A few new rounds in the Steel Cage

Faced with the prospect of yet another interest rate rise this week, Our Kevvie huffed and puffed about the need for restraint until, well, he felt short of breath. Not for him the fitness that flows from midnight lycra-clad cycling up mountains. Leave that to that idiot Monsignor. Must be because the Mons knew just which church he was aligned to that he got such support from Above. Kevvie couldn’t quite choose which was the best brand of heaven (the Poms or the Eyeties) so he was still conducting analysis. In the meantime there was that hideous Motherdollar Bank threatening his chances of becoming the world’s longest serving Prime Minister. Didn’t those idiot savants in charge of that place understand that this is an election year? Still, since they appeared to have taken his purely reasonable and legitimate concerns on board and not boosted the usury rate by another shekel, he might not sack the lot of them just yet. But they’d better consider themselves to be on notice, Kevvie harrumphed to himself.

And he did a bit more of that when all the Animals crowded back into the Steel Cage. Our Kevvie was looking forward to a bit of blood sport with the Mons. Damned shame he had to share a church service with him first but Kevvie kept a close watch to see if Mons made any secret signs of the cross or whatnot. Nothing he could spot but then there was the galling frustration of having to be nice to him out front with Mother Theresa like a bloody performing seal for all of those cameras. It was enough to make Our Kevvie mutter a prayer.

The first few rounds of blood sport went quite well, too. Mons made a mistake the first time he spoke but Kevvie roughed him up enough to show who was The Top Dog. And then he unleashed his big surprise: he has invited the Blackfella to pop Down Under and lecture the troops on how to impose centre-left hegemony on all the peoples of the world. Kevvie said that the Blackfella, fresh from his recent How Things’re Going fireside chat with the American people, had been brushing-up on Fidel Castro’s legendary speech-making abilities. “Hilarity Condom phoned me early yesterday our time to confide that the Blackfella can now go eight and a half hours without a break so I’m warning all you Animals to keep your hands out of your pockets or face the consequences.” When advised by industrial roundspersons that such lengthy mandatory listening was a breach of ILO conventions on forced labour, Our Kevvie told them they could have Work Choices back if they were not nicer in future. Imbeciles, he muttered to himself.

Then Kevvie remembered the touch-up he’d given his sidekick, Way Down Upon The. It was during the first few rounds in the Steel Cage when he was telling everyone how many championships he’d won during the past two years. He’d learned this from Chocka the boxer who’d phoned his office one day to offer ringside seats. Offered some bikers and all to protect him but Kevvie kept his bile down while yelling at staff to just tell him to naff off. Anyway . . . Way Down had been sitting nearby with a big smirk as Kevvie extolled the virtues of his team and their wonderful contributions to the Aussie Lullaby Party’s success when he thought he’d have a bit of fun. So he heaped accolades on Hot and Steamy and several more of the front office staff even including Death’s Head who hasn’t scored a point in half a year but he didn’t mention Way Down once. Well, the look on Way Down’s face as he stormed out of the Cage was worth a year’s salary, Kevvie reckoned. It was all he could do to keep a straight face.

But, hey, Way Down had scored big time in the publicity stakes during the week with his Indigestion Report which predicted that many more Australians would get tummy aches in the years to come, expected to number 36 million cases by 2050. The report’s major thrust was that there would be too few Mylantas to cope with the burgeoning tide of dyspepsia. Way Down doesn’t like the thought of having to provide for all these malingerers and he warned us we’ll have to flog the horse harder if we are to all afford a burial plot. Joe Knock The Socks Off ‘Em quickly went into scare mode, warning that all under-the-mattress nest eggs would be filched and eons of poverty would curse our remaining days. When that little booster failed to fly he quickly buggered-off again in his eternal quest for another morning television slot.

While Kevvie was eager to sink the boot into The Monsignor, he had another distraction to deal with. A mischief-maker was alleged to have commissioned secret market research into what voters think of Hot and Steamy. Those inclined to a nod and a wink suggested the results showed the DPM could win more votes than Kevvie even if she kept her clothes on. Many of Her Majesty’s Loyal Curmudgeons appeared quite distracted by the very thought and ruminated during Prod and Poke Time even more than a Nationals-voting bovine. Hot and Steamy shed no clothes nor any light on the research, again much to the annoyance of many of the Curmudgeons. Kevvie knew that behind her coy smile and whimsical Welsh wiles, there lurked a determined and ambitious competitor. He’d fix her, one day, but first he wanted to let tenders for a Great Big New Rack upon which he could slowly lengthen the Monsignor’s short-arse frame. A frisson of frustration flexed Kevvie’s own frame as he knew he could not get away with such a torturous twist of his new nemesis. But the mere thought comforted him. One day he’d make them all suffer for their slights. Until then . . .