We return to our saga. And how the poles have shifted.

‘Benny-boy’ Roberts Smith, Australia’s most ruthless and decorated warrior now embarks upon a career in ballet, and ‘Brenny-boy Nelson’, custodian of the sacred oracle of Anzackery eschewed by Benny as the anti-Christ.

And our three heroes, pursued, pilloried and pinioned must fight their way to the bottom of the top and then do it all over again. The forces allayed against them are immeasurable, but so is their spirit. And in the end their spirit, methylated or otherwise must prevail. Because if it fails humanity is doomed as self-seeking, superficial and sub-Trumpian. 

 So set the controls for the heart of mediocrity. Charge your mobiles with Brittany Higgins and a glass of Sharaz and hold on tightly as we unravel the truth behind, valour, delusion and self-indulgence. And remember as we write SCOMO still gets paid by the Australian Taxpayer for being the member for SCOMO.  In life, as in art there is always room for another gag. And if you’re a whistleblower a gag that fits. And voiceless? You’ll only hear the Dog Whistles, courtesy of His Majesty’s 47^th parliamentary opposition.

Read on;

It would have been nicer still if after this epiphany, things had just got better, but in the sack, the blobbed up sack that contained the inert form of ‘Brenny Boy Nelson’, something stirred.

And for a while Benny ignored it.

It was immaterial. Medals and the anointment as an Anzackery GOD-HEAD meant nothing to him.

He just wanted peace and an outlet for his art. It was Terry who heard it first; ‘What’s that Benny’?

Benny was in a world of distraction thinking of the final movement in ‘Sleeping beauty’.

‘Is that something you said’?

Terry aimed the question at Benny Boy. But Benny was busy humming the opening bars to Aieda. ‘I dunno! It could be? And what if it was’?

Benny ignored the movement.

They heard it again.

This time it was more insistent.

‘Arghththhee’..  a muffled sound oozed out of the hessian sack.

It was Brenny Boy, leader of the AWM, Benny Boy’s patron saint.  Upholder of the sacred oracle of Anzackery. Guardian of the noble warrior.  Custodian of the eternal truth. Lord Chancellor of the un questionable faith. And gloriously, the upholder of Christendom and the eternal and unsullied  whiteish-ness of Anzac. That sepulchure, shimmering, unquestioned and inviolate. True as the stars of the Southern Cross. To lead us all. Lead us in an eternal progress, of an eternal vision of God ordained right and might.  And a GOD who looked very much, in any way you view it, like Chesty Bond.

‘Hey Benny, it sounds like Brenny’?

It was Ces who summoned the courage to break Benny’s reverie.

‘I think you’d better let him out?

Do I have to’? Benny replied mutinously.

‘I mean what’s the fucken point, the blokes a useless little squirt arse-licker who like all of em gets paid way way too much for just doing his arse-lick job. Might as well get Kerry Stokes to open up the bag for all I fucken care’.

It was disturbing, to see how Benny had rejected his patron and donor. We knew this would be a tension filed conversation, but though he was loathsome, and all of those things Benny had so described, he was still a human being.  And like Sophie; ‘the terror of the Fair Work Commission’, we knew that if he perished, we would be no better. We could sense the new anxiousness in his voice. ‘Brenny’ represented all that ‘Benny’ now revoked and reviled.

 

‘It’s gotta be fair! We can’t keep him there, and besides you must be tired carrying him and dragging Julian?

Nup, never felt fitter’! Benny was truly a giant of a man.

‘Well, just it’ll save your energy for what might lie below’. Ces tried to reason with the ‘Collosus of Khartoum’ and other parts of the Empire secceeded to the uncivilised natives who’d rejected CSR and Bex.

‘All right then’, Benny replied surlily.

‘If I have to. But one crack from his nasty little gob and I’ll crack his fucken brains open. Don’t tempt me! It was him and his cheer squad of septic tank (yank) bum-lickers who sent me to roll wops off cliffs in the first place, and now they think they sent me on a sundee school picnic and rooted the Mother Superior. They’re all, C…….ts’ (we regret this inadvertent use of coarse language. Clearly a typographical error and mix-up with the accidental live link to the Brittany Higgins text messages, which are also, recorded for posterity, fairness and transparency via News Corp. Who like Kerry Stokes and Seven are first for integrity)

Benny stopped, and tossed the sack off like a dose of scabies,

We heard the sack hit the floor of the cave, and within the sack illuminated by the eerie glow of the bayonet, we sensed the movement. And then, the mournful and somewhat hysterical shrill voice inside; ‘For Chrissakes!

Get me outta here’!

With one deft stroke Benny waved the bayonet in the air, and with the surety and grace of a ballerina performing Najinsky’s passion, the sack was rent in two and out stumbled the exalted hero of the War Memorial.

‘What the?

Why the?

Where’s  Angus?

Is that you Kerry’?

Then looking up at Benny the fullness of consciousness returned. He beamed from a begrimed and pudgy little face. Piggy-like, he rubbed his eyes; ‘Benny-boy my son, we are SAVED!

KILL these men now and lets return to Gina! She and Kerry have a surprise for us! You will be amply  rewarded. New decorations to anoint your thrusting breast. Come on Benny waste em, and lets go up top. I see a new promotion in this! This is gonna be bigger than Whiskey 1087 and Whiskey a Go Go all put together. There could be a Croix de Guerre in this if there’s any frogs about. An Order of Lenin from the right sources perhaps?

C’mon Benny WASTE EM’ !!!

It was no use. Benny-boy just stood looking at him, his lower jaw, more formidable than the prow of an icebreaker.  He just stood resolutely and silent as a tomb. And as he gathered himself, he drew back. Recoiling in the abasement of his former leader.  He allowed himself to swallow. Collected ,himself and then spat a dollop of phlegm that hit ‘Brenny-boy’ firmly in the eye!

Brendan Nelsons jaw dropped when he realised the old Benny was no longer with him.

Benny Boy stared malevolently at his former manager.

And said

‘Nup. I aint doing your fucken bidding no more’.

(dear reader we apologise for this grammatical in exactitude) but we like to record events as they actually happen, and as a consequence some of the language may shock miners. And those involved in the industrial military compress)

Is this the end for Brenny?

Is Benny a bridge to far or two many?

Find out in the next episode,

“Darker! It’s so dark that even the white bits are black”, or

‘Denoument is a French word for; I want my Croix de Guerre back’