Many were those who sipped (some even slurped) from the Chalice this past week. One who veritably guzzled was unionist sans visage, Jackie Howe. He left his blue singlet at home, the better to mingle with a torrent of trendy capitalists at the launch of his tome without a face. Nor was he inclined to delicacy in his treatment of that likely lad, Our Kevvie. No, it was a bucket of bile for poor Kevvie who was shorn of his fleece better than old Jackie could ever do a sheep. Haydo, the former drover’s dog, once introduced the term to flense into our local political lexicon and young Jackie seems very taken with the concept, leaving Kevvie an ideal candidate for Fiona Wood’s spray-on skin. And these are notional comrades-in-arms! Even Cleopatra would be askance at clutching this one to her bosom.

But Kevvie – who thought we’d ever remember him with something approaching sentiment? – had his comeuppance. Having reprised his diplomatic skills during recent whirlwind wanderings around the globe, he was able to do a soft-shoe shuffle with Hills Hoist, the Presidentess-in-waiting. And such a gay and hearty it was. His new best girl – who it must be acknowledged chooses her words with such skill and certainty that nary a slip passes twixt her lip and microphone – adorned him with the old token of affection: Prime Minister. Well, wasn’t he chuffed! Yes, his office later sanitised the term in the official record but for days the nation was bathed in the brilliant glare of a supernova that was just Kevvie’s new-found smile. Watch out, Mother Theresa, the US-Aussie alliance may be about to get a going-over.

Queen Julia herself kept imbibing from the Chalice as the peasants recorded their displeasure at the continuance of her ‘real’ persona. Newspoll suggests they don’t actually dislike her but are finding it hard to take a shine to her portrayal of her starring role as the nation’s Boss Cocky. Mind you, monarchs are rarely troubled by the platitudes of the peasants so we can expect her to sail serenely on. Though, when travelling to distant parts, her epistles to assembled throngs do need some work.

The Queen’s recent Grand Tour of the region appeared to leave heads of government speechless with her rabid rants on the topic of “Build it and they will come”. No-one was able to quite grasp her proclivity for a fabulous new resort at Timor L’Este. Indeed, few appeared to know just where TL is, far less why The Great South Land would want to build a massive resort there for Indians, Sri Lankans, Afghanis and Pakistanis. No doubt their diplomatic enquiries would have revealed that no-one in the south land understands it either. A mystery to us all!

And then there was the Duck With An Abacus: the one who looks as though he is forced to carry the Chalice with him everywhere these days. Treasurers have for decades been able to wax lyrical every so often about the benefits of a strong dollar but poor old Swannee appears likely to be poleaxed by a little Aussie dollar on steroids. His recent budget update was masterful as he announced the finding of another $10 billion black hole in his sums without even shedding a tear. Tremendous poise, Treasurer! And we all eagerly await the denouement of his faithful promise that the budget will return to surplus regardless of these cataclysmic conniptions.

But The Duck’s poise may be shaken even more by the public disclosure (until now kept under wraps by the mandarins’ shrouds of secrecy) that the NBN poses economic risks. Who would have thought? But, again, this Treasurer is not for turning. Promises to be like watching a road accident unfold.

Nor is it only characters who populate our national Political Play School who get to sup from The Poisoned Chalice. No, that pleasure is now bestowed on all the citizenry of Sydney thanks to the great salt shaker at Kurnell. It’s one of those stupendous screw-ups that make mere mortals wonder what the hell ever goes on in the minds of the would-be clever dicks of the world. You see, this $2 billion source of salvation for a parched land was built on the premise that ocean currents in the vicinity only ever flow one way – to the south. But, wonder of wonders, someone has now pointed out that, in fact, the currents flow north – about a third of the time. This takes the lovely, luscious leftovers of society from the Cronulla sewage outfall right up past the ever-sucking intake of the Kurnell salt shaker. And, thanks to what is described as the impact of a cold eddy, we are told the current has done this for the past week! Raise a glass, Sydney, you’re drinking it! And they reckon Queenslanders are unsophisticated! Tee, hee 

But, in a pleasant end to all this poison-sipping, we gained guidance and insight from the Yankees’ former First Lady: and what a prime lady she proved to be. Hills Hoist squired (and that might indeed be the word) our very own Queen around Melbourne, showing her how to work a media audience, indeed any audience. Hills so adroitly massaged the emotions of those around her that Queen Julia’s lower lip was seen, on occasion, to drop slightly and quiver. Just as Madama Blanchett magnificently and mysteriously melds all others into a miasma, so the Hoist demonstrates sheer class so effortlessly that it bewilders the brain akin to Harry Houdini’s feats of escapism. Fabians everywhere will be praying that the Queen learned some tricks while being so up close and personal.

It must surely be this zealot-like mindset that anything can be forgiven so long as you are one of us that has led to a recent perplexing promotion to Labor’s senior ranks. Patricia Karvelas in The Australian reports that Sharon Grierson, the ALP Member for Newcastle has just secured leadership of the Caucus Economics Committee.

She has done so after Julia Gillard threw out the Kevin Rudd handbook and pledged that Labor backbenchers (and Ministers for that matter!) could actually have a say in policy formulation. A wonderfully enlightened approach to running a  modern democracy!

The fascinating aspect of the Grierson victory is that she is a member of the ALP’s Socialist Left faction. Yes, socialism may have departed the official platform but its spirit has never left the party’s soul, apparently.

How quaint that a committed socialist can now be in charge of a key Labor economic policy formulation engine. Though perhaps quaint is not the word. It may underline Wayne Swan’s recent rhetoric about renewed regulation for the major banks. Maybe Grierson is making her presence felt very quickly?

Perhaps, too, it explains the willingness of Labor to get into bed with the Greens and their wacky economic notions (is anyone sure those guys don’t do drugs?)

It is also food for thought given the surging influence of America’s Tea Party and its antipathy to big-spending big government that Labor here exalts a socialist who no doubt thinks the Rudd-Swan-Gillard stimulus package didn’t go half far enough and that $43 billion for an NBN is barely a decent down-payment. How Ms Grierson must salivate at the thought the US printing another $600 billion in new currency. Whither sanity?

But enough of damning faint praise.

We are beholden to Lisa Murray in The Australian Financial Review who has shed some light on the socialist approach to financial management. Not a pretty picture so be prepared for discomfort if you are, by residential misfortune, a shareholder in the New South Welshian jurisdiction. Superficially there’s a pretty picture with Kenneally and Co reporting a surplus (wonder of wonders!) of $994 million for 2009-10. Just a year earlier, this lot were predicting almost exactly the same number as a deficit. But, no, their economic and management skills have not miraculously turned around in that time. Indeed, their slide down the slippery slope of fiscal imprudence continues not only unabated but perhaps gathering speed.

This is attested by the fact that the water-into-wine trick of deficit into surplus was produced by a federal stimulus gift of $3.2 billion. Which still leaves another $1.2 billion that appears to have simply disappeared into the mist. Albeit some of the gorillas inhabiting that space are those who belong to that rather generic genus known as consultants. Spending on these ubiquitous creatures soared from a still substantial $90 million or so back in 08-09 to a concerning $207 million this past year. Lots of snouts, lots of troughs.

Of greater concern, though, is superannuation. Unfunded liabilities have now leapt to nearly $35 billion and some very pointed questions should surely be asked about how this problem is to be addressed.

Indicative of the slapdash approach to management of funds is that no less than seven of 24 state agencies produced accounts which contained errors of more than $20 million. But what’s a few score million here or there when state net debt is approaching $10 billion?

The position is so parlous that it makes you wonder why anyone would want to put their hand up to sort out the mess. Clearly, altruism is not yet dead.

Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth rent asunder the quietude of the countryside as waves of terrified tenants fled their properties before the malevolent might of the mongrel moneylenders. Word spread like wildfire: the Big Four Visigoth vandal tribes had invaded our shores once again.

The legendary propensity of these marauding mercenaries to rape and pillage has been handed down through history and the little people know full well they are defenceless against the invincible might of The Four Pillars. Protest is pointless and pleas for pity are pooh-poohed when the usurers unleash their umbrage.

This latest shock-and-awe assault on our senses hit hard as the mists of Melbourne Cup cleared and it became apparent that we had been sold out from within. The mendacious Motherdollar Bank snuck under our guard and smote us mightily. It was as if the gnomes who govern it were offended by our flutters and proceeded to punish us for our propensity to party. In the cruellest justification for their excessive show of force, their prognostication was that they foresaw prosperity in the distance. “Mining is magic and it will make us a motza,” they intoned intolerantly. “You who live by borrowing need to be reminded of the ballad of boom and bust. It foretells that what goes up might keep going up and so it is with inflation. We will not have this demon creature bedevilling the country so we have launched a pre-emptive strike. Yes, there will be collateral damage that will lay waste to many but they should be proud of their sacrifice for the greater good. Have a nice Christmas!” And on that cheery note they opened the drinks cabinet to discuss cycles.

Rumblings of discontent were heard hither and yon and this was the signal for Jovial Joe the Genial Giant to launch a strike of his own. Unfortunately his first shot had not allowed for the wind and it back-tracked like a boomerang catching him fair in the coits. But a quick hands-on massage of the damaged appendage restored his vigour and he returned to the fray. This time he caught the wind and his message went far and wide: “The banks are bastards. The banks are bastards,” he extolled gleefully. None would argue so he developed his refrain: “They should be brought to heel. Let loose the leash and we shall birch the free markets with a cane of regulation.” Now some libertarian contrarians could not stomach such repression and they protested. The sullen peasants muttered darkly and grumbled: “Naff off. The pricks deserve what’s coming to them”.

This emboldened Jovial Joe even more and he went after The Duck With An Abacus, challenging him to confront the vandals. The Duck weighed the odds and gambled that he could swing a haymaker and scoot off to The Great Wall Restaurant in Beijing before the vandals could inflict reprisals on him. He filled his lungs and bellowed: “You are a bunch of very naughty boys and your behaviour leaves a lot to be desired. I’m thinking of reporting you to the headmaster and recommending detention. That will serve you right.” Well, the guffaws from the Visigoths made the ground rumble. They hadn’t had so much fun since the last pillaging of the vestal virgins. The Duck strove mightily to maintain his dignity but it was fruitless and he exited stage right.

The Visigoths by this time were smarting and decided to give back as good as they got. “You stupid peasants,” they had their flacks pronounce, “You are so indescribably insular you have no idea how the real world works. You think the cost of living is a burden but you have no idea. Try coping with the cost of finance, you fickle fools and see how much sleep you get at nights.” This mystified the peasants who could not see a connection. So, the vandals vented once more: “You unspeakably useless units. Can you not understand that you are not borrowing enough? How can we possibly survive in the global jungle if our profits are not phenomenal?” And to prove their point they revealed that destitution was verily at their door with their quadruple bottom line amounting to a miserly 22 billion. Hardly worth keeping a set of accounts for such paltry small change.

The peasants, though, were stunned at such a number and gave the spokespersons short shrift. “You are a slimy bunch of snakes in the grass and if we could, we’d euthanase you.” Whereupon the damsel recently dubbed one of the ten most powerful women in the world strode into the footlights and opined in Afrikaans: “You still don’t get it, you fools, do you? Do you think we do this only for ourselves? Do you think it is easy cleaning multi-million dollar mansions? Do you realise the cost of servant labour? Do you have any idea how much tax I have to pay The Duck on my deca-million annual salary? You have to understand: we do it only for the shareholders. They are what gets us out of bed in the mornings and who make us strive so mightily to maximise returns. You damned mortgage-holders are only good for one thing: whinging and whining and moaning and groaning. It’s time you all had a cold shower and woke up to yourselves.”

Which is where we find ourselves in this never-ending recurring saga of deja vu. Somewhat the worse for wear and as frustrated as ever. But that’s our lot in life, isn’t it? It wasn’t meant to be easy for the little people: sip from the poisoned chalice or go thirsty.

Chapter 7: The Legacy of Lazarus

Just when we had grown accustomed to not feeling relaxed and comfortable, an apparition emerged from the murky mists of the swamps of Bennelong. As we peered fretfully at this eminence gris we soon saw it was the track-suited strider himself. Yes, with the nation’s First XI languishing in a fifth-placed limbo, Wee Willie Winston marched purposefully forward – as ever – to the crease to remind us of former glories.

Forget finagling tea leaves to fathom the future, Lazarus has bequeathed us some 700 pages of portents. Have we not been warned that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to relive the lessons over and over again? So, unless we want another 13 years of middle-class melodrama, we’d better run the rule over this tome pretty damned carefully. And where better to start than the title. A propitious prognostication, perhaps? Lazarus is back. Yes, we get that. But Lazarus Rising? Holy shit, Batman, we might just be in trouble. This Boy Robin’s got a whole other costume he wants to fill out. Dear, oh dear, oh dear!

With Rudd run over, Gillard gasping and Abbott in abeyance the leadership lobby is languishing. Yes, Malcolm is mulling but that, truly, would be like a peacock rising three times. Does our former Dear Leader discern a dearth of adroitness; a vacuum that only a tried and tested titan could vanquish? Perhaps there is something even more Machiavellian afoot? What should we read into the photos of the eminence blue rinse, Janette, standing resolutely over his shoulder? Or the Cherie Blair photo op at Chequers with Janette brandishing, as only a former champion could, a massive cutlass quite capable of flensing any fink foolish enough to fall foul of her? Are there moves afoot to have her contest preselection against Tennis Elbow? Now that the glass ceiling has been ground underfoot for the very top job and the one just below it perhaps the former First Matron wants to assume the monarchy? These are vexatious vibes, indeed. Enough to give us the vapours.

But there are many other aspects to this autobiography that warrant attention. Payback is to the fore and The Smirk took a red hot poker to the derriere as Wee Willie refused to let bygones be bygones. And they say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Goodness gracious, what are we to make of this little spat, then? Are gender issues to the fore or just bitchiness? Given that the history books will for eternity record Wee Willie in the ascendancy, why did he feel the need to stick the stiletto in? Hard not to discern some insecurity there. Magnanimity generally accords with comfort but Wee Willie is clearly still discombobulated by what transpired between these two. Hard to escape a niggling nag that the one person who seriously claimed throughout Wee Willie’s career that he welshed on an agreement was The Smirk. And Wee Willie did like us to think that his word was his bond – even in the face of rancour over core and non-core and other minor wrinkles in the sheets.

Interesting that The Smirk played a fire hose on his no-doubt flaring frustrations and displayed a discipline that warranted plaudits for truly he could have commanded the airwaves for weeks if he had wanted to indulge in some Keating-Hawke rivalry, for example. But however one judges his failure to challenge for the crown, his contribution to the cause can never be denigrated. Forsaken promise perhaps, but a scintillating record nonetheless. And still mindful of the greater good. Go, you good thing, Smirk.

Wee Willie makes it very clear in his own words that he was the sole arbiter of his decision to remain as leader. Yet perhaps we can discern Lady Macbeth outing damned Spot as she saw daggers afore her eyes and urging that The Smirk be done down. In which case are we to dare ponder that the fury of the woman scorned was not Wee Willie himself but his consort? Oh, be still our beating hearts as we ponder such naked notions.

The climactic cadence which appears to have missed the microphone in this lengthy work is the ironic retribution of the electorate in not only dismissing the Wee Willie administration but ensuring our protagonist played no further part in the nation’s governance. And this from those who cherished his character for so many years. Remarkably, the people have a rare ability to discern hubris. They tolerate foibles and they forgive follies but they never nurture those who think they truly know best. Elevate you to the very tip of the totem pole, they will, but the mere moment you think you are there as of right they will dash you to the dust and stone you for good measure. And a measure worth pondering is some seven hundred pages of laudatory lather, justifying the anti-Fabian jihad. Such a flawed beast is democracy and yet the people so often get it pretty right. Those who seek miracles should ponder that at length.

Meantime those Fairfax fiends sowed a seed in the anti-Christ SMH that one of Emperor Murdoch’s family franchises had stumped-up some $400,000 to Wee Willie Winston for his thoughts in this stupendous saga. Perhaps the snide suggestion we were to assume was that such a payment was akin to Alan Bond’s offering of a similar 400,000 pieces of silver decades ago to the Hillbilly Dictator in the Shady State as settlement for a defamation action? A dreadful notion, of course, and quite beneath contempt. As if politicians and businessmen and large sums of money ever go hand in hand. Simply outrageous.

Chapter 6: Of sanctity, saints and sinners

He’s not bad that Death’s Head, eh? You know, for a bloke who rather stands out in a crowd he has a capacity to fly under the radar that would do credit to a stealth fighter aircraft. So low was his profile this past wee while that some were wondering if Senator Faceless had slipped-in a stiletto so that the next day’s media might report: “Death’s Head done like a dinner”. But all 14’ 6” of him was scrunched into a little ball somewhere (though who knows where?) as the Auditor-General released the report into the incredible insulation imbroglio. It was hard to tell whether canonisation, cauterisation or merely obfuscation was the go.

The A-G swears it was the department’s fault concluding, sympatico with the harsh lens of media coverage, that those dimwits whose role in life is simply to shuffle papers could never master the nuances of ceiling spaces and had not a hope in hell of pulling-off a challenge more difficult than a Fabian victory in the Failed State next time around. The First Rudd Imperium was given a sideswipe by the A-G for forcing the department to do it in half the time it needed to take but has not recommended prosecution. Pity! There are sinners in the Cabinet who should do penance. The A-G concludes – does he wish to keep his job perhaps? – that no blame should attach to Death’s Head. It’s a miracle! His own government ensured this would be a multi-billion dollar farce because of incompetence and the public servants get it in the neck while the Minister remains unscathed. Is there a catechism that teaches responsibility? Please forward multiple copies to the Cabinet Secretary.

No prissy platitudes, though, from Shades of Gray from WA. That lad may not need anger management any more for he surely excoriated any excrementatious sentiments lurking deep within his heart (that black thing in his chest) by unburdening himself to Bazza The Insider in his new tome. Boy, if Rudd the Rover thought Arbie and Shorty didn’t take to him too well, he now knows just how deep a level of contempt can be. Not since the time of Spanish galleons has a broadside carried so much shot and lead. It was all Our Kevvie’s fault, cried Gray, and that lovely lanky one was entirely innocent, he proclaimed, absolving him of all sin. Some strange nuances in that little contretemps but they do say politics makes for strange bedfellows. Hmmm . . .

The Poisoned Chalice caught a few sippers this week as those two fabulous Fabian bedfellows, Queen Julia and Krispy Kornflakes, fell out of love over the evergreen party game of who’s up who and who’s paying the rent. An unholy row erupted over our de facto Boadicea’s boast that uniform national workplace safety laws were one of her famous achievements. But in a style lacking all sanctity, Krispy crowed: “Naff off, knave! My rent is paid by those vandalous Visigoths who threaten to tear my little house down if I don’t enshrine them above the law. You might call them Luddites but I call them luminaries.” What she didn’t say out loud was all the more telling and went like this: “God help me, there are only two groups left in the community who suggest they might vote Labor next time: Life Members of the ALP (damned shame Gough’s not well coz I was hoping he’d bolster the numbers) and a bunch of unionists who reckon they ought to be above the law because we live in a capitalist system that conspires against them. Aaagh! Why don’t I just take my accent back where it belongs?” Poor Krispy. Truly she has her very own poisoned chalice from which all others refuse to drink but which, for her, miraculously remains brimful.

Now the Queen, who used to sidle up to those red-ragging rascals with blue collars, now finds none of them have washed in months and they are all a bit odoriferous. And whereas she used to find the greens somewhat on the nose she now regards them as pals. Truly, supping from the chalice does change one’s entire outlook. The monarch has, however, reaffirmed her commitment to a basic system of justice which allows a presumption of innocence, even for capitalist employers! For a Fabian this is quite a leap of faith (note how Krispy baulked at the barrier) and it will be fascinating to watch this saints versus sinners scenario unravel.

Sanctity, of course, is where one finds it. A rare few find it nowhere and, rather than pity, we should be very wary of them. A disturbing number find it everywhere (despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary) and while the more cynical among the flock might allow pity for them to spring to mind, we should at least be grateful some have such a positive outlook. The rest of us stumble around catching glimpses hither and yon of blessedness and are grateful as and when it shines upon us. Which makes the extraordinary explosion of sanctity bathing the great southern land recently somewhat of a mystery – which appears to be pretty much stock-in-trade for churches. The good maiden MacKillop was by all accounts a very decent human being. Subsequent efforts to elevate her to immortal status, however, appear to speak more of the attitudes of the beatificators than the blessed herself. The desperate quest for miracles has yielded results which appear miraculous in themselves. No doubt faith unshrouds such mystery and good luck to those who have it. The rest of us can only look on bemused. The one truly disturbing aspect of the week of celebrations was the attempt to draw a comparison between maiden MacKillop and Queen Julia. The basis apparently is their shared enthusiasm for education. Now, truly, is there any mere mortal among us who could draw such a long bow as to make that particular arrow fly? Methinks not.

Subsequent probing of authors’ own mindsets has prompted an entire industry of reviewers, critics and literary gadflies who keep the whole merry-go-round happening. It’s all often very self-congratulatory with the occasional outbreak of hostilities just to keep things in comparative balance.

But then along comes someone like Australia’s own literary genius, Peter Carey (so acclaimed by no less than that august English newspaper, The Times). Now Carey is by any yardstick a towering literary figure. But what to make of his overweening ego? Sorry, what was that? Carey has an overweening ego? That couldn’t be right, could it? Well, let’s look at his approach to literary prizes to see if we can gain some insights.

His website lists no less than 28 major prizes he has won. And some are not just your run-of-the-mill awards, either. Carey has claimed no less than five Miles Franklin awards, three Commonwealth Writers prizes and – beyond compare – three Booker Prizes. What a phenomenal achievement!

So . . . why the hell does he feel the necessity to enter himself in contests like the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards? Or the inaugural Randwick Award for Literature? This latter lovely little prize was instituted by Sydney’s Randwick Council to encourage Australian writers. And, fresh from coming second in the latest Booker Prize, Carey came up trumps in Randwick.

You just know this is going to earn pride of place on his mantelpiece, eh? It will push aside those Booker Prizes and the Miles Franklins might just break when they get squeezed off the edge.

Nor should we forget that this overcrowded mantelpiece just happens to be in New York where Carey has been an Aussie in exile for the past decade. So . . . why the hell does an expat feel the necessity to enter a literary contest in a little suburb of a city he left behind what must seem like a lifetime ago?

You’ve also got to wonder why someone who can pluck Bookers seemingly out of the air – at a paltry 50,000 English pounds a time – needs to get his hands on the munificent $10,000 Randwick prizemoney? Anyone care to figure how much Carey’s royalty cheques from his vast array of bestsellers would yield each month? Even if he were the most profligate, dissolute being on earth he could still not be short of a quid, eh?

So, tell us, Mr Carey, why you feel the need to steal sustenance from Australian writers struggling to make their way in the big, bad world of publishing? What further recognition do you feel you need in order to crowd out the up-and-comers who are desperate for the recognition such a prize might yield them?

Frankly, Sunshine, it does not reflect any credit on you at all. Indeed, quite the contrary. In fact, your approach is a form of bullying and is, by any yardstick, quite unAustralian. Perhaps it’s time you took a good, hard look at yourself, mate. Then again, it seems you have forgotten what mateship is all about.

Nor, strangely enough, is it just Carey who suffers this peculiar hang-up. The likes of Tim Winton and J. M. Coetzee also entered the Randwick contest. You have perhaps heard of these (could we possibly call them) up-and-coming writers? Maybe even have one or two of their works gracing your bookshelves? So, why can’t they just get over themselves and allow new blood to come through the ranks? You’ve made it, guys. Time for some selflessness instead of unfettered selfishness. You demean yourselves.

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 27^th 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.

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 27^th 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 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.

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.

The latest illustration of this syndrome is Queensland Premier, Anna Bligh. On the day it is revealed that her opinion poll support has reached ‘toxic’ levels (according to local media), it is revealed that she is about to assume the mantle of Labor Party national president.

So badly disliked is Bligh in her home state that her disapproval rating is TWICE that of Prime Minister Kevin Rudd! You wouldn’t want to be standing downwind of someone that on the nose. Nor is this fresh news. Her popularity has been on the wane for the past two years and reached slippery slope status a long time back. So what does she do? She decides to drag her attention away from Queensland and turn it elsewhere.

Which is kind of remarkable, really, given that Labor is in dire straits right across the nation. So, they turn to a discredited and thoroughly disliked premier to ask her to neglect her own state and – in the face of all the evidence that she can’t do anything right at home – task her with helping saving Labor nationally.

If any further evidence was needed that Labor currently exists in a state of denial and comprehensively lacks the political nous necessary to salvage its reputation with the electorate, it is surely this extraordinary appointment. How Bligh could have believed she could offer anything worthwhile is a stinging commentary on herself. That Labor had no-one else to turn to is a stinging commentary on its own inability to regenerate and to appreciate its utter inability to connect with voters.

Truly, this is like watching a train wreck unfold. Labor is a party normally highly-skilled in the political arts and yet it behaves currently as if it were the most naive novice. Observers in all walks of life are astounded at what is unfolding and the sense of incredulity is simply staggering.

Explanation appears impossible. Yet, when you delve into the past, evidence suggests there was a single trigger point. It was when Labor assumed political control of all states and territories a few years ago. An amazing political feat. With wall-to-wall hegemony, Labor gave humility the flick and embraced hubris. Voters understand the temptation and, in Australia, are reasonably forgiving. But not when arrogance becomes entrenched. We hate being played for suckers. And Labor is now reaping the whirlwind. Anna’s personal hubris will almost certainly see her consigned in the history books to presiding over not just a state but a national calamity that will envelop her entire political movement. As you sow so shall you reap. Sad, in one way, that it need not have been thus and therein lies the lesson for the conservatives. Here’s hoping they heed it.

Even atheists ought to fall to their knees and give thanks to some kind of deity that Australia currently enjoys a period of robust peace. Because if we had to rely on our Army to protect us we would be in more strife than Flash Gordon.

A chilling assessment of the Australian Army’s combat fitness levels reveals many of our troops couldn’t run to save their lives. More than a third of our entire force is classified as being unfit be sent to war due to inadequate weapons training, lack of fitness and – wait for it – bad teeth!

Now, there’s a burning issue here that you want to get your teeth into, eh? You want to know why, if you are sending troops away to fight and possibly die in a presumably fairly short period of time, how a good set of molars is going to help them? You can’t help wondering what the dental standards of our ANZAC heroes or those in Korea or those in Vietnam were when they were sent overseas to face incredible horrors.

The current statistics are scary. The nation has close to 40,000 troops to defend us. Of them, more than 7000 cannot run 2.4 km (or had not undertaken this basic test in the past half year). More than 2000 have teeth so bad they cannot face the prospect of death in battle. And the number who are formally classified as medically unfit is climbing towards 2000. Almost as troubling is that nearly 6000 troops have failed weapons testing or haven’t done the latest updates.

One is entitled to ask just what these troops – who are being paid reasonably well to be ready to fight a war – are doing with their time? The politician in charge of this fiasco says: not to worry, nobody’s attacking us this week, just trust us, everything’s fine. Hmm . . . lips moving, can’t believe a word he’s saying.

It is part of our great Australian culture that we simply laugh at silliness like this. And it’s highly likely that a few Bondi lifesavers clad only in budgie-smugglers could probably defend us as well as some of the soldiers spending far too much time contemplating their navels. But given the scores of billions of dollars being lavished on national defence, surely we are entitled to a fit force of adequately-trained soldiers able to consume more than a milkshake for our money?

Acknowledgement: Ben Packham, The Courier-Mail