Stirring the possum, episode 1: The keys to the kingdom

What a remarkable lesson in civics we have had thrust upon us in recent days as Australian democracy received a sudden and sensational make-over. All the more remarkable that we, the voters, were not asked to play any role whatsoever in the making of Australia’s newest Prime Minister. How’s that for reinforcing our inalienable democratic rights and privileges?

And how good were the cleaners? All that blood mopped-up and no mess left over! The Rectangle Office all ready for the new incumbent within 24 hours. And Our Kevvie? For a corpse, he looked as though he had received the best mortician treatment in the land. You couldn’t see any scars (other than emotional: they were just too painful to fully disguise) and he gave every appearance of being able to walk and talk at the same time. Not something most men can do even on a good day, so it is congratulations all around.

Interesting that there was nothing illegal or unconstitutional in the processes that delivered our nation its 27th Prime Minister. Nothing nice nor pleasant about it, either, but Labor Party kingmakers clearly don’t feel they have to pretend they are the sorts of people you’d be happy to have your children play with. Besides, the factional warlords who govern Labor wouldn’t have time to play with children since they are so busy exercising their divine right to run the country as they see fit.

They are a malevolent mob, these murky marauders who stalk their prey via smartphones. Their idea of a Constitution is the latest series of opinion polls. They pretend their legitimacy derives from voter sentiment but the lie is given to this when they pre-empt voters’ right to choose the leader of our nation. They act, perhaps, in the interests of their own party but, more certainly, in their own perceived self-interest. Like paedophiles peddling porn, these ruthless racketeers swap numbers like sex workers touting for tricks. In their very own flea-market of favours these connivers are as mangy as any outcast cur. Noteworthy that not many women deign to delve into this cesspit. All to their credit.

It is worth passing consideration, too, that the bib and brace bandidos in the union movement are another lot who believe they have a right to run the country as they see fit. At what point did “I’m in a union” bestow a greater democratic privilege than “I’m self-employed” or “I’m currently out of work” or “I’m a capitalist who lives off investments”? The arrogance of these organised workers is breath-taking since they assume for themselves the right to tell the rest of us how we shall be governed and by whom. And they shout from the rooftops that it’s all to protect our democratic freedoms. What rot! Fascinating that it has been the Silver Bodgie who took it upon himself to defend this exclusive franchise method of choosing our national leader. But, of course, young Bobby Hawke rode the trade union armchair straight into the Lodge himself. Well that gives him an unbiased outlook, eh?

All of which really only amounts to spilt milk since Labor’s internal machinations are not subject to anyone else’s imprimatur, not even those of us entitled to vote for our Prime Minister nor, indeed, to the vast bulk of the ALP’s membership. But if paid-up punters are foolish enough to allow themselves to get done over by their own backroom blackguards, they deserve their disenfranchisement. Reform can only be achieved by internal resolve and there has been scant evidence of that in recent decades. For the rest of us, we get to watch impotently as the factional fiefdoms divide their spoils according to their own arcane rules of engagement. It just makes Labor’s claim to be a democratically representative party rather laughable.

But what is the upshot of all these machinations? We are led to believe feminism has scored the sweetest of victories here in the land of the rugged individualist. Or has it? Sadly, the hurrahs are misplaced. The sound of shattering glass was not that infernal ceiling that has supposedly kept women downtrodden for so long, it was just Kevin Rudd’s head forcefully fracturing the Prime Ministerial coffee table as it fell from his sagging shoulders. Julia Gillard may yet win the looming popularity contest that would truly signify a landmark feminist triumph but, for the moment, she is merely the plaything of a bunch of males teeming with testosterone and as full of bloodlust as a chronic steroid abuser. Not a pleasant notion, certainly, but politics is riddled with harsh realities as we have just been reminded.

There’s one thing about the installation of Australia’s first female Prime Minister that warrants consideration and it concerns the discovery of a Russian spy ring in the United States. The whole she-bang was headed-up by a sultry redhead who used charm, good looks and great communication skills to infiltrate American society. Given Russia’s belief that carrot-tops can get under our guards better than anyone else – just think Kerry O’Brien – can we safely assume Hot and Steamy Gillard is not a Russian femme fatale? Her accent sounds funny. ASIO, ASIO, can you hear us? We need you to check out that girl in the big office in the Big House of the Big Flag. Quickly!

Wasn’t it wonderful, too, to watch Hot and Steamy’s verbal peck on the cheek for Wonderful Wayne at the launch of her great big new rental bond on stuff in the ground that’s worth lots of money? One felt like a voyeur as these two flirted for the national media. But the idolatry of Waynee Poo as he pledged his undying passion for his new leader made you turn your eyes away. It was so personal and heartfelt that one could feel a flush suffusing one’s features. Until you recalled that these two have been playing hard and fast with each other behind the shed for the past three years as KRuddy’s right and left hands. So, if you want to govern the country, guys, just get on with it but spare us the slapstick. The punchline falls flat and, as a sight gag, well . . . let’s just say that some images you just don’t want to recall.

Just a few short weeks now till we get to say whether this honeymoon is the best ever – or it’s all doomed to end in a messy divorce! Can’t wait.