We at pcbycp have been commissioned, without the requirement for a tender as we are deemed “an Essential Service’ by Stuart Robert MP, ( former minister for ‘mates rates’ and ‘kick- backs without due process’) to assist the RAN on a recruitment drive for their new Submarine fleet. Because the subs won’t be ready for some forty years we’re advertising in kindergartens and childcare centres. And anticipate a great SURGE in interest towards SUBMARINERS as a viable career profession other than politics, real estate or used car sales.
Dear reader,
with all this background noise about ‘Sub-contracts’ and ‘the Voice’ we overlooked the serious issues that face this nation as it equips itself for the drums of war. Last time we looked the drums had all been deflated and the state of our barbed write canoe clearly in need of a significant upgrade. Good thing that the new sub bases in Broken Hill and Albury will be on hand to defend us, and after the Albury to Broken Hill intra continental canal system is built we’ll be able to protect anything south of the Dubbo Line. Not a near canal system, a middle distance canal system, but a fully up to date, modernised and automated far- canal system. Apologies for anyone who walked in unwittingly on that obvious and over- worn joke. With Australia at the ready. Barbed wire canoe, re-painted and equipped with nuclear propulsion any would be oppressor must surely be seriously worried.
‘Uncle Stewie’, Stuart Robert MP is leading the recruitment drive. As a consequence we have re- equipped our kitchen at pcbycp with a new suite of coffee machines, roulette wheels and VIP Gaming lounges. Courtesy of his very open tender process. A boon for small business and MATES!
Seriously worried about our capabilities in the year 2058, cos that’s when we’ll be primed and seriously armed to repel an invader. Provided of course the invader abides by the principle of an INTERNATIONAL RULES BASED ORDER and invades when we politely suggest we’re ready for it. Anything prior to that would not be cricket.
But what of our trio? Last thing we heard they were perilously close to being a la carte somewhere in the formidable and steaming jungles of West Papua, formerly Dutch New Guinea, formerly West Irian, formerly, the bits of New Guinea given to Indonesia so that the mineral resources could be exploited without the hindrance of an intervention or arguably a ‘voice’. Where mining interests can pursue wealth and the boon of the trickle-down effect unhindered by noisy minorities who wish for a larger dollop of the gravy..
In spite of all these boons our trio are in a dark and forbidding place.
Possibly worse than housing or rental affordability in the great southern land, though we’ve been told the top 1% are doing mighty fine. So there’s nothing to worry about really.
We return to our saga.
Our Subs will be christened by HRH Princess Fergie as a testament to sub- standards and the prevailing taste for forelock- tugging amongst Australian defense personnel.
No sooner than ‘our Sophie’ new leader of this tribe of ruthless savages had smashed their way into the Rotodyne, they realised in their primitive fury that their prey had flown the nest, bolted, exited, decamped, and all they had was an empty Rotodyne and the ‘Sophie look alike’ in the pot. With a look of fearsome anguish and justifiable frustration Sophie let out a blood curdling shriek. And just to make her point, because someone had to pay for this, she unsheathed her huge native machete like knife, and skewered the native next to her. Raising her other arm and wiping the blade on her cheeks she cried something incomprehensible in native gibberish and then with another hideous gesture across her throat, she pointed in the general direction of her quarry and jumped aside as the natives vengeful and enraged leapt in hot pursuit. The drums began an ear splitting crescendo, and just for dramatic effect courtesy of Cecil b de Mille, another native standing idly by was marked for sacrifice and put in the pot. Feast or no feast they would not leave on empty stomachs. In the fire, the fury and the fume, the natives, hideous silhouettes danced gigantic against the mountains and from the distant mountain ranges, the answering call of native fury. More drumming and the roar of conch shells. Because we know on reliable authority without the boon of the NBN, primitive folk must use conch shells.
Integrity has three faces…
‘Which way’? Quent asked as he picked off another leach. This one was bigger than the last and clearly needed careful handling. ‘I dunno’, Ces replied wearily. ‘We aint got a compass, its too bloody cloudy to navigate by starlight, it aint a full moon, and by the sound of those drums the natives, are restless’.
‘Well I spose we’ve got nothing for it but to push on. Is this a track’? Terry asked, worried that he was down to his last carton of Camel, a serious situation akin to a Submarine Construction treaty. ‘Well, judging by the sound of those drums if we steer away from the louder ones at the very least we may gain some time’. And judging by the sound over there, a singular Tom Tom took up its percussive syncopated beat. ‘They’re pretty close right about now’.
Without choice, pursued and oppressed they stumbled on. The flight seemed hopeless!
This poster is being ‘focus grouped” in Germany. It reads, ‘join the subs and you’ll never be sub-human’!
And yet on countless occasions when all seemed lost they managed to pull through. But in the damp night, without the aid of moonlight to guide them they stumbled on into a valley of sorts. Onwards they stumbled. And louder the crescendo of tom toms, bongo’s and larger booming tympany and bass drums, till the jungle was rent with the percussive beating of ‘Drums of War’.
‘Tom Toms to the right of them,
Tom Toms to the left of them,
Tom Toms in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered,
Stormed at with shite pell-mell,
Boldly they stumbled, and well,
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell,
The harried three fell.
Translation: ‘Cash will flow to cronies and MATES in Government Submarine Defence Contracts’.
Into an abyss. And in what seemed like aeons as they thrashed and flailed under gravity’s eternal impulse they landed, seemingly unscathed. For they had fallen through a vine covered crevasse of sorts and landed incredibly on a soft bed of moss and lichen metres thick. As they picked themselves up they noticed the sound of tom toms had receded. Releasing their deliverance, they rubbed their eyes and in the faint glow of morning rejoiced in still being alive. Terry passed around his last crumpled pack of Camels and they lit up joyously. Took a few drags and patted themselves down. Safe at last.
Zac Rolfe will be leading the recruitment promotion with the catchy phrase’ Sub- Standard is good enough for me’!
At that precise moment a huge and forbidding shadow emerged from the surrounding rock wall. A countenance strangely familiar yet menacing. And before they could adjust themselves a raucous laugh and a hearty cough; ‘Welcome to HELL fellas’!
And out stepped Benny-Boy Roberts Smith.
Is Benny there to greet them, or is he there to earn another VC? Find out in the next inglorious episode; ‘Tick Tick goes the Tom Tom’, or ‘Two V.C’s in the hand is worth more than Kerry Stokes is prepared to pay in a push’.