A very cruddy fable – Vale, Premiers (part 4)

by on 27 February, 2010

David-Russell Observers of the Steel Cage were agog recently when they spotted what they thought was the Prime Minister scrabbling about in the Cage’s courtyard with an empty 10 litre paint can strapped to each foot. On further inspection they noticed his head was shaved. A flood of inquiries to his office met with stony silence despite insistent questioning about this peculiar mirage. It was only when Prod and Poke Time resumed that it dawned on media curs that Our Kevvie was trying to channel Death’s Head in preparation for his “to err is human, to forgive is divine” speech in which he exonerated the halt, the lame and the unclean and took all sins upon his own shoulders. “Ah, the mantle of divinity: it fits so snugly,” Kevvie smirked.

Still the rhapsody was fleeting as the antics of idiots all around him brought home the sheer magnitude of the disparity between Kevvie’s greatness and the imbecility of everyone else. And, just like members of your own family, some of the worst fools were those bloody state premiers. Accusing them of performing worse than Brendan Fevola at a Brownlow function, Kevvie confided to Mother Theresa that he was imposing his own blackout on the State Ponces. “Not one of them could tell a policy from a pineapple and I’ll guarantee none of them could use programmatic specificity in a media conference even if they were given speech notes.” Just as his indignation was forcing some bright red colour into his otherwise albinistic cheeks, Mother Theresa muttered an imprecation which Kevvie sincerely hoped was aimed at his enemies but decided it was probably time to go to work anyway.

The plan for dealing with the Ponces came to light as Mother Theresa was chatting idly about those two nice girls: Couldn’t Lie Straight in Bed from The Shady State and Krispy Kornflakes from the Failed State. Mother T was prattling on about how they had done wonders for womanhood by their pacesetting political success but Our Kevvie was having none of it. “The bitches are costing me votes,” he snarled. “They keep asking to have their photo taken with me but I’m not getting my gear off for anybody. That little Monsignor winds up the media about me being all posturing and no titillation but everyone can tell he’s got more hang-ups about virgins than a suicidal jihadist.”

As he ranted in front of the bathroom mirror, Our Kevvie had to apply ointment to a niggling itch that had become a rash that threatened to ruin his whole morning ablutions. He had a sneaking suspicion it was an allergic reaction to the pancake makeup applied for his segment on Cockie’s Afternoon Delight. Happened again on that bloody Q&D (Question & Dither) on ABC the previous week. Kevvie had complained to Mother Theresa that every time he fronted those bloody young people and their fatuous, asinine, lugubrious interrogatories he felt suffused by a flush of embarrassment. And that howling pack of curs from the media pilloried him for daring to seek some additional detail to provide an intelligent and insightful response to each probe. The ungrateful scum! One day he’d show them how fortunate they truly were to be covering national politics during the First Rudd Imperium.

But before that he simply had to escape the torture of those hideous young neo-Liberals they hired each week to harass him. What to do? Perhaps he could kill two geese with a golden egg? He called Steve the Conduit and asked him to pop over to Aspen and chew the fat with Stoke the Fires. “Ask him if he knows anything about broadband rollouts to see if you can kick-start that NBN thing – I notice Kaiser Wilhelm hasn’t done much to earn his money yet – and then see what the networks would like for an early Christmas present.” Steve was thrilled but wanted to show he was not just at Kevvie’s beck and call and so demanded: “Only if I can take my skis”. The Emperor’s only response was thought to be: “Are you still f—king here?” When Steve got back he breathlessly shared his big, hairy audacious idea to Kevvie: “You know that Re-election Fund – sorry, the stimulus package – that Robin Hood’s got? What if we give the networks $250 million out of that and pretend it’s for production of local content. That way it’ll look like we’re cultured; we stick it to those press bastards who get nothing; AND it should persuade Afternoon Delight to give you a new format.” The Emperor was mightily pleased and told Senator Conduit to quickly get a cheque from Robin while there was still some slush in the bucket. Soon it would all be spent on fire-proofing ceilings. “That bastard, Death’s Head”, he muttered.

The very thought of the living skeleton sent Kevvie all atwitch. He knew that if he didn’t oil that bugger up pretty good and slip him into another world, he’d be the death of all of them. Bloody Prince of Pop, Kevvie muttered. I know, he thought, I’ll send him out to do all those ceiling inspections. That’ll keep him away from the Steel Cage until those bloody neo-Libs and Naughty Nats find something else to talk about. Even as he drew consolation from his concept, Kevvie realised with sinking despair that trying to squeeze all 14’ 7” of Death’s Head into ceilings would cause an outbreak of houses being unroofed all over the country. Aaaaagh! Was there no end to the torment this man could produce?

But there were bigger fish to fry. And speaking of fish and chips, thank god that bitch Pauline Pantsdown was upping stumps and going to flee to the Mother Country. Kevvie figured he’d better ring Hang Dog at Number 10 and make sure his Customs people didn’t return her as an illegal alien. Surely they owe us one in return for all that bloody convict trash they sent us years ago? Kevvie made a note to get the call in quick before Hang Dog himself got hounded out of office for brutalising staff. Secretly, Kevvie admired Hang Dog for his bitchy streak. Kevvie loved cutting staff down to size but could only do so by trying to work them to death: Hang Dog actually got physical with them. Ooh, the very thought sent a twitch along his left thigh.

But it wasn’t enough as he contemplated his inability to get a policy platform up. God knew it was a vigorous enough organ of intellectual grunt but nobody wanted to get their hands dirty with it. None of them are worthy of me, Kevvie confided to the forlorn image in the mirror. 

So, sick and tired of being a performing seal trying to impress everyone else, Our Kevvie decided to forego an early election this year. In the face of flagging interest in seeking a quick comeuppance over Her Majesty’s Loyal Curmudgeons, he felt he should just rest, relax and go full term. Indeed, in a worrying sign that Aussies may not be allowed to cast a ballot in a federal election until around 2040, Kevvie has insisted that he will have implemented structural reform of the health system before he sends us to the polls. Best to keep up your health insurance premiums, folks. Oh, but you can’t afford them anymore? Well, increase your mortgage. Oh, but that keeps going up, too? Well, take on some more debt. Oh, but Barndoor says we’re up to our hilt. Well, what do you bloody expect from a bunch of post-socialist wealth redistributionists! I didn’t vote for them!

Leave a Reply