The Krud Diaries: Day 30

Dear Diary,

                   How dare they? How DARE they? HOW DARE THEY?

I won’t have it, I tell you. I wont, I won’t, I WON'T. I’ll hand them their heads on platters, their jobs on a plate and their balls in egg cups!

They will pay, diary. By all that I hold holy – yes, diary, I am invoking myself I am so angry – they will pay and Rupert will learn the folly of enraging Kevin.

The FUCKERS!

I … I’m sorry diary, I … I’m calm now. I know it is not your fault meine Liebe, but I have had to hide my feelings until I am with you again.

And what, I hear you ask, is the cause of my angst?

That is a very pertinent enquiry. Indeed it is a query that, if I may be so bold as to enunciate, requires a reasoned response which has been arrived at by a determined effort to engender, in the initial instance upon receiving said enquiry, a full and robust examinations of whatever facts of the matter are to hand; further to that point, the importance of the question calls on us to not only peruse the available pertinent information, but to also avail ourselves of any and all ancillary data as may be necessary to ensure that our response, delivered in the fullness of time and after exhaustive consultation with such cabinet colleagues who’s areas of ministerial responsibility encompass the gamut of the enquiry, is not only commensurate with the facts of the matter, but addresses the main thrust of the enquiry, but delivered in such a manner as to not inculcate a discombobulatory reaction in the mind of our interlocutor.

The answer, dearest diary, is that that fucking Murdoch is at it again.

You will remember, dearest diary, that I recounted to you how I put Murdoch to the sword yesterday, despite that Sales woman’s efforts to muddy the waters with FACTS and INTERRUPTIONS.

You may also recall my intimation to you that my dear greasy little Albo had been caught out on the piss with Thommo, though I myself thought nothing of it.

Imagine my, surprise; my anger, nay, my fury, when I awoke this morning to find that the Murdoch minions at that despicable DT rag had mocked up a front page casting Albo as Sgt Schultz, Thommo as Hogan and myself as Colonel Klink.

Now do you see, diary? Now do you understand my fury? Those bastards had the temerity to give me the paltry fucking rank of COLONEL!

Me? A colonel? Oh, the insult. Albo as an idiotic sergeant I could understand, but to be portrayed as a mere COLONEL is a fucking insult beyond measure.

I should have been a reich marshal at the very least, with oak leaves and clusters. Oh diary, they didn't even give me a baton.

Sigh, though it may hurt, such can wait until I rule alo … am re-elected.

Perhaps, diary, it is not an insult from such mere bagatelles as the Murdoch minions that has disturbed my normally equilibrious state of mind.

No, in truth, I am upset because there is a usurper in my midst, diary. A usurper.

Beatty has been foisted upon me. I was taken unawares by the usurper’s secret plans – he even turned one of my trusted advisors against me, using such advisor as a Trojan horse to further his evil plot – but I was left with no choice, but to publicly embrace him.

Beatty, Beatty, Beatty.

Yes, yes, of course I took a selfie of myself with the properly endorsed candidate for Forde; yes, yes, I made a big song and dance about ‘the members’ choosing their candidates, but none of that matters.

After all, what are endorsed candidates, but mindless pawns to be used or discarded at my whim. What are party members but drones serving the quee … er, king of the hive.

What boils my britches is that I was not only obliged to appear on stage with the clown-faced prick, but to pretend that I had ASKED him to run for the good of the party.

As if, diary, as if I would ASK a man who has dared publicly criticise ME, as if I would think that the good of the party could be served by lauding ANYBODY BUT ME?

He even has the same colour hair as me! And he is from Queensland. Don’t those dumb fucks understand that there is only one saviour from Queensland and that saviour is ME!

Gott im Himmel, diary, aber diese unwürdige Abschaum lernen die Strafe der Untreue, wenn ich in das herrliche Sonnenlicht unbestrittener Macht hervorgehen!!

I will bide my time, diary. The usurper Beatty swears that should he win the day he will be happy to live his life as a humble backbencher.

He must think I’ve spent too much time sucking on the sauce bottle to believe that!

No, diary, I may have been forced to embrace the usurper, but I have plans for him. I will bring him into my ministry; I will embrace him from behind, hugging him close to myself so as to render it so much easier to slide the dagger between his ribs.

I shall appoint him Assistant Shadow Minister Assisting the Shadow Minister Assisting the Minister Without Portfolio!

Why, diary, I do believe I lost myself for a short while there.

Enough of these problems. There was good news today, diary.

My nemesis … my opponent The Abbott has elected to visit Tasmania today.

Let him waste his time there. Little does he know that when I am Fuh … when my party wins Government, I will sell that insignificant atoll to my Ratfucker friends in Beijing.

His promises will prove as worthless as a promise not to tinker a jot with the superannuation system!

Goodnight, dear diary.

Notes to self: Am in Victoria tomorrow: tell that ‘advisor’ with the 70s porn star mullet that if he wants to parachute Bracks, Brumby or Kirner into a seat he can go fuck himself; find the public servant who released the figures stating that Queensland, under the Newman Government, had the best unemployment/job creation rate in the nation and make him cry – how the fuck am I supposed to run a “Newman austerity” scare campaign with that sort of shit coming out?; despatch minion to buy baton.

The Krud Diaries: Day 31

Lieber Journal,

                         Day 31 has drawn to a conclusion and I find myself in my present position, which is to say one of indulging – in so far as one conducts an indolent impulse - in yet another interloculatory episode with you, my one true friend.

When I use the term ‘friend’, I of course am utilising it in no more or less a manner than if I were to avail myself of the opportunity to borrow – in the sense of making use of - the complementary yet essentially parallel term ‘confederate’.

Further to that, and let me just say this, diary, it has not escaped the attention of my powers of self-awareness that you are increasingly – if not indeed to a greater extent - assuming the role of a reflective apparatus. A reflective apparatus into which I can direct my ocular attentions and be assured that I can safely assume that the role of one which, if not say who, accepts that it’s station is to be that of one who returns such gazes of self-adoration without question is one to which you acquiesce, if not to say – in so far as such things can be expressed – return willingly, wholeheartedly and with an air of devotion which is touching. If you know what I mean.

You, diary, are me. This is why I love you so much, why I feel such comfort in your adoring gaze, why I take such comfort from the knowledge that you accept my words; indeed, you accept whatever I give you, with not just enjoyment, but positive relish at being the recipient.

But having said that dearest Ke … diary, let me say this: why is that the legion of fuckwits I am apparently surrounded by can’t see what you see?

You would not believe the bitchin’ day I have had today, diary.

It all started with that evil AbbottAbbottAbbott fool daring to release a policy. A POLICY! As if he has the right to drop shit like that on moi unannounced!

Do you know what he has promised, diary? A 1.5% company tax cut, that’s what.

As if he didn’t know that I promised a 2% company tax cut in 2007 and forgot the whole thing after I was crowne … elected.

Oh, he remembered all right. I warned the people about this sort of dirty politics, but do they listen to me diary? No, of course they don’t.

I was calm, naturally. I was unfazed, naturally. I said to Bruce: “well, two can play at that game. We’ll steal his policy and promise a 2% cut – it worked last time, it’ll work again”.

I know that you will agree with me, dearest diary, but do you know what my minion said? 

“You can’t afford it,” is what he said. Just like that AND in front of everybody.

Apparently, according to Bruce, I can’t afford it because I have to keep all of the money I’m going to borrow from the Ratfuckers to bribe individual electorates later in the campaign.

Oh, I was angry diary. Mostly, I was angry that a minion had dared contradict me publicly, but I was cool too. Oh yes diary, one doesn’t stand on the brink of greatness without the ability to remain cool.

“Fine,” I said, dismissively. “We’ll just make up some lies about a $70 billion black hole and then we’ll make up some more lies about how the swine is planning to raise the GST.”

Bruce saw the wisdom in my thinking, obviously, and set some minions to carry out my bidding.

Unfortunately, one of the minions was that cretin Bradbury. Honestly, I don’t know why I kept him on – something to do with his connections to the NSW Right or some such nonsense – but my judgement was, usual correct.

That Ju … Ju … Jul … you know who I mean-loving Sydney fucker gives fuckwits a bad name.

Sigh. Oh diary, when I am Ki … PM I will be free of these morons. I forced them to sign their own death warrants when they agreed to elect me leader for life and rest assured, diary, the warrants will be issued.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, you wouldn’t believe what happened with the school kid.

How hard can it be? Organise some school kids, make their teachers understand that if there were any fuck-ups their school’s primary funding stream for the next 50 years would be from cutting out petrol coupons, get the camera’s rolling and Bob’s your uncle: wall to wall evening news coverage of Kindly Kev being loved by the kiddies.

You wouldn’t believe what happened. There I was, sitting with the fricken little rug rats, putting on that fake Bert Newton-smile the morons just lap up, and what was going on behind me?

Some smartarse little shit had got off the leash and was taking the piss, that’s what! Pulling faces and shit. I got him after, don’t you worry about that, diary. I pretended to high-five him and just about twisted the little turd's fingers off. I’ll teach these little pricks to take the piss out of me!

Anyway, I told a minion to take his name. When I am proclaim … elected, I’ll legislate to send his sorry arse to PNG.

The day got a bit better after that. I still had that Abbott-turd and his company tax cut following me around like a bad smell, but apart from Bradbury being a dick the old $70b black hole was going ok – though I’m going to have make sure some of these so-called journalists get the chop when I am Fuh … PM. I don’t know where they get off asking me for facts and shit. Facts? This is an election campaign for fuck’s sake.

I was calm, diary. After I flew around a bit on taxpayer’s expense, which always soothes my soul; I made a few minions cry and made up some policies I was back in the groove.

Until that bloody 7.30 report interview with bloody Leigh Sales. I did everything right diary. I deigned to appear on her little TV programme after all. I mean, what more does she want?

Do you know what she did? Do you have any idea what she did? She INTERRUPTED me! She actually dared to QUESTION me! 

She actually DARED to take the side of Rupert-the-grizzly-fucking-bear Murdoch! She works for the A-fucking-B-fucking-C for fuck’s sake. How can she work for the Always Bashing Conservatives and treat me like I’m somebody who should be questioned?

Said that his newspapers backed me in 2007. As if she didn’t know how much I had to suck up to get that.

I tell you diary, I don’t know what Mark Scott thinks he’s playing at, but if he doesn’t lift his game he’s going to find out that life under Preside … PM Rudd isn’t all beer and funding increases.

And then. And then afterwards, the minion with the porn star moustache says to me “stop flicking your hair so much, Adolph Hitler always played with his hair when he was speaking”.

Adolph Hitler! I ask you? There are times, diary, oh there are times when I wonder why I put up with him as my informationen director, but als ich komplette Macht haben wird er die erste gegen die Wand.  Dann unter meiner glorreichen Führung wird das australische Volk die Welt regieren!! … oh, oh dear, sorry diary, I got a little, um, excited, there.

Now finally when I am abed and gazing into your ar … pages, dear diary, I’m told that not only has that sleazy little turd Albo been busted getting on the piss with Craig Thomson while they stitch up some deal, but Peter Beattie has been pre-selected for a Federal seat in Queensland.

If “Mr-I’m-sorry-I-fucked-up, vote-for-me-again-so-I-can-fuck-up-some-more (Why does that sound familiar, diary? I can’t think why, but it nags at me.) thinks he can weasel into the leadership he’s got another think coming.

I must abed now, dear diary. Fuck knows what the Murdoch scum are going to make of Albo’s fuck-up tomorrow.

Never mind, it’ll be fine. They dare not cross me now after I put them to the metaphorical sword to that Sales woman.

Note to self: Stop flicking hair; Lick lips less on camera; Get minion to draft legislation to send that little shit’s sorry arse to PNG; ring Rupert and tell him its just politics, you know.   

The Krud Diaries: Day 32

Dear Diary,

                   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?

When?

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 Beijing rat-fuckers.

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.   

The Krud Diaries: Day 33

Dear Diary,

                   It is now Day 33 of the campaign, or, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would have said: “Es ist jetzt Tag 33 der Kampagne”.

I suppose you may be wondering why I have referred to this day as ‘Day 33’?

Well, that is a very good question and one to which I will turn in a moment.

But let me say this, dear diary, that it is just one of many issues to be broached before this campaign is out, but in so much as time, I say again, time, moves inexorably forward, so do I.

In so far as that is an immutable fact, it is incumbent upon me, as the incumbent – the Prime Minister of Australia, in point of fact – to address these issues in the chronological fashion in which they have manifested themselves upon, not only my consciousness, but indeed the conscious thoughts of the good burghers of this country of Australia, a country of which I happen to be the Prime Minister.

Einstein, that great Labor supporter, once said, and I quote: “time is relative”.

Knowing that, it is essentially a simple matter to understand that I am counting DOWN the days to the election – dare I call it a ‘coronation’, dear diary? – rather than following the conformist agenda of counting UP. Therefore it should be clear to you, diary, that in so far as in so much that all sauce bottles are equal in the great scheme of things that we call life, to refer to this day as Day 33 is a simple acknowledgement that the sands of time wait for no man who measures his destiny in such a way as an oyster measures the size of its pearls by the accruation of grains of sand within the wholeness of its being.

Anyway, enough of that crap. I apologise, diary, I was just practicing for my next speech about the car industry.

Too much, do you think?

Went and saw Quentin yesterday and asked for an election on September 7.

Fuck it! I was pissed about that. There I was, all set to hang out with Vlad and the rest of the gang at the G-20, but can I do that now?

Noooo, I have to have a fricken election – like I’m just some fucking politician or something!

I’m so upset diary. I’d already got my people to get in touch with Vlad’s people for fuck’s sake. They’d booked the horse thingy and the rifle thingy, they’d even ordered the drugs for the ‘vicious’ tiger I was going to shoot to save the village of gay auto workers who desperately need a child-care service – luckily the KGB or whatever those arseholes call themselves these days – had some left over from dealing with that Snowden bloke (that’ll teach that Obama arsehole for bigging up that J .. Ju … no, I can’t say its name, but you know who I mean, diary), but do I get to go? No, I have to go and see Billy the Rat’s mother-in-law and ‘ask’ for an election.

I told them I wanted to wait until November. I had it all planned out, but no, I had to go now before the poll numbers dropped.

It was such a bitch of a day, diary. I was in Brissie dumping some lies on that Abbott shit, enjoying life you know.

I was kicking it big time but do they listen to the Fuh – leader? No. All I got all morning was Bruce telling me to do it now, do it now, do it now. Shoving internal polling numbers at me, nagging, nagging, nagging.

Then I had that sleazy little wop Albo on the phone telling me we had to have an election because Eddie was getting antsy and was going to spill his guts about the … well, you know, that other stuff.

I tried to tell them that we had to wait. Fair suck of the sauce bottle, I said, you guys are panicking for no reason.

I AM the CHOSEN ONE, I said, I see you Abbott and your Bishop and raise you a fucken Pope! But they are un-believers.

Why, diary? Why am I trapped with these underlings?

Anyway, never mind, best not to dwell on it.

At least I got to take another free flight, courtesy of John A. Taxpayer! Dumb schmucks. I’ve pinched enough stuff from the first-class dunnies to keep me in bog-roll for life.

Quenty was ok. She tried to pull that sisterhood crap on me, then I got the spiel about me driving a wedge thingy between her daughter and Billy the Rat, but I set her straight.

Either she plays it my way or there are no more free wardrobe upgrades and no more free flower arrangements. I’m pretty sure she got the message.

So, diary, now we are locked into September 7. It isn’t my choice, but it could be worse.

Bowen has taken the rap for the dog’s breakfast of a budget and the RBT tax change thingy – I don’t get all of the bitching about car rebates and whatever. I mean, what’s so hard? You tell a minion to order you a car and you have a car! - that spineless cretin Burke is taking the rap for my asylum seeker fuck-up and those union creeps are so scared of an Abbott royal commission into all of their scams they are all backing me!

It was a good presser calling the election. Nobody twigged that I’d been railroaded into it, none of those dumb-cunt journos asked me why I was promoting ‘positive’ politics while slagging off Abbott 157 times (thanks Laurie, Boy-journo) and I even got a bit from Therese.

Goodnight, dear diary.

Notes to self: Get a minion to ring that O’Neil character and tell him which side his bread is buttered; take selfie of me having a poo; put heat on Reserve Bank to drop interest rates.