Dear reader we were anticipating with some enthusiasm the publication of a PCbyCP exclusive today, with the first of our installments from Tony Abbott’s election Blog. But sadly, we must forestall this illuminating expose as we are locked in detailed conversation with the publishers of his upcoming book, “Santa’s little Helper”. We are also seeking permission to use notes and references from another key member of his political staff, (his former parliamentary secretary) who is also under contract to the same publisher. In the interests of transparency and accuracy we must bide our time, and hope that the former PM’s electoral tour and high level meetings with world leaders demonstrates that he is very much the man of the moment, and almost definately poised to be the next leader of the federal opposition, just as soon as the ‘Ideas boom’ phenomena has deflated.
A P.M and his toady. Shirt-fronting on the international stage.
So in this slightly divergent aside we bring you two more installments from Beau Dunlap our medium of the minds-eye, who arrests time, place and meaning from the hinterland of the subconscious we call sleep. Curiously though, we thought he was responsible for the near-devoluton of federalism to assuage the lack of any real policy on tax reform, but we have been assured by Beau, that was the P.M’s Mr Malcolm Abbott’s very own personal dream.
Now from Beau:
I dreamt I was living by myself near a small village in the Bega Valley, and I was praying to special patron saints to intercede for me – in other words, for a miracle. It was a straightforward plea: “If I am good and such and such happens then I promise faithfully I will…” The burden of guilt is always strong when praying for something that goes against the usual tide of frustration and disappointment when hopes are thwarted. Miracles don’t make you feel better, they make you feel guilty because they can only occur at the expense of the millions of other frustrated and disappointed prayer sayers.
‘Boycott, who had opened the batting, was still there, like a brick wall, at the other end’.
I dreamed I was playing cricket, on the hallowed ground of the MCG, in front of a big noisy crowd. Under Test Match conditions. I was in the side batting first, and we were led by Geoffrey Boycott. It was Day 1, and I came into bat at Number 7 in the final session, just before the drinks break. Boycott, who had opened the batting, was still there, like a brick wall, at the other end. I faced one over, played and missed every ball. The umpires called drinks, and I realized I badly needed a toilet break. I turned towards the Players Rooms, but Boycott called me over and began hectoring me on the weaknesses in my technique. His voice was like one of those cheap leaf blowers, droning on about the folly of playing neither forward nor back. I couldn’t get a word in. Drinks concluded. I took off at a brisk jog for the Players’ Rooms. The game was ready to restart, and I was still off the field. Boycott was heard on stump mic, muttering imprecations, but I could not hurry the process. Like a lot of men my age I have urinary problems and an asymmetrical enlarged prostate. The delay stretched to two minutes, and the opposition captain (it was my hard-nutted son) appealed and I was given out: Timed Out. Sections of the crowd were booing and slow-clapping; others thought it discriminatory and un-Australian. The commentators were disdainful and suggested the game had been diminished. I could hear the broadcast within the change rooms. I was stunned and could do nothing but stay where I was until someone came to my rescue. I was filled with dread that it might be Geoffrey Boycott.