The Krud Diaries: Day 23

Dear Diary,

                   I know I can trust you to keep what passes between us secret, my lovely little black booklet, so I feel safe in telling you this.

If I never have to go back to that shithole Northern Territory, I won’t shed a tear. The last time I saw a bigger dump than that was when I was cleaning Laurie’s toilet all those years ago.

I am writing this now as I sit in Krud One. We have left the NT behind and are winging our way to another dump: Perth.

(Though let me tell you something folk … diary, a shit-hole like Perth is going to seem like New York after Darwin.)

I'll also just say this, meine Liebe; some minions have been torn new ones for booking this trip.

Look. I’ll put my hand up, scouts honour and admit that I knew we were going to the boondocks, but nobody told me I would have to share a  FUCKING TOILET.

I mean to say, diary, I’m pretty sure that I made some things downright prettily dickilly clear when they came grovelling and snivelling to me to save their sorry arses?

In point of fact, diary, I know I made a few things clear because I have my contract in front of me.

“Line 7, paragraph 4: “We pledge that from this day forth our glorious and most righteous leader, Kevin – that’s me, diary – shall not be required to share ablution facilities with acolytes, functionaries, apparatchiks, minions, underlings or any other persons not being Kevin”.

It is right there in red and white – I made them sign in blood, not mine, of course – right under: “We admit, freely and with abject humility, that we were too stupid to recognise the greatness of Kevin in 2010; accordingly, we also recognise that, notwithstanding we have seen the error of our ways, we will always be unworthy of Kevin”.

So, how is it that I found myself having to share a toilet, diary?

Sigh. It was the fault of the so-called Campaign HeadQuarters, of course.

You’d think those incompetents would understand that I am the campaign headquarters! The nerve centre cannot be defined by bricks and mortar or a whole bunch of computers manned by a whole bunch of apparatchiks, when the nerve centre of the campaign is ME!

Wherever Kevin is, so is campaign headquarters.

Rome is not a building. Rome is not a … oh, it’s that daydream again.

In truth, diary, I have also grown tired of the fools I have been lumbered with; my only true friend remains Bruce. Only he understands the true importance of Kevin.

At least I have Butts with me now. He is an excellent lick-spittle, who never bothers me with so-called original thoughts or stupid questions. Indeed, diary, Butts doesn’t bother me with any questions at all! 

I have recovered my poise, of course. All it took was a demonstration of the decisive action for which I am rightly famous.

I instructed some minions to initiate a committee, take submissions from interested parties and produce a white paper offering all of the options so as a collegiate decision based on all of the available information can be made.

That was just for show, of course. As soon as they went off I solved the problem myself and banned everybody from using the toilet. I mean, what else could I do? What if somebody barged in when I was taking a selfie? 

Sigh. Though Darwin is a dump, at least I was able to mix with the troops again while I was there. Their devotion to me is so touching. When I am confirmed as el Presiden ... prime minister I must be sure to organise a transfer for my brothers-in-arms out of that dump to somewhere more civilised.

I shall have to organise it anyway after my brilliant policy masterstroke today.

For your information diary, I have decreed that the Northern Territory shall be a special economic zone, beginning in July, 2018. The Ratfuckers will own the place by Christmas, so I may as well grasp the nettle, put my shoulder to the wheel and make a command decision to pull the troops out lickety split.

As I said to you last night, I had faith that from the limitless depths of my intellect a policy masterpiece would rise to the top and wouldn’t you know it? I was having a poo in MY toilet and that is exactly what happened!

I immediately used my Kommando Kev pencil and a sheet of my monogrammed toilet paper in my free hand – I was taking a selfie at the time – to sketch out the details.

Of course, there were some tiresome queries about details from the few members of the press not yet in my thrall, but I bamboozled the fools with consummate ease.

Details, diary, as I am sure you have heard me remark upon previously, are for the little people. The hands of great power work in broad sweeps upon the undulating canvas that is this wonderful country - of which I am prime minister – of ours.

Sigh. I can hear some commotion from the back of the plane, diary. Apparently the ablution bucket allocated to the press corp is full and they have run out of Gladwrap. Serves the ingrates right.

Alas, my concentration is broken. I think I’ll order the pilot to let me play with the dials and buttons and things before I get some of the old shut-eye.

Notes to self: Make sure I catch up with that Alannah Whats-her-name. I‘ve never met her but she looks a real fox in her pictures; post selfie when Bruce isn’t looking; have photo taken with a dog.