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Friday, 16 August 2013

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.  

Thursday, 15 August 2013

The Krud Diaries: Day 24

Dear Diary,
                   What a day! I’m somewhat tired tonight diary, so my time with you will be short.
It is no wonder I’m weary, diary. I spent the day at Ekka, being mobbed by my adoring people.
I also have to be up at the crack of dawn, in tip top shape, so I can lickety split to the Northern Territory to announce yet another okilly dokilly policy.
I don’t know what the policy is, of course. One cannot rush these things. In truth, there is little point in an intellectual giant such as myself making plans. Why tie myself down with plans when my incredible intellect will, in a flash of inspiration, provide me with the perfect answer?
But do you know something? That is for tomorrow.
And do you know something else? Tonight I’m all about today, and with little wonder given the sheer power and magnetism of my performance today.
Of course, I had to announce a policy, today but that was just a trifling matter.
When my minions were going through those boxes searching for my Ned Flanders mannerisms booklet, they found a Trade Training Centre policy I used in 2007 and … that was that.
With the policy junk out the way, I took a little time out to deliver a crushing indictment of my sexist, racist, homophobist and, dare I say it, Ruddist would-be Nemesis The Abbott and dealt with the suggestion that I would negotiate with that ghastly Green woman.
Naturally, I assured the press fools that I would not entertain the thought of sharing power and, I can just say this: I think I’m pretty safe in saying they can take that to the bank
Me? Share power? Ridiculous.
Of course, my minions will ensure we swap preferences, after all 48 of my acolyte … caucus colleagues wouldn’t have a chance in hell of being elected without Green preferences.
With the mundane out of the way, I was free to do what I do best, diary. Yep, you guessed it. I worked the crowd at the Show.
(Just a mo, before I forget. I must remind a minion to find me a tradie: I don’t believe I’ve ever actually met one before and, you know what? I’m curious.)
Now, where was I?
Correct. The crowd at the Show.
I mingled, accepting their unbridled adulation as my due and, diary, I got to do my most favourite thing: I had my picture taken hundreds of times with adoring fans.
It is true what my minions say: I really AM the Jason Bieber of Australian politics.
Of course, I had to show my people that I wasn’t just a demi-god, so I served ice-creams, with strawberries on top.
One of the servant girls at the ice cream van voiced criticism of my ice creams, but even her impertinence could not quell my mood.
My minions have her name, in any case.
I also have a minion’s name, which I shall remember when I assume the seat of unbridled powe … seat of Government.
Looking back at footage of myself, I noticed that when I raised my arm to wave to my people that there were sweat stains on the armpits of my shirt.
I don’t know how many times I have told them that I DON’T LIKE THAT LOOK!
Kevin does not sweat. Kevin glows.
I believe they are organising portable fans, which a minion will have on standby to apply to my armpits should, I'm sorry, when I raise my arms to my adoring people.
Well, as I said to you earlier, diary, and I think I was right in doing so, I must be up with the birds tomorrow so I will take to my bed.

Notes to self: Don’t wear shirts with red stripes; find out where the fuck Darwin is; solve Egyptian crisis before breakfast – if time allows.

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.

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

The Krud Diaries: Day 26

G’day Diary,
                     I should apol … apolo … that is to say, I am sorr … in that I should say sorr … never mind.
Oh, diary, if only you were an interest group with which I never engaged, never cared about and never thought about until my minions told me there was a vote in it!
Then I would be able to say “sorry” several times, in a meaningless gesture satisfying the ‘Perenially Guilty On Someone Else’s Behalf’ group without having to actually do anything.
I wish it could be so, but it would be pointless to treat you like that diary. You can’t vote.
Still, as the old saying goes, self love means never having to say you’re sorry and I’m not interested in raking over the past, or trawling through a sewer of constant negativity?
No way Jose!
I’m about moving forwa … I’m about a New Way, a positive plan for the peasan … good burghers of Australia.
You see, diary, today I realised how difficult I must have been for you to live with this past week.
I have made my minions miserable, of course, but that is what minions are for, whereas you, diary, have inexcusably been made miserable too. It was only today that the scales fell from my eyes and I realised that I had allowed myself to be captured by my minion-inspired focus group/polling/you might lose/ crap.
I have been a fool, diary. In allowing myself to be lulled by inferior minions, I lost sight of some self-evident universal truths.

I am Kevin!
I am from Queensland and I am here to help myself!
I am the smartest man on the planet!
I have more fake Twitter followers than anybody else!
I Am Me!

Oh, diary, I feel so much better now. In fact, I’m tickety-boo.
As you have borne the brunt of my foolish self doubt, I wanted you to be the first to know of the changes I am instituting.
First, there will be no more Wagner on the iPod. From now on it is John Denver all the way.
“Leavin’ on a jet plane, so good to be flying around again,
 Leavin’ on a jet plane, that bitch won’t give me chicken again
When I come back, you’ll all kiss my ring”.
Second, I have instructed my minions to dump this “he’s a changed man” shit and dig out my Ned Flanders, Austin Powers and Walter Mitty instructional videos from 2007.
From this moment forth I shall be super duper, okilly dokilly and totally groovy baby.
You know diary, I’ve been getting around this great country, of which I am prime minister, quite a lot lately, and it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon or a brain scientist – you know, all those nerdy guys who just stand around in white coats testing stuff, examining stuff and doing, um, the stuff that we need to have done so we can cut to the chase and solve stuff – to get a handle on where the good folk of this great country of ours, of which I am prime minister, are really at.
And you know - if I could just say this - the good burgher’s of Australia deserve a fair suck of the sav bottle and I’m just the man to give it to them because, and I don’t want to whistle Dixie on my own trumpet here, nobody makes people suck bottled eggs quite like I can.
Rightily tightily! I don’t want to throw shrimps on your barbie, diary, but I’m feeling very chipper on this balmy evening here in … I dunno, wherever the fuck this Smallsville is.
My minions did tell me where we were going, but what with tearing them new ones over the debate notes fiasco and playing with all of the little dials and buttons up the front of the plane I missed it.
And lets call a manual earth excavation implement a manual earth excavation implement here, but it doesn’t really matter where the fuckily duckily I am. Wherever I am in this wide brown land we call Australia, of which I am prime minister, the good folk are all the same. They can all be bought, bribed, brow-beaten or bullshitted!
Of course, it isn’t all beer and skiddies. The Abbott is still resisting my cunning plan to have a debate every week on each different television network.
He wants his so called ‘People’s Forums’, but he must know I cannot allow this to happen.
Doesn’t he know how much taxpayer’s money has been spent gifting the networks rebates on their licence fees?
Doesn’t he know how much time I have invested in sucking up to the journalists I would have on my panels?
I tell you, diary, I haven’t spent years anbau nützlichen Idioten in den Medien nur für ihn, um die Kontrolle von Anfragen an die große ungewaschene Hand!
Wie zum Teufel soll ich gewinnen, wenn ich nicht stapeln Sie die Fragen?!
Phew. I’m calm now. Sorry. It’s the Wagner thing.
Anyway, tomorrow the Treasury boffins will don their white coats, crunch the number stuff and release the PEFO.
It will be a good opportunity for me to grasp the nettle, tell everybody how I saved this great country, of which I am prime minister, from the GFC and hold up a jar of Vegemite, the better to i) demonstrate that I am a little Aussie bleeder and ii) flog the GST scare campaign..

“I’m a happy little Kevimite
As Aussie as can be.
You’d all enjoy your Kevimite
Without the GST.
Our odds to win are getting longer
Every single week,
But you must love your Kevimite
Must all adore your Kevimite
He has a pose, for every tweet.

Notes to self: Find out what PEFO, GFC and GST stand for: tell minion to buy: Bigger pins for The Abbott voodoo doll; hair extensions; stogies for Kev ll Marcus.

Gotta zip!   

The Krud Diaries: Day 27

Dear Kevi … Dear Diary,
                                        I have been remiss, my schatz, for I have neglected you these past few days.
Why have I neglected you, my liebste liebe?
Well, that is a very good question, but let me just say this: I was busy finalising my plans for the great assault.
You see, diary, I was finally granted the opportunity to come to grips with my opponent.
You will remember how I had cleverly taunted The Abbott in previous weeks. Debate me, I dared, and he showed his true colours with his refusal, the bumbling fool.
Finally. Finally, my masterly plans lured him into an error and he agreed to debate me.
So you see, diary, I have spent the past two days harvesting my thoughts, husbanding my energy, haranguing my minions, hanging with the homies on twitter, honing my hand-gestures and writing my notes.
This is why I have been unable to avail myself of your caresses, my most dearest of true friends.
But, oh diary, I … I can hardly bear to say it, but it seems that my stunning performance against The Abbott has not been greeted with the acclamation it deserved!
I know, I know. I can hardly believe it myself, but such is the fate of those of us chosen to possess the intellectual apparatus, if not to say the intelligence, that allows one to recognise a vision for what it is.
And what is that vision dear diary?
Why, the vision of myself seated upon the thron … the treasury benches, blessed with the opportunity to impos … bestow upon the little peo … the electorate the benefit of the policies and solutions arrived at by my magnanimity in turning my vast intellect to the conundrum that presents itself when considering solutions to the concerns that plague their pathe … daily lives.
You would think, as do I, dear diary, that they would be grateful that I notice them at all, but alas it was not so.
In short, my liebe, my beneficence in addressing their issues not only remained unrecognised, but was positively derided.
All because of a few paltry written notes!
Don’t these narren understand that they were not notes, but perlen der weisheit?
Ich habe meine Zeit verschwendet Gießen meine Perlen der Weisheit, bevor Schweine!
They speak of rules. Rules?! Rules are for the many: rules are for the likes of Der Abbott, not for such as myself!
Don’t these fools see? How can my mind be expected to house my visions for die Leute von Australien, für die guten Bürger dieses Landes, von denen ich Ministerpräsident when it is cluttered by useless facts?
Did I not express facts and figures over the previous days?
Was I not able to stand before the marionetten der presse with ein jar of Vegemite and tell them how much such a jar would cost under the jackboot of Der Abbott?
Was I not able to demonstrate that under a mythical GST increase a jar of Vegemite would cost 46 cents more?
Was I not able to demonstrate that a $70 billion black hole in Herr Abbott’s policy costings would result in more than half a million cows being thrown on the heap of scrap?
Was it not clear to them that those cows would be cut to the bone?
Apparently not, dear diary.
Sigh. So much time expended on practicing my hand gestures? Wasted!
So much time expended on not playing with my hair? Wasted!
So much time spent controlling this weird-as-shit facial tic I seem to have developed? Wasted!
But it is not just the notes, diary – may I call you mate? I’m practicing for my next press conference – for which I was criticised.
No, according to the große ungewaschene, my brilliant subterfuge regarding a second Sydney airport, was NOT GOOD ENOUGH!
Ich schwöre, dass, wenn ich unangefochtene Marktführer bin, die Sydney Abschaum wird froh sein, eine neue Straße zu bekommen verdammt!!!
I am Kevin, I am from Queensland. How fucking hard is this to understand?
I don’t give a flying fuck about Sydney – apart from Sam and Eddie and all of the gang at Sussex Street. Those guys are really, really upstanding guys - so how fucking hard is this to understand.
What I said was: I’m from Queensland, Sydney isn’t the only place with an airport and infrastructure issues are best dealt with by the relevant minister.
You wouldn’t think it would be so fucking hard to deal with those fucking facts, especially when I have given up the seats in fucking Western Sydney and am relying on winning seats in Queensland to be crowned Fuhr … Prime Minister, would you?
But, no. Apparently I am supposed to be Prime Minister for the whole country.
Country? Country? Do these fools seriously think that I Geben Sie einen toten Esel den Schwanz about this country?
I am destined for greater things, diary. If they don’t elect me, don’t they realise that the world will be a poorer place?
I despair, diary: at least, I would, if I didn’t have you to hold me close. We will prevail, I swear it. I just wish this weird facial-tic thing would go away.
Tomorrow I travel to Mordor. Ha, ha, not really. I am in Bennelong where I have installed by own Mandarin-speaking candidate.
I just call it Mordor because M … Mist … Mister Howard was the member there before I vanquished his sorry arse in 2007.
Goodnight, dear diary. Tomorrow is another day. Yes, that’s right, I KNOW they still love me and I WILL get them back. And we will all live together at Tara.

Notes to self: don’t call ‘notes’ to self ‘notes’ anymore; make minion cry to re-assert my authority; speak Mandarin in public to Bennelong candidate, thus impressing moron voters; make stupid jokes about ‘notes’, ha, ha; see doctor about tic; check on progress of legislation to send that Korean kid’s sorry arse to PNG; get minion to buy bigger pins for my The Abbott doll.