The day Bill Shorten learned to fly

I’ve never been a Francis. Not really. It’s the name stamped on the birth certificate, sure, but it never felt like mine. For years, Francis was just this faceless thing, a ghost name the tax office and the airlines used to torment me. Everyone called me by my middle name. Francis was the label they slapped on your luggage, the name read out by bored airport announcers when your flight was delayed. Nothing more.

That is, until now. Here in this godforsaken hospital bed, Francis has come alive. It’s the name they bark at me every morning, the one scribbled on my wristband like some sort of cruel joke. It’s the name they use when poking me with needles or serving me food that looks and tastes like wet cardboard. And, God help me, I’ve started answering to it. But this story isn’t about hospitals or wet cardboard meals. It’s about the one time being Francis actually mattered.

It happened on a business trip to Melbourne. Melbourne: the land of laneway coffee and suits who care too much about their shoes. Like every trip, I made my ritual stop at Mary Ryan’s Bookshop in the airport. It was my thing. Travel, buy books for the girls, fly out. I was halfway through the children’s section when the loudspeaker crackled to life.

“Francis Forbes, your gate is closing. Please make your way to Gate 30 immediately.”

Didn’t even register.

“Francis Forbes, final call.”

And then it hit me. Oh, bloody hell, that’s me.

Now, back then, I was still playing rugby. Sort of fit, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves. I loved my red wine, my steaks, my late-night cheese boards. I was carrying serious bulk—116 kilos of good living and rugby muscle. But when push came to shove, I could move. And, mate, I had to move.

Mary Ryan’s sits at a right angle to the food court in Melbourne Airport. Picture this: I bolted out of the shop like a bull out of the gate. Hit that corner at full tilt, my momentum building, feet pounding. And just as I powered into the food court—boom! There he was.

This little bloke, couldn’t have been more than 65 kilos soaking wet, stepped directly into my path. He had on this immaculate grey suit, shoes you could see your reflection in. I had zero time to brake. None.

Instinct took over. I threw up my shoulder like I was hitting a ruck. The collision? Textbook. A perfect ten-pin bowling strike. The poor guy went flying. Just crumpled. I didn’t even realise what had happened until I heard the crunch—not mine, his.

I skidded to a stop, heart racing. “Oh, Christ! I’m so sorry! So sorry!” I sputtered, hauling him off the ground. He was dazed, eyes like saucers. And then I saw who it was.

Bill Shorten. Bloody Bill Shorten. Labor frontbencher. The bloke you see on TV, shaking hands and kissing babies. And here I was, having flattened him like a lawn mower.

But I didn’t have time to process. I was late. “I’m so sorry, mate. I’ve gotta run,” I said, half-apologising, half-panicking, hoisting him upright like a sack of potatoes. He was too shocked to speak. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Meanwhile, chaos erupted behind us.

Two kids—his kids, I figured—were trailing after him like bewildered ducklings. A blonde woman, who looked like she’d stepped out of a David Jones catalogue, was rushing over, hands in her hair. And then I spotted him: a guy in a black suit with one of those curly earpieces, eyes locked on me. Security.

For a split second, I thought about stopping, about explaining myself. But then I thought, nope, not today. I turned and bolted, adrenaline surging.

By some miracle, I made it to Gate 30. The attendant looked up, bored. “You’ve got 30 seconds,” she said. “You’re lucky.” Lucky? Lucky didn’t cover it. I scanned my ticket, stumbled onto the plane, and collapsed into my seat, gasping for air.

And that was it. I made the flight. The world kept turning. Somewhere in Melbourne Airport, Bill Shorten was probably wondering what the hell had hit him. And me? I’ll always have the story of the day Francis Forbes knocked a frontbencher flat on his arse and got away with it.

Send me beers if you like this story. I guarantee it’s true.