The Krud Diaries: Day 11

Dear Diary,

                   And so another day in my kampagne Marsch across the country – of which I am Prime Minister – draws to a close.

As with yesterday, mein schönes, it was a day which accorded with my grand strategic design, and the wunderbar bonus of two smashing breakthroughs.

And what is the grand strategy, my diary?

Do you know something? That is a good question and in response, well, let me just say this; it all comes down to four things and those four things are as follows.

Firstly: Surprise. Always do what your opponent least expects.

Secondly: And this goes to the point I enunciated previously; keep your enemy off-balance.

Thirdly: Lie, continuously, and cultivate a flying monkey press cohort to disseminate your lies.

Fourthly: Retain an inscrutable exterior and a Zen calm interior. 
And what were my smashing breakthroughs, I hear you ask?

That is a good question and in response let me just say this:

My first was my brilliantly conceived promise to move my naval assets to Brizzie. This is a prime example of the ‘element of surprise’ I referred to earlier in my remarks.

My opponents were reeling. They blustered, of course, but I fooled them by telling them it was in ‘the national interest’.

This, of course, was true in a sense, because whatever is in MY interests is fully in concordance with the national interest, and what is in MY interest at this point in time is to get the navy as far away as possible from that cretinous peasant Admiral Bradbury.

I have great need of my capital ships. Once my iron hold on the country is confirmed, those ships will be converted into luxury yachts for the personal holiday use of myself and selected senior lickspittles.

Until I can dispense with of him, Bradbury will have charge of my fleet of harbour water taxis. Disloyalty has its rewards, diary, as the buffoon will discover.

And what was my other smashing breakthrough, I hear you ask?

Well, let me just say this.

As you are no doubt aware, meine liebe, I am the centre of world attention at the moment, advising other leaders on how they should respond to the Syrian situation.

Just this morning, for instance, my good friend Barry called me for advice. Naturally, I arranged for my minions to photograph the moment for posterity.

(Actually, that photograph was taken when I was on the phone to a minion, dismissing him from my service because my underpants had not been ironed to my satisfaction, but the little people will won’t know the difference.)

My smashing breakthrough, diary, was to expose The Abbott for the bumbling yokel that he is at the very time that I am regarded by all as the greatest statesman in the world.

The Abbott lacks temperament. He is impertinent. He looks people in the eye and tells them the truth. This is madness.

Diplomacy is the art of speaking endlessly whilst saying nothing. It has taken me years of dedicated work to perfect this art.

I would go so far to say, diary, that there is not another person in the country – indeed the world (I’m not sure about the universe, I’ll have to check with Bob Brown and get back to you) – who is a better practitioner than I.

The reason I have world leaders begging me to solve their crises is that I have nerves of steel, ice for blood and the calm …

“Bruce! BRUCE! What the fuck is that noise? It’s what? He’s having a heart attack? Well tell the fucker to fucking die quietly.

What? Well, drag him out into the corridor or something. I’m trying to concentrate in here. What’s that? No, you can’t call a fucking ambulance and NO, you can't use my car. What? Well put him in fucking taxi, you idiot.”

I’m sorry, my diary, where was I? Ah yes. The true diplomat has the calm demeanour necessary for communicating with …

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. What now? Who’s on the phone? Does he know what fucking time it is here? Tell him to fuck off. What do you mean I can’t? Don’t you ever tell me I can’t do something. Do you know who I am? Well do you? Good. Now tell the prick to fuck off and blow up a few rag heads. I’ve got a fucking election to win here.”

Now, diary, as I was saying. A calm demeanour is vital. I have it. The Abbott does not and …

“Who the FUCK are you? Room service? You were supposed to be here three minutes ago. What are you fucking playing at? Don’t talk back to me, you little shit, I’ll have your fucking job. It’s no good crying your little girly eyes out. Go on, piss off – and if this is cold YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN THIS FUCKING TOWN AGAIN!”

Now, diary, if I could continue. As I was saying … hang on, this is chicken. I didn’t want fucking chicken. Why do I have to do everything my fucking self?

“BRUCE? Is that stupid room service girl still there? Well, who’s out there with you? Send him in here. Well wake him the fuck up! … Ah, awake now are we? Good. You’re a useless piece of shit and you’re fired, so fuck off. What? Don’t give me that ‘but dad, shit’, fuck off NOW … No, you can’t have a ride home, you can fucking walk … and don’t you DARE take those fucking Cuban cigars. They’re MINE!”

Notes to self: Thank my British ally Mr Watson for sliming the Evil Murdoch by ordering Billy The Rat to send him a few dozen pies, every day; sack the first little shit that disturbs my Rooty Hill preparation.