It’s a slow news day today. You can always feel them in the air — tumbleweeds roll through editorial meetings and bleary-eyed reporters stare at their shoes and mumble “Uhm, what about… mmm, nah, got nothing.” Today’s Crikey will still be its usual stellar self, of course — we aren’t so married to the news cycle to provide our sparkling and insightful analysis — but when not too much is going on in the world, journalistic Spidey senses collectively fail to tingle for hacks across the country and we all sigh as we reach for the third, fourth, fifth coffee before midday.

Anyway, the point is: it’s a bit quiet on the western front. And that’s when stories like this get a lot of traction:

A mother of four is facing up to five years in a Thai prison after allegedly stealing a bar mat from an Aussie-theme bar in Phuket.

…

In a statutory declaration to Victoria Police, Ms Smoel’s friends said they had played a “silly joke” on Ms Smoel that had backfired.

“We would like to apologise for any harm, inconvenience or any lack of respect on our behalf. This was truly not our intention.

“We were all out drinking and became intoxicated. We put the bar mat into Annice’s handbag and she was unaware that we were playing a joke on her.”

Like many young(ish) people, I spent several years tending bars when I was studying, and truly there are few places better for observing the human condition. One thing that repeatedly confounded me was people’s attitude to property theft when inside a licensed venue.

You probably wouldn’t even consider pocketing your latte glass when enjoying a coffee and focaccia at a local cafe, but nabbing pint glasses is just a normal part of having a drink to many pub-goers. And not in a “Ooh, aren’t I cheeky? I might sneak this home with me, tee hee” kind of way, but usually a far more cavalier “I like this; I’ll take it” way. Plenty of the la-di-da “we only serve European beers hand-made by blind monks” venues around now require punters to leave a credit card or deposit while they sip from any of the really fancy glasses, because they know they wouldn’t last a night if they left it up to honesty and trust.

And it isn’t just glasses — I caught punters trying to casually walk off with barstools, paintings, ice buckets, beer taps, ice scoops, chalk-boards… if it’s housed near beer, for some reason it’s considered fair game to most people. I once stood and watched a woman stand on a chair and take down 24 novelty teaspoons that were on the pub’s wall one by one, casually putting each into her handbag. When I asked why she thought she could just steal our decor, she said quizzically at me like I was a total moron and replied: “Because… it’s a pub!”

And yes — bar mats (”bar runners” to those in the trade). Everyone wants a bar mat, imagining in their inebriated state that a manky piece of felt and rubber emblazoned with the VB logo will make the perfect addition to their kitchen bench. But, as any bartender will tell you, the joke’s on them: picking up a bar runner any time after about 6pm is a guaranteed way to give yourself a good shower of stale beer, vodka-and-raspberry runoff, peanut crumbs and God knows what else.

There is an art to removing bar mats without getting coated in the evening’s dregs, and if you’re trying to nab a crusty old beer-sponge from you local, trust me: you don’t know it.

Anyway, it’s hardly a crime that warrants five years in prison, but it is, y’know, a crime.

Pro tip: Bar mats actually come free from the distributors. If you really want one, just ask the publican. Nicking them isn’t annoying because it costs money, it’s annoying because not having enough runners means you’re constantly wiping down the bar. Ask politely and, when they get a new bunch in from a brewery, they’ll probably be happy to offload the old scungy ones onto you.

On Tuesday I was in Canberra at Parliament House for the Federal Budget.

Even though you probably think Crikey is a one-horse operation run out of some guy’s garage on money we steal from wishing fountains and sheer rat cunning (and you’d mostly be right), we in fact have a real office here in the beating democratic heart of our nation — one with computers, telephones, an electric kettle and four clocks (Canberra, Tokyo, New York and London, though why anyone here needs to know the latter three times eludes me slightly. Perhaps it’s to give the office a slightly more cosmopolitan edge) — and that is where I was located for the day.

The only Crikey-specific parts of the office appeared to be a Mayne-era mug and baseball cap, which is a bit grim. I will send up a First Dog calendar.

If you ever come to visit, you can look out for our sign:  Mmmm. Compare and contrast:

Your tax dollars at work

At about midday, Bernard Keane and our friend John Quiggin went into the Budget lock-up, while Guy Rundle headed off into the wilds of Canberra to buy some adult clothes so they’d let him in to the press conferences (he later returned with a $29 Target jacket with the security tag still attached and a hip flask of vodka), and I had a good five hours to kill between edition. Here is what I did:

Ate. The APH cafeteria does a decent (and well-priced) coffee and, more importantly, is a great place to people-watch. There’s nothing quite like watching senators discuss Serious Government Business while licking the ice-cream drips off a white chocolate Magnum, or getting to fully appreciate the leathery fake tans of TV journos in the flesh when standing next to pallid public servants.

Snooped around the building. The pass they gave me pretty much allowed me to go everywhere, much to the annoyance of the security guards who offered increasingly suss looks (except one, who offered a sleazy wink). I think it’s because I was wearing one of our Deficit ‘09 tshirts and they were jealous.

Did you know Parliament House has a gym, medical centre, travel agent and a bank? It does. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any pictures or footage of pollies lifting weights, getting STD shots, booking cruise trips or swimming in piles of money, which is a huge failure on my part as a Crikey journalist and I am sorry. In fairness, Budget Day is busy for all concerned and I’m sure they do that stuff on quieter days.

Sat in the House of Reps. Some general observations: Julia Gillard really cakes on the makeup; Simon Crean has shocking posture; the front bench seats are really too low for Peter Garrett, and he looked very uncomfortable trying to position his long gangly legs; Greg Combet is a very attentive listener.

The highlight came when the Libs’ Jamie Briggs said: “I am firmly against illicit drugs, unlike the minister for health and those on the other side.” Anthony Albanese asked for him to withdraw the statement, which saw Harry Jenkins switch into prime Parliamentary-etiquette-expertise mode and start rattling off the precedents for parliamentary protocol. Dick Adams was yelling “You’re an idiot!” at Briggs, who remained steadfast that he wouldn’t withdraw the statement. Then a little fuzzy marsupial popped up, and it was Bronwyn Bishop raising a point of order, which sent the entire government into cataclysms of laughter and ALP backbenchers started mocking Briggs: “You have to get Bronwyn to defend you!!” and we all laughed, because that is embarrassing. Briggs withdrew the statement, and the entire government front bench stood up and left. You can read it all on page 36 of Hansard here, but they skipped all the good bits. Maybe you had to be there.

Watched Sky News being filmed LIVE. They’re smaller in real life.

Five hours and six trips to the vending machine later, Bernard and John were released from the lock-up, and Guy and I descended onto the press conferences to hang out with Bill Heffernan. Next year, I will bring a book.

Here’s a bit of extra footage from our late-night Parliament House shenanigans: