenged the drip, and the vote was close."

Recoiling like a chimp at the feet of his abusive keeper, McCormack screamed: "Yes! Yes! You can have it back! For the love of God, man, put on some clothes! Please!!"

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