A very cruddy fable Part 3 Vale, budgie!

The Monsignor got his knickers in a twist this week when he failed to recognise that he was not a breast man and suggested, inadvertently of course, that only sheilas really know how to get the creases right while ironing. Having burned his thumb on the hot iron of gender balance, the Monsignor executed a strategic withdrawal back to the safety of the benches in the Steel Cage allocated to Her Majesty’s Loyal Curmudgeons. From there, his close-quarters knife and nunchakus assaults on Our Kevvie appeared, finally, to get up the Great Leader’s ribs. In reply and opting for attack as the best form of attention-diversion, Our Kevvie made it clear he would no longer play to The Monsignor’s strengths and budgie smugglers will forthwith no longer be mentioned across the Despatch Boxes. A minute’s silence was upheld to commemorate a fading vision of Australian manhood. Vale, budgie!

Playing to his strengths (yeah, right) Our Kevvie launched into the heartland of his policy platform. “I welcome the start of the health and hospitals’ debate”, he harrumphed. Suddenly all the Curmudgeons could hear mental replays of ‘Let’s do the time warp again’. Just a shame really that he was supposed to have resolved that issue last year. And to think a Grand Coalition of Labor state administrations and a resurgent federal government was supposed to presage the solving of every problem known to Australiankind. Talk about talking about talking about talking about! Hop to it, Mr Ditherer. We’re all waiting, mate.

Meantime, Robin Hood (the post-socialist wealth redistributionist) touched our lives with a Grand Gesture this week. He stopped subsidising the banks! Now, you might wonder why a post-socialist is looking after the biggest end of town instead of consigning them to the everlasting fires of hell to repent at leisure on their sins? Just a Faustian pact to enable post-socialists to steal power in a capitalist system. Go figure! Be that as it may, Robin told those dirty, filthy banks he was no longer going to subsidise their borrowings. ‘Toughen up and compete on global markets on your own’, he shouted at them from the safety and comparative isolation of his Steel Cage office. Having admitted he had called upon the Council of Financial Regulators (known to the gremlins of Canberra as the faceless bastards you can call upon when needing to make apparently tough decisions to look good), he then thundered: ‘Don’t you bastards dare raise your interest rates inappropriately when that Motherdollar Bank next does its thing. You’ve sucked on the teat of our generosity way long enough and we are starting to feel a little uncomfortable in the arrangement’ (there was more – a lot more – in this vein but it is inappropriate in a family-oriented blog to go further down that path. Suffice to say that suckling and teating and legitimacy and who’s up who and who’s paying the rent and lots of associated issues were all too incestuous to reprint here). But just as Robin felt the first stirrings of his manhood as he stood tall against the monopolistic capitalist bastards that are the banks, he shuddered as Queensland’s enfant terrible – Treasurer Andrew Fraser – argued that this relaxation of boundless generosity would force the Shady State to sell-off more public assets. Robin Hood was last seen in the Steel Cage garden banging his head against the flagstones in front of where the Great Leader talks to the assembled media hacks. Startled onlookers could have sworn he was saying: ‘I’ll kill the little bastard’ but the reports were unconfirmed.

This was also the week in which those ‘privileged’ enough to have time to watch vacuous television shows could have stumbled across one of the more disturbing sights since Hieronymus Bosch had some bad dreams. It was none other than – and the name appears likely to stick! – Tinkerbell. Having appeared to have misplaced his copy of the last Budget Estimates, Tinkerbell flaunted his all on national television. Well, his all was covered by trousers and a tutu but you have to agree that raises more questions than it answers. The wand and the crown were simpatico accessories but still one feels queasy about what it might all have meant. Whether Tinkerbell was contemplating life after the Steel Cage, a disastrous and failed recovery from one helluva night before, or a complete mental breakdown that made Gordon Grech look cool, calm and collected, is not known. Perhaps the best that could be said for the performance was that it no doubt continues to create miraculous mirth across all factions of the Australian Loyalists’ Party. To have achieved such unity is a rare thing but one wonders whether Tinkerbell actually deserves praise for it.

Perhaps demonstrating that the neo-Libs and naughty Nats weren’t just a one-trick sideshow the Curmudgeons’ other star trouper, Barndoor Joke, gave a tour de force, too. Whisking the wheat stalk from his teeth for the day, Barndoor set off for the National Press Club dressed so smartly that he looked for all the world as though he had as much money as Patrician the Turncoat. Not bad for a rural accountant. And not bad for the stylists who clearly don’t think a bunch of rabble-rousing hicks can’t be made to look a million dollars with the right make-over. But there had to be disappointment. Why? Because you can’t address the Press Club without opening your mouth. And when Barndoor did that he reinforced every nervous curmudgeon who ever fretted about fiscal policy. There are those who think the Monsignor made a ghastly mistake in trusting Barndoor with such a challenging portfolio. A few secretive members of the Machiavelli Society, though, reckon the Mons set Barndoor up to fail. Which seems even at this early stage to have an air of inevitability about it, you have to confess. That is, lest Hand Me The Spanner keeps kicking own goals by indulging in nastiness such as labelling Barndoor a Freak Show. He should remember that the Mums and Dads don’t mind smart-arses getting their comeuppance and it’s a national characteristic to give a sucker an even break (just ask Pauline Pantsdown). Beware Mr Spanner. Cold showers are such a valuable commodity, even in the hot-house that is Canberra.

Highlight of the week: watching Death’s Head wrap his skull in aluminium foil and plug it into an electric socket to demonstrate how safe his home insulation scheme really is.  The startled gasps of media hacks as they watched blue sparks erupt from Death’s Head’s head signified something was dreadfully awry. But Death said he had lost only four brain cells so, clearly, everything was just fine.  His repeated mutterings of ‘Only four, just fine’ continuously as he re-entered the Steel Cage for Prod and Poke Time made others wonder, but not our mate. Spare a thought for the poor four.