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Wednesday, 14 August 2013

The Krud Diaries: Day 25

Dear Diary,
                   Well, it has been a tickety boo day today diary or, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would perhaps be moved to opine, mein Tag ist ziemlich okilly-dokilly gewesen!
And why, I hear you ask, am I such a chipper kipper?
You know something? That’s a very good question.
There are many factors, diary, but three in particular stand out as being of primary importance in generating my present mood of good cheer.
One – you’ll have to excuse me for writing one-handed just now diary, I need to practice my finger-counting when listing items of importance – my would-be nemesis The Abbott made another of his foolish mistakes.
Yes, diary, he said a good looking female candidate had “sex appeal”!
I know, I know! I could hardly believe it either. It fell into my lap easier than that shit-hot sex-bomb at Scores nightclub that time. (I assume she did; I was too drunk to remember.)
Naturally, I said nothing, but I immediately instructed my minions to release the flying monkey squadrons of my useful idiots in the press.
They – led by my faithful adherent Laurie - are, as I write, eviscerating the fool.
Two – while my ravening press pack wolf-mokeys were pack-hunting my opponent, I was at a birthday party!
Hhmm, it was a very nice birthday party too, diary, for a beautiful 18-year-old girl.
I began my seduction with a demonstration of my singing voice and, naturally, it took only a few bars of my dulcet tones – as you know, diary, I could have been the Australian Sinatra if I hadn’t dedicated my life to serving myse … my country – before she was putty in hands.
I’ve still got it, diary. Of course, who could blame her? I’m hip, I take the best selfies around and, as my minions keep insisting, the uncanny likeness of my good self to Sean Connery from his 007 days cannot be denied.
I also made it clear that if she and her friends did not vote for me, I would hunt them down.
With my natural charm and innate acting ability I was able to trick them into thinking I was joking. Young fools. My minions have their names and they shall discover the true measure of Kevin when said minions check their ballot papers.
Three – I got to hang with all the boys from Afghanistan and relive those memories of the times when I went outside the wire.
You’ve just gotta say diary, that when the going gets tough, people with the right stuff step up to the plate and you don’t get to be Prime Minister, an occupation which of course I currently have the pleasure of being personally engaged in, in point of fact – without having the guts to push through and get the hard things done.
It is people with the guts to pick themselves up and get a minion to dust them off that survive. That is how I survived Kokoda, as I told my good friends in PNG when I was there last month delivering that big brown paper bag to that O’Neil character.
I said as much to my Band of Brothers in Townsville as we reminisced about the days in the field: the lack of toilet seat warmers, the terrible day my hairdryer was declared MIA, not enough room for all of my minions – I had to leave my personal boot polisher at home – and the relatively poor choice of entree in the mess – not that I actually ate in the mess, of course.
Naturally, I couldn’t say exactly what action I had seen, but it was a humbling experience to share a moment with my fellow vets to remember the four - or was it five? I forget – who didn’t make it back to this wide brown land, of which I am prime minister.
They call me Kommandant Kev. Did you know that, diary? Yes, indeed, you have to share the elephant with the men outside the wire to earn that sort of affectionate sobriquet.
Sigh, one day, the world will know the full story of Rudd’s Raiders. Then will they know that ihre glorreiche Führer ist ein Kämpfer, ein Krieger würdig ihre unsterbliche Liebe!
Hhmm, perhaps just a little Wagner before bed, hhmmm?
Truth be told folk … diary, I truly believe that my decision to study my old Walter Mitty and Ned Flanders coaching videos from 2007 has changed my fortunes.
The Abbott is finally succumbing to my relentless assaults. As well as his ‘sexy lady’ faux pa he has also fallen into my carefully baited trap and decreed that The Greens shall be put last on the Liberal ballot paper!
More votes for me! Naturally, diary, I shall exploit this with my usual skill. I shall decree that no deals will be made with The Greens then, should the need arise, I will do what we always do and jump into bed with that ghastly woman … hmm, let me put that another way; I shall make a deal with that ghastly woman.
On that note diary, I must abed myself. I have a big day tomorrow. I’ve no idea what I will be doing, but when you carry the burden of being the most wonderful man in the world, every day is a big day!

Notes to self: expunge mental pictures of jumping into bed with that ghastly woman; make notes for new chapter in my memoirs, provisional title: How I Won The War; berate minion for trifling infraction; get minion to check on whether my Beattie voodoo doll is ready; follow up on that foxy birthday chick.

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