No Sheilah problem in parliament, No WUCKEN FURRIES!

Dear reader, as you may recall, this episode leaves us where we left off, with our intrepid journalists getting no closer to the nemesis, the penis wielding oppressor, lurking within our parliamentary corridors.  For the integrity of democracy itself and the the right for good wholesome clean-living women to work in government we had to get to the bottom of this .

And so we arrived in Canberra, as usual the streets were eerily empty. It was another RDO, a TIL and AL kind of day. (for the uninitiated, Rostered Day off, Time in Lieu, and Annual Leave)

Hey Chris, I’ve gotta new Dick Joke for ya!

It was virtually impossible to get into parliament itself. After the security checks, the body cavity searches, the scanners, the police checks, the working with children checks and the dna testing we were five kilos lighter and malnourished.  The bloke at the front desk just looked at us, when we answered “reason for visit?”, we said; ‘as concerned citizens’. That’s when he pressed a button and fifteen paramilitary federal police with Sten guns, a Gatling, an old School twenty-five pounder and a Bren gun surrounded us. 

Cos it was getting close to Anzac Day they were experimenting with ‘heritage weaponry” we felt honoured. It was gonna a be part of “Brave Anzacs and Paramilitary” in the new AWM Complex. The purpose being to demonstrate how the armed forces are sworn by the name of Her Majesty the Queen to defend politicians against the Citizenry, with interactive exhibits and exciting displays detailing how dangerous it would be to Australia if the two party monopoly was ever challenged.

We explained, as they held bayonets to our throats, ‘we just wanted, as citizens to ask a few questions’?

Before you could say ‘Witness K’ we were standing before Mr Potato-Head himself, 

“WHADDAYOUWANT’?, he bawled. ‘We’re just here to ask a few questions about Mrs Culthorpe, who did a stint as a parliamentary intern. ……We were wondering’?

‘I’LL DO THE TALKING,’! ‘Which Minister’?, 

Couldn’t hack the pace, if the pace is too hot don’t get into the kitchen!

‘We think it was Minister Reynolds,’?
 

‘YOU CAN’T SEE HER!” 

Why?, 

“SHE’S ON LEAVE’!

‘Well,  perhaps the Nations lawman, Mr Porter’? 

“YOU CAN’T SEE HIM’!

Why?

“HE’S ON LEAVE ALSO”!

“Well then’, we searched for answers, “howsabout the lawyer, representing Mr Porter, Cant we see her either’? 

He promised to marry her, and she BELIEVED HIM! We ARKS YA!

‘SHE’S BEEN SACKED”!

‘Why’?

‘THAT’S A FUCKEN STUPID QUESTION, THE USUAL REASON’!

What reason?

‘NOT WEARING TROUSERS’!

“What about the lady who is charge of communications or the lady who ran Aussie Post”?

“SACKED’!, 

DUMB-ARSE! Should’ve got Tag Heuer watches, Cartier is GAY!

‘The Minister for Womens Affairs”?

“ON LEAVE’!

“The leader in the senate enquiry into the status of women”?

“DIED TRAGICALLY’! 

“How’? we asked timidly, 

“She fell on a poly-vinyl poof whilst rehearsing sexual assault defensive Ju-Jitsu on the floor of the senate and fractured her sternum and died of radiation sickness as a consequence of being allergic to antibiotics and a new therapy’!

‘What therapy’?

SORE LOSERS! Couldn’t HACK IT!

“ Gender conversion therapy, to fnd her inner MANLINESS’!!!. 

He paused; ’on that count SHE FAILED SPECTACULARLY’!

“Well then, what about the Shadow Ministry’? 

“There IS no Shadow Ministry! There’s only the government, WHICH I RUN”!

“The National Party lady who did the sports rorts”? 

“SACKED’!

“The lady who works the tea room”?

“On leave’!.. “what for’? 

“STRESS’!

“Have you got any women in parliament or ministers not on leave’?

‘YES’

“MYSELF, I answer for any woman who is on stress leave, sacked or not in the building”! 

A Green Scarf won’t save ya LUV!

‘Well then,  Mrs Culthorpe”, we tried to explain, and we were cut off mid sentence, 

“WE HAVE NO WOMEN PROBLEM IN PARLIAMENT’!

Just then, the rifle bolts clicked, and we could hear the clickety clack of the Bren gun safety catch being released. 

WE realised, our time was up, 

Potato head leered at us.. 

“Go on then Boys”, 

“MAKE MY DAY’!

We got the hint, there was NO WOMAN PROBLEM in Parliament, 

WE realised something was iffy as we were frog-marched out. We couldn’t see a woman anywhere. “It’s like those American films of the forties and fifties where you never see a person of colour” I murmured to Ces, “what you’re talking about  is contemporary Australian telly. I spose that’s what parliament is for, like our telly to present to he world how we view ourselves. All  that’s white, insular and insecure, and ruled by dicks’. 

Historic parliamentary intern was imprisoned just for being a sheilah!

“Maybe’, Ces demurred, “Parliament aint a safe place for Sheila’s’?, 

‘Precisely, but who dunnit’? 

We looked around all of men in uniform were laughing and scratching their balls, and we could tell guffawing about a scrawl potato-head had made on the white board? It was a dick joke. In a second these stern faced men armed to the teeth were in stitches. Dutton had them in his thrall. He was a magician, a conjurer, a leader among MEN who understood motivation and duty. And somehow it was all encapsulated in a dick joke. If Canberra was ruled by a dick joke diaspora  finding Mrs Culthorpe’s oppressor was gonna be like like trying to find the proverbial needle in the hay-stack. 

Other Historic Sheilah, caused a HELLUVA LOTTA TROUBLE!

And there were just too many needles. And not a lot of hay stack either. 

MAKE MY DAY!

Will our heroes get through in the end? Is Canberra a closed door to he public? Find out in our next stimulating episode, “Canberra or Cant- berra”, or “our  lady in waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting, and waiting, etc.etc…(op cit) 

Dear ardent and passionate readership, today ‘Poetry Sunday’ is re- released. 

It’s a NEW LOOK Poetry Sunday!

Gone are all the cobwebs, the weight of tradition and the sad flip flop of poets crushed by the human conditioner, Harpic Flush-matic and Hospital grade Domestos.

This new look, bold, brave, audacious Poetry Sunday comes supercharged, at WARP SPEED!

With approvals from our Home Affairs Minister, (the Gau-leiter of Brisbane Peter Dutton), the Peoples’ Daily and Lord Rupert of Murdoch. This new epoch,  the new shiny-new, anodyne, aerodyne Poetry Sunday arrives on your breakfast plate, boiled, fried, poached or scrambled, as pre- prepared  food for the Soul! It’s lightness of touch will go down easy with your sizzling bacon or chips, and (taken in responsible doses) do wonders for your love life, your self esteem and make you walk with the lightness of step that comes with an inner glow that self knowledge is its own reward. 

So settle back for the poerty of Geoff Boyes. 

Next weeks edition will include a brief bio of Geoff. But in the great tradition of Aussie literature we present him just as he is,   enigmatic, impassive, impenetrable and unfathomable and deeply antipodean.

And for those suffering Sunday morning hangovers, a talisman of “Things to Come”!

So take it away Geoff…

TEN DOLLAR BOTTLE

“Pub Scene’, Lithograph. Sir Geoffrey Boyes the Elder,(1872-1935) R.A, RWEA, OBE.

Ten Dollar Bottle of Forget © Geoff Boyes

Think I’ll buy a bottle,

As cheap as I can get

Thoughts of you drift in and out

Of ten dollars’ worth of forget.

Drown out the memories,

Cast aside my old doubts

Lose it all in a bottle

Ten dollars’ worth of wiped out.

Then tomorrow, you’ll be forgotten,

Lost in hangovers sweet remorse

But when your face I see again,

Another ten dollar bottle, of course.

Mrs Culthorpe before the fall. Outside Parliament.

Dear reader, we continue where we left off, trying to get the bottom of who was responsible for Mrs Culthorpe’s condition post her stint as a parliamentary intern.   Read on for another penetrating insight ….

We were getting nowhere with our enquiries, the entire front bench of both parties had gone silent. It was a code of silence. Almost as if everyone knew something, but no one wanted to let the cat out of the bag. 

We had to bell the cat… 

But with Mrs Culthorpe’s deteriorating condition, we knew we were running out of time, 

But what could we do?

In desperation, we decided to set up an identikit and get her to nod.  A nod at the very least would give us an indication of who the culprit was. 

The identikit proved to be enthralling. 

As an intern Mrs Culthorpe soon became victim to an historically nuanced penis wielding oppressor and the toxic culture of parliament.

Good ol fashioned detective work. As we matched profiles, faces and types, bald, moustached and tattooed, Mrs Culthorpe looked passive, no reaction we glumly thought. It was only a matter of time she’d be dead and the culprit, that penis wielding oppressor taking refuge in the corridors of our finest institution would get away scot free. 

It was getting harder still, cos as senior detective Losenge-Botham termed it. ‘THIS was an historical crime. And because of that it reeked of Rolf Harris’. 

We weren’t quite sure what he meant, but ‘Rolf Harris’ sounded pretty scary, and we knew how long that took to bring the colourful performative picaresque painter to brook. 

Still Ces persisted with short faces, long faces, fat faces, happy, evil, friendly till he almost gave up. I was preparing mashed potato and snags all awhile. Poor Mrs Culthorpe just sat impervious in her chair and dribbled. I gathered the potatoes and a big round potato fell outta the bag….. all of a sudden Mrs Culthorpe twitched…. 

It was a sign. I picked up the potato , she twitched again. 

The P.M’s right hand man. Mr Potato Head.

Was it the potato? I pleaded, 

Just then the tannoy crackled, it was the midday news we heard just a fragment, but that fragment hit us like a thunderbolt!

‘Home Affairs Minister Peter Dutton has praised his colleague Christian Porter’s public defence against rape allegations on Wednesday and claimed the attacks against him were driven by politics.

Mr Dutton said he had watched the press conference and described Mr Porter’s performance in front of probing questions from the press, in which he denied all allegations him, as “gutsy”.

High Noon. A lawmaker and a “Gutsy Performance’!

‘Gutsy’ we liked the description, Mr Porter of whom we all respected was the highest law-maker in the land and ‘gutsy’ re-affirmed that in our view he was not a pillow biter, a pansy or a pinko. It was reassuring, almost as if our senior law-man was Gary Cooper in ‘High Noon’ The baddies were out to get him and he was pleading with us, “ Do not forsake me oh my darling’

‘Dutto’ continued his soliloquy, we became transfixed by the courage evinced by out top law-man.

“To watch him stand up there and go through that vilification even with some of those journalists in the room who were just baying for blood, I thought his performance was quite remarkable and he held up the best he could,” Mr Dutton said on 2GB radio’.

So that’s it, we tossed the potato triumphantly in the air, so it was Potato Head we ejaculated….

To our surprise Mrs Culthorpe just looked blank. No potato. 

Was it Porter? we asked …

There was a brief flicker of recognition, and though the mouth was fixed with dribble and dementia, she almost smiled, and then, nodded furiously in the negative, 

Not Potato Head? Not Porter? Who the hell in damnation has caused this catastrophe?. 

Just then, she stopped nodding. 

This is what a ‘Gutsy Performance’ looks like

There was an ad break on the  telly, 

It was an advert for a new time share resort in a place they call ‘Avalon – land’. It boasted credentials of 100 % hygienic, and fully flushable clear glass toilets. 

Could this be the link? The airport, the corridors of power? The big man they call ‘Lindsay’ and the inscrutable Mr Whu?

We were no closer but could tell, for women in parliament the situation was dire. And it was a situation that went ‘ right to the top”. And was the abuse suffered by Mrs Culthorpe historical? Just one look ,we could tell that she was history personified.

The ever inscrutable Mr Whu in the High-roller room at Federal Parliament. Could he be the culprit?

The optics weren’t good and she was fading fast. Perhaps Mr Potato Head knew something. In a flash, Ces and I jumped into the Kingswood . ONLY one man could help us out, and it was a man who could see a “Gutsy performance” I ever there was one, Mr Potato head himself. Peter “dutto” Dutton. 

Will our intrepid reporters get to the pointy end?  And save Mrs Culthorpe’s honour? Find out in our next solenacious episode, ‘three potatoes short of the mash’, or ‘Gutsy performances prevail penultimately’.

Mrs Culthorpe, a victim of parliamentarysub-culture

Dear reader, as you will be aware, ever since Mrs Culthorpe returned from her stint as an intern in Federal Parliament, things have not been the same. 

Indeed, though we recognise the “Paths to nowhere training scheme” gave Mrs Culthorpe a heads up in the competitive jobs market, we agreed with the job futures network agency, (a fully funded private employment training scheme),” that employment criteria which favoured young energetic employees who could be allied to enterprise bargaining agreements and a lower wages were more likely to gain full employment over the likes of  Mrs Culthorpe’, whom after her recent stint in a private aged care facility has lost, (inadvertently the owners say) the gift of speech, continence, and betrayed traces of Berri Berri, Scrub Typhus, Dysentry and Cholera as a consequence of her being interned in the Happy Meadow Retirement Villa, (ABN 25 215 32 499). 

Still we had a problem, On a Stephen Hawking type computer tablet, with the styli gripped determinedly between her teeth, she tried to scrawl the name of the parliamentarian who had so cruelly abused her. 

Our P.M, standing by principle

To our shock, and after due analysis, she had scrawled the names and tell-tale vital-statistics of most of the front bench of cabinet. How could this be? Until after another agonising wait, she made it clear that those arrangements were consensual. Clearly there was something funny going on in parliament.  So as we pressed for further information Mrs Culthorpe, already frail, suffered a seizure, and is unable to do much other than stare and nod occasionally. 

So it’s up to us to determine who did it, and find the culprit, 

But where to start, that was the question? 

Not much point going to the P.M we said, he knows nothing about any form of sexual impropriety. And if he did, he’d expunge it from his soul through happy clapping and talking in tongues. 

Gauleiter of Brisbane

We asked the most powerful law man in the country, the Gauleiter of Brisbane, Herr Dutton. He directed us to an offshore detention facility which we politely declined. The normally ebullient Michaela Cash couldn’t help us either. 

Bugger, we’d been left with more clues than the Metropolitan Police encountered during the reign of the ripper, with nothing to show for it.

We tried asking all the pollies, and they just smirked, 

It seems they all knew who’d done it, and yet were unwilling to break the code. 

‘A code of honour’? said Ces, 

‘Nup, the code of doing anything that might get in the way of the perks, the super, and the lifetime of sitting on well paid boards, as lobbyists and rivers of cash for doing precisely what they’re doing now’.

Michaela salutes the Gauleiter.

“Representing the people”? I naively said. 

Pshaw! Ces sputtered, “for doing nothing, and looking after mates, 

Perhaps one of their mates could help us”?

But, who was man enough to speak out? Clearly a sheilah in distress was of interest to no one, 

Ces chuckled, ‘it’s almost as if she was a fucking refugee’… 

We had to have a laugh, well I spose, at least they’re not just racist, 

That was a thought, there was depth in parliament after all. 

Michaela learnt the salute from H.M

Will our duo unlock the code of silence? 

What will they find?

And does anyone on the front bench care enough to squeal? 

Find out in our next episode, “Draw ranks and you’re FIRED” or…. “ Don’t look now, its principle’!

‘Avalon-Land’ housing estate toilets are 400 % GERM FREE!

Eddies speech was a bravura Performance. 

But first we had to endure the awards ceremony devoted to ‘Australia’s greatest Covid Warriors’. This is when Ben Roberts Smith mounted the rostrum. He played a stirring version of the Last Post. Then, up stepped the hospital cleaner Achmed who won the ‘last week before Tuesday Greatest current ‘Australia’s most improved migrant award’. Ben Roberts Smith got the country’s highest military, the V.D, and then we paused as he went on to  say a few words on the behalf of Australia’s single biggest residential sub division that can offer housewives, a complete and absolute germ free household environment, guaranteed by Pfizer and Monsanto. 

‘Avalon- land’ promotional video, “SAFE and HYGIENIC”!

We went though our routine, 

“Avalon-Land” bedroom suites are fully Hose-able

We plodded through the lines, a win win for disease control and the building industry, we thank the development industry,  the REIV for being leaders in innovation, and we thank particularly the four banks for leading us to a FULL ECONOMIC recovery. Then, after the sponsors messages about ‘fluro – flush’, anti-bac meal deliveries, Andrew, did a handball comp just as Ted Whitten used to do on ‘World of Sport’. We were almost expecting Uncle Doug to turn up, but something bigger walked to the stage, to accept his ‘Australian of the Decade’ award. It was Lindsay, 

Uncle Doug, the sporting man’s Aristotle.

He started off; ‘as a humble and lowly truck driver’.

A short two hours later Lindsay finished his soliloquy with a little anecdote about success…he thanked his mate Solly for the tip, and Jeannie from the galactic system they call ‘Pratt’. 

When he finished we felt squashed, 

And realised, the crushing irony, that with the gift of freedom we’d sold our souls, our integrity, our very being to the market-place. 

All ‘Avalon- land house and land packages are electronically cleansed for your protection.

But then, a bell rang, and Eddie beaming said, “NOW BOYS! This is a special day. And I’m prouder than the stitching on a Sherrin to reunite you with the one individual who saved your necks’. 

Mrs Culthorpe managed a wry smile.

Emerging from behind the Foxtel mega screen shuffled Mrs Culthorpe. ‘Hi boys’, though ravaged with bed sores, dysentry, ebola and traces of Berri Berri Contracted from being an inmate in one of our prIvately run aged-care establishments she could still hold the tea tray.  The two mugs jiggled precariously, between the pot and the mugs, a plate of Monte Carlos’. She smiled, though she’d lost the gift of speech, a tear trickled from her right eye, the other was closed with twitching. She managed a wry smile, 

‘Boys boomed Eddy, this is your finest hour’! He bid us stand up.

And blinking in the blinding flash of the world’s press we raised our arms in triumph, the crowd yelled itself hoarse in an uproar of adulation, we the underdogs had prevailed. There was something so uniquely Australian about it, we were drawn to tears.  As we stood there, the Foxtel screen exploded in a whirl of colour and our supreme leader, Peter of Dutton, boomed; ‘A nation sends its thanks’!, Achmed said in a half gibberish of Pathan and Arabic, ‘Thankee Thankee Stwaya’!

And as Lindsay, presented us both with ‘Orders of Australia’, the crowd roared; ’Onya Eddie’ !!

Ben unfurled the Australian flag, and proclaimed, 

Ben unfurled the flag, but was dis that the promised Cartier watch (free with every V.C) was not forthcoming.

‘This is a PROUD DAY’!

The end. 

Next episode, Mrs Culthorpe, finally got a job after ten years in the ‘Paths to Nowhere employment training scheme’, we were flabbergasted. Turns out she had to move to Canberra, and did a stint as a parliamentary intern. Then, as an intern, after-a boozy night something went terribly wrong. Stay tuned to our next probing episode, “tears before bed-time’ or “ The cut and thrust of politics”

Even the pot plants at the Holiday Inn were irradiated for our SAFETY!

Dear reader we begin, where we left off, our prisoners corralled inside the Holiday Inn, and then from the proverbial frying pan, flung into the midst of Australia’s first every quarantine based suburban subdivision, “Avalon -Land”. “Australia’s most hygienically cleansed address”. We’d become the face of a newer, cleaner, safer, Australian Dream. As the brochure said, “Read on if you have LASTING PPE protection…..

Mr Whu, inscrutable as ever. But HAPPY.

We were prawns on a barbecue of Lindsay’s making, with Mr Whu the cheerleader. In the background we knew that Jamie and Eddy lurked, to what evil end, we knew not.  We had become  famous, for all the wrong reasons. Our faces and the ‘Avalon-Land’ logo appeared on bus stops, tram stops and disused airport lounges.  Our faces beamed on Sky News, Fox News and on the cover of associated media, Prison Monthly, Detention Centre Weekly, and the highly circulated, flagship from Transurban, “Tax- Free” , and “Highway- Man’. WE had become memes and synonymous with the jingle, 

‘Welcome to Avalon-land, Avalon-land,  Australia’s No 1# residential Address’

.It’s germ free,  and certified antiseptic, and arguably (insert drumroll) the BEST!

Voted the worst jingle since, ‘the World of Saba” it had infected the psyche of an ENTIRE NATION.

Avalon Land community club rooms ” all 100% hygienically and antiseptically CLEAN!

It was a dreadful jingle, but it captured the hearts and minds, with the P.M, and the Test team doing a special ‘Onya Boys’ conga in his fashionable Aussie flag ppe face – mask. 

Avalon-Land staff wear colour co-ordinated rubbish bags to ensure PUBLIC SAFETY!

Families had decided to call their kiddies either “Cecil” or ‘Quentin’. A little Sri Lankan family abandoned to rot on  Christmas Island for being poor and dark- skinned had twins, and  they were christened Ces and Quent. For evincing patriotism and being able to recite all of the Don’s batting statistics for the 1937-38 Cricket season, they were given a pardon by the Gauleiter of Brisbane, his excellency Sir Peter Dutton. Even the Australian idiom had changed, to ‘do a Quent and Ces, (abbreviated  to ‘Quent-n-ces’), was short-hand for escaping a nasty situation to find oneself in less than a slightly nastier situation. We’d single-handedly captured the spirit of the Aussie Under-Dog. 

Being famous you’d think would bring great personal benefits. But sadly,  from our Nissen hut, ‘the worlds first prototype remote quarantine, suburban sub division module’, we were like two freaks.  Kiddies and families buying off the plan units that promised “full  and completely computerised hygienic and safe aerosol spraying  toilets, “ The Fresh flush system” would stare at us, in our cell. We’ were encouraged to wave to the passers by, like circus Chimpanzees in our matching Holiday Inn Safari suits and pretend to enjoy watching Alan who was beamed nonstop to us on our wall sized telly. After all, Alan deserved credit for saving us  and giving us such favourable coverage on Foxtel. 

WE were prisoners, and feeling completely ‘Julian Assanged’,  but were yet STILL ALIVE!! They clearly had one last trump card, and we knew, come hell or high water, we’d be used once again to ensure total and absolute control over all Australians, by the aforementioned. 

Marketing GOLD! the little reffo family that made ‘Avalon-Land” a speculators PARADISE!

Just as we were settling into exciting back to back episodes of ‘Border Watch’,  ‘Dole Bludger’, and ‘Refugee Crimes Un- Covered’, all excellent documentaries focusing on how the poor and indolent were getting away with BLUE MURDER, there was a knock on the door.  Mr Whu put his pudgy wing- nut headed face , (Lindsays words, not ours) through the door; ‘Cmon boys someone to see you, and he’s really looking forward to helping you out of this, and ensure that you never break quarantine and put my government in suspicion ever again’..

‘What the!!” 

We meekly followed. 

There was a podium

MATES!

At the desk, surrounded by microphones, our so called associates, Jamie, Lindsay, Andrew, (formerly “Mr football”) and Mr Whu. In the middle sat Eddy. Eddy was beaming,  he winked at us through the corner of his eye.  He was wearing a black and white Collingwood footy jumper in which the black bits had been scrubbed out with Dettol, Napi- San and Pine ‘O’ Clean. It was off white and white, as Ces put it like the old black and white telly when the vertical shift blurred on World of Sport.

Eddy turned on the mike; “Here they are!  The boys who’ve made good and saved us from this  debacle’. 

What debacle? Which debacle? And the plaintive cry from within, “Why Us’?

What will happen to our duo? Stay tuned for the next excruciating episode, “Dial L for Lumumba’, or  “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to look, but Facebook?”

Chaddy at Portsea. For the budget conscious.

We find ourselves where we left off, being slotted into the bleakest place in Strayla, ( even worse than Chaddy) the Holiday Inn. Will our heroes be deep cleansed? read on…

The gleaming portal of the worlds second ugliest hotel leered at us, (Barangaroo is touted to be the global leader)  the cops formed a cordon. Just as we approached the front door and the retinue of PPE biological warfare, special Quarantine Enforcement Police Unit gathered, Mr Whu greeted us. ‘Hello Boys, you’ve made me go hot and cold, and’… But Ces had had enough.

”Enough of this BULLSHIT WHU’!

“Boys you’ve made me go hot and cold’!

You pretended to be a left leaning commie and you’re in bed with Lindsay, the most selfish prick on the planet. He makes Bezos look like fucking Mother Theresa, you should be ashamed, They wouldn’t do that in China’!

‘Frogs testicles’! he sneered back at us. ‘In China we are all communist, communists with capitalists tendencies, if you’re of the party you are just a bit more communist that the rest. I hold that exalted position through my bolt and node initiative, to open up airports and quarantine stations for the betterment’, he paused and looked to the east reverentially, “of Mother China’. 

‘Fuck me’, whispered Ces, ‘he’s gone the full monty, he actually thinks he’s anointed, it’s like Bob Santa without a social conscience’. But what shocked us next made our jaws drop, 

‘So ugly, so bad its kinda funky’ (Kevin Macleod)

“Oh thought I’d found ya here comrade, how you getting on with my boys”?

It was Lindsay, he was decked out in a Mao suit and had an order of “the three gorges dams” on his breast pocket, he knew what we were thinking. ‘Ignore the optics boys, sometimes you just have to humour em a bit”. But Mr Whu was somewhere else, he was speaking mandarin now, and all of us just had to stand and listen… 

‘Hey Danny boy wake up, we’ve got work to do’.. 

Danny, who we thought was Mr Whu regained attention, ‘yeah right’, Process em?

‘You got the camera crews’?

Holiday Inn revellers enjoying the cocktail lounge

Yep, has Jamie and Andrew arrived yet?.. they’re in the hotel foyer., Good oh, let’s get cracking. ‘Come on youse’! Escorted by our as yet unfamiliar police cordon we were frog-marched into the foyer.

WE were blinded by the eruption of flash bulbs and prodded with microphones as the swirling masses clamoured, reporters, journalists, the Canberra press gallery and second tier celebrities desperate to raise their facebook profile.  The most aggressive, an innocuous little bald man, thrust a SKY NEWS mike into our faces, held us tightly with a squirrel grip and said, “My name Is ALAN, just do as I say and your lives will be spared”. 

The interview began, 

‘Did you willingly infect these staff with a nebuliser, when you arrived from Texas’? The grip tightened, we knew what to do, we stammered “Yes’. 

“And did you wilfully infect this hotel quarantine zone after returning from Aspen’?

” My name is ALAN”

The grip tightened again, 

‘y..y.yess’,  

‘And are you bloody sorry and will do anything to clear the poor government who have been shellacked for this catastrophe through no fault on their behalf” Just then we saw from the throng the striking profile of our new mate ‘Dutto’, he signalled to us, we nodded in affirmation.

‘y…y…yes..

The flash bulbs went mental, it was blinding, the next thing we knew, we must have passed out, and when we awoke, it was as if in a dream. 

And as the mist of unconsciousness cleared, we were aware of one thing, the towering shadow of a colossus.  Was it Ben Roberts Smith? The answer was revealed to us, when that familiar booming voice, redolent of power and absolute power, whispered to us, ‘are ya gonna be good boys’?

We kinda missed Jamie and Andrew.

We knew the answer, “yess”, we stammered “Good then, all I want you to do now is tell these people from the Red Cross and Amnesty International that you are not Julian Assange, and you think that your old mate Lindsay has saved the country and your necks in this hour of need”. 

“Hour of need?

 “yes, I’ve saved us all from the single biggest catastrophe of all time’!

“Covid’? we stammered, 

‘Another annexation of another piece of the Portsea beach’, 

A multi-coloured way of saying ” POLICE-STATE’!

‘Ouch’!, Alan still had us in his vice- like  grip

‘Now the crown is mine to wear. I not only own the highways, the trucks and the  airport but I now own the whole fucking Casino business because as the enquiry found, I am the only man  left in Strayla of impeccable character and principle. 

He sniggered, you always knew that DIDN’T YOU’!!

“Yes Mr Lindsay, your hero- ship Sir”, 

“Good! we understand each other, 

‘I’ve got an old mate who’ll prime you for the next interview, and then if you Sign these documents, you’ll be Jake’, 

He then sniggered more ominously, and whispered, we could smell the stale odour of footy franks and Ferguson Plarre Coffee Scrolls. ‘Everything  will be sorted’. 

Then he gave us his very own Tony Abbott onion wink.. 

We‘d gone from shit-scared to being scared-shitless….

“The hanging gardens”, a popular tourist attraction at Holiday Inn.

What will happen to our heroes? Will they be able to squeeze this-un out? Find out in our next evacuatory episode, “Tighter than a neon nuns nasty”, or “A squirrel grip in a tight squeeze”. 

Readers have requested a re-print of this years parliamentary revue, “the Brothers Karamazov”

Dear reader we find our heroes in a devilish place, up to their armpits in intrigue when all they wanted was some advice from Crown on footy tipping  and a Federal grant for a pie warmer. Things are hotting up, and it aint the pie warmer.   Read on….

The very next thing that happened was Mr Whu turned up out of the blue, and from the road we could hear a screech. It was the worlds biggest black Rolls Royce, the grill was gold plated,  the tyres made from synthetic platinum and processed einsteinium, (the worlds rarest element) and the number plates ‘FOX YOU’ said it all. 

Lindsay, (official water displacement figures have not yet been determined).

It was Australia’s most powerful airport chief, Lindsay (this public beach is mine to cordon) Fox. Lindsay got out of the limo, we could tell as it rose twelve inches higher, almost bouncing into the air.  Mr Whu pretended not to notice, and from his pocket he produced a little red book. ‘I hereby proclaim from section 43 of the Public Safety Act  that you are in contravention of section 32 of the Hygiene Legislation Ordinance, part 3 section 12. . 

“What the eff’!, we both exclaimed; “but you arranged with your mate Eddy and the other fat bloke, (no offence) as Lindsay drew close, ‘and here we are with half a room still full of pokies, no tea lady, no Monte Carlo’s and an electricity bill that has bankrupted us”!

‘Not the way I see it, this place shall be confiscated and the assets sold off by order of the Public Safety Ordinance”.

‘No need to go on’! bellowed Lindsay, “move outta the way! What the little wing-nut headed peck-sniff is telling ya, is that I OWN all of THIS’!! And just to emphasise, he waived a fatty pair of arms in our direction, and to make the point he said; “I also own THAT”! And then he appeared to be pointing to the entire suburb in general. “As a matter of actual fact I FUCKEN OWN EVERYTHING!! “It’s an issue of PUBLIC SAFETY! 

“I’ve finished with you Danny Boy, you snivelling little piece of shit’!

And I want you to come along with me, I’ve finished with you Danny-Boy’! You snivelling little piece of SHIT’!. He sneered at Mr Whu, who tugged his comic forelock, ‘you clean up whilst I sort these boys’! He gave us an onion eating wink, way worse than Tony Abbott’s. We were about to do a runner, when a police Public Order Response Unit Van turned up and a dozen paramilitary with flak jackets, sub machine guns, jack-boots, armour and full face vizors, formed a cordon around us. In a flash we were “constrained” and from the outside we could hear Lindsay  bellowing:  ‘RAISE THE JOINT!, and as for you little Danny boy, NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED’!

The cops, just stared at us and held tasers, capsicum and cow-prods at our faces, we daren’t move. ‘We’re fucked’, I whispered to Ces, ‘Yep, Completely K’d’, (he was referring to Witness K) ‘and Assanged’! The cops laughed, at least they had a sense of humour. A loud banging on the roof of the van, and the familiar booming voice of the trucking magnate, ‘Take em away boys, I’ll meet you on the OTHER SIDE’! 

Lindsay is well connected, former P.M’s and (RHS) Intra galactic free trade agreement with first extra terrestrial alien trading bloc. “Jeannie” from the galactic system they call “PRATT”! Earth gravity has distorted her facial features.

The other side? it sounded ominous, we knew that Mr Whu and Lindsay were close, but this was a little too close for comfort.  We felt that ever since we bumped into Eddy with an offer that was too good to be true, our lives had taken a downward trajectory, Then there was Andrew, who arrived with Jamie, looking shadier than Mick Gatto’s boys and the feeling that we were being slotted, to be used as prawns in some hideously corrupt pan-national cover up…WE despaired, but our problems had only just begun. 

As the van screeched to a halt, and the cops pushed us onto the pavement, the dust settled, and we could feel the horror, for there, in blinding white light, smelling of Harpic and Glen 20 we saw our end. The gleaming portals of an obscenely drab, ugly, and austere building, the sign adorning in lurid green, a mocking replay of ‘Arbeit macht Frei’ on the portal of Auschwitz  if ever you saw one, it boomed, ‘HOLIDAY INN’!!

Lindsay grabbed the Portsea beach for the public good and has a helicopter on standby, (courtesy of the Coles Myer shareholders) to do ” Shark-Patrol’!

What will happen to our less than dynamic duo? Will they be doomed to rot inside a corona affected sump, way worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta? Or will they just be deep cleansed and made whiter than white? Stay tuned for our next episode “ A bleach of confidence” or “ Keep trucking, till you own EVERYTHING’!

Eddy has problems with communicating

The tip of the Footy Tipping Iceberg

‘Im sorry’, it was Eddy on the phone, he sounded more flustered than usual, ‘you’ve got the wrong lumumba’, 

“Lumumba you say’?, he wasn’t making sense, can you repeat that’? 

‘Lumumba’, 

‘He’s said it again, don’t you mean the wrong number?

“Yeah right, whatever’, he sullenly replied and we could hear him mumble ‘chicken shit’…

He regained his composure; ‘yeah, it’s your ol mate Eddy’, 

Sometimes he can’t remember the right number, and he gets foreign sounding names wrong!

‘Eddy we don’t want the poker machines, we can’t afford them, and our rooms have changed. Once we used to be a little community, but now we’re a rusk with all these shady types trying to sign us up for investments in the Caymans, blue chip shares in lithium mines in  Tanzania, and football app training seminars on leadership and community building. We’re buggered Eddy, and you got us into this, and besides Suzie Wong aint all she’s cracked up to be, she’s taken the tea pot, the Monte Carlo’s you promised and done a bunk with one of the spivs you sent round, and poor Mc Culthorpe is outta a job and your work scheme has gone flat since the third lockdown. In short Eddy, we’re pretty pissed off all round. 

‘Bullshit, you got yourself into this’! 

‘That’s not fair, don’t you know right from wrong’?

‘Chicken shit’

‘Do you know black from white Eddy’?

The phone went dead again, 

‘Perhaps it was something we said’, Clarrie murmured, 

‘I dunno, he told us he was the leader and he’d look after us’… 

Just the the phone rang off the hook..

Our ol mate “Dutto”!

‘Gday, it’s your ol mate Dutto’!

“Dutto’? , we enquired, then we could hear the microphone, click; “you know yer ol mate whom you met on the beach on Australia day at Portsea, the bloke who sent you the black box’. 

‘Oh Peter Dutton! Yeah Dutto, we’re in a bit of a pickle if you’d care to know’. 

‘I KNOW EVERYTHING!,  Have you pressed THAT button yet’? 

‘Nup, we’re confused, which one’?

‘You’ll know soon enough’, and the phone went dead again. 

Then it rang again, 

Eddy talking to Mr Whu

It was Eddy, He was exasperated, ‘look here you drongos just make a choice, press the button the nice man gave you and I’ll get you  off the hook, you can have your pie warmer, the pokies will go, you’ll get your tea lady’s job back and I’ll get ‘Dan the Man’ to give you the all clear’. 

“Dan the man’? Eddy said, ‘yeah the bloke that looks like Mr Bean who likes to dress up in PLA costume and quote his little red book’!. 

“Oh Mr Whu. Why didn’t you say that in-the first place, Why? “No who”? Eddy clearly had a problem remembering things. 

‘Allright Eddy, we’ll use the blackbox’.

‘But make it quick he pleaded otherwise I’m in deep shit and the club will fold’. 

Just then we knew how serious the issue was, if Collingwood folded, there’d be no other singular galvanising force for sportsmen and women the world over to feel unified by pure un-distilled Hate. Perhaps it was Eddy giving us a clue, Collingwood being either black or white…half black or half white? But what if even the black bits were white? 

Which one to press?

Mr Whu talking to Eddy

We looked at the two buttons, the white one, though it was worn all over looked inviting, ‘I spose that reflects a deep natural cultural bias, to always select the white one’, but just then, Clarrie’s little kid Wandsworth raced through the rows of silent pokie machines with his toy bat-mobile singing at the top of his voice, nun nunna nunna nunna nunna BATMAN’!

‘You know what Ces’? What Quent?, said Ces, ‘Black is sort of alluring, just think of the Bat-mobile? Yep, you’re right Quent, and Darth Vader is kinda cool looking.  So were the SS’!

 ‘I know it’s not politically correct but those black uniforms were designed by Hugo Boss.  Jeez I didn’t know that’s another reason why. They should’ve won the war. Yeah, and more still,  that’s why police forces the world over have gone ape-shit on wearing black looking like the SS and shooting jaywalkers who are dark skinned. its cool to be cruel, and cooler still if you wear black.  I think that’s the takeout message’. 

Ces and I thought about this for a while, and then looking at the clock, realised we had to make the decision, 

‘But bad guys are black I whispered, it sort of indicates, cept Zorro, that black aint good for your health. You’re dead right, 

Mr Whu triumphant after wining a pokies contract in Little Bourke Street

But it could be a trick’? Even though we know instinctively that black is evil and God was always a white bearded old  man looking like a hippy and like Jesus possibly on the lgbti trans x spectrum there were black instances that weren’t all bad, 

‘Like black Saturday’? jested Ces 

‘Come on whatever happens let’s just make a decision, ‘’we hesitated, fed up I guided Ces’s hand and pressed firmly on the white, it was head or tails, up or down, wright or wrong and white from black. 

And ….. 

Nothing happened. 

Mr Whu and ‘Dutto’ both like law and order. And the exercise of POWER for the PUBLIC GOOD!

What will happen next? Will our adventurers ever get the inside on footy tipping? Will Eddy and Mr Whu return for their investments? Stay tuned to our next episode of ‘Duttons button’ or ‘three strikes and you’re off-white”. 

Cheap as Chips

it’s vice regal, and the vice comes at a price

‘I dunno’, Clarrie said after we’d installed em, (the Poker machines)  we couldn’t afford the electricity bill. Poker machines cost an awful lot of money.  Spose that’s ok, as the other bloke Jamie said ‘that’ll be paid by high rollers from China’. 

‘Jeez, Chinese high rollers’? We knew what that was code for, crook cash being siphoned offshore so that Jamie and his mates could cruise the Pacific in flash yachts and go the complete Howard Hughes, 

After a few weeks we knew we’d been dissed. 

That was when our troubles went up a notch or two.

But not everyone is a winner

Susie Wong arrived. Susie was in a word…. ‘inscrutable’. And she didn’t even butter the scones, just sat on the phone all day texting. That’s when the bus-loads of high-rollers arrived. Cept there’d been a mix up, instead of high rollers they were ‘low levellers’. Straight out of some post apocalyptic industrial nightmare from some God-Forsaken dump north of Harbin. If you’d said; ‘bring me your malnourished  diseased and humourless’, they would’ve nailed it, but fortunately being Australia we don’t pretend to have high moral virtue as a founding principle. But we do have a sense of smell and the loos ponged to high heaven. 

The only other people who came in the door seemed to be drug dealers and pimps. They’d walk in, sniff the air, look around, see our coffee scroll on the table, Mrs Culthorpe, (who though was now unemployed was working with us as a volunteer in training on the excellent ‘Road to Nowhere’ training for the dole scheme. That was Susie’s idea just for having her on, we were getting a twenty k kickback from the Feds. It seemed too good to be true.

‘Jeez’, Clarrie said, Clarrie was one for understatement, ‘we only wanted a pie warmer and an inside on footy tipping,  and now we’re up to our armpits in shit we cant even afford to run, for people we don’t even know and for the benefit of who knows what’. 

Funny thing, no sooner than he said it, when all these trucks turned up, and these removalists, (all must be the same family). Mr Who, Mr What and Mr Why, took all the pokies. As they walked out the door they said; “sign this”? Which we did, and with a grin, that was as sharp as a shithouse rat he winked, “ all sorted”, ..

There’s losers

We had a funny feeling that “ sorted” could be code for a visit from Mick Gatto. 

‘Fuck me, we’re really fucked’, Clarrie, said. He had a point, holding up the electricity bill, we’d have to sell the office, Mrs Culthorpe and the equipment just to stave of bankruptcy. 

‘Bloody hell!” Ces said, “I’ve got an idea, why don’t we get another pie warmer, apply for a community development fund and see if we can get Federal funding to help us in the footy comp, a computer to check the odds, and a link direct to sports bet and Footy bet”. 

We scratched our heads, seemed like a great idea, with a direct link to sports bet and footy bet, we’d be much closer to the action, be able to read the form and be doing the right thing by the blokes who put on betting so that the community may gain a benefit, and a bit of building better communities infrastructure funding’. 

‘And whilst you’re at it, piped Ces, throw in an extra bit of funding for a dart board, a comfy lounge and a bar fridge, with Bingo nights we might just need the extra equipment’. 

‘Too right’! we enthused, and just then this tall bloke in a military type uniform arrived, and said, “i think you’ll need this”

But the community benefits are HUGE!

What the …. 

‘No questions, to question is to question the highest authority in the land, you are ordered to install this’! And (he gave us another Tony Abbott wink) your problems will be, ( then he went Arthur Daley) sorted’… 

‘Fuck me’! once he’d left in a black car, with six wheels, and a motorcade of paramilitary blokes on motorcycles and sidecars with flags and mounted Mg 42’s, we opened the box. 

It had another box with a red button. On the button printed on a Dymo label, the words “ Dutton Button”. 

The only problem there were two boxes and two buttons, a black button and a white button…. The white button looked worn through overuse, whereas the black button looked brand new, hardly ever used….

What was the Dutton button? Will it help us in out request for public funds? What has it to do with Eddy, and the other bloke who runs the Poker machines and Mr Whu, Mr What and Mr Why?

The trickle down effect, In the end, this will require quite a few window cleaners to keep this empty building sparkling clean.

Find out in out next ethically challenged episode of “ Two Wongs don’t make an off-white either’ or “ Dial 000 and ask for Lumumba”