Strewth Donald!

I’m not sure you know, but someone has just leaked footage of you sinking the boot into yours truly.  Fair suck of the sauce bottle!  Some dopey galah has left the camera rolling during a break before distributing copies of the resulting footage behind the shelter shed to any dingbat stupid enough to broadcast it.  Flamin’ heck!  Excuse the French, but you really ought to try shutting your yap for a bit.  It seems every time you open your cakehole, you get caught on a hot mic saying something stupid and end up looking like a complete nitwit.  

Now that you’ve made a mess, it’s left to me to clean things up.  Lucky for you, there’s no one more qualified to smooth over troubled diplomatic waters.  Just wheel me out, point me at a camera and let me weave my own particular brand of magic.  You’ll be amazed.  But whilst I’m willing to sort things out, I’d ask that you take a long, hard look at yourself so we don’t both end up the creek that dare not speak its name without a paddle again.

Try and see it from my point of view – after turning in last night after a warm Milo, I wake up to find your size six Hush Puppies fair up my clacker.  I can’t imagine what I’ve done to turn you into a right flaming mongrel.  Fair dinkum, Donald; the rubbish coming out your mouth made you sound madder than a cut snake.  Was it something I said?

 Granted, you and I see some things differently.  Whereas you appear to take any and every opportunity to suck up to murderous dictators you can, I come from a country where we threaten to shirtfront these drongos before refusing to sit with them at lunch time.  Sadly, for all of us, this didn’t have the sobering effect on Vladimir we hoped, and he now seems hell-bent on rampaging his way across Europe.  But at least we tried.  You, in contrast, appear determined to make Putin your best mate.  I wouldn’t be surprised to see the pair of you rocking up in matching shirts to the Deni Ute Muster before scooting off to the B and S Ball together.

Turn it up, Donald.  You can’t very well dislike me without having met me, even if saves time.  In the interests of fairness, you ought to get to know me first, perhaps even get stuck in a lift with me, then dislike me.  Like regular folk. But even if your comments suggesting you might not like me were bewildering, the suggestion that I might not be ‘the brightest bulb’ was a complete shocker.  Truly, Donald, you have been misinformed.

 I don’t know if you know this, but I introduced the term ‘programmatic specificity’ into the Australian idiom. Fact is, when I first dropped ‘programmatic specificity’ into casual conversation, the entire country went completely psycho and had a complete fit.  People were beside themselves.  They’d never heard so potent a sentence from a leader.  It’s like our country suddenly came of age.  Ten years later, it’s common to hear school kids use the term ‘programmatic specificity’ over school drinking fountains and footy fields.

I note you mentioned that I’d, ‘said some nasty things.’  Once again, you’ve been misled.  It would be more accurate to say that I ate some nasty things, namely my own ear wax whilst sitting in Parliament (there’s footage – it’s all over YouTube like a rash!).  It’s one thing to get caught on a ‘hot mic’.  It’s entirely another to be filmed chowing down on whatever you’ve pulled out of your ear with your index finger whilst sitting in the nation’s temple to democracy.  If Putin had been filmed eating his own ear wax, the camera man would never have been seen again.  It’s my ability to forgive others that truly sets me apart.

Granted, I called you the ‘most destructive President in history’ but I meant it as a compliment.  Giving each other a hard time is just what real mates do.  If you’re out of sorts, you’d be welcome to even things up by giving me one of your trademark nicknames.  To make things easy, I’ve prepared some suggestions for you to consider – ‘KRudd’ and ‘Kevin Rude’ were all pretty popular in Australia.  My personal favourite, though, has to be ‘Kevin Ruddy Wilson’.  Trust me, that’s a cracker.

The irony of all this is that you and I have heaps in common.  Like you, I too know the bitter sting of having power wrenched away by someone heaps less deserving.  And, like you, I understand how it feels to harbour resentment and bitterness as I plot my way back to power.  Now that I think about it, instead of trying to stitch me up, you should be calling me for advice.  Because after I was turfed from office, I managed to claw my way back and regain the throne.  All hail the mighty Kevin!  That’s right – instead of trying to give me the diplomatic equivalent of an atomic nipple cripple, you should be calling me your hero.    

Frankly, Donald, you’re lucky I’m an ambassador.  Because if I wasn’t my nation’s chief diplomatic emissary to your country, I’d be bound by Australian custom to say: ‘You. Me. Carpark. Now’.  If that sounds confusing, it loosely translates as an invitation to resolve our dispute through an informal means.  Preferably in a car park.

Let’s agree to bury the hatchet somewhere besides each other and try to get along.  It would be shame if our two great nations got into a tiff just because you had hurt feelings following a classic (if I do say myself) K Rudd burn.  Toughen up, princess!  If you don’t stop being such a sook, I’ll be short sheeting your bed and sticking a mango in your tailpipe before you know it.

Yours sincerely,