Politics is often said to be a dirty business. Rarely is that statement more literally accurate than it was in my office this morning.

There are moments in political life that demand introspection, contrition, and—on rare occasions—a public acknowledgment of gastrointestinal mismanagement.

I’d been working through a stack of briefing documents in my office at Parliament House when the call of duty—no, not Question Time—sounded deep in my gut. Perhaps it was the regrettable decision to consume a couple of packets of Twisties from Aussies’ and a suspiciously greasy chicken wrap earlier in the week. Perhaps it was the triple-shot long black that followed a Treasury update on productivity stagnation (we’re fucked by the way, Kennedy told me I’m not helping. Christ those National Accounts figures yesterday were depressing!). Anyway, perhaps it was fate.

All I know is that as I queued up a document to print—some light toilet reading on the shithouse business investment figures—but I underestimated the urgency of my personal circumstances. Nature is a ruthless timekeeper, I slow-leaked four, maybe five or six, eggies, in my office before the document printed. The document had barely left the printer tray before the real urge struck like a sudden shift in the bond market.

In my haste, I miscalculated the timing between standing and sitting. What followed was a narrowly-contained breach. A tactical withdrawal was possible, but it came perilously close to being a full-blown evacuation before the seat was secured. Think of it as a fiscal cliff—but for the bowels. I made it. Mostly. In short, some shit came out even before I got seated but not in an uncontained way, but I held it between my butt cheeks like I was holding onto a close pre-selection race. Controlled but dangerous, damn that coffee was strong.

Naturally, after I returned to my office—still a bit rattled, pants slightly looser than before—I was met with the unmistakable sound of voices in the corridor. And to my horror, I noticed the unmistakable smell had not yet dissipated.

An adviser entered, Jacob. Brave. Loyal. Foolish. He paused. He winced. Senior Treasury officials were here to brief me on the outlook for the economy, and they followed him in after he spread some bullshit rumor about Angus Taylor having a third testicle.

I did what any senior politician with media training and a precarious approval rating would do: I blamed him. “Mate, seriously?” I said, gesturing around the room with the faux exasperation of a man who definitely hadn't just dropped a Category 3 event in a ministerial dunny.

He nodded. He always does. He knows the game. He hates it, but he knows it.

The Treasury officials were good about it. They pretended there wasn’t a vile, unhealthy smell in the office but you could tell by the expression on their faces it was affecting them. They probably didn’t know who had dropped it, and they knew not to ask. They looked nervously at both of us as they went through the briefing notes on the updated economic forecasts. I felt bad, but it’s the price you pay for being close to power, and unfortunately close also to the rich convenience diets low in fibre associated with power.

Later, over lunch (which for me was a humble chicken salad with no dressing), Jacob looked at me and said, “You owe me.”

He’s right. I do.

So let this be my public reckoning. I, Jim Chalmers, take responsibility for the incident known internally as “The Fart Summit.” I will eat better. I will respect the timing of coffee and printer queues. And I will no longer allow loyal staffers to bear the brunt—olfactory or otherwise—of my dietary choices.

Canberra deserves better. Jacob deserves better. And most of all, Treasury officials deserve better than walking into a silent biochemical ambush of denial, diet Coke, and institutional gaslighting.

Let’s build back cleaner.