Trump’s Next Big Career Move

Soon it could be over.  In a very short period of time, the fate of the presidency will be known. There’s no way to describe the past four years as anything other than extraordinary unless, of course, you prefer ‘cataclysmic bin-fire’.  But if it turns out the world’s largest-known Oopma Loopa is suddenly out of a job this November, the question arises – what will he do next?  Or, more accurately, what won’t he do?

There’ll be a book, obviously. Having already published ‘The Art of the Deal’ – which he not only wrote but had translated from the original Russian, it’s inevitable he’ll write the story of the Presidency from his perspective, given that everyone who so much as delivered the milk to him has already done so.  But what would a (former) President Trump call his memoir?  Something punchy like ‘Donald J Trump: Witch Hunter’ or ‘Fake News v. Fake Tan’.  Or, in recognition of his antipathy towards the ‘Black Lives Matters’ movement, maybe ‘Orange Is Not The New Black’. 

It’d possibly be the first political memoir ever to be written ALL IN CAPS.  Or to have chapters only two hundred and eighty characters long. Or to feature an endorsement on the cover not from the author himself.  Presumably it will be something along the lines of ‘A lot of people are saying this is the greatest political memoir of all time.’  Doubtless, Kim Jong-Un will prepare the Foreword.  Whether it’ll be successful or not is another matter.  Sales figures, much like inauguration attendance figures, are likely to exaggerated if not wholly invented.

Most former Presidents build a library as a monument to their legacy.  Rather than a Presidential Library, I can see Donald Trump building a mud-wrestling arena.  Or, if he does go with convention (although I have to ask, ‘why start now?’) then it could well be the first Presidential Library to filled solely with comic books.  Or to offer a free taco upon entry. That’s probably a bit unfair – chances are that the Trump Presidential Library would be filled with books, albeit solely with remaindered copies of ‘The Art of the Deal’ and ‘Orange Is Not the New Black’.

A career in stand-up comedy beckons.  He’d be the kind of comic who avoids punch lines and is more ‘observational’ in nature.  Personally, if he were not in a position to cause World War III, I’d find him hilarious.  You can’t me tell that when you pull down on his comically-long red tie that water doesn’t come squirting out one of the buttons.  Or, notwithstanding that he once paid someone else to sit his high school exams, perhaps he could pursue a career as an educator, specializing in teaching Latin, given that he so clearly understands the meaning of ‘qui pro quo’.

He could voice your car’s navigation system. However, you’d end up only ever turning right, before turning right again and again.  But honesty matters with on-board navigation. It’s no comfort if you back into street sign only to be told that ‘a lot of people saying that this was the greatest example of reverse parking probably since Lincoln’ even as the airbag deploys.  Even when hopelessly lost, the Trump navigation system would refuse to concede.

Perhaps it’s not possible to contemplate a post-Trump presidency without thinking about his BFF (or, at least, his BFF whenever Vladimir Putin is out of town and now that Geoffrey Epstein is permanently unavailable): Rudy Giuliani.  I can see them pairing up as either private detectives or a country and western duo.  Ideally both. They’d sing sweet, sweet harmonies together at a performance at a redneck bar (although it may not have been a redneck bar prior to their arrival) before getting a message that some mystery needed solving and the pair of them would throw their banjos in the boot of Rudy’s Ford Festiva before launching an investigation.  

Starsky and Hutch, Laverne and Shirley, Laurel and Hardy – Rudy and the Donald would join that elite group of crime fighters. Scouring the countryside for incriminating laptops from hell, preferably obtaining them from someone with an enormously convenient case of face-blindness, the pair would turn in stories to the New York Post, delivered in hand-written pages shoved through the night slot.  Wherever there’s injustice, you’ll find Rudy and the Donald; if not perpetrating the injustice themselves, then describing those that do as ‘very good people’.  

He could go back to TV but I’m sure he’d be loathe to repeat himself and simply return to ‘The Apprentice’.  I see advertorials in his future.  There’s nothing that guy can’t sell.  He’d promote ‘Regeneron’, the experimental drug he took whilst suffering corona virus as well as the steroid that made feel fit enough to compete in the Olympics notwithstanding that it would have seen him disqualified.  

Of course, there’s the possibility that he doesn’t lose and there will be another four years of tweets and mayhem.  Nixon was in power when I was born.  Perhaps it’s just as well that Twitter didn’t exist then; no one wants to read ‘I AM NOT A CROOK’ followed by a smiley face emoji.  It’s been a tough year.  I just want something good to happen and for life to finally get back to something that approaches normal.  Here’s hoping.    

Bill Gates: Succubus of the Universe (Or ‘Things the Internet Taught Me’)

Sometimes I feel a little sorry for Bill Gates.  Not often, but sometimes.  You’d think that his spectacular success and billions of dollars would shield him from both wild conspiracy theories and his abominable haircut, but apparently not.  Even the most cursory glance at the Internet will tell you two things: firstly, pretty much everything is the fault of Bill Gates.  Secondly, there are a lot of different food delivery options out there right now.  That has nothing to do with Bill, but they’re everywhere.  

Since cashing in his (micro)chips, Bill has taken an interest in philanthropy.  Once upon a time in the not too distant past, philanthropy was considered a good thing and not something to be destroyed at all costs. In fact, the term ‘philanthropy’ comes from the Greek work ‘philanthropia’ which translates to ‘loving people’.  Not normally the kind of thing you’d expect to make people bubble over with molten fury, but these are not normal times.  Bill, so it seems, has become something of a target.

The claims about Bill are pretty wild.  So wild that they don’t bear repeating, lest it should inadvertently add further grist to the rumour mill.  Suffice to say, COVID-19 is Bill’s fault.  And his efforts to develop a vaccine will, apparently, either result in millions of people being wiped off the Earth or, alternatively, in Bill being able to control the thoughts who takes it.  I’m not sure what Bill would do if he controlled people’s minds. Probably tell them to always wear a pair of pressed Chinos and a sensible sweater.  Had he really wanted to control people’s minds, Bill would have stayed at Microsoft.

According to either an Essential Poll or, alternatively, something I managed to Google from the Internet, a staggering one in eight Australians believe Bill Gates was involved in the creation and spread of coronavirus.  Confusingly, one in eight Australians also blames the spread of the coronavirus on the 5G network.  It begs the question – is it the same one in eight who are blaming both Bill and 5G for the pandemic?  Are they completely separate groups, each of which regards the other as heretics? Or is there some kind of ‘Venn diagram’ with an unknown degree of overlap between the two?  

Worryingly, the results are particularly poor for the 18 to 35 year old demographic, with one in five blaming Bill.  Personally, I’m a little surprised that one in five 18 to 35 year olds have heard of Bill Gates, much less know enough about him to think he’s the source of all their troubles. I’d like to think that they’d misheard the question.  Perhaps they mistook Bill Gates for, I dunno, Satan or BTS (if there’s a difference).  Somewhat ironically, the webpage I looked at to research 5G conspiracy theories is chock-a-block full of Telstra adverts.  I’d never thought of Telstra as having a sense of humour, but there you go.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, humankind went through a period of philosophical and intellectual enlightenment often referred to as ‘The Age of Reason’.  This movement later culminated an album of the same name by John Farnham.  The video clip, in particular, really summed it up, as one J. Farnham stood on top of a large rocky outcrop whilst wearing a pair of leather pants and Ugg boots; sporting a mullet that could be seen from space. (Clearly, the Enlightenment did not extend to fashion sense.)  To make it even more miraculous, he was also wearing leather trousers.  Ever gone mountain climbing in leather pants? I didn’t think so.

But just as John Farnham eventually climbed down from that mighty apex, so too has humankind come down a notch.  We’ve moved from the Information Age to the Disinformation Age with barely a pause.  Remember when the Internet was ‘the Information Superhighway’?  Nobody calls it that anymore.  What we thought would be eight digital lanes of cruising comfort has turned out to be a gravel road loaded with potholes where, if you don’t hold tightly onto the steering wheel, you’re likely to end up in a ditch.  Quite literally, anyone can say anything on the Internet and there’s almost zero accountability. 

Some might expect me to defend Bill Gates.  Quite the opposite. Instead, I’ve decided to blame Bill Gates for everything.  Out of milk?  I’ll fall to my knees, raise my clenched fists to the sky and cry ‘Bill Gates!’ at the top of my lungs.  Can’t find a shoe?  Blame Bill.  A lot of people think that the Bermuda Triangle is some kind of supernatural phenomenon that eats boats but, guess again: Bill Gates.  In fact, floods, fires, El Nino, VHS rather than Betamax and the failure to screen ‘Bachelor in Paradise’ next year are his fault.  From this day forth, millions will curse the name ‘Bill Gates’ down through the ages until….

It just occurred to me that everything I know about Bill I read on the Internet.  Which, given all I’ve just said, should be treated with caution.  In fact, I’m writing this story using a Microsoft program.  Perhaps Bill’s not so bad.  Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all.  Bill, if you’re reading this, the kettle’s on.  Come on over for a cuppa anytime.  

Love in the Time of Coronavirus

It was a routine trip to the supermarket.  Trouble was, I was about five days too late.  Having refused to succumb to panic, I was instead faced with having my choices substantially limited.  The place was eerily quiet.  Much as when you go anywhere that has recently experienced something deeply traumatic, everyone looked a little shell-shocked.  I’d seen footage of people coming to blows in order to secure a packet of 2-ply but it’d been hard to believe.  I’m not sure what this says about us as a nation, but we’re far less prepared for a zombie apocalypse than I’d thought.

 There was no rice.  Or, at least, there was no ‘traditional’ rice but lots and lots of microwave rice.  Clearly, whatever our dystopian future has in store for us, it will not include a microwave.  I’ve no idea what has to happen for the nation’s microwaves to all stop working, but some people are obviously picturing a future without electricity and are ready to start preparing their meals over an open fire.  Alternatively, rather than ‘survival’ mode, a fair number of people have accidentally gone in to ‘Survivor’ mode, where all they ever do is eat rice and sleep outdoors.  It’s a mistake that anyone can make.  If a member of your family tells you that you’ve been voted off the island, feel free to correct them.

There was very little pasta.  Except for angel hair pasta – which is obviously way too fancy and fiddly for a lock-down situation – and gnocchi.  I’m not sure what panic purchasers especially have against gnocchi.  Too starchy, perhaps?  I can imagine someone standing in the pasta section; cramming spaghetti, penne, fettuccine, rigatoni, macaroni, tagliatelle, linguine and pappardelle into their trolley, but leaving the gnocchi behind for fear of going overboard. Perhaps they feel that pasta is the secret to beating this thing.  Forget washing your hands, carb loading is the way to go.

There were no walnuts.  For the love of everything I hold sacred, what possessed my fellow citizens to hoard all the walnuts and, in doing so, deprive walnut-lovers such as myself to go without?  Clearly, having elected to eat pasta for the next three decades, they’ve decided a Waldorf salad is the perfect side dish.  Or, in the event that you do have to self-isolate, there’s never going to be a better time to bake.  Perhaps that was the reason there was so little flour left. People want to bake and definitely not make their own gnocchi.

Maybe people are simply looking ahead.  The fiscal outlook is nothing if not uncertain and negative growth is a distinct possibility.  But as bleak as things may be, there’s always the chance of a baking-led recovery.  I, for one, don’t know what the nation’s economy is going to look like when we come out the other side of this thing, but I do know that we’ll be perfectly placed to run a cake stall so large that you’ll be able to see it from space.  Sponge cake is recession proof.  That’s a fact.

 Then I stumbled across what once would have been the toilet paper isle.  All that remained was shelving.  The only people in the aisle were there to take photos.  I’d heard of runs on banks during the Great Depression, but clearly some people are preparing for runs of a completely different kind. The evidence suggests that some folks have drastically misunderstood the symptoms of corona virus.  

It goes to show where our priorities lie. Forget bottled water and canned tomatoes – just make sure I can continue to go to the lav in relative comfort and I’m as good as set in the event of a shut-in.  Given that the will of the nation has been so clearly been expressed, it’d be foolish not to listen.  Indeed, it’s only a matter of time before we ditch the cute looking fauna and crown a packet of Sorbent silky-white 2-ply as our national symbol.  In future, political parties will run on platforms that promise an uninterrupted supply of loo rolls.  Fringe parties will promise out-house stationery for everyone, regardless of cost.  But not everyone is impacted.  

My father did National Service back in the 1950s.  He often used to tell his children that at Puckapunyal, toilet paper was rationed out at two sheets per man per day.  Originally, I had misheard ‘sheet’ and regarded the arrangements as a little on the generous side.  Once I realized that the term was, in fact, ‘sheet’, I was mortified.  It simply didn’t seem possible.  I lived in terror that my father would introduce a similar rule in our house – for there could be no other reason for bringing it up so often – and that my profligate habits on the thunder-box would be exposed.  Humiliation would inevitably follow.  But it made me realize – my father has been preparing for this moment his entire life.  Whilst others are losing their minds with panic, my father can rest assured that a single roll will take him comfortably through to 2025.

These are strange times.  Perhaps it’s no surprise that people do whatever they can to prepare for what is, in truth, unprecedented.  But if the run on our supermarkets shows anything, it’s that people are ready to take action.  Hopefully, that’s something that will hold us all in good stead.  Best wishes to all. And bon appetite.      

The Adventures of Rudy Giuliani – Attorney at Large

I didn’t want to go.  But, looking back, what choice did I have?  It’s been seventeen years since I somewhat foolishly loaned Rudy Giuliani my copy of ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ and I’d begun to suspect I’d never get it back.  Granted, I no longer have a video player, but it’s the principle of the thing and I’ve learned that Rudy and principle are no longer on speaking terms, so I had to force the issue.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that Rudy Giuliani – former mayor of New York and President Trump’s personal lawyer – would have an office somewhere in midtown.  But you’d be wrong.  What most people don’t get is that Rudy is a humble guy who needs little other than a desk, a window and a conspiracy theory to keep him happy. That’s why his office is in Doncaster, behind a Chinese Restaurant called ‘Kung Food’.  There’s ample parking, which is a bonus.

I squeeze past the skip bin and a small group of feral cats scatters as I spot a wooden shingle rocking back and forth to the right hand side of the door that reads ‘R. Giuliani Esquire – World’s Greatest Lawyer’.  I knock but there’s no answer.  The door’s unlocked so I gently ease my way in.  The office is small – a desk covered in papers, a typewriter and a large red phone; a coat rack and, beside it, a wooden perch on which sits a huge multi-coloured Macaw.  The bird lets out an almighty shriek and, suddenly, the door to the stationery cupboard opens and a body falls to the floor.

‘Rudy!’ I cry, as a small man picks himself up.  ‘Were you sleeping in the stationery cupboard?’  He explained he preferred to sleep at the office and that he took great comfort in being surrounded by highlighters, post-it notes and staplers as he slumbered.  The bird – who he called ‘Tootles’ – always told him when visitors arrived. ‘I want my video back,’ I said. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth, ‘You can’t prove I have it,’ he snarled.  The video was sitting on his desk, right next to his ‘thought of the day’ calendar.  I picked it up and waved it around asking, ‘How do you explain this?’  It was then his eyes began to glow a deep, demonic red and he seethed something about a ‘Deep State conspiracy’.

It felt super awkward. I decided to try and make small talk.  ‘How’s business?’ I asked.  ‘Got many clients?’ Rudy spun around and pointed to a framed picture on the wall.  ‘Just one client,’ he said.  ‘The President of the United States of America!’  I’ll admit I was a little worried.  The picture he was pointing to was not of Donald Trump but, rather, a blonde longhaired guinea pig.  Granted, the resemblance was stunning, but a guinea pig doesn’t have access to nuclear launch codes.

‘And what’s the President got you doing?  Conveyancing? Wills?  The occasional letter of advice?’  The Macaw lets out a shriek as if it’s laughing at my question.  Rudy leans forward to the point he nearly falls over again.  ‘I can’t say,’ he said.  ‘Top secret.’  On the other wall was a map for the Ukraine.  ‘Does that giant map of the Ukraine have anything to do with it?’ I asked.  Rudy spun his whole body around to face the wall, before spinning back again.  ‘There’s no map,’ he said.  ‘It’s just a bunch of lines on a page that, taken together, look a lot like the Ukraine.’

I’ll admit I was disappointed – I’ve known Rudy since we spent summers thinning fruit together in Moorooduc back in the 1980s.  He’s the kind of guy that’ll tell you all his deepest secrets before you’ve even had a chance to ask.  When it came to holding secrets, Rudy was a complete butterfingers. After a moment’s awkward silence, it came tumbling out.  ‘I’m doing some back channel work for the President in the Ukraine,’ he admitted.  ‘Back channel?’ I queried.  ‘What’s wrong with the front channel?’  Silence gripped the room once more and even Tootles the Macaw had nothing to say.  ‘Look over there!’ cried Rudy as he pointed to the window.  As I turned, I could hear him making a break for the door.  Quickly, I tackled him to the ground.  ‘Confess!’ I cried.

As we were rolling around on the floor, the large red phone started ringing.  The bird went totally berserk and Rudy begged me to let him to answer it.  ‘It’s my client!’ he cried.  Releasing him from my vice-like grip he scampered across the floorboards on all fours, before snatching the receiver from the cradle.  Even though I was on the other side of the room, the caller’s voice was so loud that I could tell straight away that it was Donald Trump.  ‘Yes, your majesty,’ said Rudy over and over again. 

He hung up and I asked what the Trump-meister wanted. ‘He wants Singapore Noodles and a bucket of crispy pork from Kung Food’, he said, nodding in the direction of the restaurant.  ‘And he wants me to head to the Ukraine right away.  And that, because of the sensitive nature of my work, I’ll need to avoid catching a plane and stow away on a freighter instead.’  Before I knew it, he was putting on a cape and picking up a Harry Potter wand.  ‘Crapius in excelsis!’ he cried before disappearing in a puff of smoke. Tootles shrieked and I grabbed my video, before getting out of there as fast as I could.

A Running Commentary on Running

This may sound crazy, but – unitard gravy fuzz-face caboodle. The other thing that might sound crazy is the idea of voluntarily getting up at 5am to go running every day of the week.  But that’s what I do.  In fact, that’s what I’ve always done – rain, hail but definitely not shine. Five o’clock in the morning isn’t the crack of dawn – it’s unambiguously pre-crack.  

There are obvious difficulties with running at that time of day.  Firstly, it’s dark. Reallydark.  You’re basically relying on intermittent streetlights to find your way.  You simply have to hope that something hasn’t been left strewn across the footpath by some careless passer by, lest you end up tripping over.  Which, at a certain age, is a singularly unpleasant experience. I’m not sure when falling over changes from being an ever day occurrence and no biggie to a minor catastrophe, but once it happens, there’s no turning back.    

The other palpable risk associated with super early morning runs is being mistaken for someone who is running away from something, rather than somebody undertaking exercise.  Luckily, this has never happened to me.  It must be something about my style – which I would describe something one notch above shuffling.  If I was running from something, I would be in some considerable strife. I’m not sure how to describe it – perhaps a cross between a three-legged panda and a Muppet – but graceful it is not.

The funny thing is, even though I’ve been running for years, I don’t really feel that I’ve gotten all that much better at it. I can run further than I used to. But I’ve become no more elegant than when I started all those years ago and I’m not sure I know any more than I did when I started out.

I was in my twenties.  The only time I’d exercised as a kid was at football training, which I’d stopped when I was fifteen.  I think I assumed that fitness would be something that was simply given to me, maybe for Christmas.  Then, as I entered the workforce, my exercise regimen consisted solely of walking to the train station and back.  And, if I felt really brave, carrying all the grocery shopping home rather than taking the car.  I decided that something had to change.

It was a challenge to get out of bed at first.  But I wanted things to be different, I think. At the time, I was living in a small, one-bedroom flat / oversized utility cupboard near St Kilda.  The challenge with early morning running in St Kilda is that you sometimes encounter people who are still enjoying the night before.  This can be disastrous.  

When approaching someone from behind, you end up doing all sorts of things to try and let them know you’re coming.  Clearing your throat, talking or using a horn are just some of the techniques I’ve deployed to ensure I don’t startle others. Mostly it works.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  Suffice to say, that one gentleman dropped into a karate stance as I shuffled by, whilst a young girl who was too busy talking to her friends to notice that I was approaching, dropped her drink before unleashing the kind verbal tirade usually reserved for three quarter time when you’re sixty points down.

Wherever I’ve lived, I’ve run.  When I moved to Brisbane, I used to run along the river. The lovely thing about running in Queensland is that so many other people are up and about and getting exercise.  The streets of Elwood became so familiar to me that I’m surprised my footprints weren’t worn into the pavement.  The great thing about running on holidays is that you get to do all kinds of reconnaissance.  By the time you return home, you know where everything is.  

Sometimes I travel for work.  This takes me to various towns in regional Victoria and I always go for a run.  When I can, I take a photo of the place I’m in, as a kind of souvenir.  To prove I was there.  Often, I send these pictures to work colleagues as a way of showing how beautiful these places are and as an extreme form of humble-bragging to show them how early I got up.

I can’t imagine not being able to run.  But, at some point, it’ll be necessary to adapt. For me, running is time to think. This sounds improbable given that I’m always listening to music as I go, but I’ve always found it therapeutic. A way of keeping in balance. You’d be surprised how many of the world’s problems can be solved whilst listening to a playlist that features ‘Kajagoogoo’.

Subconsciously, I might simply be honing my ‘flight’ reflex.  Every once in a while, one of our smoke detectors will randomly go off.  I think it happens if an ant wanders in to the detector.  I feel sorry for the ant.  It happened the other night at about two in the morning.  One minute I was in a deep, deep sleep; the next I was bolt upright and running across the room.  My wife told me later she thought I was going to get a fire extinguisher. I’m not so sure.  Especially since I was three blocks away and in my pajamas before I turned around and realized that she hadn’t followed me. It’s a miracle she didn’t tell me to keep on running.   

Boris Johnson, My Part in his Downfall

It happened again last night.  There I was, fast asleep at two o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by the sound of a small stone tapping against the window.  I was, of course, suspicious.  Small stones don’t tend to tap themselves against windows.  They require assistance.  I turned on my bedside lamp, put on my slippers and picked up the emergency cricket bat I always keep on hand in case of intruders, before walking to the front door.  I gripped the handle.  I gritted my teeth.  I flung open the door and was confronted by the unholy sight of Boris Johnson.

Without hesitation, I used my cricket bat to give him an absolute thrashing.  As he whimpered, ‘It’s me!  Boris!’ over and over and over again; it never dawned on him that he was being beaten precisely because he was Boris Johnson and not as a result of mistaken identity.  After tiring, I threw the cricket bat to one side and let him come in. He thanked me profusely and scurried inside before perching on the couch, at which point he started rocking back and forth.

There’s no point denying it – for some time now I’ve been giving Boris Johnson advice.  It is not going well.  He emailed me after seeing my ad in the Western Port Times, offering strategic guidance on geo-political matters and basic grooming.  We skyped each other shortly afterwards and, after catching sight of the man, I’ll admit I viewed it as something of a personal challenge.  However, I’ve begun to regret ever agreeing to help, as he seems determined to turn even the sagest of advice into an unmitigated disaster that makes the Hindenberg look like a minor fender bender.

Gripping his knees and rolling back and forth, he began to mumble.  ‘It’s breakfast,’ he whispered.  Not again, I thought.  ‘Look, I’m happy to walk you through the toaster once more but this is the last time….’  His head snapped up, his red, tear-stained cheeks began to puff. ‘No, no, no!’ he wailed. ‘Not breakfast.  ‘Brexit.’  I’ll admit that made more sense.  Boris and I had agreed weeks earlier to abandon the toaster in favour of an ‘Up and Go’ to avoid confusion.  He explained to me that he’d just been required to return to work against his will.  I suspected it was not the first time this has happened to him.

‘I’m having an absolutely beastly time,’ he explained.  ‘I tried to prorogue Parliament, just like you suggested, but the Supreme Court said it was blooming well out of order!’  My heart sank.  I asked him which imbecile had been so mentally bankrupt so as to suggest cancelling Parliament before he looked at me from beneath his blonde mop and said, ‘It was your idea.’  Incensed, I looked around for my cricket bat before the penny dropped. ‘I never said prorogue.  Not in a million years would I suggest something so totally stupid.’  He looked hurt and began shaking his head. 

I realized then that, when last we spoke, I had cleared my throat in such a way that, to a dimwitted mature-age Etonian, it may have sounded something like the word ‘prorogue’.  Then again, it would also have sounded a little like ‘Poroit’, but I don’t see him growing a little moustache and speaking in a Belgian accent – after all, not speaking in a Belgian accent is kind of what the whole Brexit thing is about.  Besides, the only mystery that needs solving right now is how a giant cabbage patch kid managed to take something that was broken and bust it up beyond recognition.  In the same way that someone might decide to fix a flat tyre by setting fire to the entire car, so too has Boris managed to louse things up; in spite of my excellent advice.

‘What should I do now?’ he whimpered, a hangdog expression sitting on his face like a wet towel.  Desperately keen to move beyond the reach of those European overlords who, according to Boris, were being ‘quite beastly about the whole thing’, the answer was obvious – tow Britain out to sea.  Forget negotiating an exit deal; those bureaucratic thanatoids will struggle to find the UK much less cut a deal with it.

I could see he was thinking it over because his lips were moving.  ‘But what about Ireland?’ he eventually asked, probably for the first time ever in his entire adult life.  I leaned in. ‘Exactly,’ I answered. Granted, towing the old island out to sea might seem a bit like running away, but I told Boris he should think of it more like doing a runner at a restaurant after being served a lousy meal.  But as he mulled things over – which he did by rolling his eyes around and groaning, I told him to think about the consequences of leaving.

Indeed, leaving the European Union might be the single biggest over-reaction to getting rolled at Eurovision since Dustin the Turkey got trounced in 2008.  But Boris seems determined.  It’s just that he doesn’t seem to be much else other than determined.  It’s probably not enough.  To say nothing of re-imposing an Irish border without any consideration of the consequences. By now, I’d had enough of Boris. Using a muffin to lure him outside, I then shooed him away with a broom handle.  Last I saw, he was galloping away on all fours, chasing random cars and barking at the moon.  Hopefully, that’s the last I’ll see of him.  

The Eastern Freeway is the Eighth Wonder of the World

I’ve had enough.  The groundswell of cynicism, the avalanche of snide remarks; it’s simply too much.  That people react to joyous news with such unbridled skepticism and unquenchable scorn is a dark stain on humanity’s shriveled soul.  Enough!  I, for one, won’t stand for it.  I renounce every snippy remark and piece of poisonous commentary and declare that I am over-the-moon happy.  Whereas others greet the news that part of the Eastern Freeway is being considered for heritage listing with a spray of invective, I say ‘about time’.

I mean, seriously, what took them so long?  Who hasn’t been stuck in traffic waiting on the off-ramp to Punt Road and been overwhelmed by the wonder, the beauty and pure concrete grandeur that is the Eastern Freeway? Frankly, a heritage listing doesn’t go far enough.  I intend to continue campaigning until the most visually stunning piece of freeway known to humanity is declared the eighth wonder of the world.  The Great Barrier Reef, the Daintree Forest, Uluru and the Eastern Freeway; they should all be celebrated and protected.

It’s going to be great for tourism.  As news spreads, they’ll be turning up here by the planeload in the hope of getting a glimpse of the thing.  Ideally, busloads of tourists will use the Eastern Freeway to travel down and visit the Fairy Penguins, thereby experiencing two of our greatest attractions in one afternoon. The only thing I’m concerned about is that the emergency lane may not be sufficient for buses that wish to pull over so that eager visitors can take photos.  It’d be a crime not to take loads of pictures.

The possibilities are endless. I see postcards, hats and key rings.  Posters, commemorative plates and spoons as well as snow domes will crowd the shelves.  I’m not quite sure how to approach soft toys, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out.  Apparel that says ‘My Grandma visited the Eastern Freeway and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’ will be keenly sought-after.  There will be DVDs too, featuring slow motion images of the freeway (which is how it often feels when you’re stuck on it) with a voice over by Sam Neill describing our most historically significant stretch of road.  

So much has happened in that bit of freeway.  There’s the spot near Bulleen Road where Bourke and Wills, along with their camels perished after getting stuck in peak hour.  There’s the stretch where President Bill Clinton was forced to wait when returning from a top-secret trip to Tyabb to do a spot of presidential antiquing whilst Hillary was fishing for flathead on Frankston Pier.  Then there’s the bit just before the Punt Road off-ramp where Albert Einstein got a flat tyre and developed the Theory of Relativity whilst trying to get the wheel nuts off. It’s a little known fact that the Treaty of Versailles was not, as many believe, signed somewhere in France but in the back of a maxi-taxi on our very own Eastern Freeway.  ‘Versailles’ was, in actual fact, the name of the driver.  This is history that should be celebrated.  

This is not the kind monumental paradigm-shifting event that can be commemorated with a mere plaque.  We need to make a proper fuss.  Some type of ceremony with dancers, music and an appearance by the Little River Band could do the trick.  Or perhaps a festival that lasts a week and is capped off with a public holiday.  No festival in the history of the universe will ever have been so suited to having food trucks.  Marvel at the drainage.  Bathe in the splendour of the transit lane.  Ponder the meaning of life as you gaze upon the Chandler Highway overpass.  There’ll be something for everyone.  Bring the kids.

I get that there are some incurable cynics who prefer to scoff at the news that the Eastern Freeway will be heritage listed.  I find that sad.  What those professional naysayers fail to grasp is the sheer potential that has now been unleashed upon Melbourne.  Because if the Eastern Freeway is eligible for heritage listing then, truly, anything is possible.  Think about that for a moment.  If a congested stretch of concrete and bitumen can be safeguarded for reasons of cultural or aesthetic significance, then there’s no reason why any one of us might not be named Secretary General of the United Nations.  Let your imagination run riot as you consider all that could be.          

If the Eastern Freeway is heritage listed, then I look forward to Punt Road being nominated for the Gold Logie.  Camberwell Junction deserves an Oscar.  The big roundabout at the top of Elizabeth Street should absolutely be up for a Grammy.  How it didn’t win ‘Best New Artist’ after they installed the traffic lights is a complete mystery.  Personally, I’d like to see the roundabout on Coolart and Mornington-Tyabb Roads shortlisted for the Nobel Peace Prize.  I am personally willing to travel to Oslo for that. Doubtless, I’ll need to travel on the Eastern Freeway to get myself to the airport.  That seems fitting, somehow.  

Everything you wanted to know about a possible free trade deal with Europe (but had no time or, indeed, actual inclination to ask)

You’re welcome.  Although it’d be nothing short of a pants-incinerating lie of Trumpian proportions to tell you it was my ‘pleasure’, I am more than happy to spare you the agony that I have so recently experienced for myself. Granted, it’s several days that I’ll never get back and it’s more than likely that a small piece of my soul has died, but I didit.  What’s more, I did it with a smile on my face, albeit one that was drawn on with texta and will take upwards of a month to wash off, but that hardly matters.  I have read the proposed free trade agreement between Australia and Europe so you don’t have to.  Thank me later.

First, the bad news: Australians may no longer be allowed to use the term ‘feta’.  As a cheese-loving nation, this is quite the blow. Frankly, it feels like something being sought more out of spite than principle.  But as Australians, we really know how to roll with the punches and I’ve already come up with a bunch of alternatives.  For fans of Star Wars, we could call it ‘Bobba Feta’. To the best of my knowledge, our great nation is not currently attempting to negotiate a free trade deal with George Lucas, so I am semi-confident that we can get away with it. Although, to be fair, George Lucas is a lot more powerful than Europe.  Suffice to say, if he parks the Death Star outside your house, best to stay indoors.  

Alternatively, as a salute to modern elocution, we could rename the product ‘feddar’.  I doubt anyone would notice.  Perhaps some kind of celebrity endorsement would help us preserve the status quo; I, for one, would be happy to purchase a hundred gram pack of ‘Roger Fetarer’.  Dare I say, you could ‘serve’ it to anyone.  (No need to write in – just insert your own comment about that joke being a ‘double fault’ and move on….)  Or we could try something descriptive like ‘stinky crumble cheese’. Sounds delicious.

I feel we should stand our ground, especially on the touchy subject of cheeses.  ‘Gouda’ isn’t a reference to a milk-based cheese from Holland.  I’m pretty sure ‘Gouda’ played half back flank for Essendon in 1987 before going on to run a small caravan park in Patchewollock.  If memory serves, his full name was ‘Peter Gouda’ and he is best remembered for having a mullet that could be seen from space.  Although that could probably be any footballer from that era.

A ‘Camembert’ was a small sedan produced by Holden in the sixties.  A ‘Gruyere’ is an ornamental chisel often used to shimmy open a stuck kitchen drawer.  A ‘Buxton Blue’ is a disagreement with a real estate agent and a ‘Melton Mowbray pork pie’ is a blatant untruth told by someone who lives half way to Ballarat.  These terms cannot be taken away from us – they’re an intrinsic part of our way of life.  Back off, Europe.  If you remove the term ‘Devonshire’ from my favourite snack, it will leave me devastated and in need of a scone and a cup of tea.

There are plans to take these restrictions even further. For example, the French are planning to prohibit anyone else from using the term ‘de ja vu’, although I feel may have done that before.  The Spanish are seeking to reclaim the term ‘siesta’ meaning an end to daytime naps as we know them.  ‘English ham’ will no longer refer to a pork-based product but may still be used when referring to Ricky Gervais.  Sadly, a ‘Dutch Oven’ can only be used with respect to an actual oven.  If they keep this up, we’ll have no choice but to resign from Eurovision even though we’re clearly the best thing in it by an absolute mile.  (Kate Miller Heidke was totally robbed last year.  Robbed.)  Good luck watching Estonia, suckers!

We have to retaliate.  Great Australian inventions like cask wine, tramp stamp tattoos, hook turns and the tall poppy syndrome should be withdrawn from the continent entirely.  Terms like ‘stone the flaming crows’, ‘fair suck of the sauce bottle’ and ‘drongo’ will be flat-out banned, meaning every episode of ‘Home and Away’ featuring a scene with Alf Stewart will have to be majorly re-edited.  The folks in Brussels won’t know what hit them. I can’t even recall the last time European Union Commission President Ursula von der Leyen opened her mouth without using either the term ‘flaming galah’ or ‘drop-kick’ at least once.  Hugh Jackman will no longer speak to them.  Forget ‘Brexit’ – Jackxit is where European resolve is truly tested.    

If you’re thinking about reading the proposed free trade deal for yourself, it seems only fair to warn you that it is not a riveting read. Although it will make you hungry. I’d tell you more about it but I don’t want to give away the ending.  I just hope neither side goes overboard.  After all, what does it matter what it’s called so long as it’s still delicious?  They say a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  Except you can’t call it a ‘rose’ anymore and, instead, are legally obliged to refer to it as ‘perennial flowering bee magnet’. It must be super awkward for the negotiators over dinner.  I’d say ‘bon appetite’ but I suspect it’s not allowed.   

Tips on attending a Presidential State Dinner

I’ll admit to being surprised. It’s been positively yonks since I’ve been invited to attend a State dinner at the White House and – if I’m being honest – I had my doubts I’d ever be invited back. All I can say that, last time I was there, the final thing I remember is agreeing to do tequila shots with Madeleine Albright. Everything else is incredibly hazy except for the Secret Service report that was incredibly clear and vivid and placed a lot of stock on my unauthorized use of a golf buggy. Apparently crashing an electric vehicle head first into the marble staircase whilst yelling ‘liberty of death’ is frowned upon. You live and learn.

Who’d have thought Donald J Trump would be a fan of mine? Turns out, he never misses an edition of the Western Port Times, especially the real estate section. Ever since the deal for Greenland went sour, he likes to get our local paper on the off chance French Island might come up for sale. But, apparently, he’s an avid reader of my column and considers all the things I’ve written about him over the past few years to be incredibly fair, even going so far as to concede I have a point about him being a unhinged maniac who’s elevated human kind’s on-going existence from a statement to a question. Good on him for being willing to engage in a little self-reflection.

You’ve got to feel for our Prime Minister. There’s a lot of pressure in being the guest of honour at a White House State dinner, even if you haven’t previously written off a golf cart. Luckily, he sought my advice on the way over. I, for one, am proud we have a PM that believes so strongly in car-pooling and is prepared to extend the principle to the Prime Ministerial plane. It was kinder still of him to drop through Tyabb airport to pick me up. It gave us plenty of time to strategize.

‘First’, I said, ‘Make a bold impression. Do something that Donald J Trump and the First Lady have never seen before and that they’ll remember forever.’ ScoMo looked concerned. Clearly he had no idea what I was talking about. Tuxedo with a ruffled shirt? Greeting the President with a nipple cripple instead of the traditional handshake? Parachuting onto the lawn whilst on fire as ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ blasts away in the background? With both hands I gripped the Prime Minister’s shoulders and gave him a solid shake for at least three minutes, maybe four. Then I produced a box and held it high so that he could bask in its dazzling glory. ‘Cadbury Roses,’ I said. ‘Wait ‘til the President cops an eyeful of these little beauties.’

It worked a treat. When the PM, his wife and I trundled up to the front steps and gave the doorbell a tweak, you could tell the Trumpster was truly touched by our Antipodean gesture of goodwill. By the time he said ‘come on in’, he was elbow-deep in the box with trails of caramel deluxe dripping down his chin. He tried to shake my hand but I pretended I was looking the other way after spotting an entire peppermint crème crunch stuck to the Presidential palm, half way to melted.

Things had changed since I’d last been. Gone are the libraries, works of art and antique furniture; replaced by a Foosball table, a mud-wrestling pit and a mini-golf course. The entire interior fell under the gaze of a thirty foot framed picture of ‘Dogs Playing Poker’ on loan from the Smithsonian. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place,’ I said to the President as he moved from devouring the contents of the box to the box itself.

A short time later, my night started to go downhill. In retrospect, it was foolish of me to accept his invitation to play a round of Foosball. It was downright idiotic of me to win. I simply couldn’t help myself. After handing the President (in metaphorical terms) his backside on a platter, there was a distinct shift in tone. Within seconds, I went from feted guest to sitting somewhere between China and kale in the Presidential pecking order. Even ScoMo looked embarrassed.

I knew I was in trouble when I found myself nearly two full miles from the head table and seated between Julian Assange and the bloke that used to advertise vacuum cleaners for Godfreys (apparently, the whole ‘vacuum holding a bowling ball’ thing went down a treat Stateside). Neither of them would shut up. Little wonder I took solace in drink. Besides, it was my idea that each table should be stocked with the finest fruity lexia money can buy in a four litre cask, so I was quite literally enjoying the fruity lexia of my labour.

The second Julian Assange drew breath and stopped talking about himself I made my move. Stumbling away from the table, I approached the Marine Corp Band, slipped them five bucks and asked them to perform a full military rendition of ‘Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?’ Luckily they knew it, and were only too happy to oblige. As I stood on top of the speakers, red-faced and leading a full-throated sing-along, I was gang tackled to the ground by Mike Pompeo who, despite his obvious physical heft is surprisingly agile. Springing to my feet, I leapt aboard the Presidential golf buggy and careened over the front lawn yelling, ‘liberty or death!’ before running it into the duck pond. What a night! I can’t wait to be invited back.

The Kris Kringle Catastrophes of Christmases Past

Danger! Once more we find ourselves knee-deep in the most treacherous time of year, where anything can and possibly will go wrong. Granted, on the surface Christmas is all about good cheer and bonhomie but the smallest miscalculation can cause it to collapse like a house of cards. And by ‘house of cards’ I don’t mean building materials you can use for gin rummy but a Netflix series that began to outstay its welcome midway through season one but lumbered on regardless towards a calamitous end that became an unpleasant endurance test. That bad.
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