Incredibly this upcoming piece is not a eulogy for Stuart Robert.

 

Though we acknowledge his sterling performance at the Robodebt enquiry and his stand on principle we are unable, (due to the exigencies of losing our editorial staff to Twitter, and our publicity department to News Corp are ) to say we need more men of his character in government. Stuart nailed it when he said more or less, ‘there was no place for compassion or fairmindedness or honesty in the parliamentary process’. As long as he acted as a good cabinet man.’

Befehl ist befehl’ as we used to say in the Einsatzcommando. We were pretty busy in Ukraine way back till we ran outta ‘units’ to process, and for Tulgey and ol Stewie, that’s the way they look at it. If they’d been allowed to process all the ‘units’ by Robodebt, there’d be no dole bludgers or welfare slobs left. It’s a plank of Coalition policy. Punish those who cant defend themselves. And whilst you’re at it, give contracts to all your mates who deserve it for going to the right schools having the right connections and wearing the right tie. And they stand by it on principle.   But this is not about Robodebt and its clarity of objective, which you’ve gotta hand it to Tudgey and his mates, dealing with welfare bludgers via a robot is pretty fucking funny. And who said? Like their climate policy, the Coalition don’t have a sense of humour.

 

This is about a more vexed question. Will our trio survive the naked jungle of New Guinea. One moment the arid wastes, (not Canberra but central Australia) and now the steaming jungle.

Will principle save our trio? Poised perilously perpendicular prior to prescient portentous potentialities pursuant to the perilous process of predetermined perfidy. Or will they just walk on into the sunset?

Find out in this next thrilling episode as they alone, must fight the forces arranged against them and against all the odds survive.

 

We find out heroes still cocooned inside the stationary Rotodyne. Sophie exalted member of the Fair Work Commission still trussed and bound as a bargaining chip of sorts. And the realisation that for the arid wastes of central Australia, they have not landed at the Ubud writers festival in Bali but have blown off course and landed somewhere on a mountain in West Papua. The very end point of civilisation itself. (The editorial staff would like to qualify that statement, Civilisation any place on this remote earth not graced yet with Sportsbet 365 or Bet connect 24/7.)

‘I dunno Fellas, I don’t like the look of this. If their goddess has an unlikely appearance to Sophie’, Terry pointed with the tip of his nicotine finger to Sophie, still kicking and screaming in the baggage compartment; ‘What does that make the natives?  I mean if they worship her sort, will they be compassionate natives or bloodthirsty head-hunter killer types, devoid of empathy, compassion and love as our ol mate Benny Boy is about knocking off Afghani’s?

 

‘It could be just a coincidence’, quipped Quent. ‘She may look like Sophie’, they looked at the totems rising ominously around the nearest hut, ‘but it would be unlikely that THEIR Sophie is half as mean as hours, I mean it stands to reason. Just as there’s only one Donald, or Vladimir, (Quent was always even-handed) the chance of finding another sociopath who looks and thinks exactly the same is about ,a million to one’.

 

‘I agree’, Ces replied. ‘This Sophie is unique. I reckon it’s one of a kind. It’s too incredible to believe that there’d be two Sophie’s. That’s just inconceivable. We’re just assuming from stereotype’s. Stereotypes borne by watching to many Jungle Jim and Tarzan movies to understand that these might be passive natives? They may worship somebody who looks like Sophie? (we all winced) who’s a completely different person. She could be the spirit of an ancient missionary, who is being celebrated for her good deeds’?  Ces paused, as he reflected Quent piped in, ‘or a missionary who was best served with garlic and a sprinkle of salt’.  We all winced inwardly. We did not like the thought of culinary prerequisites in the more remote parts of New Guinea.

 

‘We don’t know who this bloody thing is, not where we bloody are, and why we bloody landed, but I’m for getting out of here’! Terry exclaimed, as he gave the starter a kick. ‘There’s still a bit of fuel in the emergency tank, we might just get off this bloody mountain and get to safer ground than find out? Whether we’re first or second course on the menu’? Ces replied sarcastically.

 

‘But with Sophie on board we may have a chance’ Ces tried to reassure his colleagues. ‘Buckleys from my perspective’, added Terry, ‘this doesn’t look friendly, and besides where are the bloody natives’?

We peered from the foggy Perspex and agreed, no welcoming party, no flowers, no reception committee, nothing.  ‘Well I spose nothing is better than being cooked’. Ces tried to be as optimistic as possible as the light began to dim with the encroaching twilight.

It was just then, we heard the drums beating.

And it weren’t a syncopated rhythm either. It was the portentous sound, the ominous sound, the worrying sound of drums that suggested that they might be on the menu tonight.

Will they be on the menu?

Will it be a la carte, or all you can eat?

Only the drums can tell. And they lack a clear and precise vocabulary.

Find out in the next percussive episode, ‘the drumbeat at the end of the line has non bongo section’, or ‘ten tom toms, till tea-time’. Either way, there may be no set menu at this establishment.