A very cruddy fable, Part 19: Class warfare – a catalyst for chaos

Can it truly be that the Land Under the Southern Stars is being rent asunder by a charlatan who honours only hubris? Can it truly be that as the Gregorian calendar readies itself to mark the second decade of a new millennium the Downunders are being led backwards into mediaeval class warfare? Can it truly be that a chingchong-speaking former diplomat now resorts to xenophobic name-calling to denigrate those who have paddled canoes full of gold coinage from lands far away so that our common wealth could grow fat and prosperous across many generations?

These are disturbing times and it is not easy to make light of the deliberate rending of the fabric of our society yet it is passing strange that Comrade Cruddy has had his tailor run-up several imitation versions of Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il’s classic military dress uniforms. Apparently they were bought to mark the launch of Marxist Marr’s new polemic – Smarmy Face: Angry Heart. This titillatious tell-all tattle-tale is taut with terrific tension as readers contemplate the Angry One’s description of his chingchong-speaking mates as “Rat-f-ckers”. One wonders if the slanty-eyes got word of this through their ten zillion listening posts across the globe and retaliated in kind by rat-f-cking Angry at Copenhagen just for laughs. A wise old owl once said: Funnier things have happened in international diplomacy. But the bird flew away before he could name one. Very perspicacious, those Mandarins.

The week’s sporting highlight remained The Evil Bastard Miners versus Vote For Me Coz I’m Not Him. Sports fans across the land were apparently supposed to reel in horror at the very idea that the Man Who Goes By The Sign of The Cross could one day assume the emperor’s throne by winning a best-of-three contest in misbegotten policies. Coz I’m Not Him was seen staggering away, dazed and amazed, after fans rose as one to give him the thumbs down, intermingled with quite a smattering of one-finger salutes that the video referee eventually ruled were off-side. Coz I’m Not Him apparently cancelled his order for a new full-body lycra suit saying that if fans were too stupid to recognise his innate superiority over all-comers they’d never get to see the best of him. More rousing cheers ensued.

It was a trip down memory lane this past week, too, as the Ear Trumpet Guild established a presence in Kevvieberra. Before the Dear Leader could utter his very first “May I just say” of the morning, they had distributed hundreds of flesh-coloured, almost-invisible ear trumpets to the gathered hordes. Onlookers were mystified because they could all too clearly hear Dear Leader spruiking his daily lesson on the evils of the Lollipops and their savage plans to defile vestal virgins, warm the globe to Hades’ levels and destroy democracy with their fiendish plan to wrest government from the Fabians. Then helpful helpers held aloft pages of newshseets on which were printed claims by the Evil Bastard Miners that said: “We hear what you say, KRudd, but you still won’t listen.” “Talk with us, KRudd, don’t shout at us” and “Negotiate, don’t detonate”. But then a hush descended on the gathering as a solitary cyclist was seen pedalling by and the word went around: “Il Papa! Il Papa!” and all who witnessed this miraculous morning missile suddenly felt warm and comfortable.

And, lo and behold, we who watch things closely were privileged to share the second coming-out of Death’s Head. On an occasion which he might have hoped would be marked by trumpets and tributes, the oily one had to sadly acknowledge he had been cuckolded by his Once Great Leader who refused to talk to him about lighting farts (known in some parts as a scheme to reduce methane emissions). One Man Band Rudd had penned a new tune called “I lost my heart in Copenhagen” but refused to rehearse with other players. Death is clearly still haunted by his leader’s rejection and wandered into a national television studio to admit he was L’Etranger. Worse was to follow though when, reincarnated as the Minister for Things that Won’t Catch Fire, Electrocute or Leak Votes, he withdrew the burqa from a new indigenous arts scheme. The details are too complex to recount. Which is exactly what his new pals in indigenous communities said: “You didn’t consult adequately and it will need an army of new bureaucrats to administer”. Oh, it’s like old Beatles’ songs – they just keep replaying in your head time and time and time again.

A bit of a reprise, too, from The Blackfella who cried crocodile tears and once again begged-off his impending Kirribilli barbecue on the basis that America now has more oil than it knows what to do with for the first time since the Clampett Clan hit the jackpot. The emperor with no clothes said he had been so looking forward to playing dress-ups with the First Family but would now make-do by burning effigies of papists in a bid to ward-off evil spirits that are threatening to gate-crash his planned Rocktober ballot-a-thon. For his part, the Supreme Being of the Universe As We Know It is taking classes in impotence but apparently doesn’t like the course outline and has proposed his major assignment be on the topic: “The role of British Petrolheads in fomenting a Tea Party revolution”. It is suggested his efforts will be subjected to a series of very critical reviews.

It’s heretical, we know, but questions have started to emerge about Monsignor Antony’s commitment to his faith. Scurrilous whispers suggested he was ready to renounce. While many said the very idea was preposterous some sleazy types mentioned the former papist, Kevvie, who got lost on the way to church one Sunday and recast himself as a Proddie Dog. Agog and aghast alike, concerned citizens pressed for more information about the Mons. Word eventually came down from the mountain (though not engraved on tablets of stone) that Mons for the second consecutive week had failed to attend confessional and own up to his all-too-human frailties. This is not a sin but the chorus of cheers from backroom boys and girls who work feverishly through the nights to elevate Mons to a higher role signalled their joy at fourteen blissful days of no own goals. Dare we start to dream?