Day 32 has come to a close or, as Dietrich would say, Tag 32 ist zu einem Ende gekommen.
It has not been, in truth, the day I would have hoped for. Oh diary, there is veracity in what they say: it is so difficult to fully utilise the phenomena of thermal or orographic uplift after the fashion of a raptor when one is in the company of those who could best be described as belonging to, or at least deserving the appellation of, the term Meleagris gallopavo.
As you know, diary I made a ‘note to self’ in these very pages last night to take a selfie of myself having a poo.
It was such a logical thing to do after the amazing success of my ‘cut myself shaving’ selfie. Of course, I didn’t really cut myself shaving. How could I, when I have a minion to conduct these base ablutionary duties?
But that selfie with the tomato sauce was only a little white lie and little white lies are acceptable in politics.
Of course, I made a mistake there, dabbing the sauce so high upon my cheekbone. Ha ha, I would have to have had lycanthropic tendencies to have to shave so high, but nobody noticed the mistake, diary. My fans, my people, adored my humility.
So what better thing to do than a selfie of a poo? After all: it is pink, and it doesn’t stink.
It was lovely. It would have gone down a treat on the Twitterverse, but it never saw the light of day. And why did it not see the light of day, I hear you ask.
Because that control freak fucker Bruce said it wouldn’t be a good idea, that’s why!
I’m sorry, diary, but I’m sick to fucking death of staying in character. I’m sick to death of playing ‘the nerd’. When will they realise just what I am, diary?
Sigh. I’m sorry, but it is so hard to play this role.
It didn’t end there, though. First thing in the morning I had to attend a ‘debate’ at a business breakfast. As if these fools could debate me! My main opponent’s name is Bill, of all things. How, in any world could a ‘Bill’ compete with a Kev?
But, diary, they booed me. I know, it is shocking, but those business types actually booed me when I told them of my grand plan for a productivity grand bargain between government and business! Fear not, diary, I have their names. My minions were most assiduous.
After that I had to go through the same charade on the wireless. The so-called moderator not only had the temerity to give equal time to my opponents, he PREVENTED ME FROM INTERRUPTING.
Rest assured, diary, he will be working the midnight to dawn shift on Widgiemooltha community radio after the revolu … er, election comes.
As if that wasn’t bad enough I had to put up with pesky journalists highlighting the fact that the bullshit stitch-up with PNG hadn’t actually been converted into a real deal, whats-his-face from Nauru came out and contradicted the line I’d been feeding to the media about them agreeing to settle the reffos there AND the Solomon Islands said they don’t want any part of the deal.
The Solomon fuckin’
Islands! I tell you diary, there will
come a day when these tin-pot dictators get the message that there is only room
for one tin-pot dictator in this part of the world.
I tell you, diary, when I’m King of the … Emperor of the … when I kick that little weasel Ban Ki Moon down the stairs and sit in the big chair at the UN, these pidgin-speaking pie chuckers will learn who is boss in these parts.
Oh, I rang Carr. Don’t you worry about that. I asked him what the fuck he thought he was fucking playing at. I mean, if he can’t control a bunch of fucking jigaboo nobodies what sort of fricken foreign minister is he?
He dribbled some crap about sovereign nations having the right to decide their own foreign policy. Can you believe that shit, diary?
They aren’t even nations, for christ’s sake. Just a bunch of islands in the middle of nowhere.
Anyway, I told him: “Mate”, I said, “take it from an expert in diplomacy. You just have to learn to speak their language”.
Do you know what he said to me diary? Do you know what he said?
He said: “What? Pidgin?” Can you believe that?
“No, you moron”, I said. “Baksheesh, mate. Fricken baksheesh! Are you telling me you spent ten years with Eddie Obeid and Ian McDonald and you don’t know how it works? Pull out the brown paper bags; sling ‘em some cash.”
Do you know what he said then, diary? He said: “But I thought Bowen said we didn’t have any money”!
I’m sorry, diary, I didn’t mean to lose it there, but honestly. Anyway, I explained to him, nice and slow, how money is no problem. We’ll just borrow more from those
I think he got it in the end, but between you and me, diary, I think I can guarantee that he’ll be retiring to spend more time with the family after I win.
Speaking of family, I’ve got trouble with Therese, like I need that right now.
She posted that pic, right? The one where she said I did a “kick-arse” press conference to announce the election.
All I said was that the hug looked a bit odd because our heads were together but from the hips down we were in different postcodes.
I know, diary, I know: I shouldn’t have said ‘postcodes’. It reminded her of that backstabbing fucker Sw … Swa …’s book.
Anyway, all I was trying to say was that maybe she should think about losing a bit of weight after we move back into the Lodge permanently.
So she says she is pretty comfortable in her skin, then I say “no wonder you are comfortable in it, it being so thick and luxurious”.
Now she’s not talking to me! All she said was “the last time you had the job I signed up to a gym and lost heaps of weight, and you let them blindside you”. Can you believe that shit, diary?
At least I have Nicholas on the team. They told me not to do it, but this was one time – apart from all of the other times – that I ignored them.
Oh diary! It is so nice to have my son on the team. It finally lends that dynastic quality I have yearned for. I heard whispers, of course. Whispers that he had no place here. I even saw one report that it was, and I quote, diary “an easy way to get yet another Rudd family member on the taxpayer teat”: the author of that little calumny will pay, dear diary. That, I promise.
Of course, he will be the lesser son of a great father, but one day all that we build shall be his.
Not everybody agrees of course. One of my agents reported to me tonight that an office minion made a joke about the dynasty of Kev’s Dong’s On and Kev’s On’s Dong. These fools fail to realise that though I don’t listen to a single word they say, I hear every word they say.
Patience, diary. Patience.
Note to self: Take another selfie of having a poo, but don’t show Bruce before posting; beat today’s record of ‘Abbott’ mentions in interviews (1697); find a focus group to throw more money at.