This episode of pcbycp is proudly sponsored by ‘Clive of India’ curry powder. Now available in handy ‘Sovereign Risk’ sachets and ‘Tyranny’ Tablet form.
Dear reader,
Whatever we can say about Australia’s energy market, we can rest assured that we, as a trading partner to great GLOBAL ENTITIES, we have preserved ourselves from the perils of ‘Sovereign Risk’.
What is sovereign risk you may ask?
A great read for executives of Exxon and Shell. Foreword by Alexander Downer, (Lord Downer of East Timor).
It’s nothing to do with Prince Andrew, or the vexed question of Megan and Harry. Though we must admit these two pillars of our constitutional monarchy stand proud of just what can be done to preserve meaning in politics. Sovereign risk is the deep fear that we all share for not being nice to multi–nationals, who exploit our resources for obscene profit. Multi- nationals like Shell and Exxon who treat Australia in much the same way the East India Company treated Indians and India, as a cash- cow that kept giving. And whatever could be gained through theft, corruption and bloody mindedness was immaterial to the benefit of the host country.
To dare question them for obscene levels of greed not seen since Cortez would put our state at risk as a safe haven for investment. Indeed to even plead with them to pay just a pinch of tax and not gouge us as citizens who own the assets is a bridge too far… Just as to hope that our trio ably assisted by the master of the dark arts ‘Benny-Boy’ Roberts Smith, may escape from the web set by their twin nemesis Sophie and Dutto. Could anything be worse? ‘Worse and Worser’, as Alice used to say.
Let’s hope that we don’t get a sensible energy market resolution soon, cos at the end of the day the shareholders deserve better in risky times, cos remember they’ve taken the risk. There is risk in owning a monopoly you know. And as they say in the classics, ‘who dares wins’, well at least that’s what Benny Boy says.
Clive warning the ungrateful Indians about ‘Sovereign Risk’.
We return to our saga….
Before they could say anything, Benny Boy had the matter in hand. With actions more deft than those employed rolling wops of cliffs he fished mechanically into his rucksack. His mighty hands emerged with a brace of smoke grenades.. We could tell cos they were labelled ‘Smoke Grenades’, and without whispering motioned to us to bolt for the terminal when he gave the signal. A smoke screen for cover was our only chance. And we weren’t going to hesitate, it was all we had.
Indian Advert for Clive’s arrival at the Mughal Palace for the first limited overs match. Clive’s, ‘The Grifters’ won 345 to 12
The tank was now only fifty yards away, (we are grateful for the British Government. And their initiative as part of the Anglo Australian trade deal to bring back imperial measurements, an initiative based doubtless on sound economic principles). And we could see the bogies turning, screeching on under oiled bearings, and the tracks, clattering through the guides. It was now or never, and from Benny, ‘Now when I say RUN you RUN for the terminal.. Fer Fucksakes RUN FOR IT!!!!
We ran, and ran, and just looking behind us saw the tank, Benny and everything else dissolved into a puff of smoke. We expected to see the tank fire off a round, but nothing happened. Gaining the terminal building and pausing just long enough to salute and stand to attention in front of a portrait of Her Majesty. A youthful looking monarch just as Dargie painted her in 53. We ducked for cover, and hoped that whatever happened to the tank and Benny it would be over with swiftly. To our surprise what happened next baffled us!
Clive of India, bit like his namesake in Australia, but with pommy affectations.
Clive having a go at the Maharaja of Eyesore for not throwing the kitchen sink in with the loot.
Dargie’s famous potrait of the queen in her ‘wattle dress’. The artist wanted either a ‘Mallee Root’ or a ‘She-Oak’ portrait but was knocked back by royal decree.
There was a barely a sound. At first we were unaware of anything other than the need for safety. Then, the rumbling of the tank and the whoosh of the grenades filled our ears. All was lost from view as the smoke thick and all encompassing just gathered in a great white haze. The tank, its engine still purring disguised any hint of activity. Then above the din, we heard a dull percussive hammering. And as we crouched in anticipation of an explosion, a fire fight or anything, we knew that fearless to the last, Benny Boy was up to something. The clanging got louder, then we heard a sound like an angle grinder. then, another sound. Strange at first but familiar. Eerily familiar, until we realised that above the din a soundtrack was playing the chorus to Rolfs greatest hit; ‘Two little Boys’. Whoever had the recording was an ardent Rolf Fan. That made us respect whatever or whoever it was within the tank, and acknowledge their taste and maturity of artistic preferment. Then, above the banging, above the recording and above the din of the angle grinder, the meteor engine, the smoke grenade, we could hear, the sound of talking. At first we couldn’t discern what the talking was about. It was some kind of discussion . And what profoundly shocked us it sounded friendly with the odd jocular aside and some laughter. It sounded to all intents and purposes a good natured conversation. We realised whoever it was in that tank was a colleague, improbably of Benny-Boy. And as the smoke cleared we saw who it was…..his hair bleached more white than the discarded bristles of a bleached dunny brush. He waved within the smoke, and to our shock we realised who it was. None other than the architect of all our woes with espionage and counter espionage. The visage, sickly, and clearly unhealthy of Australia’s most famous evil doer, Julian Assange. I whispered to Ces, ‘he’s not a messiah is he’? Ces chuckled his reply, ‘yes indeed he’s neither, he’s just a naughty boy’!
Ben and Julian were embracing. It seemed uncanny and not quite right. But there they were, diametrically opposed on the political spectrum, but clearly great mates, and to our satisfaction waving for us to come over.
Is this really Julian Assange? Isn’t he doing life in chokey back in the old country? Isn’t he in a pommy place of penile purgatory for purposes prejudicial to the pursuit of plausible prestidigitations? We can only conject, much as we must conject as to how Benny-Boy and Julian have anything in common. But conject we must, for as the day is long at Maralinga, the light of a thousand suns cannot uncover the truth behind who it was who defiled our tea-lady in the corridors of the Federal Parliament. And perhaps Julian improbably, may hold the key… or at the very least the key to the drinks cabinet in the Ecuadorian Embassy!
The East India Companys exploitation of the Indian people made it possible to build grand buildings, like the one the Duke of Buckingham gave to that emigre German Family from Saxe Coburg West Brunswick
Will morse be enough to uncover the purpose of the lone tank? Or will some other code be required to save our hapless heroes? Find out in our next indecipherable episode; ‘Is that morse you tap on your sweaty palms’? or…..’is that a morse key in your pocket or are you just pleased to sue me?