A very cruddy fable (Part 21): Of roosters and feather dusters
Ah, the New South Wales Labor Right. Willing martyrs to the cause of absolute power, these guys are the suicide bombers of Fabian factional warfare. Boasting heads harder than anvils, their hearts are just as malleable. Their vision: supremacy. Their mission: patronage. Their policy: pragmatism.
Direct descendants of the berserkers and vandals (and sparked into action on this occasion by the Victorian Visigoths), these latter-day pillagers ply their trade with ruthless abandon. Take no prisoners is their maxim and they despatch opponents with fierce frenzy. They are as misogynists to feminists, rapists to virgins, and defilers of deities.
The bloodlust that courses their veins overpowers any notion of restraint. As furtive as ninjas, they eschew the daylight preferring darkened corridors wherein they can ambush their foes, both real and imagined, dispensing rough justice without recourse to tenets of due process. Drunk on the doctrine of divine right (and they do fancy themselves as divinities) their desperation for dominance drives their deceit and duplicity.
But if there is one trait above all others that characterises their degeneracy it is their disavowal of responsibility. They demand the right to inflict their will on others but refuse to be held to account.
Their story is a tragedy in many parts yet it can be summarised succinctly: they transformed The First State into The Failed State. Their record is a cavalcade of corruption, a litany of laxity, a shanty of shame. Yet, having ransacked their own citadel and laid waste the citizenry, their savagery remains unassuaged and they turned their attention to Kevvieberra and plotted the downfall of the Emperor.
So it was that Square Eyes, the arms merchant, took on a new role of honest broker as he ushered Hot and Steamy into the Crudd Cave at The Hotel California. Oh, to have been a fly on that wall. Expletives deleted as a new reality was conveyed to the once and former ruler of the Land Under the Southern Stars.
Before this Emperor could even utter an “Et tu, Brutus?” the right and the left and the centre and the north, south, east and west had joined a devil’s dervish to trample his memory into the dust. All were embarrassed by the adulation they had, with rapturous abandon, once bestowed on their former hero. Loyalty, as conceptualised by the Fabians, cannot carry a card to self-preservation. Which is why the Lollipops had persisted with Wee Willie Winston and all sat around drinking Jonestown lemonade in the belief that one should follow the leader not execute them. One can but hope that the warm inner glow of optimism that pervaded the serried ranks of those supine servants in 07 has been tempered by the past three years of penal servitude. “Carpe diem”, cry the downtrodden masses of Lollipop fans who want the sweets shop to reopen its doors.
And now we watch in shock and awe as Hot and Steamy plies her trade. Feminine wiles are the way of the world now and the audience can but look-on in mystified bemusement as a true charmer in the tradition of Dita Von Teese titillates with her tassles. Among her very first victims was Bloodnut O’Brien who could hardly read his closing script for the blush that suffused his excited boyish features as he reeled from his first forthright glance at Medusa. It is to be hoped he gave himself adequate time to stand from the desk after his gripping encounter with Steamy. One could not help but notice his inability to even look her in the eye for most of their time together as he read question after question from his research notes rather than engage her in actual conversation.
So it is that as intimations of mortality afflict the cast of characters striding our national stage, real life is offering a shimmering reflection of their political posturing. Passing strange that in a period of such intense political conflict on the local stage, warring parties were able to coalesce over the deaths of service personnel in faraway lands. Even as they stood with razor-sharp daggers at each other’s throats, the main players resisted the temptation to slash and instead adhered to a gentleperson’s agreement to maintain a bipartisan approach. Sometimes it is the unanticipated facets of national life that give hope for the future. All too often in our pursuit of tribal loyalties we lose sight of the fact that it is the very fabric of our society that we play with. If we were to ask those who have laid down their lives for us – albeit indirectly – what might they offer as lessons? Difficult to imagine they would propose greater animosity and less respect. To their memory then.
Mysterious, too, the loss of an influential group of Big Bad Evil Miners in deepest Africa. By what magic were they plucked from the scene? Was it the hand of a divinity that removed them from the mortal coil? Again, passing strange the timing of this pungent reminder of our own mortality. Though one might have the world at one’s feet, always remember that it is easy to slip over the edge and tumble into whatever reality one imagines is appropriate for individual circumstances.
The fabler, too, must lament the passing of What Was His Name as his demise necessarily draws the curtain on the ribald and raucous rampage that has been A Very Cruddy Fable. ‘Twas fun.