FEDERAL Workplace Relations Minister Bill Shorten dubbed it a glorified retirement village. As a house of review it's been one of the two chambers of the Tasmanian Parliament for 187 years, contains antique furniture, once hosted a federal cabinet meeting of Tasmanian-born prime minister Joe Lyons, and full voting rights for men and women was not legislated until 1968.
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Tasmania's 15-member Legislative Council is an unknown in spite of enormous powers.
Many think it's a local government council, and most couldn't name one representative.
It's a backroom giant in our democracy, cloistered among quaint surrounds in the east wing of Parliament House in Hobart.
An imposing portrait of Queen Victoria is suspended in the chamber like a colonial hangover.
A cap is imposed on election campaign spending, which means you can't buy a seat with advertising, like you can in other elections.
The average age of council members is 57. Six of them are aged in their 50s, two in their 40s and seven aged in their 60s.
The career backgrounds include two police commanders, a nurse, a criminologist, a lawyer, former radio host, and several mayors and deputy mayors.
The council costs $6.2 million a year to run, including $2.9 million for members' salaries and allowances.
It has 39 sitting days scheduled this year, plus seven committee days set aside to vet government finances and operations.
Unlike the drone-like, party-dominated Senate, the council is the only chamber in Australia not controlled by the government or political parties of the lower house.
The political make-up includes two Labor MLCs, one Liberal and 12 independents, although you could informally pidgeon hole some of those 12 into either camp.
Uniquely, the council is not only immune from state government control, it is in fact more powerful. The council can't amend money bills from the House of Assembly but it can reject them. MLCs are elected on a six-year rotational roster, where two or three seats come up for election each year.
Because the council does not face the people all at once it can't be dissolved in your typical double dissolution. This means it can reject a money bill and force the House of Assembly to an election while not having to face the people itself. This has happened only once in 1948, but the power is there, tucked away in a silo, like a thermo-nuclear weapon if any government gets too big for its boots.
The council has performed badly at times, like in 1993 when it took 30 minutes to accept the government's legislation for a 40 per cent pay rise for MPs but rejected the government's bid for an off-set to the pay rise by cutting the number of MPs.
In 1998, the major parties got their way and while the House of Assembly numbers were cut to 25, the council lost four seats to a snug, smaller house of 15.
At other times it has flourished as a bulwark against executive power.
In 1982, it rejected government laws to make it possible for police to breath-test someone at home, if they believed the person had been drinking and driving. In 1986 the council threw out government attempts to have major projects quarantined from appeal rights and even local government checks and balances.
Up until 1996 there was a mechanism to resolve deadlocks between the two houses, but this was abolished.
The two chambers now co-exist like North and South Korea, with the ``North'' being totally unpredictable, given the independence and sometimes hot headed nature of its members.
Some retirement village, Mr Shorten! More like a force to be reckoned with.
Barry Prismall is a deputy editor of The Examiner.
