The Krud Diaries: End of Days

Dear Diary,

                   Well, meine liebe, you are my only remaining friend. I have done what I could, but even genius can be overcome if all it has to work with are minions of mediocrity.

They have all abandoned me now and all is quiet in the Krudbunker. Even the faithful lackey The Hedgehog has engineered his escape.

As my alter-ego Deitrich Boenhoffer was once heard to opine: Fuck ‘em. The ungrateful shits are unworthy of me – may their bratwurst be uncured and their beer be flat!

I have done all I can, meine liebe, but I have been betrayed by mediocrities, Murdoch and moronic minions.

They have abandoned me in their droves. Cowards. Pocken auf ihre Fraktion Union versteckt!!

They are drinking. Partying as if to somehow drown out their failure. If only they had truly believed in The Krud, they would be toasting my Greatest Victory!

News from the East is difficult to get. Von Carr has done what I suspected – turned his coat at the last.

He was a poor choice to lead my forces at St Petersburg, but what could I do, diary?

They are milling around like dumm ficken cattle desperate for leadership, but my minions insisted I remain here. If only I had gone to the G-20, I feel sure I could have rescued the situation, but for what, diary? 

To be abandoned when things look bleak! Where are they now? Von Plibersek? Gone. Villi von Fink? Gone. Bowendorf? Still here, but incompetent. Von Wong’s Panzy Grenadiers? Scuttling away like rats. They will look to squabble over the Party when I am gone, yet none are worthy of replacing me.

The only one who has remained true to Der Krud is my faithful lickspittle deputy Albo. He, at least, remains. I have rewarded him by ensuring my dentist has visited and made the necessary arrangements. Yes, meine liebe, DRF Albo will go to his doom without green teeth. Thus is it, that I reward loyalty.

I am still in touch with my political scientists. There is still yet hope that their secret weapons will reverse the situation and deliver a stunning victory. I will remain here till the last.

If I should fall, diary, then let my Party fall into ruin, for without me there can be no Party. It has proved itself unworthy. Better that it be destroyed utterly for a Party without Krud is akin to a Party without Passion Pop.

Albo, I have sent away. He is pleased with his new teeth – I shall allow him to admire them before the time comes. My only companion now is Teddy. Faithful always is my Teddy. But, diary, I shall not make him my heir. Teddy shall perish with me, as a faithful lackey should.

Not like The Hedgehog! The turncoat! He came to me last night and requested a transfer to von Weathervane’s staff on the south-eastern front.

He tried to gull me with tales of how von Weathervane could hold out and fight on from his Adelaide redoubt. He is a coward is The Hedgehog. Such is the calibre of those who sought to earn my trust! What worth is there in keeping such minions as he? None. I let him go.

I shall put off the final moment until the barbarians are at my very door. A miracle may yet eventuate, though I have little hope. I shall leave you with a little ein kleines lied, meine leibe.

I say to you, faithful diary: Ich bin Kevin, vater von Krudland!!! ‘Krudland, Krudland, uber Abbott … “

"And now, the end is here 
And so I face the final curtain 
My friends, now let’s be clear 
I'll state my case, I’m Kev from Brisbane 
I've lived a life that's full 
of lies each and ev’ry day 
And more, much more than this, I did her my way 

Regrets, they’ve had a few 
But then again, I’ve had my henchman 
I did what I had to do and rat-fucked them without exemption 
I planned each media leak, each careful leak to my friend Laurie 
And more, much more than this, I did her my way 

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew 
When That Woman made me spew 
But through it all, I had no doubt 
I’d eat her up and spit her out 
I fucked them all and I stood tall and did them my way 

I've hated! Laughed while they cried 
I've had my fill, of this bunch of losers 
And now, as their tears subside, I find it all so amusing 
To think, I did them all 
And may I say, not in a shy way, 
"Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did them my way" 

For what is a Krud, what has he got? 
As for myself, I’ve got the lot

I’ve said things I’d never feel and before me they did all kneel 
The record shows I made them blow and did them my way! 

Yes, I did them my way"

The Krud Diaries: Day 2

Dear Diary,

                    As Dietrich Boenhoffer was reputed to have once said: Ist es Zeit, mit dem velvet glove und punsch mit dem iron fist stoppen!

No more Mr. Nice Krud!

I have, as you know my diary, been Mr Positive, for the last five weeks, but it is time now to tell the folks the truth of the matter.

The truth of the matter, meine Liebe, is that The Abbott is an evil presence who will plunge Australia into a Depression not seen since Noah – who was one of the Three Wise Men, if you know your bible - was a boy – secret plans, Abbott Campbell, cut, cut, cut.

The little people have seen my smiling visage every day. Whether I have on the stump with the good burghers in my own patch of Brissie, yarning with the good folk making stuff with their brains in Adelaide or sucking on the sauce bottle with the guys and girls in Western Sydney, I keep getting the same message again and again – massive cuts, cuts, cuts, Abbott, Murdoch.

Why, diary, just yesterday a older bloke – just an ordinary bloke like you, or you, or you – said to me: “You know Kruddy, you are the most positive politician I’ve ever met”.

Do you notice something there, meine liebe? The little people love me. It was ever thus – hospitals, schools, cuts, massive, frogs.

And it is for that very reason, diary, that I will take OFF the gloves and Fight ... Fight … Fight … while ever I draw breath as Prime Minister, which just happens to be a position I currently hold.

As is my wont, diary, I started my day with a power walk – the operative word there being POWER accompanied by the hordes of lickspittles my minions assemble each day.

Lake Burley Griffin was looking good this morning, but it will look truly wunderbar when I fill it in to construct Festung Krud to use as my summer palace – massive cuts, REALLY, REALLY MASSIVE CUTS.

Of course, diary, it was my appearance at the National Press Club, which saw the removal of the mitts and the application of the iron Krud fist to The Abbott’s glass jaw.

Even then, meine liebe, I delivered my message of hope for this great country – a country of which I happen to presently be Prime Minister - to my captive media flying monkeys in a positive, constructive manner – Abbott is the devil, secret cuts, schools, plague of boils.

And why was that so? You know something, diary? That is a good question and in responding to it, let me just repeat what I said to the good folk today: Let’s be frank here, and I make no apology for being so, but it has come to my attention of late that there are some folk out there – Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666 – frankly getting ideas above their station. As I’ve travelled around the country – a country of which, if anybody here hasn’t noticed, I happen to be Prime Minister – I’ve been told by a fair few folk, many folk if the truth be told – Murdoch, Abbott666, MASSIVE SECRET CUTS, locusts – that there is a rumour going around that somebody thinks he could be a better Prime Minister than my good self. I don’t think I need to mention any names here – Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666, school kids working in the mines, copper telephones, cuts – but it is that mode of thought that has led, throughout recorded history for those of you interested in having a look at the thing, to countries just like this one that I happen to be Prime Minister of – Abbott666, rivers turned to blood, first born sons without school bags – to take a wrong turn in believing that their exists a personage better than my good self at being Prime Minister.

I don’t think, diary, that I could make myself any clearer, or indeed more positive – Abbott666, Tony Newman, bubs in paper bags, scrapheap, NBN, nurses, Evil Murdoch – than that.

I said as much in my address today, using the occasion to outline the raft of Abbotts my Government has Murdoched during the three glorious years we have occupied the secret cuts.

Even a cursory glance at our Newmans will provide a clear Abbott of our unsurpassed plague of boils during our term of hate media.

For instance, diary, we have built 62, 799 trade training Abbotts, which – when coupled concomitantly with our record of nurses and teachers on the scrapheap of ideological Abbottry – demonstrate that we are the party of the little guy.

In the space occupied by Abbott is a fucker, Abbott is a fucker, there can be no doubt that our Evil Murdochs have provided more Abbott666s than a hatful of smashed Campbell Newmans.

Further to central MASSIVE CUTS, when we came to Government there were 10.6 million secret plans to slash. Compare that figure with the number of Abbotts - school kids working in salt mines, dogs and cats living together, little guys, scrap-heaps, Freddie is a devil, Abbott – now in the Murdoch minions force.

To conclude my campaign for a positive future, can I just say that my Abbotts and Murdochs offer jobs, cuts, MASSIVE CUTS, secret weapons and Abbott. In cut to the bone, Abbott is a devil, Abbott is a devil, 666, the mark of Cain is upon ye to be a Brissie boy sucking on a sauce bottle; at the Brandenburg Gate, Krudstag under assault, Abbott Newmans, little guys and folks … burghers … Beattie USURPER … That Woman … Billy The Fink … positive … here to help … cars …Evil Murdoch … Abbott … miraculous victory … Festung Krud … one thousand years … gotta zip, zip, zip … programmatic specificity … Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666 ... fight, fight, fight … Gracie … moral challenge … boils ... frogs ... eclipse ... Abbott, Abbott, Abbott …

Notes to Abbott: Tell Trudl to go while there is still a chance; minions break out to south-west; chew carpet; order secrets; Newman Abbott; launch massive counter-attack.

The Krud Diaries: Day 3

Dear Diary,

                   Recession, recession. Massive cuts. MASSIVE cuts. Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666, Evil Murdoch, sauce bottle sucking.

Did I mention massive cuts, Abbott Campbell, diary?

As you can see, meine liebe, I am honing my final positive messages to the electorate as the day of my triumph approaches.

I have honed my message over the weeks, tweaking it with a subtlety which, let’s just be straight here, will be lost on many of the little people.

As I said to the good folks of this country – of which I am Prime Minister – some weeks ago in Brissie, I’m all about a New Way and a positive message, Abbott666 is the devil, Murdoch is his evil puppet-master, Tony Newman, austerity, massive cuts.

I began my day in Melbourne, diary, to be greeted with the news that yet another media mogul had dared to criticize me. I shit you not, diary.

I would expect this sort of thing from the Evil Murdoch Empire – bias, regime change, hate media – but this Ronnie Corbett bloke, I think that was his name, represents my most loyal cabal of press lackeys.

Do you know something, diary? Others may take a different view, but it’s a free country and that Corbett prick has every right to embarrass himself if he wants to.

Ask me if I care, diary. Too right I fucking care! He can keep his seditious fucking opinions to himself. Abbott, Abbott, Recession! floods, cuts, cuts, cuts.

What people can’t keep for themselves are MY tee-shirts, which is what a cabal of the little people tried to do in Melbourne this morning.

I realise, diary, that Victoria is a hotbed of spies and subversives in the employ of That Woman, but I didn’t consider that they would try to pinch tee-shirts.

They professed their loyalty to me, of course, but the question we have to ask ourselves is this: do those folks even know the meaning of the word?

I think, diary, that you only have to look at Victoria’s two most well known political figures of recent times in That Woman and Billy The Rat to get an accurate measure of what ‘loyalty’ means in Victoria.

The place is riddled with opposition, but I will root them out, meine liebe, I … will … root … them … out. Abbott, cuts, Recession, evil Murdoch.

Having got my tee-shirts back off the free-loading little people, I zipped out of Melbourne and high-tailed it Adelaide – another nest of support for That Woman. Campbell Abbott, 12,000 public servants.

Naturally enough, diary, the people there love me now. How could they not, when I have lavished so much Ratfucker money so they can keep their mundane little jobs making their cars, quite apart from the love engendered simply by me being me?

My minions arranged for me to visit one of the factories where these little people work. I had a good yarn to all of the guys and girls there who make stuff with their hands and make stuff with their brains.

I lulled them, meine liebe, with the power of my oratory. I told them I didn’t want to rule … live in a country full of folks running hotels. I even told them that I thought they were human beings!

I know, I know! They are mere cattle who vote, but they believed me, diary, the little fools actually believed me!

We talked, diary, about all of the good, positive stuff about how Abbott666 will give us a Great Depression and how Tony Newman’s cuts, cuts, cuts will see 9 out of every 10 Australians living in cardboard boxes under bridges.

A very positive day, meine liebe, but being positive – Abbott666, plague of frogs, locusts, Depression – comes naturally to Brizzie boy in the shape of my good self.

The public pools, especially those of the Evil Murdoch Empire, paint a picture of despair, but my own internal polling paints a far different, andivegottasay, more accurate picture.

Every day of this great kampagne, diary, I have gathered my minions together asked them three very simple questions. What are those questions? You know something, I’m glad you asked that and response to that query, let me just say this:

The three questions are as follows:

One: Who is the best Prime Minister you ever saw?

Two: Who is the Greatest Prime Minister in Australia’s history?

Three: Who is the smartest man in the room?

Four: Who saved the world from the GFC?

Five: Who do you admire the most. Ever, ever?

In answer to those three questions, do you know what my minions answer every time, diary?

If you guessed ‘Krud’, you would be guessing right, my friend. So you can see clearly that my internal polling has me on track for a crushing victory over the negative, old way of The Abbott666, floods, tempest, plague of boils, cut, cut, cut.

I rounded out my positive day by once again demonstrating my forensic grasp of the Bible to skewer The Abbott yet again.
What I said to the folks was this: Noah was, as you well know diary, one of the apostles and he was in the maritime architecture business, specialising in custom-built Arks. What many who haven't devoted the time to study this stuff as I have don't know, is that Noah was a second cousin, twice-removed, to Ezekiel. Now it was Ezekial, in his role as general secretary of the Hittite Chariot Makers Union, who forced the Egyptian Pharoah - who's name was John 23rd the 4th by the way, for those folks who want to get down to the fine detail of this thing, to commission a boat building programme after Ezekial, in concert with the Mennonite Dam Builders Union, blocked the Euphrates and flooded Egypt. Ezekiel, through the offices of Miriam, Noah's wife's second cousin by her half brother Agamemnon, had foretold of the flood to Noah, thus allowing him to undercut the competition and win the contract.
And what has this to do with The Abbott, you ask? Well, do you know something, that is a good question, a question to which there is a very simple answer, which is this:
I told the good folk in Adelaide, that Noah had better technology in his Ark ... than The Abbott has in his NBN plan! Oh, diary, my wittiness astounds even me. Noah, a Cretaceous-period boat builder and amateur zoologist had more technology than The Abbott has!
I tell you, my little journal of record, that joke had the little folk rolling in the aisles, two by two.
.

Notes to self: Be sure my minions weed the Murdoch’s minions out of my Press Club audience; count MY tee-shirts to ensure none escaped my net; cut, cut, cut. MASSIVE CUTS, Abbott is the devil, Tony Newman.

The Krud Diaries: Day 4

Dear Diary,

                   Today, diary, was a day dedicated to Tasmania. I like Tasmania and I think the Ratfuckers will like it too when I give it to them in exchange for more free money.

Mind you, diary, the Ratfuckers will have their hands full with some of the good folk of the Apple Isle – I’m not sure whether it is the gene pool or something in the water, but some of the burghers of Tasmania are – well lets be blunt about this, here – creepy. As Dietrich Boenhoffer once said: "It's a nice place to visit, aber ich würde nicht wollen, um dort zu leben!”

Still, it was nice to get away from the heat of the campaign fight – do you know something diary? I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this in passing, but I’m a fight, fight, fighter Abbott666, $70 billion – for a few hours.

I don’t think I’m gilding the lily here, meine liebe, when I say that a visit by a humble Boy from Brissie is the biggest thing to hit Tasmania since … well, do know something? … I can’t think of anything bigger or better than my good self, fight, fight, fight, cut, cut, cut, $70 billion hole. 

Naturally I was accompanied by some of my Tasmanian caucus drones, nobodies hoping to bathe in my reflected glory.

My minions did tell me their names, but I don’t remember. I usually discard useless information, to keep my mind fresh for the challenges of saving the world from Tony Campbell, $70b black hole, jobs, jobs, jobs. And cuts.

Actually, do you know something? I do remember one name. Dick Adams, but I only remember that because we had to pause every five 10 minutes to allow him to eat.

By jiminy-crikey, diary, Dick is a devil mit dem Schnitzel und die Wurst! Fat turd. He clearly does fit into the party I shall create in mein own image. He shall have to learn to say no to dem schnitzel und die wurst if he wishes to retain my favour.

The only blight on my day, Campbell Abbott black hole, massive cuts, Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666, was due to my minions yet again failing.

I’ll tell you something for nothing, dear diary, when my term as el presidente … Prime Minister … is confirmed, I’ll also be taking a broom to the ranks of my minions.

They allowed a pair of radio disc jockeys to ambush me with a general knowledge quiz!

Not only did my minions fail to control the media, cut, cut, cut, Abbott666, they failed in their core duty, which is to ensure that I … am … never … wrong, even when I am wrong.

I allegedly only answered seven questions correctly, which is clearly impossible Abbott Newman, cut, cut, cut, black hole, Evil Murdoch.

I think I can safely say without fear of contradiction, diary, that after my glorreichen sieg on Saturday, those so-called radio announcers will find themselves doing the midnight to dawn shift on Radio Lollipop on Manus Island.

I assuaged my anger by summarily dismissing a minion who dared to joke that “at least 7-10 was a pass”, Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666, Murdoch Evil, $70 billion black hole, school kids’ hats.

To be honest, diary, there is little else to relate about my day as I travelled around this great country of ours, of which I am prime minister.

I was heckled in Brissie this morning while engaged in my morning perambulation.

No, no, diary, quell your outrage meine liebe. The hecklers were my own minions. It was my own idea, as all of the most brilliant ones are, to harvest the sympathy vote. The little people are stupid enough to take a suck on that sauce bottle, I’m certain of it.

And, can I just say this, diary. My regular perambulatory expeditions around Brissie have been most valuable in terms of ascertaining, as one does when one seeks to address an issue of substance with solutions of substance, the precise measures required to achieve one’s aims one sets out to lift  an urban metropolis from a state of morbid moribundity – a state in which Brissie currently finds itself existing – to a higher state, wherein that higher state represents the culminatory pinnacle attained when one brings together the combinational results that arrive when one puts desire in concert with will and ability.

As I have outlined there in my previous remarks, diary, me perambulations have allowed me to visualise just what Brissie will be alike when my building programme is complete.

Naturally, I will move the seat of Government to Brissie when my regime rules with an iron fis … Government receives the blessing of the electorate.

As you know, I was once an artist and architect, vocations I abandoned when I dedicated myself to self-serv … public service and it therefore should come as no surprise that I will supervise the construction works myself.

I’ll let you in on a secret, mat … diary. The Krud de Triomphe will transform the landscape!

As for the rest of the day – Abbott Campbell, massive cuts, cuts, cuts, costing, Murdoch Empire – The Abbott re-affirmed that he is a yokel when it comes to international relations and the Reserve Bank refused to lower interest rates.

On Syria, I can only espouse my previously enunciated position. Barry needs to accept my finely nuanced position and blast some ragheads, preferably before Saturday.

And what of the Reserve Bank? I hear you ask, diary.

Let me just say this: these intolerable displays of bureaucratic independence must stop, diary, and … I … am … just … the … man to stop it. When my presidency-for-life … Prime Ministership is confirmed by the good burghers of this country I shall take immediate steps to root out subversives and install apparatchiks who understand which end of the sauce bottle to suck on, Abbott, Abbott, Abbott666, Evil Murdoch, massive cuts, Tony Campbell.

Notes to self: Instruct minions – again – to remove homeless riff-raff from my perambulatory route; abandon Abbott voodoo doll pins – go the barbie skewer option.

The Krud Diaries: Day 5

Dear Diary,

                   The Bible, my little journal of record, is a book.

It is the ability to grasp such self-evident truths that sets me apart from other folk, raises me UP and gives notice to the good burghers of Australia that they aren’t dealing with just anyone here.

The message, diary, is that I … Am … Not … Your … Ordinary … Common … Or … Garden … Variety … Politician.

I … Diary – and I’ve said this to all of the folks out there … Am … A … Fighter!

I … Will … Fight … Fight … Fight … To … Stop … The Abbott's … Secret … Cuts … Cuts … Cuts to schools and hospitals and school kids’ hats – and $70 billion black hole.

And why did I mention the Bible, meine liebe? Well, do you know something? Let me just say this, if I may, in response to that query: I mentioned it because it, in its turn, was mentioned to me during my truly bravura performance on the KBC Q&A programme tonight.

Somehow, an interloper made it through my minions’ screening process and infiltrated the audience of good burghers of Brizzie – and $70 billion black hole and Campbell Abbott..

He claimed to be a pastor of some description. I kid you not, diary, but the fool dared challenge me on gay marriage and Christian values! I eviscerated him, of course, with a display of forensic knowledge of biblical references to Confederate troop movements during the slavery wars against St Paul of the Union.

The fool clearly didn’t realise that there is nothing that I, having been raised a Pentecostal Catholic before embracing the Baptist Anglican church, can be taught about Christian values.

This not only goes to my innate intelligence, but to the use I put my extensive travel schedule in the service of the little people. Let’s be frank here, diary: folks might think it’s a lot of fun travelling around the world solving crises, but do you know something? It can be boring as all hell - $70 billion black hole Tony Newman.

Consider this: with my unsurpassed grasp of international relations, I have usually solved the world’s ills before I finish my morning poo selfie and I generally make up my brilliant policy announcements between main course and dessert on the flight, so what is there left for me to do on all those boring nights in those luxury hotel rooms?

Well, diary, there is this bloke called Gideon – I don’t know his second name – who just goes around putting Bibles in hotel rooms and one day I started reading one and I sort of just kept on reading - $70 billion black hole Newman Abbott.

I have already instructed my minions to track down this Gideon bloke and offer him a job in my propagand … media relations unit.

So, my diary, that is the story of Kevin, the Bible and how gay people were Confederate slaves during the American civil war - $70 billion dollar black hole, cut, cut, cut, Abbott Campbell.

I have to say, diary, that I’m pretty certain, jobs, jobs, jobs, costings, fraud, black hole – I can safely say that I have secured the gay vote in this country – of which I am Prime Minister.

Why,the other day I was out and about in South Oz talking to the good folk there, when a disabled, gay Syrian refugee car worker with learning difficulties and a degree in International Relations said to me: “Kev, I want you to be the come-from-behind kid for Australia on September 7”.

I looked him in the eye and said: “Mate, you’ve got a date, and let me tell you something: I’ve been in tighter spots before and pulled it off!”

In the lead up to Q&A, I spent my day travelling from union meeting to union meeting, yarning to the folk out there about just … how … dangerous … a vote … for … Campbell … Abbott would be - $70 billion. School kids’ hats.

They love me, you know. The little people, I mean. They can’t help themselves, really – I use an old oratorical trick to mesmerise them.

It is a form of hypnosis that I was taught by an Aboriginal bloke I met when I was 10 years-old. I was working as a stockman, trying to earn enough to put my mum through primary school.

It was memories of those times that came to mind when Newman Abbott dropped the most incredible gift in my lap today. The fool described a civil war between a chemical-loving Syrian regime and an opposition thoroughly infiltrated by an Al Qaeda sworn to destroy the West as “baddies versus baddies”!

I pointed out that I hadn’t used those terms since playing cowboys and indians in the backyard. Of course, that was a little lie; our backyard was any scrap of land around the car we lived in.

Truth be told, my 15 brothers and sisters lived in the car. I actually lived in ‘ole in t’ road. I used to get up in the mornin’, ‘alf ‘our afore I went t’ bed, do 26-hour day down t’ sugar mill to pay for mother’s pancreas transplant and ‘ave nowt t’ eat, but bag of gravel.

Even then, diary, I knew I was destined for public service. Each evening after feeding my seven brothers and sisters, I’d lick road clean wi’ tongue.

 It was a hard life, diary, but I was happy and why was I happy? I’m glad you asked that, diary. I was happy because I always knew that I was smarter than everybody else.

As for Tony ‘$70b, cut … cut … cut … black hole’ Newman, I shudder to think what those Chinese Ratfuckers will make of his intemperate language.

Notes to self: Sack minion for allowing that pastor character to sneak into MY audience; once elected, erect statue of Mrs Krud in recognition of her patronage of the visually impaired fashion designers of Australia.

Krud Kar Komes of Age

KRUD KAR KOMES OF AGE

By: Page-Filler Writers and Press Release Copy-and-Pasters

Canberra, Saturday: While the polls indicate that most Australians have already made up their minds before next Saturday’s election, one select group is still mired in indecision – thanks to the polls.

This newspaper has learned that an Australian car manufacturer is planning to launch a commemorative ‘Krud’ model onto the market next year, but doubt about the election result has thrown development into confusion.

It is understood that the ‘Krud’ series has been in development for some years and the un-named company was ready to commit to production, but the surprisingly poor campaign performance of Mr Krud has caused a re-think.

A spokesman – who wished to remain anonymous – for the un-named company, said that the company wanted to launch the new model as a way of saying ‘thankyou’ for all of the “free money that Krud has thrown at the industry over the years”.

“Naturally, we thought that anybody smart enough to borrow billions of dollars in Chinese money to throw at businesses that made billions of dollars profit in their home country, yet could still dupe the electorate into believing it was necessary, must be smart enough to win an election,” the spokesman said.

“Unfortunately, Mr Krud’s performance thus far has led us to re-assess our options.”

The spokesman was quick to point out that the company’s re-think was more a case of re-assessing badging and options, rather than whether the model would proceed.

“The Krud will definitely go into production. It is just a matter of waiting to see which way the election goes,” he said.

“We are a big company. We never put the house on red or black. We keep our options open, which basically means that we are covering our bases where.

“It is fair to say that we have put the bulk of our resources into the team working on the model favoured in the event of a Krud win, but given the campaign performance so far, we have switched funding to our alternative ‘loser’ model design team.”

It is understood that the decision to build the Krud model was taken in 2008 and development work has been on-going, despite the Krud’s change in fortunes over the years.

The spokesman denied rumours that the Government had insisted on the development of a Krud in return for the free money.

“Not at all,” he said. “It was never a requirement. It was purely a commercial decision in the sense that it isn’t costing us anything. Every unit we sell is pure profit.”

Though details are sketchy, this newspaper understands that the Krud will be an SUV after early plans for a one-seater sedan were quickly abandoned.

The Krud was initially scheduled to be launched in 2009 when his popularity was at its height. The company had even narrowed down a choice of name to three options: the Krud Kronic, Krud Kaptivate or Krud Karnival.

His surprise fall from grace forced the company to abandon those options and put the Krud on hold. When it became apparent, however, that Krud was prepared to go to any lengths to retrieve his position, the project was revived to the point that the ‘Krud Revenge’, ‘Krud Vengeance’ and ‘Krud Destabilizer’ were serious options being considered, but ultimately discarded.

As the company spokesman explained, it wasn’t worth spending free money on marketing those options because it was always clear that Krud would be back.

“We flirted with the idea of a Gillard, but we knew it would never fly, basically because, one, the design problems were proving tough to crack, and durability was a constant issue”, he said,

“We had focus-tested names - the ‘Gillard Droner’, Carbonier and Inept made the shortlist – and had finished a lot of the pre-production work, but it was put on ice when Krud challenged.”

“When Krud said he would never lead again we took that at face value, so we instigated work to tackle the rear-end weight drag issues on the Gillard, but then Krud came back, so we made the decision to abandon the Gillard entirely.”

Though the spokesman refused to be drawn, it is understood that after Krud’s return, production plans were fast-tracked with a choice of model name narrowed down to the Krud Konqueror, Konfront or Ker-ching.

Those options have since been abandoned in light of Krud’s election campaign performance. Names now being considered include the Krud Krapster, Krud Kringe, Krud Implode, Krud Backfire and Krud Plummet.

(The ‘Krudsel’ was considered, but discarded.)

Regardless of the final model name, sources confirmed that the Krud will come equipped with Auto Gridlock Drive (AGD), Hands Free Steering (HFS), Auto Dysfunction Hi-Tech De-stabilizers (ADHD), Rear Bumper air-bags, Selfie Camera and a premium VerBose Sound System.

The company is yet to decide whether to include the Hawker Britton Bulldust Actuator System as standard or an optional extra.

It will seat one in comfort, but still be roomy enough for five apparatchiks or seven minions, depending on configuration.    

The Krud Diaries: Day 6

Dear Diary,

                   Today, meine liebe, is a day that will go down in history.

A thousand years from now, when they come to write the history of this day, many will say: “this was Kevin’s finest hour”.

Today, my diary, I went to Brissie and conquered the world!

That paragon of sound leadership, a man we all admire, and of course I speak of the father of fiscal conservatism Joseph Stalin, decreed that when he finished an address to the praesidium the first delegate to stop clapping should be hauled out and shot.

I did not need to stoop to such contrivances, my diary - I contented myself with ex-communication – they loved me for myself.

They loved me! For myself! For my vision! And, diary, they loved me for the frisky little frisson of sexual titillation that all who come into contact with me experience.

Oh, diary, I cannot speak highly enough of myself!

I told you yesterday, diary, of the many minions who have seen fit to betray me; those of little faith who allowed themselves to be blind to the Power of The Krud.

Well, today I revealed myself to them in all my glory to those folk and the good burghers of Brizzie.

Krud, the Fighter.

Krud, the man who likes to come from behind.

Krud, the scourge of provincial governments.

Krud, the job creator.

Krud, the healer.

Krud, the Tafe-lon man!

It was the best Nurembur … Kampagne rally I have ever attended, diary.

Campbell Abbott surely will have no answer to my hammer blows of cut, cu … surely will have no answer to my axe blows of cut, cut, cut.

I, diary, am Tony Newman’s Last Boy Scout! He is defenceless against my ‘dib, dib, dib, dob, dob, dob, cut, cut, cut, job, job, job’.

Of course, I kept my adoring crowd waiting, meine lieb. While I got myself into ‘the zone’, may faithful Albo delivered a rousing speech understood by at least half of the adoring crowd.

When I assume Supreme Com … the Prime Ministership again, I will be sure to appoint him a personal dentist and speech therapist.

He was followed by my good lady wife, fetchingly attired in her bright red three-man dome tent with winged collars.She has been enamoured of the style ever since she watched the great Servalan eviscerate Blake’s Seven.

No Great Man has been better served by a Little Woman than I.

Having dismissed the make-up girlie – as if MY face can be perfected! – I was free to crank up my Boom Box, get cool and jiggy with it and become The Eye of The Tiger!

Not only was I in ‘the zone’, diary, I was riding the Highway to The Danger Zone!

Naturally, I had studied my Austin Powers instructional videos, but I went further, my diary.

Not only was I the Eye of The Tiger with a fully loaded Mojo, I was Rocky Balboa, a fight, fight, fighter, coming from behind to defeat Campbell ‘Apollo’ Abbott.

There was slight discord shortly after I ascended to the podium, diary, when a minion was heard to say that I looked and sounded like Pee Wee Herman channelling Jimmy Carter. Another was overhead opining that I sounded like the love child of Richard Clyderman and Liberace.

Both were summarily dealt with. I believe that they were agents of That Woman – the extra piano wire and meat-hooks will come in handy indeed, meine liebe. He, he, he.

As for those who doubted me … they were swept aside on a tide of oratory and Ratfucker money that left them shivering and quaking in their RM Williams boots!

“Krudland, Krudland uber Abbott, Krudland dum dum over the world.

“KRUDLAND women, KRUDLAND loyalty, KRUDLAND wine and KRUDLAND song.

“FLOUR-ISH I-IN KEVIN RUDD’S FATHERLAND!!!”

Oh. I believe I got quite carried away there, diary. One day I will be rid of our pathetic national anthem and the little people will be able to sing a song they can sing with Gesta … Gusto!

And they shall sing, diary, when the plan I announced today to crush the provincial States beneath the heel of my jack-booted RM Williams heel comes to fruition.

Equally, I shall shower Ratfucker cash on Krudler jugend to allow them to finish their apprenticeship.

Of course, diary, I did not reveal the full extent of my plans. My anschluss of New Zealand will wait until next year, after I have removed Admiral Bradbury from any command role.

Equally, my plans to elevate Teddy to a senior role on my staff shall remain a secret only I shall possess – Bruce has had his chance and proved himself unworthy.

I believe, diary, that my performance today will put the zurück stabbers to shame. Let them crawl to me and beg forgiveness!

There is little else to say, diary. Hawke and Keating were there, of course, but they are nothings hoping to bask in my reflective glory.

Swan was there, against my express orders – another black mark against the quisling Bruce – as was the USURPER Beattie.

I care nothing for them. My minions, disguised as The Abbott’s operatives, will ensure that neither of them has a seat at my table when I assume supreme ... my Prime Ministership.

A great day, diary. A glorious day that will mark the beginning of die tausend Jahre Krud Regel!

The only blight on my wunderbar day, diary, was the craven display by Obama. He knows that I need him to blast the crap out of the Syrian ragheads, yet still he leaves the decision in the hands of his Congress!

He has fallen into the same trap as the weakling Cameron. No matter, he is a nothing. Having been outside the wire, I know that Krud’s Kommandoes will do what I ask of them without question. We shall create the necessary crisis for my Kampagne.

Today, meine liebe, I was finally able to present the little people with their true choice: do they want a man who volunteers as a firefighter and surf lifesaver; a man who abandoned his holiday to rescue and succour victims of the Bali bombing? Or they do they want a true warrior? A warrior who endured incorrect meals being delivered and hours without a hair-dryer before going outside the wire to cut a ribbon?
I believe I know who they will choose.

Notes to self: Instruct the Little Woman that a two-man tent is the maximum allowable attire; get minion to source emergency de-greening dental attention for DRF Albo; order yet more piano wire and meat-hooks.

The Krud Diaries: Day 7

Dear Diary,

                   I need to write quietly tonight, my friend, lest my enemies hear what I telling you.

They are all around me now, meine liebe, doing everything they can to thwart me. I hear them whispering, constantly, plotting but when I confront them they protest their innocence.

Well, let me just say this, diary: they must think me a fool if they believe that Kevin isn’t aware of what they are up to.

There are only two people left I can completely trust, diary: Kevin and Teddy.

What’s that? I hear you ask. Can I not trust Bruce, the loyalest lickspittle a Great Leader can hope for?

Do you know something, diary? I’m very glad you asked that question because it is something I have pondered long and hard over for some years.

When you make the decision to commit to public service, as I have done, concomitant with that concrete commitment is a concurrent obligation to cultivate likeminded folk to co-habit the collective collaborative consciousness, such as would prevail within the personal and professional policy platform proposed, though quite probably not publicly espoused by the chief proponent, a proponent which, in this instance, would be personified in the public’s perception by the figurehead I referred to earlier in my remarks, in this case, dear diary, myself.

I really don’t believe I could put forward the proposition any clearer than that.

Oh diary! Why is it only you that understands me?     

But, to return to my earlier point on this; when I made the aforesaid commitment to dedicate myself to public service, I found in Bruce the embodiment of the sort of likeminded folk a Great Leader requires in a lickspittle.

Or so I thought. It hasn’t escaped my attention, my diary, that Bruce has not been acting in my best interests of late.

Today, for instance, we went to Darwin. He knows full well, as do you from an earlier missive penned by my good self, that I loathe Darwin. In fact, I loathe the Northern Territory in all of its grubby little third-world entirety.

(I was clearly right when I made the decision to flog the place to the Rathfuckers once my hold on power is unassailable.)

But, Kevin, what about the special economic zone you announced earlier? I hear you ask.

Oh, diary, you are almost as witty as my good self!

That was a brilliant kampagne ploy, nothing more. Such was it brilliance, The Abbott had no counter and the evil Murdoch’s media minions were so completely bamboozled by my forensic grasp of the detail I rendered them impotent.

I will never carry through with it, of course. The Territorians are undeserving. A grubby little people, diary. Why, many of them don’t even wear shoes. My Australia will not be populated by such raggle-taggle riff raff. The Ratfuckers will be welcome to it.

Bruce, of course, is aware of these self-evident truths, yet still he sent me there. Do you see now, diary, why I was right to suspect his loyalty? The evidence is unimpeachable, as you will agree when you consider the core components that, in combination, can only lead to a clear conclusion of collusion.

Firstly, the vile Giles, one of The Abbott’s underlings, refused me access to a medical centre – a facility I paid for with MY Ratfucker money.

How is it, meine liebe, that Kevin was denied access to Kevin’s own building?

Secondly; the vile Giles was obviously made aware of my intention to confer upon the facility the benefit of my presence.

Thirdly; while I was trapped outside with un-vetted little people a malcontent heckled me. ME!

Consider: The Krud never appears anywhere unless hi … my minions have first rounded up all malcontents, yet this agent of The Abbott was able to violate my person with impunity.

Who have I entrusted with command of my brown shir … my minions, diary?

Bruce.

Consider also this: The vile Giles would not have been able to defy me unless he had advance notice of my plans. I only conceived the brilliant policy, and the venue for its announcement, when I was in my private toilet aboard Krud 1 taking a selfie as we were coming in to land.

Who was the only other person privy to my brilliant plan?

Bruce.

No, diary, the truth is clear: I am betrayed. My enemies are all about me, but this betrayal by a trusted underling is hardest to take.

Did I not raise him above his station?

Did I not pluck him from the obscurity of advising provincial underlings?

Fuck ‘im. I shall allow him to believe he still has my trust, but after I assume supreme comma … my Prime Ministership he will feel the wrath of the Krud.

Oh diary, I am so alone. In NSW mein Wahlkampf-Hauptquartier is riddled with quislings seeking to undermine me at every turn and I am plagued by the windvane, Sam Dastardly. Queensland foisted the USURPER Beattie on me. WA photo-shopped the MacTiernan woman, but not me. South Australia is a worthless wasteland and Victoria is a hotbed of the spies and playthings of That Woman.

My only adherents are Bowen and Wong, both incompetent, and Deputy-Reich Fuhrer Albo, whose green teeth betray the tell-tale signs of moral decay.

What of Billy The Rat? I hear you ask. Trust a man who has turned his coat more times than Ban Ki Moon has begged me to replace him? I think not, diary.

No diary, my only friend who has stayed true to the bitter end is dear, dear Goebe … Teddy.

I have laid a further trap for Bruce. At tomorrow’s Nurembu … kampagne launch I will announce an increase in the instant asset write-off for small business.

This is meaningless, of course. It is a nonce policy. If I have no idea what ‘instant asset write-off’ is, then it is clear it will mean nothing to anybody else.

If this plan is leaked to the Murdoch media minions, I will know that the betrayal is complete.

Notes to self: Trust nobody; get minion to purchase more piano wire and meat-hooks; bestow Order of The Krud upon Teddy.