Mr Sheen, oh Mr Sheen!

In my salad days, fresh and crisp and dew-picked as I was, nothing made me happier than my record collection. Like a dog at a barbeque I hunted around, scavenging rarities, independent pressings, oddities, then burrowed myself away for hours, fondling them, sorting them, loving them.

Before the wriggling joy of that crackle as the stylus hit the groove I would go through the set ritual: plastic sleeve off; outer sleeve off; inner sleeve off; a polish with a soft cloth – not to be used for anything else – and, if required, a squirt of Mr Sheen.

Mr Sheen is quite the thing for records. It reduces the static on the vinyl, making it attract less dust; but best of all, it can repair small scratches that cause a track to jump. An essential piece of kit for the vinyl enthusiast.

But time moves on, a CD player has replaced my old turntable, and my little bald friend sits despondently in the laundry cupboard, dreaming of better days. On the rare occasion that I have cause to clean-wax-and-polish-as-I-dust, the scent of Mr Sheen puts me into a glassy-eyed reverie. How upsetting, then, that when I see him he brings to mind John Howard.

Damn you John Howard!

My Mr Sheen wanted nothing more than to make my work-a-day life less arduous, more fulfilling. His wholesome aim was to make my chores quicker and easier, giving me more precious time to live my life to the fullest. The very thought of border protection would have furrowed his lovely brow! At the mere mention of selling our creative intellectual property to the Yanks he would have blushed and looked politely away! And children overboard, well… a Bex and a good lie down, nothing less.

All my years of neglect have made my bespectacled friend bitter. In the dark, shoved between the Brasso and the bleach, he has been grinding his teeth, thinking on what was, what might have been, and plotting his revenge. While I was off flirting with my CD burner he crept out of the cupboard and into parliament; twisted, nasty, hate-filled and hateful, vowing to destroy everything I stood for.

People of Australia – it's all my fault. Please forgive me.