For An Important Announcement.
The IMF has given us the astonishing news that during this Great Financial Crisis we have lost 6 trillion dollars.
Do any of us know what six trillion dollars means?
I confess, without the slightest hint of self-deprecation or irony, that I am an ignorant man. I can do easy sums and can count the change in my pocket, but I am not one who can talk for hours about fiscal this and hedging that. As far as I’m aware “High Finance” was a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie and that is the sum of my balance sheet.
But, even given that, I can still contemplate the meaning of ‘6 trillion dollars’. It is an amazingly big number. Imagine giving every man woman and child on earth a dollar coin and then imagine doing that on 882 duplicate worlds.
On the other hand, you could get 6 trillion microbes in a bucket with lots of room to spare. However if each microbe had a dollar coin in its pocket then, try as you might, you would not be able to lift the bucket.
On the third hand (the significance of which will become apparent), if the six trillion were years then they would stretch back to 430 TIMES the age of the universe and Genesis and therefore pre-date God himself. Should you wish instead to stretch that number of years into the future then it is extremely likely that the age of the three-armed human being would have come and gone long ago.
All this is mind boggling but nowhere near as mind boggling as the really significant part of the IMF news.
We have lost it!
We have lost 6 trillion dollars!
WHERE?
If I lose a dollar through a hole in my pocket then it either goes down a drain or under a rock. Sometimes it’s picked up by a finder and keepersed but what the dollar doesn’t do is disappear from the face of the earth. So what happened to the 6 trillion?
I have made the point many times before that ‘wealth’ is a deceptive and perhaps deceitful concept. Who can seriously believe a house that doubles its value in a year makes the owner twice as wealthy? Who can believe there is a real increase in the value of a company based on nothing more than the expectation of a future increase in value because the value of the company is expected to increase? And so on.
Who can believe these things? Well, quite a few apparently. They have allowed themselves to be mesmerised by the illusion of being better off and have borrowed wealth on the strength of their expectations of wealth. This would be bad enough and deserving of a good kick up the arse as punishment for naivety but unfortunately, in the main, the blame cannot be laid at the door of the mug punters.
Somewhat like The Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889 the moguls of finance and their toe-rags, the politicians, were whipping us and screaming for more speed as we were driven headlong into the land of plenty. We cast wild-eyed glances right and left to make sure we were not falling behind as we pounded over anything and everything to keep pace with the manic charge of wagons. Whooping bank drovers lashed at us to get through Shit Creek’s Treacherous Banks only to be faced by the Impossible Mountains of Debt but still they drove us on. And on, and up, and up, and up until…..ooops.
But it’s not just this. On television we can watch contestants in some inane reality show allow them selves to be smothered with cockroaches or they eat revolting looking insects all because money is more important than their dignity. I can’t but help imagine the producers of these reality programmes longing for the day (surely not far away) when Celebrity Dump becomes a ratings grabber.
I say we can watch them but I confess I don’t. Any more than I watch beauty contests or ‘food programmes’ like Iron Chef or Ready, Steady, Cook. I am aware of these things but I try my best to ignore them because they make me despair of society’s good sense.
We have been a greedy, silly mob. We have borrowed prestige and pride. We have pretended to be sophisticated and yet we have fallen for the oldest con in the book.
“You can be whatever you want to be.”
Bollocks! Is my reply to that. You didn’t seriously think you would actually gain something out of this protracted smash and grab raid and be allowed to keep it did you?
Did you?
You did?
BAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
4/20/09
The Gilligan Factor - Part 5.
EDITOR’S NOTE.
Due to the astounding nature of the following information, the publishers of The Gilligan Factor have decided to take the unprecedented step of handing over this blog to another author. It is with tremendous pride we introduce to you……….
MR. KEVIN RUDD. THE PRIME MINISTER OF AUSTRALIAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LET’S ALL GIVE A DINKUM AUSSIE WELCOME TO THE MAN HIMSELF, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…..BIG KEV!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kevin Rudd: Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind, thank you….Wow! Thank you so much. I’d just like to…thank you, thank you….If you will just allow me to……thank you. Oh, Gosh. Thank you so much…. I am sincerely pleased to…thank you, thank you….
Joe CitOZen: On ya Kevvy! Good on ya mate! We’re right be’ind ya Kevvy!
Kevin Rudd: You’re much too kind….thank you. NOW PLEASE IF I MIGHT GET A WORD IN, thank you. I’ve asked you all here today for a very special reason.
Joe CitOZen: Yeah, the free piss! Good on ya Kevvy! Up the Rabbitoes! With a barb wired carrot! NYAAHAHAHAHA! You’re the best, Kevvy mate! Simply The Best! Better Than All The Rest! Well done Kevvy! keVIN-keVIN-keVIN-keVIN! What?….What d’ya mean Shush, ya miserable bastard? I’m cheerin me mate Kevvy on! The best fuckin’ Pri’Minster this fuckin’ country ever fuckin’ ‘ad! We’re with ya Kevvy boy! Now come on folks – give Kevvy a chance! Fair suck of the sav, let the man speak! Go on Kevvy mate, the yours floor! Good on ya!
Kevin Rudd: I came to Australia in 1965 from the Pon Dang province of Communist China; I was ten years old. My real name is Chiang Fuk Ho and I am a Chinaman. I am here to ask your forgiveness and to assure you that…….
Joe CitOZen: Gaarrn! Fuck awf back where ya came from, ya commie cunt!
Kevin Rudd: Is Arnel Shizeknicker here? Ah, Arnel - could you help that gentleman please? I think he needs another beer.
Joe CitOZen: Good on ya Kevvy or whatever yer fuckin’ name is ya commie cunt! Strewth mate! What ‘orrer filum did you slide out of. You’re the biggest, ugliest lookin’ sheila I ever seen in my fuckin’……. OOOFFFF!
Kevin Rudd: Thank you Arnel. If I may continue. I can assure you all that whatever my past may have been, my future is with you, the people of this wonderful nation of Australia.
Yes, I did come to Australia as a communist agent.
Yes, I did work for years to infiltrate the Australian Labor Party.
Yes, I did contrive to steer Australian policy toward an ultra Pro-Chinese position. But, let’s face it; I’m just an ordinary bloke really. People make mistakes and I’m no different from anyone else. You show me a person that’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you my wife who is not a communist agent and would never contemplate such a thing. To all those who make totally spurious, even personally objectionable comments on my wife’s political credibility, I say this.
My wife has dedicated her life to the advancement of Australia Fair. No other person in this vast and beautiful country with all its vast and beautiful people could ever hope to match the dedication to the Australian Dream that is dedicated by Mrs. Kevin Rudd. Mrs Kevin Rudd has my total support and together we will continue to serve this country and its people that have blessed us with their support. Mrs. Kevin Rudd and Kevin Rudd will not let you down. Kevin Rudd will continue to fight for the right of every Australian to choose the choice they choose. I will not be swayed. Kevin Rudd - The Prime Minister of Australia, will not be swayed or intimidated. No matter what! You can count on that! Thank you!
Vast Crowd of Joe CitOZens: HOORAY!! YES!! GOOD ON YA KEV! HOORAAAAAAAY!
ABC TV Reporter: I’m Ralph Barker – ABC News. How does this affect our current health policy, Prime Minister?
Channel 7 Reporter: I’m “Gorgeous” Gloria Nicearse – A Current Affront – Channel 7. What aftershave are you wearing today Mr. Rudd (inane giggle).
Mayor Porker: EVERYBODY! SHUT THE FUCK UP!…….. KEVIN RUDD!!…..YES YOU!! What the fuck do you think you are doing? You tell these people you’re a Communist Chinese agent then you scrub it down with political piss-wash? Kevin, you wanted to be honest.
Kevin Rudd: I’m sorry Mayor Porker. That wasn’t Chinese subterfuge….it was my Canberra training. I couldn’t seem to help myself. You’re right of course. I’ll start again.
(So there can be no further doubt, Chiang Fuk Ho removes his tam-o-shanter including the wig. His head gleams in the camera lights and the world goes still.)
**********************************
KEVIN FUK HO EXPLAINS.
I stand here ashamed. I desperately need, but don’t deserve, your forgiveness. Until recently I have actively assisted the communist government of The Peoples Republic of China in their attempts to obtain favourable trade agreements, mineral rights, and political influence in Australia. They also asked me to be party to the theft of certain gaseous materials from Australian territory. The purpose of these materials, I have recently discovered, will enable Communist China to synthesize a compound gas that will irrevocably change the balance of world power in China’s favour. In order for you to understand the enormity of what they propose I must first give you a little history lesson.
In 1896 a little known English chemist named Cobbert Twill was collecting firedamp gas from a disused coalmine in Blackhampton, Sutton Coalfield. When he got his samples back to his crudely equipped laboratory he found he had collected a gas with properties not previously recorded.
He experimented with this gas for ten years. The tests should have only taken a few days but Twill seemed to be afflicted with a debilitating lassitude that made it almost impossible to finish making a cup of tea let alone complete an experiment. It was only when he eventually accepted his doctors advise and took a weeks holiday in Weston-Super-Mare that he recovered from the strange affliction enough to realise what was happening. The gas was somehow making him incredibly bored.
He returned to his laboratory and carefully collated his results and sent them, with a sample of the gas he named Borene, to The Royal Society. Unfortunately the individual charged with examining his findings took one sniff of the sample gas and found he couldn’t care less about the whole thing. Cobbert Twill’s report and vial of gas remained forgotten at the Royal Society for 97 years.
The Russians are next in our story of strange gas properties. In 2001, whilst checking the foundations of the building that had housed the Politburo, engineers detected an active heavier than air gas that defied standard analysis. It seemed to be absorbed by a heavy shale material that was part of the foundations. Further tests showed this gas to have unexpected effects on human beings exposed to it.
Quite rational subjects became petty, intolerant, cruel and abusive. They would also go to almost any lengths to further their own interests at the expense of anyone or anything else. The Russians dismissed the gas as a curio, it became known internationally as Nastylene and there the matter rested.
And then in 2002 the British were being very security conscious and were checking the underground rail system beneath London. They found what seemed to be an unknown gas leaking from the walls of the tunnel closest to The Houses of Parliament. The gas was sampled and found to be a naturally occurring mixture but this gas too seemed to have strange properties.
It induced pathological lying and subterfuge. In fact it became extremely difficult to investigate because all the scientists involved denied having anything to do with the gas and the mining engineers who were asked to trace its source claimed it originated on Jupiter, or it might have been from Orion, or perhaps from a small provincial theatre near Hove. All together the results were interesting but no practical purpose could be imagined so the gas was recorded, named Falsene and ignored.
It took the Chinese to see what everyone else had missed. A Chinese student of chemistry at Bristol University came upon the old Royal Society records of Cobbert Twill’s original discovery of Borene. He investigated and found the gas had been found in a shaft almost directly beneath the Blackhampton Town Hall. Blackhampton Town Council was, and still is, an extremely boring little institution. In the late 1800’s the same councillors were elected year after year because nobody else could be bothered to stand against them. The Council’s most interesting discussions were on The May Day Parade that never took place and The Harvest Festival Service to which no one came. Every time there was a vote the councillors abstained out of sheer apathy so the Chairman made all the decisions - if he felt like it , which was seldom.
The student became very interested. He had already studied the Russian discovery of Nastylene beneath the Politburo building and also the British investigation into Falsene found beneath Parliament. It was impossible without further research to determine if the action of the gas caused the behaviour in the chambers above or wether the behaviour somehow began a reaction that created the gas below. He made up an information report recommending further investigation and nervously presented it to his Chinese controller. One month later the student was recalled to Beijing and executed.
Then the real research and experimentation began in strictest secrecy. By 2005 China had synthesized a combination of the three gasses. It was heavier than air so it was recombined with hydrogen molecules to stabilise it. The recombined gas was called Chaotigen. It was tested in 2005 by releasing it throughout Wall Street, New York and the result was staggering.
Within three years America was on its knees. The combination of greed, lies and complete lack of interest in anything but profit combined with a criminal disregard of any affect their actions might have, sucked whirlwinds of cause and effect into the New York financial bastions and the walls crumbled. When the error of their ways was pointed out to them, the financial institutions executives responded with excuse after excuse, lie after lie until they eventually admitted they couldn’t give a shit anyway and they went on stuffing money into their pockets, into their mouths and up their noses. Some even sat on the money and sucked it up their arses, anything to get more and more and more and……..
China realised that the effects of the gas were more potent than expected and it would have to be moderated in order to use this undetectable destabilising tool without harming Chinese interests. They tested weakened combinations in other financial centres throughout the world but it was still too strong. More moderate sources of the gas must be found. They turned to moderate, laid-back Australia.
They approached me during my first visit to China and told me what I had to do. I cleared hundreds of Chinese visitors who were all geophysicists trained to identify Borene, Nastylene and Falsene. Within one month they had found their sources. Borene was found in abundance under The Scenic Rim Council offices at Beaudesert. Brisbane State Parliament building covered huge quantities of Falsene and an unbelievably rich store of Nastylene was found under The Bogan Chitty Council building.
The next problem was recovering the gasses. The collection point had to have sea access and be close enough to the sources of gas to be able to laser-bore 100mm pipelines over a distance of no more than 100 kilometres. Coochiemudlo Island was the best option and the Chinese, with my help, set about acquiring it. A few doses from the Chinese Borene stocks caused tremendous apathy to set in on the island and residents sold up without a fight. Some of them were bored to death before they could move out and others wandered off without collecting the proceeds of the sale. It was a very smooth operation that I covered up by talk about buried munitions from World War 2.
I then had to arrange for ten thousand Chinese workers to be able to move into Morton Bay and begin operations on the island. I did this under the cultural exchange programme and I initiated a massive display of Chinese dancing and drum bashing. The fact that only 100 performers appeared on stage didn’t seem to worry anyone and nobody asked what happened to the other 9900.
We used Australian dredgers to cut deep channels up to Coochiemudlo and the Chinese labourers built the artificial sand bars. From then on it was a massive digging operation. So much rock and sand was shifted we created three new islands in Morton Bay. You are probably thinking that someone might just have noticed some of this going on but regular drifts of Borene across the bay ensured that whoever saw what was happening didn’t give a fuck and moved on.
Container ships carrying equipment and more labourers have been coming and going for months under cover of Borene. Laser drilling heads have driven remotely through many kilometres of rock and now Coochiemudlo has been finally linked to the three sources of gas. The Chinese are ready to pump Australian Borene, Nastylene and Falsene into the giant gas container ship that will arrive in two days time. When this ship gets back to China nothing can save the world from total Chinese domination.
So there you have it. Somehow we have to stop this happening and try to get off this island alive but I can see no way that anyone can get on or off Coochiemudlo much less fight thousands of Chinese to destroy this mine. That’s why I need your help.
******************************************
Gorgeous Gloria Nicearse: Channel 7 – A Current Affront. Mr.Fuk Hue, our viewers need to know, does the pressure of all this impact on your sex life? How is Mrs.Fuk Hue bearing up and how are you bearing down? (giggle)
Ralph Barker: ABC News. Prime Minister, if no one can get on or off the island then how did you get us here?
Kevin Fuk Ho: Well, I….um….
Mayor Porker: I can answer that Ralph. You have been created and used as a kind of literary tool. You see, it would have been very ugly and unwieldy to continue Kev’s long explanation as a scripted monologue. The explanation would have to be broken up with interjections and bracketed explanatory notes etc. The whole thing would look either clumsy or too bitty. But by presenting Kev’s story as a sort of written press release the blog writer no longer has to worry about conversational idiosyncrasies, interactions and clarifying notes. It is now simply a long explanation in normal written form with the added advantage of reinforcing this blog’s occasional tendency to drift into the surreal in its rather contrived attempts to avoid the mundane. So, basically you are now redundant and can all fuck off while we get down to the exciting bit where we fight our way off the island.
Okay! All TV and Press – out, out, out! Piss off now please! Vast crowd of Joe CitOZens can bugger off too.
Thank you for coming.
As you pass through the door you will cease to exist.
Nothing to worry about.
Just a bit of infinity.
Yes, you too Gorgeous Gloria, and be careful you don’t get your arse stuck in the doorway on your way out sweetie…….Yeah, fuck you too.
Ann Appuladay: Mayor Porker, I need to talk to you….privately.
Mayor porker: What is it Ann?
Ann Appuladay: Not here. Let’s get out of this room. Mayor Porker, I think we’re being set up.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Due to the astounding nature of the following information, the publishers of The Gilligan Factor have decided to take the unprecedented step of handing over this blog to another author. It is with tremendous pride we introduce to you……….
MR. KEVIN RUDD. THE PRIME MINISTER OF AUSTRALIAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LET’S ALL GIVE A DINKUM AUSSIE WELCOME TO THE MAN HIMSELF, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…..BIG KEV!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kevin Rudd: Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind, thank you….Wow! Thank you so much. I’d just like to…thank you, thank you….If you will just allow me to……thank you. Oh, Gosh. Thank you so much…. I am sincerely pleased to…thank you, thank you….
Joe CitOZen: On ya Kevvy! Good on ya mate! We’re right be’ind ya Kevvy!
Kevin Rudd: You’re much too kind….thank you. NOW PLEASE IF I MIGHT GET A WORD IN, thank you. I’ve asked you all here today for a very special reason.
Joe CitOZen: Yeah, the free piss! Good on ya Kevvy! Up the Rabbitoes! With a barb wired carrot! NYAAHAHAHAHA! You’re the best, Kevvy mate! Simply The Best! Better Than All The Rest! Well done Kevvy! keVIN-keVIN-keVIN-keVIN! What?….What d’ya mean Shush, ya miserable bastard? I’m cheerin me mate Kevvy on! The best fuckin’ Pri’Minster this fuckin’ country ever fuckin’ ‘ad! We’re with ya Kevvy boy! Now come on folks – give Kevvy a chance! Fair suck of the sav, let the man speak! Go on Kevvy mate, the yours floor! Good on ya!
Kevin Rudd: I came to Australia in 1965 from the Pon Dang province of Communist China; I was ten years old. My real name is Chiang Fuk Ho and I am a Chinaman. I am here to ask your forgiveness and to assure you that…….
Joe CitOZen: Gaarrn! Fuck awf back where ya came from, ya commie cunt!
Kevin Rudd: Is Arnel Shizeknicker here? Ah, Arnel - could you help that gentleman please? I think he needs another beer.
Joe CitOZen: Good on ya Kevvy or whatever yer fuckin’ name is ya commie cunt! Strewth mate! What ‘orrer filum did you slide out of. You’re the biggest, ugliest lookin’ sheila I ever seen in my fuckin’……. OOOFFFF!
Kevin Rudd: Thank you Arnel. If I may continue. I can assure you all that whatever my past may have been, my future is with you, the people of this wonderful nation of Australia.
Yes, I did come to Australia as a communist agent.
Yes, I did work for years to infiltrate the Australian Labor Party.
Yes, I did contrive to steer Australian policy toward an ultra Pro-Chinese position. But, let’s face it; I’m just an ordinary bloke really. People make mistakes and I’m no different from anyone else. You show me a person that’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you my wife who is not a communist agent and would never contemplate such a thing. To all those who make totally spurious, even personally objectionable comments on my wife’s political credibility, I say this.
My wife has dedicated her life to the advancement of Australia Fair. No other person in this vast and beautiful country with all its vast and beautiful people could ever hope to match the dedication to the Australian Dream that is dedicated by Mrs. Kevin Rudd. Mrs Kevin Rudd has my total support and together we will continue to serve this country and its people that have blessed us with their support. Mrs. Kevin Rudd and Kevin Rudd will not let you down. Kevin Rudd will continue to fight for the right of every Australian to choose the choice they choose. I will not be swayed. Kevin Rudd - The Prime Minister of Australia, will not be swayed or intimidated. No matter what! You can count on that! Thank you!
Vast Crowd of Joe CitOZens: HOORAY!! YES!! GOOD ON YA KEV! HOORAAAAAAAY!
ABC TV Reporter: I’m Ralph Barker – ABC News. How does this affect our current health policy, Prime Minister?
Channel 7 Reporter: I’m “Gorgeous” Gloria Nicearse – A Current Affront – Channel 7. What aftershave are you wearing today Mr. Rudd (inane giggle).
Mayor Porker: EVERYBODY! SHUT THE FUCK UP!…….. KEVIN RUDD!!…..YES YOU!! What the fuck do you think you are doing? You tell these people you’re a Communist Chinese agent then you scrub it down with political piss-wash? Kevin, you wanted to be honest.
Kevin Rudd: I’m sorry Mayor Porker. That wasn’t Chinese subterfuge….it was my Canberra training. I couldn’t seem to help myself. You’re right of course. I’ll start again.
(So there can be no further doubt, Chiang Fuk Ho removes his tam-o-shanter including the wig. His head gleams in the camera lights and the world goes still.)
**********************************
KEVIN FUK HO EXPLAINS.
I stand here ashamed. I desperately need, but don’t deserve, your forgiveness. Until recently I have actively assisted the communist government of The Peoples Republic of China in their attempts to obtain favourable trade agreements, mineral rights, and political influence in Australia. They also asked me to be party to the theft of certain gaseous materials from Australian territory. The purpose of these materials, I have recently discovered, will enable Communist China to synthesize a compound gas that will irrevocably change the balance of world power in China’s favour. In order for you to understand the enormity of what they propose I must first give you a little history lesson.
In 1896 a little known English chemist named Cobbert Twill was collecting firedamp gas from a disused coalmine in Blackhampton, Sutton Coalfield. When he got his samples back to his crudely equipped laboratory he found he had collected a gas with properties not previously recorded.
He experimented with this gas for ten years. The tests should have only taken a few days but Twill seemed to be afflicted with a debilitating lassitude that made it almost impossible to finish making a cup of tea let alone complete an experiment. It was only when he eventually accepted his doctors advise and took a weeks holiday in Weston-Super-Mare that he recovered from the strange affliction enough to realise what was happening. The gas was somehow making him incredibly bored.
He returned to his laboratory and carefully collated his results and sent them, with a sample of the gas he named Borene, to The Royal Society. Unfortunately the individual charged with examining his findings took one sniff of the sample gas and found he couldn’t care less about the whole thing. Cobbert Twill’s report and vial of gas remained forgotten at the Royal Society for 97 years.
The Russians are next in our story of strange gas properties. In 2001, whilst checking the foundations of the building that had housed the Politburo, engineers detected an active heavier than air gas that defied standard analysis. It seemed to be absorbed by a heavy shale material that was part of the foundations. Further tests showed this gas to have unexpected effects on human beings exposed to it.
Quite rational subjects became petty, intolerant, cruel and abusive. They would also go to almost any lengths to further their own interests at the expense of anyone or anything else. The Russians dismissed the gas as a curio, it became known internationally as Nastylene and there the matter rested.
And then in 2002 the British were being very security conscious and were checking the underground rail system beneath London. They found what seemed to be an unknown gas leaking from the walls of the tunnel closest to The Houses of Parliament. The gas was sampled and found to be a naturally occurring mixture but this gas too seemed to have strange properties.
It induced pathological lying and subterfuge. In fact it became extremely difficult to investigate because all the scientists involved denied having anything to do with the gas and the mining engineers who were asked to trace its source claimed it originated on Jupiter, or it might have been from Orion, or perhaps from a small provincial theatre near Hove. All together the results were interesting but no practical purpose could be imagined so the gas was recorded, named Falsene and ignored.
It took the Chinese to see what everyone else had missed. A Chinese student of chemistry at Bristol University came upon the old Royal Society records of Cobbert Twill’s original discovery of Borene. He investigated and found the gas had been found in a shaft almost directly beneath the Blackhampton Town Hall. Blackhampton Town Council was, and still is, an extremely boring little institution. In the late 1800’s the same councillors were elected year after year because nobody else could be bothered to stand against them. The Council’s most interesting discussions were on The May Day Parade that never took place and The Harvest Festival Service to which no one came. Every time there was a vote the councillors abstained out of sheer apathy so the Chairman made all the decisions - if he felt like it , which was seldom.
The student became very interested. He had already studied the Russian discovery of Nastylene beneath the Politburo building and also the British investigation into Falsene found beneath Parliament. It was impossible without further research to determine if the action of the gas caused the behaviour in the chambers above or wether the behaviour somehow began a reaction that created the gas below. He made up an information report recommending further investigation and nervously presented it to his Chinese controller. One month later the student was recalled to Beijing and executed.
Then the real research and experimentation began in strictest secrecy. By 2005 China had synthesized a combination of the three gasses. It was heavier than air so it was recombined with hydrogen molecules to stabilise it. The recombined gas was called Chaotigen. It was tested in 2005 by releasing it throughout Wall Street, New York and the result was staggering.
Within three years America was on its knees. The combination of greed, lies and complete lack of interest in anything but profit combined with a criminal disregard of any affect their actions might have, sucked whirlwinds of cause and effect into the New York financial bastions and the walls crumbled. When the error of their ways was pointed out to them, the financial institutions executives responded with excuse after excuse, lie after lie until they eventually admitted they couldn’t give a shit anyway and they went on stuffing money into their pockets, into their mouths and up their noses. Some even sat on the money and sucked it up their arses, anything to get more and more and more and……..
China realised that the effects of the gas were more potent than expected and it would have to be moderated in order to use this undetectable destabilising tool without harming Chinese interests. They tested weakened combinations in other financial centres throughout the world but it was still too strong. More moderate sources of the gas must be found. They turned to moderate, laid-back Australia.
They approached me during my first visit to China and told me what I had to do. I cleared hundreds of Chinese visitors who were all geophysicists trained to identify Borene, Nastylene and Falsene. Within one month they had found their sources. Borene was found in abundance under The Scenic Rim Council offices at Beaudesert. Brisbane State Parliament building covered huge quantities of Falsene and an unbelievably rich store of Nastylene was found under The Bogan Chitty Council building.
The next problem was recovering the gasses. The collection point had to have sea access and be close enough to the sources of gas to be able to laser-bore 100mm pipelines over a distance of no more than 100 kilometres. Coochiemudlo Island was the best option and the Chinese, with my help, set about acquiring it. A few doses from the Chinese Borene stocks caused tremendous apathy to set in on the island and residents sold up without a fight. Some of them were bored to death before they could move out and others wandered off without collecting the proceeds of the sale. It was a very smooth operation that I covered up by talk about buried munitions from World War 2.
I then had to arrange for ten thousand Chinese workers to be able to move into Morton Bay and begin operations on the island. I did this under the cultural exchange programme and I initiated a massive display of Chinese dancing and drum bashing. The fact that only 100 performers appeared on stage didn’t seem to worry anyone and nobody asked what happened to the other 9900.
We used Australian dredgers to cut deep channels up to Coochiemudlo and the Chinese labourers built the artificial sand bars. From then on it was a massive digging operation. So much rock and sand was shifted we created three new islands in Morton Bay. You are probably thinking that someone might just have noticed some of this going on but regular drifts of Borene across the bay ensured that whoever saw what was happening didn’t give a fuck and moved on.
Container ships carrying equipment and more labourers have been coming and going for months under cover of Borene. Laser drilling heads have driven remotely through many kilometres of rock and now Coochiemudlo has been finally linked to the three sources of gas. The Chinese are ready to pump Australian Borene, Nastylene and Falsene into the giant gas container ship that will arrive in two days time. When this ship gets back to China nothing can save the world from total Chinese domination.
So there you have it. Somehow we have to stop this happening and try to get off this island alive but I can see no way that anyone can get on or off Coochiemudlo much less fight thousands of Chinese to destroy this mine. That’s why I need your help.
******************************************
Gorgeous Gloria Nicearse: Channel 7 – A Current Affront. Mr.Fuk Hue, our viewers need to know, does the pressure of all this impact on your sex life? How is Mrs.Fuk Hue bearing up and how are you bearing down? (giggle)
Ralph Barker: ABC News. Prime Minister, if no one can get on or off the island then how did you get us here?
Kevin Fuk Ho: Well, I….um….
Mayor Porker: I can answer that Ralph. You have been created and used as a kind of literary tool. You see, it would have been very ugly and unwieldy to continue Kev’s long explanation as a scripted monologue. The explanation would have to be broken up with interjections and bracketed explanatory notes etc. The whole thing would look either clumsy or too bitty. But by presenting Kev’s story as a sort of written press release the blog writer no longer has to worry about conversational idiosyncrasies, interactions and clarifying notes. It is now simply a long explanation in normal written form with the added advantage of reinforcing this blog’s occasional tendency to drift into the surreal in its rather contrived attempts to avoid the mundane. So, basically you are now redundant and can all fuck off while we get down to the exciting bit where we fight our way off the island.
Okay! All TV and Press – out, out, out! Piss off now please! Vast crowd of Joe CitOZens can bugger off too.
Thank you for coming.
As you pass through the door you will cease to exist.
Nothing to worry about.
Just a bit of infinity.
Yes, you too Gorgeous Gloria, and be careful you don’t get your arse stuck in the doorway on your way out sweetie…….Yeah, fuck you too.
Ann Appuladay: Mayor Porker, I need to talk to you….privately.
Mayor porker: What is it Ann?
Ann Appuladay: Not here. Let’s get out of this room. Mayor Porker, I think we’re being set up.
TO BE CONTINUED.
4/18/09
The Gilligan Factor - Part Four
Well, well, well, the Prime Minister has been so taken by this little blog that he has decided to join in. We are honoured, sir. But is it the real Kevin Rudd or a cheap Chinese copy? Is there any difference? Will Malcolm Turnbull demand reciprocal blog time? Are we now to become a vehicle for celebrities who like to “slum it” in popular working class public service programmes to prove they are “still just ordinary guys, you know.” Are we seriously suggesting this blog is a popular working class public service programme? Are we even suggesting this blog is popular?
Never the less, there are good folk in trouble and we must attend to them. Mayor Porker will be ignored no longer. She has been forced into a dark shaft by Bart Rugarse who dithered for simply ages over which of them should go down the ladder first. Should Mayor Porker descend first and have the opportunity to hide in the dark and then ambush Bart as he climbs down? Or should Bart go first and risk Mayor Porker running away when she was left on her own? To resolve the conflict Bart is forced to insist we continue this story from a point where they are already both at the bottom of the shaft.
MAYOR PORKER’S GROUP.
Mayor Porker: That was typically gutless Bart. What’s wrong? Frightened to make a fool of your self again?
Bart Rugarse: Don’t push me, Porky. When I was flying out of the top of that Deathdozer I swore to get even with you and during the weeks in traction I swore a lot more. It wouldn’t take much to get me to shoot your toes off just for the laugh – except now I find we are unfortunately on the same side. The irony is killing me.
Mayor Porker: You and I would never be on the same side, Rugarse.
Bart Rugarse: As personalities, no, but tactically we are obliged to cooperate this time Porky. This is an instruction from the highest level I can assure you. To consolidate our newfound companionship I shall put away this gun, which is, in any case, not loaded. I warn you though, if you try to take advantage and attack me I will bleed profusely and that may ruin your clothes. It has been my job to locate you and bring you here. There is a door to your right, Mayor Porker, please go through - there is no danger.
Mayor Porker: What the fuck is going on, Rugarse?
(Just as Mayor Porker and Bart Rugarse appear to be getting to the start of a really good argument there is a disturbance above and Ann Appuladay climbs down to join them.)
Ann Appuladay: I’m pleased to see you’re okay, Mayor Porker. Ah, Bret, the Prime Minister told me to tell you he is going to use the north entry. He needs to clean up and then he will meet us all in the briefing room.
Mayor Porker: Ann, maybe you can tell me what’s happening. Where’s the rest of your group? And what’s this about the Prime Minister? Oh God! Help me Ann, my head is starting to disappear up my own arse here!
Bart Rugarse: I can assure you Porky, Ann is almost as confused as you are but if you’ll both follow me I’m sure we can sort it all out.
(Bart opens the side door and walks through. Mayor Porker and Ann Appuladay look at each other for a moment then shrug and follow him.)
MOWER’S GROUP.
(Dicky Mower, Lizzie, Luke and Winnie have followed the Bogan Kids into a gap in the rubble. They then scramble down a narrow sloping shaft until they come to a dim corridor. Mower calls a halt and speaks to the kids.)
Mower: Look guys, we can’t keep calling you Kid 1, 2 and 3. What are your names?
Kid 1: Fair enough. I’m Gabriella but you can call me Gabby – I’m the smart one. Kid 2 is Cinderella and we call her Scorch. Kid 3 is Citronella also known as Dave.
Lizzie: Gabby and Scorch are girls?
Gabby: Yeah, so is Dave. Why? What did you think we was?
Mower: And, Gabby, you’re the smart one. Is that right?
Gabby: Yeah. I’ve got an IQ of 196. It used to be 105 but I kept letting the social workers tyres down till she upped it. Now I can read The Iliad in the original Greek and help my old man fill out his Centrelink forms.
Luke: Well that’s all sorted out then. I was beginning to think this was complicated.
Mower: Just one more thing, do you think it would be better if Luke and I took charge of the weapons?
Gabby: No.
Scorch: Nix.
Dave: Fuck off.
Mower: Okaaaay. Lead on girls.
(For fifteen minutes the group picks its way through rubble strewn corridors and then, just ahead, the tunnel is filled with light from an opening in the side wall. When they reach the opening they can see they are in a kind of high gallery with a view down onto a vast factory floor. Hundreds of Chinese are scurrying about looking chaotically purposeful. Some appear to be pushing ore trucks along narrow gauge tracks and generally behaving like miners. Others swarm around huge crushing and grading machines. A particular group of Chinese individuals seem to be observing the activities with great interest and beside this group a futuristic looking vehicle is waiting. It looks like a small bullet train and obviously runs on the gleaming steel single rail laid across the factory floor and off into the darkness. After a final glance around, the Chinese dignitaries climb aboard the vehicle.)
Gabby: Keep low. They can’t really see us up here but there’s no sense in taking risks. Just watch the train. I’ve seen it before and it’s amazing.
(There is a shouted command from the bullet train and six metal bars, three on each side, extend from the sides of the vehicle. On a second command twelve semi-naked Chinamen run from the shadows and take up station at the bars. There are two Chinamen to each bar and, following a third command, they all bend to their task and heave against the dead weight of the vehicle. Within moments the train is up to running speed and, propelled by twelve sets of pounding bare feet, it quickly disappears into the distant gloom.)
Luke: That is the most stupid thing I have ever seen! They’ve got a train that looks like a space ship and they can’t even fit a steam engine on it. They are actually pushing the blessed thing - how primitive is that?
Gabby: And that is exactly the dumb-arsed mistake most other Australians would make. Have a think about it. What is China’s cheapest source of energy? It’s manpower innit? The train runs on an almost frictionless rail and it only takes a few blokes pushing it to be able to travel round a small island like this at a respectable speed. Those blokes only push it for a short distance and then they hang on those bars like bloody monkeys until the train slows and then they give it another boost. That train can run all day on a few bottles of water and a bag of rice. You tell me what Australian engine is as efficient as that.
Luke: Well, I suppose if you put it like….
Gabby (ignoring Luke): It’s like roads. If we need a few kilometres of new road in Bogan we go through months of tendering and fiddling until some politician’s mate gets the job. We go through a year or two of fucking chaos while it’s built and then it opens six months late and just in time for it to close for scheduled maintenance. In China, on the other hand, the word goes out on the radio and six million Chinese turn up with their hand woven shopping baskets. Three months later you’ve got five hundred kilometres of new road. So – you can feel sorry for the poor little down trodden Chinese prole all you want to but don’t take the piss out of China. They just might build a Southeast Asian by-pass over Australia quicker than we could scramble our six fighter jets.
Mower: Where does this gallery lead?
Scorch: I was down there yesterday. About ten minutes from here there’s a grill and you can see into a big room where the Chinese have some of their meetings. When there’s no bugger around I sneak in to get our food. They store stacks of grub and plenty of drinks in there.
Mower: What do they talk about?
Scorch: Fucked if I know. It’s all in foreign talk.
Mower: Let’s take a look. Lead the way, Scorch.
THE PORKER AND APPULADAY GROUPS.
(Mayor Porker and Ann Appuladay follow Bart Rugarse into a large room tastefully furnished if your taste is for orange plastic and chipped chrome. The room looks a bit like a 1970’s works canteen. Sitting around the room in various attitudes of boredom are Porky and Ann’s companions.)
Sean Bean: Ah! The wandering menstrual returns. How are you Porky? And I see you are accompanied by the poison dwarf, Ann. It’s good to see you both – not. Now will someone kindly explain why I am being held in this dreadful and squalid chamber? I have been patient, I really have, but sometimes a man simply has to speak up. So come on you pack of dag-encrusted arseholes, what the fuck is the story here.
(While Sean is whining a second door opens and Kevin Rudd enters. He is dressed in a cartoon golfer costume complete with chequered plus fours, primrose sweater and garish tam-o-shanter. He glares at Sean with obvious contempt.)
Kevin Rudd: Well that rather depends on the sort of stories you like doesn’t it? I don’t know who you are but I’m sure everyone here has been most impressed, as I have, with your colourful vocabulary. Perhaps you might now honour us with a virtuoso display of farting and belching or something equally sophisticated? Bart, kindly get rid of this odious little man.
(Amid a bedlam of foul language Sean Bean is forced out of the room by Bart Rugarse gleefully assisted by Shizeknicker. Kevin Rudd waits with a pained expression on his face until the noise dies down.)
Kevin Rudd: Ladies and Gentlemen, I must profusely apologise for the shameful way you have been treated today. I must also apologise for my rather unusual get-up. As you might imagine being Prime Minister involves me in some pretty secret matters, some too secret to be shared even with my own wife. On occasions like this my security people supply me with an alibi that I am obliged to use because all alibis interlock, or so I am told. My wife hates this sort of nonsense and when I told her I was off on a golf weekend, a sport she knows I detest, she packed this for me and only this. So there you are.
Mayor Porker: I’m sure I speak for us all Prime Minister when I say we harbour no ill will toward you but if you could just explain why you’ve brought us here we would be very grateful.
Kevin Rudd: Why I brought you here? My dear mayor Porker I can assure you it was none of my doing. I was hoping you could explain your presence to me. In fact, until I saw you all on the security monitors today and Bart told me who you were it hadn’t crossed my mind that I would have the opportunity to ask anyone for help. But I did see you and I do need your help most urgently, if not for me then for Australia. Will you help? Please.
(The Bogan councillors look at each other. Bemused, fearful and confused, most of them can think of no suitable reply. Ann Appuladay seems to collect her wits first.)
Ann Appuladay: Of course we’ll help. What do you need, Prime Minister?
(Kevin Rudd nods as though the answer was exactly as expected. He begins to pace the room thinking deeply and carefully considering his next words.)
Kevin Rudd: What I am about to tell you will surprise and even shock you. But it is necessary that you know the complete truth. I have made up my mind to come clean, as it were, so I might as well start now.
I came to Australia in 1965 from the Pon Dang province of Communist China; I was ten years old. My real name is Chiang Fuk Ho and I am a Chinaman. From the age of sixteen I was groomed for political infiltration of The Australian Labor Party. I have had plastic surgery to change the shape of my eyes but other than that and the rather obvious wig I required no other physical alteration.
My Chinese controller gave me the name ‘Kevin Rudd” despite my protests. I had great difficulty for a long time with the ‘R’ sound. So much so, it became a standing joke and my controller devised a special recognition phrase – “Melly Clistmus, Missuh Ludd” – that he used whenever he had instructions for me. Even now just thinking that phrase makes my blood run cold because it means I am obliged to serve The Dragon at no matter what cost.
For years I travelled a path mapped by Beijing but eventually it became too dangerous to use a controller so I was allowed to go my own way. As long as that way continues to serve the interests of my homeland, China will not risk further direct control.
Then a strange thing happened to me; I suddenly became an Australian. I don’t know when I first realised it, but one day the interests of Australia were more important to me than Chinese ambition. Shortly after that I became Prime Minister of Australia and my loyalty to this land and its people became absolute. It has been difficult steering a course that enhances Australian interests whilst appearing to favour China but I have managed it fairly successfully – until now.
(Kevin Rudd pauses and sits on the edge of a table. He appears dejected and seems to be anticipating – wanting – a storm of recrimination. To suggest that his audience were stunned would be a bit like saying a pole-axed cow had been slightly jostled in a queue at the supermarket checkout. The Bogan councillors are in extreme shock and almost catatonic as a result. Some nod and others shake their head depending on which bit of the revelation they are trying to corkscrew through their brains. They all have their mouths open and all eyes are riveted to the slumped figure in the silly golf suit. After a long, long silence Lizzie is the first to speak.)
Lizzie: Um…..so…. you wear a wig?
Kevin Rudd: What? Oh….. yes, it’s a wig. Here, take a look.
(He drags off his wig and tosses it onto Lizzie’s lap. She recoils and lifts her arms in horror as if someone has just thrown a live panther onto her lap. The wig is limp and Lizzie can clearly see the frayed label inside. It states:
100% BLI-NYLON.
Do not dly clean.
Hind wash only in hot soppy watel.
MADE IN CHINA.
Lizzie looks up at the head she has admired, loved even, for so long. The perfect hair has gone but it has left behind a perfect shape. Kevin Rudd’s head looks like a nippleless tit. He is completely bald.)
Mayor Porker: Prime Minister, I sense something else has changed. Something even more….. um, mind numbing than the things you have already told us. Forgive me but I’m having a lot of trouble absorbing…..
Kevin Rudd: Yes, Mayor Porker. Something else has changed.
Mayor Porker: And am I right in saying that this ‘something else’ represents a great danger to Australia and, in fact, will give us all sleepless nights until the next nail-biting episode of The Gilligan Factor is posted and all is revealed?
Kevin Rudd: Yes, Mayor Porker, you could most certainly say that.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Never the less, there are good folk in trouble and we must attend to them. Mayor Porker will be ignored no longer. She has been forced into a dark shaft by Bart Rugarse who dithered for simply ages over which of them should go down the ladder first. Should Mayor Porker descend first and have the opportunity to hide in the dark and then ambush Bart as he climbs down? Or should Bart go first and risk Mayor Porker running away when she was left on her own? To resolve the conflict Bart is forced to insist we continue this story from a point where they are already both at the bottom of the shaft.
MAYOR PORKER’S GROUP.
Mayor Porker: That was typically gutless Bart. What’s wrong? Frightened to make a fool of your self again?
Bart Rugarse: Don’t push me, Porky. When I was flying out of the top of that Deathdozer I swore to get even with you and during the weeks in traction I swore a lot more. It wouldn’t take much to get me to shoot your toes off just for the laugh – except now I find we are unfortunately on the same side. The irony is killing me.
Mayor Porker: You and I would never be on the same side, Rugarse.
Bart Rugarse: As personalities, no, but tactically we are obliged to cooperate this time Porky. This is an instruction from the highest level I can assure you. To consolidate our newfound companionship I shall put away this gun, which is, in any case, not loaded. I warn you though, if you try to take advantage and attack me I will bleed profusely and that may ruin your clothes. It has been my job to locate you and bring you here. There is a door to your right, Mayor Porker, please go through - there is no danger.
Mayor Porker: What the fuck is going on, Rugarse?
(Just as Mayor Porker and Bart Rugarse appear to be getting to the start of a really good argument there is a disturbance above and Ann Appuladay climbs down to join them.)
Ann Appuladay: I’m pleased to see you’re okay, Mayor Porker. Ah, Bret, the Prime Minister told me to tell you he is going to use the north entry. He needs to clean up and then he will meet us all in the briefing room.
Mayor Porker: Ann, maybe you can tell me what’s happening. Where’s the rest of your group? And what’s this about the Prime Minister? Oh God! Help me Ann, my head is starting to disappear up my own arse here!
Bart Rugarse: I can assure you Porky, Ann is almost as confused as you are but if you’ll both follow me I’m sure we can sort it all out.
(Bart opens the side door and walks through. Mayor Porker and Ann Appuladay look at each other for a moment then shrug and follow him.)
MOWER’S GROUP.
(Dicky Mower, Lizzie, Luke and Winnie have followed the Bogan Kids into a gap in the rubble. They then scramble down a narrow sloping shaft until they come to a dim corridor. Mower calls a halt and speaks to the kids.)
Mower: Look guys, we can’t keep calling you Kid 1, 2 and 3. What are your names?
Kid 1: Fair enough. I’m Gabriella but you can call me Gabby – I’m the smart one. Kid 2 is Cinderella and we call her Scorch. Kid 3 is Citronella also known as Dave.
Lizzie: Gabby and Scorch are girls?
Gabby: Yeah, so is Dave. Why? What did you think we was?
Mower: And, Gabby, you’re the smart one. Is that right?
Gabby: Yeah. I’ve got an IQ of 196. It used to be 105 but I kept letting the social workers tyres down till she upped it. Now I can read The Iliad in the original Greek and help my old man fill out his Centrelink forms.
Luke: Well that’s all sorted out then. I was beginning to think this was complicated.
Mower: Just one more thing, do you think it would be better if Luke and I took charge of the weapons?
Gabby: No.
Scorch: Nix.
Dave: Fuck off.
Mower: Okaaaay. Lead on girls.
(For fifteen minutes the group picks its way through rubble strewn corridors and then, just ahead, the tunnel is filled with light from an opening in the side wall. When they reach the opening they can see they are in a kind of high gallery with a view down onto a vast factory floor. Hundreds of Chinese are scurrying about looking chaotically purposeful. Some appear to be pushing ore trucks along narrow gauge tracks and generally behaving like miners. Others swarm around huge crushing and grading machines. A particular group of Chinese individuals seem to be observing the activities with great interest and beside this group a futuristic looking vehicle is waiting. It looks like a small bullet train and obviously runs on the gleaming steel single rail laid across the factory floor and off into the darkness. After a final glance around, the Chinese dignitaries climb aboard the vehicle.)
Gabby: Keep low. They can’t really see us up here but there’s no sense in taking risks. Just watch the train. I’ve seen it before and it’s amazing.
(There is a shouted command from the bullet train and six metal bars, three on each side, extend from the sides of the vehicle. On a second command twelve semi-naked Chinamen run from the shadows and take up station at the bars. There are two Chinamen to each bar and, following a third command, they all bend to their task and heave against the dead weight of the vehicle. Within moments the train is up to running speed and, propelled by twelve sets of pounding bare feet, it quickly disappears into the distant gloom.)
Luke: That is the most stupid thing I have ever seen! They’ve got a train that looks like a space ship and they can’t even fit a steam engine on it. They are actually pushing the blessed thing - how primitive is that?
Gabby: And that is exactly the dumb-arsed mistake most other Australians would make. Have a think about it. What is China’s cheapest source of energy? It’s manpower innit? The train runs on an almost frictionless rail and it only takes a few blokes pushing it to be able to travel round a small island like this at a respectable speed. Those blokes only push it for a short distance and then they hang on those bars like bloody monkeys until the train slows and then they give it another boost. That train can run all day on a few bottles of water and a bag of rice. You tell me what Australian engine is as efficient as that.
Luke: Well, I suppose if you put it like….
Gabby (ignoring Luke): It’s like roads. If we need a few kilometres of new road in Bogan we go through months of tendering and fiddling until some politician’s mate gets the job. We go through a year or two of fucking chaos while it’s built and then it opens six months late and just in time for it to close for scheduled maintenance. In China, on the other hand, the word goes out on the radio and six million Chinese turn up with their hand woven shopping baskets. Three months later you’ve got five hundred kilometres of new road. So – you can feel sorry for the poor little down trodden Chinese prole all you want to but don’t take the piss out of China. They just might build a Southeast Asian by-pass over Australia quicker than we could scramble our six fighter jets.
Mower: Where does this gallery lead?
Scorch: I was down there yesterday. About ten minutes from here there’s a grill and you can see into a big room where the Chinese have some of their meetings. When there’s no bugger around I sneak in to get our food. They store stacks of grub and plenty of drinks in there.
Mower: What do they talk about?
Scorch: Fucked if I know. It’s all in foreign talk.
Mower: Let’s take a look. Lead the way, Scorch.
THE PORKER AND APPULADAY GROUPS.
(Mayor Porker and Ann Appuladay follow Bart Rugarse into a large room tastefully furnished if your taste is for orange plastic and chipped chrome. The room looks a bit like a 1970’s works canteen. Sitting around the room in various attitudes of boredom are Porky and Ann’s companions.)
Sean Bean: Ah! The wandering menstrual returns. How are you Porky? And I see you are accompanied by the poison dwarf, Ann. It’s good to see you both – not. Now will someone kindly explain why I am being held in this dreadful and squalid chamber? I have been patient, I really have, but sometimes a man simply has to speak up. So come on you pack of dag-encrusted arseholes, what the fuck is the story here.
(While Sean is whining a second door opens and Kevin Rudd enters. He is dressed in a cartoon golfer costume complete with chequered plus fours, primrose sweater and garish tam-o-shanter. He glares at Sean with obvious contempt.)
Kevin Rudd: Well that rather depends on the sort of stories you like doesn’t it? I don’t know who you are but I’m sure everyone here has been most impressed, as I have, with your colourful vocabulary. Perhaps you might now honour us with a virtuoso display of farting and belching or something equally sophisticated? Bart, kindly get rid of this odious little man.
(Amid a bedlam of foul language Sean Bean is forced out of the room by Bart Rugarse gleefully assisted by Shizeknicker. Kevin Rudd waits with a pained expression on his face until the noise dies down.)
Kevin Rudd: Ladies and Gentlemen, I must profusely apologise for the shameful way you have been treated today. I must also apologise for my rather unusual get-up. As you might imagine being Prime Minister involves me in some pretty secret matters, some too secret to be shared even with my own wife. On occasions like this my security people supply me with an alibi that I am obliged to use because all alibis interlock, or so I am told. My wife hates this sort of nonsense and when I told her I was off on a golf weekend, a sport she knows I detest, she packed this for me and only this. So there you are.
Mayor Porker: I’m sure I speak for us all Prime Minister when I say we harbour no ill will toward you but if you could just explain why you’ve brought us here we would be very grateful.
Kevin Rudd: Why I brought you here? My dear mayor Porker I can assure you it was none of my doing. I was hoping you could explain your presence to me. In fact, until I saw you all on the security monitors today and Bart told me who you were it hadn’t crossed my mind that I would have the opportunity to ask anyone for help. But I did see you and I do need your help most urgently, if not for me then for Australia. Will you help? Please.
(The Bogan councillors look at each other. Bemused, fearful and confused, most of them can think of no suitable reply. Ann Appuladay seems to collect her wits first.)
Ann Appuladay: Of course we’ll help. What do you need, Prime Minister?
(Kevin Rudd nods as though the answer was exactly as expected. He begins to pace the room thinking deeply and carefully considering his next words.)
Kevin Rudd: What I am about to tell you will surprise and even shock you. But it is necessary that you know the complete truth. I have made up my mind to come clean, as it were, so I might as well start now.
I came to Australia in 1965 from the Pon Dang province of Communist China; I was ten years old. My real name is Chiang Fuk Ho and I am a Chinaman. From the age of sixteen I was groomed for political infiltration of The Australian Labor Party. I have had plastic surgery to change the shape of my eyes but other than that and the rather obvious wig I required no other physical alteration.
My Chinese controller gave me the name ‘Kevin Rudd” despite my protests. I had great difficulty for a long time with the ‘R’ sound. So much so, it became a standing joke and my controller devised a special recognition phrase – “Melly Clistmus, Missuh Ludd” – that he used whenever he had instructions for me. Even now just thinking that phrase makes my blood run cold because it means I am obliged to serve The Dragon at no matter what cost.
For years I travelled a path mapped by Beijing but eventually it became too dangerous to use a controller so I was allowed to go my own way. As long as that way continues to serve the interests of my homeland, China will not risk further direct control.
Then a strange thing happened to me; I suddenly became an Australian. I don’t know when I first realised it, but one day the interests of Australia were more important to me than Chinese ambition. Shortly after that I became Prime Minister of Australia and my loyalty to this land and its people became absolute. It has been difficult steering a course that enhances Australian interests whilst appearing to favour China but I have managed it fairly successfully – until now.
(Kevin Rudd pauses and sits on the edge of a table. He appears dejected and seems to be anticipating – wanting – a storm of recrimination. To suggest that his audience were stunned would be a bit like saying a pole-axed cow had been slightly jostled in a queue at the supermarket checkout. The Bogan councillors are in extreme shock and almost catatonic as a result. Some nod and others shake their head depending on which bit of the revelation they are trying to corkscrew through their brains. They all have their mouths open and all eyes are riveted to the slumped figure in the silly golf suit. After a long, long silence Lizzie is the first to speak.)
Lizzie: Um…..so…. you wear a wig?
Kevin Rudd: What? Oh….. yes, it’s a wig. Here, take a look.
(He drags off his wig and tosses it onto Lizzie’s lap. She recoils and lifts her arms in horror as if someone has just thrown a live panther onto her lap. The wig is limp and Lizzie can clearly see the frayed label inside. It states:
100% BLI-NYLON.
Do not dly clean.
Hind wash only in hot soppy watel.
MADE IN CHINA.
Lizzie looks up at the head she has admired, loved even, for so long. The perfect hair has gone but it has left behind a perfect shape. Kevin Rudd’s head looks like a nippleless tit. He is completely bald.)
Mayor Porker: Prime Minister, I sense something else has changed. Something even more….. um, mind numbing than the things you have already told us. Forgive me but I’m having a lot of trouble absorbing…..
Kevin Rudd: Yes, Mayor Porker. Something else has changed.
Mayor Porker: And am I right in saying that this ‘something else’ represents a great danger to Australia and, in fact, will give us all sleepless nights until the next nail-biting episode of The Gilligan Factor is posted and all is revealed?
Kevin Rudd: Yes, Mayor Porker, you could most certainly say that.
TO BE CONTINUED.
4/15/09
The Gilligan Factor - Part Three.
The Bogan kids are leading Mower, Lizzie, Luke and Winnie Quark deep into the underground world of Coochiemudlo Island.
Federal Labor MP Bart Rugarse has captured Mayor Porker at gunpoint. Mayor Porker has no idea what has happened to Sean Bean, Shidehawk and Axeman after they fell into a dark shaft.
Chinese gunmen wearing military battle dress and Kevlar coolie hats have surrounded Ann Appuladay and her group.
Goodness me, this is jolly exciting isn’t it?
Read on.
ANN APPULADAY’S GROUP.
Ann Appuladay: Everybody stay perfectly still. Let me do the talking.
(Ann turns to the soldier with the most colours on his shoulder tags and speaks to him.)
Ann Appuladay: Hachow ning puyong ping yan taow hengting paow chang?
Grimy: I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.
Ann Appuladay: I don’t. I’m just making it up as I go along but the Chinese have such a tight hold on the Internet I don’t think anyone there will ever read this blog - so who’s going to know?
(Her words have an immediate effect. The Chinese soldiers relax and lower their weapons. The officer laughs and slaps Ann on the back before waving his men back into the tunnel. As the last of the troops step into the dark opening Ann shouts a cheery farewell.)
Ann Appuladay: Ha chin pyong ta!
(There are angry yells from the tunnel followed by a burst of automatic fire that stitches across the beach toward Ann and her group. They throw themselves to the ground and begin wriggling frantically toward cover on the far side of the sandbar. No sooner are they safely behind the sandbar when automatic fire opens up from the opposite direction. The SAS patrol boat is surging across the bay toward them and the black rubber bow is ablaze with the muzzle flashes of M4 machine guns.)
Ann Appuladay: Jesus! Run for the trees, now! Keep low and jink like fuck! Move!
Fondleschaft: Vass ist jink? Vass ist da fuck - jink?
(Ann and the others are at the tree line when the SAS patrol boat beaches. Garth Cutler leaps into the meagre surf and orders his men to remain with the boat on the grounds that the unarmed group will be no match for a professional and he needs the exercise. Cutler pounds up the beach and into the trees.)
Garth Cutler: Come along, little lady and gents. I won’t hurt you much but we can’t have you interfering with our dear slitty-eyed cousins can we? That is not part of the exercise. Why on earth you didn’t stay at the jetty and await instructions will mystify me for the rest of my life. Now, come along – show yourselves so I can rough you up a little bit, break some very minor bones and pop you all safely into the boat.
(As he speaks, Cutler creeps deeper into the woods watching intently for the an unnatural flicker of a leaf. Shizeknicker, Fondleschaft and Grimy are hidden behind the rusting remnants of a 1973 Holden Praline but Ann Appuladay has squeezed her tiny frame into a shallow drainage trench that cuts across the path from the beach. When Cutler reaches the trench he carefully steps over it and Ann Appuladay, hidden from view by Cutler’s mat black rubber duckie, strikes!
She bursts up from the trench in a blur of sand and bracken. Cutler has no time to move before he feels his balls crushed in the steel teeth of a bear trap. Ann is no bear and her teeth are not steel but it is all the same to Cutler as his tiny adversary hangs on with pit bull determination. Cutler’s weapon drops from nerveless fingers and he freezes, his legs and mouth agape. A silent scream waits in his throat for the white-hot searing agony that flares through his groin to reach some peak that Cutler can attempt to endure. If there is a peak Ann’s grinding teeth sends it higher and ever higher until Cutler is forced back onto a last resort in the SAS hand-to-hand combat manual.
Cutler has been trained to faint when an opponent threatens to overpower him. It is hoped the opponent will then drop his guard enough for the upper hand to be regained. Like a true SAS professional, Cutler is able to think through the moves despite the overwhelming pain.
ONE – Raise back of hand (officers: for the saluting of) to the head (ears: for the spacing of).
TWO – Say loudly “Lawks, luv a duck Guv. I think I’m going to swoon” (opponent: for the fooling of).
THREE – Fall to the ground (fainting: for the pretending of).
FOUR – When opponent relaxes (breath: for the catching of).
FIVE - Kill (arsehole: for the finishing of).
Unfortunately for Cutler when it comes to actually doing it, somewhere between THREE and FOUR when he falls to the ground, he comes into contact with a large wedge shaped rock, for the striking at the back of the neck and the snapping of.)
Grimy: Bloody hells bells, Ann, the bugger’s dead. You were fantastic but I had to feel sorry for the brute.
Shizeknicker: Yah, dat must haff been excrutable. I, myself, haff retractable balls vich ist most useful in dat situation.
Fondleschaft: How he must haff suffered. You haff retractable balls? I haff an ingrowing toenail.
Ann Appuladay: What about me you arseholes? I’ve spent the last five minutes with his balls in my mouth!
Grimy: Sorry Ann, it’s a man thing. We were over there cringing and empathising while you did the dirty work.
Ann Appuladay: Dirty work is right. I could do with a good suck on a dog turd – anything to get the taste of blood, piss and sweaty knackers out of my mouth. Yeuk!
(This sends her three companions off into further paroxysms of whimpering, cringing and cuddling of the groin. After a few minutes of this they check the body for weapons and are rewarded with an M4, two Parsac machine pistols, a Desert Storm automatic, six killing knives, a dozen Rambo44 grenades and a crochet hook. There is also enough ammunition, food and water to supply a small war for a fortnight. In the mean time Grimy has been watching the SAS patrol boat that has been keeping station ten metres off shore.)
Grimy: Those buggers must be scared to death of Cutler. They haven’t moved until now but something’s up with them at the moment. They’re all looking over the side and shouting.
(Without warning the water seems to boil around the rubber dinghy and four sets of huge clamps not unlike a giant lobster’s legs rise out of the surf on each side of the boat and close on it - trapping the occupants. For a moment a grey bulk can be seen in the sea below them before the trapped SAS patrol is drawn back and then under the water. The sea continues to foam and spout as though violence is being done beneath the surface, then all is still. For some time the group on the beach can only stare in disbelief and then, one after the other, the SAS rubber duckies pop to the surface. They still support the men but now they are upside down and six sets of legs point at the sky and bob gently in the swell.)
Ann Appuladay: What the hell was that?
Grimy: I haven’t seen anything like that in my life. Are those guys dead, do you think? Should we try to help them?
(Several dark shapes cut the surface and there is a violent commotion beneath one of the SAS men. His legs thrash then slowly sink as the rubber duckie turns over exposing a torso missing a head. Soon the sea around the bobbing group is a foaming turmoil of teeth and blood. The chumming has worked a treat.)
Ann Appuladay: No, Grimy, I don’t think we’ll help them just at the moment.
Fondleschaft: I am thinking and wondering vot hass happen to da Chinese peoples. Ve should be sneaky.
Ann Appuladay: Yes, Gerhardt, I’ve been trying to watch that direction too. They don’t seem to be around anymore but I’d better check. Arnel, you take the M4 and a few grenades. Gerhardt and Grimy, take a machine pistol and grenades each. I’ll take the automatic. Try not to shoot yourselves, stay here and keep down. I’ll check out that tunnel near the dock. If I’m not back in ten minutes head south and try to link up with Porky or Mower. Got that?
Grimy: You’re the boss Ann.
(Ann Appuladay pushes slowly through the scrub. She takes great care where she puts her feet using all the wiles gained by sneaking up on her nephews who always try to ambush their tiny Aunt every weekend. When she gets closer to the beach she drops to the ground and crawls silently toward the artificial dock. There is a patch of Carda Grass but no tunnel and no Chinese soldiers. It is as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all. Ann turns and crawls back into the scrub before standing and making her way back to the rendezvous point. When she gets there she can see no sign of her group.)
Ann Appuladay: Oh well done you guys. Nicely done but you can come out now. Grimy! Arnel? Gerhardt? Come on and stop stuffing around.
(She searches the whole area but there is no sign of the three. She can only conclude that someone or something has spooked them and they have made a bolt south as she had told them to. After one more look around Ann also faces south and moves off, picking her way carefully through the dense undergrowth. She has gone only a few metres when she is grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground. A hand is clamped over her mouth and a hoarse voice speaks into her ear.)
Mystery Voice: Stay down - don’t make a sound. I’m doing my best to get you and your friends out of here but you have to trust me. If I take my hand away promise you won’t start yelling. The Chinese are very close - much closer than you think.
(Ann nods slowly but makes up her mind that if this is another SAS clown she will bite his nuts clean off. The hand is removed and the owner of the hand begins crawling away after warning Ann to stay close to him. They scrabble along for more than twenty minutes through mud and sand and razer edged rock. While they are moving Ann decides that this is not her rescuers usual sort of behaviour. He is awkward, clumsy even, and not particularly quiet, definitely not SAS then. He doesn’t seem to be the extreme athletic type and it also strikes Ann that there is something disconcertingly familiar about him. At last the man seems satisfied that they are out of danger and he slumps wearily against the trunk of a tree where Ann can get a good look at him for the first time. His trade mark perfect hair is awry and his moonlike face is smeared with mud. One lens of his glasses has popped out at some point and his suit will need more than a dry-clean to get the man looking his usual immaculate self. For all that he is instantly recognisable.)
Ann Appuladay: Thank you for your help Prime Minister.
Kevin Rudd: You’re most welcome but I must say there was nothing about this in my diary for today.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Federal Labor MP Bart Rugarse has captured Mayor Porker at gunpoint. Mayor Porker has no idea what has happened to Sean Bean, Shidehawk and Axeman after they fell into a dark shaft.
Chinese gunmen wearing military battle dress and Kevlar coolie hats have surrounded Ann Appuladay and her group.
Goodness me, this is jolly exciting isn’t it?
Read on.
ANN APPULADAY’S GROUP.
Ann Appuladay: Everybody stay perfectly still. Let me do the talking.
(Ann turns to the soldier with the most colours on his shoulder tags and speaks to him.)
Ann Appuladay: Hachow ning puyong ping yan taow hengting paow chang?
Grimy: I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.
Ann Appuladay: I don’t. I’m just making it up as I go along but the Chinese have such a tight hold on the Internet I don’t think anyone there will ever read this blog - so who’s going to know?
(Her words have an immediate effect. The Chinese soldiers relax and lower their weapons. The officer laughs and slaps Ann on the back before waving his men back into the tunnel. As the last of the troops step into the dark opening Ann shouts a cheery farewell.)
Ann Appuladay: Ha chin pyong ta!
(There are angry yells from the tunnel followed by a burst of automatic fire that stitches across the beach toward Ann and her group. They throw themselves to the ground and begin wriggling frantically toward cover on the far side of the sandbar. No sooner are they safely behind the sandbar when automatic fire opens up from the opposite direction. The SAS patrol boat is surging across the bay toward them and the black rubber bow is ablaze with the muzzle flashes of M4 machine guns.)
Ann Appuladay: Jesus! Run for the trees, now! Keep low and jink like fuck! Move!
Fondleschaft: Vass ist jink? Vass ist da fuck - jink?
(Ann and the others are at the tree line when the SAS patrol boat beaches. Garth Cutler leaps into the meagre surf and orders his men to remain with the boat on the grounds that the unarmed group will be no match for a professional and he needs the exercise. Cutler pounds up the beach and into the trees.)
Garth Cutler: Come along, little lady and gents. I won’t hurt you much but we can’t have you interfering with our dear slitty-eyed cousins can we? That is not part of the exercise. Why on earth you didn’t stay at the jetty and await instructions will mystify me for the rest of my life. Now, come along – show yourselves so I can rough you up a little bit, break some very minor bones and pop you all safely into the boat.
(As he speaks, Cutler creeps deeper into the woods watching intently for the an unnatural flicker of a leaf. Shizeknicker, Fondleschaft and Grimy are hidden behind the rusting remnants of a 1973 Holden Praline but Ann Appuladay has squeezed her tiny frame into a shallow drainage trench that cuts across the path from the beach. When Cutler reaches the trench he carefully steps over it and Ann Appuladay, hidden from view by Cutler’s mat black rubber duckie, strikes!
She bursts up from the trench in a blur of sand and bracken. Cutler has no time to move before he feels his balls crushed in the steel teeth of a bear trap. Ann is no bear and her teeth are not steel but it is all the same to Cutler as his tiny adversary hangs on with pit bull determination. Cutler’s weapon drops from nerveless fingers and he freezes, his legs and mouth agape. A silent scream waits in his throat for the white-hot searing agony that flares through his groin to reach some peak that Cutler can attempt to endure. If there is a peak Ann’s grinding teeth sends it higher and ever higher until Cutler is forced back onto a last resort in the SAS hand-to-hand combat manual.
Cutler has been trained to faint when an opponent threatens to overpower him. It is hoped the opponent will then drop his guard enough for the upper hand to be regained. Like a true SAS professional, Cutler is able to think through the moves despite the overwhelming pain.
ONE – Raise back of hand (officers: for the saluting of) to the head (ears: for the spacing of).
TWO – Say loudly “Lawks, luv a duck Guv. I think I’m going to swoon” (opponent: for the fooling of).
THREE – Fall to the ground (fainting: for the pretending of).
FOUR – When opponent relaxes (breath: for the catching of).
FIVE - Kill (arsehole: for the finishing of).
Unfortunately for Cutler when it comes to actually doing it, somewhere between THREE and FOUR when he falls to the ground, he comes into contact with a large wedge shaped rock, for the striking at the back of the neck and the snapping of.)
Grimy: Bloody hells bells, Ann, the bugger’s dead. You were fantastic but I had to feel sorry for the brute.
Shizeknicker: Yah, dat must haff been excrutable. I, myself, haff retractable balls vich ist most useful in dat situation.
Fondleschaft: How he must haff suffered. You haff retractable balls? I haff an ingrowing toenail.
Ann Appuladay: What about me you arseholes? I’ve spent the last five minutes with his balls in my mouth!
Grimy: Sorry Ann, it’s a man thing. We were over there cringing and empathising while you did the dirty work.
Ann Appuladay: Dirty work is right. I could do with a good suck on a dog turd – anything to get the taste of blood, piss and sweaty knackers out of my mouth. Yeuk!
(This sends her three companions off into further paroxysms of whimpering, cringing and cuddling of the groin. After a few minutes of this they check the body for weapons and are rewarded with an M4, two Parsac machine pistols, a Desert Storm automatic, six killing knives, a dozen Rambo44 grenades and a crochet hook. There is also enough ammunition, food and water to supply a small war for a fortnight. In the mean time Grimy has been watching the SAS patrol boat that has been keeping station ten metres off shore.)
Grimy: Those buggers must be scared to death of Cutler. They haven’t moved until now but something’s up with them at the moment. They’re all looking over the side and shouting.
(Without warning the water seems to boil around the rubber dinghy and four sets of huge clamps not unlike a giant lobster’s legs rise out of the surf on each side of the boat and close on it - trapping the occupants. For a moment a grey bulk can be seen in the sea below them before the trapped SAS patrol is drawn back and then under the water. The sea continues to foam and spout as though violence is being done beneath the surface, then all is still. For some time the group on the beach can only stare in disbelief and then, one after the other, the SAS rubber duckies pop to the surface. They still support the men but now they are upside down and six sets of legs point at the sky and bob gently in the swell.)
Ann Appuladay: What the hell was that?
Grimy: I haven’t seen anything like that in my life. Are those guys dead, do you think? Should we try to help them?
(Several dark shapes cut the surface and there is a violent commotion beneath one of the SAS men. His legs thrash then slowly sink as the rubber duckie turns over exposing a torso missing a head. Soon the sea around the bobbing group is a foaming turmoil of teeth and blood. The chumming has worked a treat.)
Ann Appuladay: No, Grimy, I don’t think we’ll help them just at the moment.
Fondleschaft: I am thinking and wondering vot hass happen to da Chinese peoples. Ve should be sneaky.
Ann Appuladay: Yes, Gerhardt, I’ve been trying to watch that direction too. They don’t seem to be around anymore but I’d better check. Arnel, you take the M4 and a few grenades. Gerhardt and Grimy, take a machine pistol and grenades each. I’ll take the automatic. Try not to shoot yourselves, stay here and keep down. I’ll check out that tunnel near the dock. If I’m not back in ten minutes head south and try to link up with Porky or Mower. Got that?
Grimy: You’re the boss Ann.
(Ann Appuladay pushes slowly through the scrub. She takes great care where she puts her feet using all the wiles gained by sneaking up on her nephews who always try to ambush their tiny Aunt every weekend. When she gets closer to the beach she drops to the ground and crawls silently toward the artificial dock. There is a patch of Carda Grass but no tunnel and no Chinese soldiers. It is as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all. Ann turns and crawls back into the scrub before standing and making her way back to the rendezvous point. When she gets there she can see no sign of her group.)
Ann Appuladay: Oh well done you guys. Nicely done but you can come out now. Grimy! Arnel? Gerhardt? Come on and stop stuffing around.
(She searches the whole area but there is no sign of the three. She can only conclude that someone or something has spooked them and they have made a bolt south as she had told them to. After one more look around Ann also faces south and moves off, picking her way carefully through the dense undergrowth. She has gone only a few metres when she is grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground. A hand is clamped over her mouth and a hoarse voice speaks into her ear.)
Mystery Voice: Stay down - don’t make a sound. I’m doing my best to get you and your friends out of here but you have to trust me. If I take my hand away promise you won’t start yelling. The Chinese are very close - much closer than you think.
(Ann nods slowly but makes up her mind that if this is another SAS clown she will bite his nuts clean off. The hand is removed and the owner of the hand begins crawling away after warning Ann to stay close to him. They scrabble along for more than twenty minutes through mud and sand and razer edged rock. While they are moving Ann decides that this is not her rescuers usual sort of behaviour. He is awkward, clumsy even, and not particularly quiet, definitely not SAS then. He doesn’t seem to be the extreme athletic type and it also strikes Ann that there is something disconcertingly familiar about him. At last the man seems satisfied that they are out of danger and he slumps wearily against the trunk of a tree where Ann can get a good look at him for the first time. His trade mark perfect hair is awry and his moonlike face is smeared with mud. One lens of his glasses has popped out at some point and his suit will need more than a dry-clean to get the man looking his usual immaculate self. For all that he is instantly recognisable.)
Ann Appuladay: Thank you for your help Prime Minister.
Kevin Rudd: You’re most welcome but I must say there was nothing about this in my diary for today.
TO BE CONTINUED.
4/13/09
The Gilligan Factor - Part Two
The Bogan councillors are now castaways on Couchiemudlo Island in Morton Bay. They are gathered on the beach and quite uncertain what to do. Only Dicky Mower, Mayor Porker and, surprisingly, Ann Appuladay seem composed. The others are in various stages of panic although Sean Bean seems to have left panic far behind.
Sean Bean: Oh God! What did I do to deserve this? I’ve been a good boy. I put out seed for the Lorikeets before I left home this morning. A helicopter has totalled my car and my phone doesn’t work. We’re helpless. What will we eat? Who will save us? I’ll miss Inspector Rex on the telly I know I will. Has anyone got anything to drink? Why doesn’t my phone work, it’s 3G for fucks sake!
Mower: The phones will be blocked somehow. Probably a magnogyretic force nearby. They will have done something like that.
Sean Bean: Who’s they? Why is this happening to me?
Mower: Shut up, Sean. It’s happening to all of us and as to who “they” are - it’s whoever wants to keep us on this island.
Sean Bean: One of us could swim to the mainland - it’s not far. I’d go myself but I can’t swim. How about you, Mower? Aren’t you ASIO agents trained to swim 40 miles with a howitzer strapped to your back?
Lizzie: Hang on, Sean. I thought you told me you were a schoolboy swimming champion.
Sean: Yes, well that was at primary school and it was for the Toddlers 5 metre Doggy Paddle. How about it, Dicky? You could do it.
Mower: Nobody is going swimming today. Take a look out there.
(200 metres out from the island a black rubber boat is on slow patrol. Figures in the boat appear to be scooping something from buckets and throwing it into the wake.)
Ann Appuladay: They’re chumming. Morton Bay is a breeding ground for sharks and that crap those guys are tossing in the water will bring sharks around this island like a deadly ring of teeth. Dicky’s right – nobody is swimming away from here. We’ll have to think of something else.
Mayor Porker: Who are these people?
Mower: Well, the guys in the boat are definitely SAS.
Mayor Porker: How can you tell?
Mower: Now and again one of them stands up. You’ll notice a bulge around the midriff area.
Lizzie: Oh yes. Look at that one; it looks like he’s wearing a black tutu with something sticking out at the front. It looks a bit obscene to me.
Mower: Elite combat troops carry their weapons and ammo across the chest and back. A normal life jacket would get in the way so these fellas are wearing mat black rubber duckies. It’s standard SAS issue for sea-ops.
Mayor Porker: I get the feeling we’re going to be here for a while. What the hell should we do?
Sean Bean: We could shout for help.
Mayor Porker: And who’s going to hear us, Sean?
Lizzie: Shouldn’t we build a tree house? That’s what they did on Swiss Family Wilkinson.
Ann Appuladay: Mayor Porker, may I suggest we scout the island a little. Find out if anyone is here, if there are any places we can shelter and we can check out the food situation. If we split up into three groups, group one could check the outer island clock-wise, group two counter clock-wise and group three could recce that road heading across the middle. We could all meet on the other side of the island in say four hours from now.
Mayor Porker: Good idea, Ann, thank you. Dicky, pick three and head clock wise. Ann, pick three and go the other way. I’ll take the rest across the island and we’ll meet over there at 11-30.
Sean Bean: Why aren’t I leading a group?
Lizzie: Because you’re a dick-head and you would get lost before you got off the beach.
Mower: And it would be as well to remember not to touch anything sticking out of the ground if it’s got a pointy end and bang written on it.
MOWER’S GROUP
(Dicky Mower, Lizzie, Luke and Winnie Quark travel along the beach but soon the beach ends and they are faced by cliffs and dangerous rocks. Mower guides his group inland and they eventually come to the ruin of a large house.)
Lizzie: Such a shame, knocking down a lovely old place like this must have been. You can see the remains of a lovely veranda that must have been all round the house. Such a shame, all deserted and forgotten.
Mower: Not sure about deserted Liz. These tracks in the dirt here are fresh, can’t be more than a day old.
Winnie: The footprints are quite small aren’t they?
Mower: Could be kids I suppose, but what are kids doing in an SAS guarded military area?
Luke: The tracks lead into that mound of rubble. I’ll take a look.
(Luke goes to the hill of rubble and looks around. He drops to his knees and then begins to crawl into a space between some fallen timbers. A few moments later he slowly backs out, stands and raises his hands above his head. Three small children have crawled out after him. They are each carrying M4 Double Triphammer machine guns that are now pointing menacingly at Luke and his companions.)
Mower: Steady lads; let’s not do anything silly now.
Kid 1: Well, put yer bleedin’ hands up then. Who the fuck are you lot? You with that SAS mob or with the Chinks?
Luke: I know you! You’re part of the bunch that we saved from Mount Browneye. You were the kids that destroyed the Bogan Chain of Office. (See Comedy of Errors link at top of right hand column.)
Kid 2: A lot of thanks we got for that. Slung into the lock-up, that’s what we got while Mayer Porkshit got all the credit for saving Queensland from the National bogyman.
Mower: Hang on a minute guys. What do you mean –“Chinks”?
Kid 1: Who are you?
Mower: My name’s Dick Mower. I’m an agent with ASIO.
Kid 1: Wow! What, like a real secret agent? A spy?
Mower: That’s right and I’ve been sent to get you out of here, but first you have to tell me about the “Chinks” and where you got the guns.
(The kids hesitate. They look at each other then, after a few moments, they seem to come to an unspoken decision. They lower the machine guns but still hold onto them firmly.)
Kid 1: Okay. We’ve been here about a week. We nicked a pedalo over at Vicky Point and pedalled across in the dark. We only wanted to see what it was like on a real island, never been on one before. Anyway the pedalo drifted off on the tide when we was fucking about in the old ruins so we got stuck here. We’ve been hiding from the SAS boat patrols ever since - but that’s easy. They just don’t expect anybody to be here so they aren’t very watchful.
Mower: Those guns are SAS issue. How did you get hold of them?
Kid 2: Oh that was a real joke. The SAS patrol came ashore one night and had a barbeque on the beach. They ended up getting really pissed and falling asleep. We just walked up and took the guns and ammo for a laugh. When they woke up they must have thought the Chinks had ripped them off because they never came looking for us.
Kid 1: No, but that big ugly SAS bugger was having a real good go at one of the Chinks the next day. We couldn’t hear what he said but it must have been about the guns I reckon.
Mower: Who are the “Chinks”?
Kid 1: Just Chinks. Hundreds of the buggers, maybe thousands, down in the underground warehouses. That’s where we spend most of our time. It’s great down below. Plenty of food, plenty of places to hide up and loads of tunnels and trap doors. You can travel all over the island in the tunnels and pop up anywhere you want to.
Mower: Show me.
MAYOR PORKER’S GROUP.
(Mayor Porker, Sean Bean, Axeman and Shidehawk make their way up Elizabeth Street toward the middle of the island. Mayor Porker is on the alert but the others throw stones, slash at the scrub with sticks and generally behave like schoolboys.)
Mayor Porker: For fucks sake you three, keep your wits about you. We’re looking for food and shelter; we’re not on a nature walk.
Axeman: Relax, Porky, we can hardly miss a hotel or a supermarket even if they have all been flattened. There, look, an ice cream sign. Must be a shop amongst the scrub somewhere. I’ve saved us all.
Sean Bean: Bollocks! I would have seen it in another second. Anyway, I’ll be first to get there and commandeer all the best grub.
(Whooping and hollering the trio race for the bush leaving Mayor Porker seething with frustrated fury. A few moments later the high-spirited shouts become screams of terror – and then silence. Mayor Porker slowly heads into the scrub. She is trying to look in all directions at once as she searches for her companions. Behind a dense patch of Grandle bushes she discovers a large opening in the ground. Broken planks and disturbed scrub indicate that the other three councillors have fallen through into a hidden shaft. Mayor Porker carefully moves to the edge and looks down. It is dark and she can see no bottom but metal rungs are set into one wall of the shaft. They lead into the darkness below. Mayor porker has just decided to get help before attempting a rescue when she feels a small hard object pressed to the back of her head. She then hears a familiar voice.)
Bart Rugarse: Turn around slowly, Mayor Porker. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you like I did with the Deathdozer so if you as much as breathe the wrong way I’ll blow your head off.
Mayor Porker (turns around): Rugarse! Are you completely mad? What the hell are you doing? What’s all this about?
Bart Rugarse: Answers later, Porky. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, we will carefully climb down that little ladder to join your mates. Don’t worry it’s quite safe and so are they – for now.
ANN APPULADAY’S GROUP.
(Ann Appuladay, Grimy Hobo, Shizeknicker and Fondleschaft have made their way to the northeastern point of Coochiemudlo Island. They are standing on the beach and looking at two huge spits of sand that sweep away from the island like a swallows tail.)
Grimy: This isn’t right, Ann.
Ann Appuladay: What do you mean?
Grimy: I used to come here when I was a kid. The family always came to this part of the island and we would have barbeque just around the corner there. There were no sand bars like this then.
Shizeknicker: Sands shift. Maybe dis wass throwed up by a storm or a cycloid.
Ann Appuladay: No way this feature could have happened naturally. That’s man made. It’s too precise; it almost looks like a harbour.
(Grimy has wandered across and is standing on one of the spits of sand. After a minute or two he waves the others over.)
Grimy: The water in the inlet formed by the sand bars is very deep; look at the colour. That’s got to be twenty metres or more deep. And another thing, stand quite still for a minute.
Fondleschaft: Vy do ve do dis?
Grimy: Shut up and stand still.
(After a few seconds they all become aware of what Grimy has noticed.)
Ann Appuladay: The beach is moving with the swell. These sand bars are floating.
Grimy: This is a huge floating dock. Ann, this is very, very strange.
Ann Appuladay: And that’s not all that’s strange. Look up there.
(The others all turn to follow Ann’s pointing finger. A lone coconut palm stands at the beginning of one of the sand bars. High up, where the coconuts should have been, a row of gleaming security cameras are pointing down at them. With a sudden flurry and an electronic whine a patch of Carda Grass lifts and a tunnel opens up on the beach. A scurrying group of men rush out and surround the councillors. These men carry machine pistols and are dressed in a military style. They also each carry chopsticks in one of their battledress pockets and that definitely marks them as Chinese soldiers even without the eyes.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
Sean Bean: Oh God! What did I do to deserve this? I’ve been a good boy. I put out seed for the Lorikeets before I left home this morning. A helicopter has totalled my car and my phone doesn’t work. We’re helpless. What will we eat? Who will save us? I’ll miss Inspector Rex on the telly I know I will. Has anyone got anything to drink? Why doesn’t my phone work, it’s 3G for fucks sake!
Mower: The phones will be blocked somehow. Probably a magnogyretic force nearby. They will have done something like that.
Sean Bean: Who’s they? Why is this happening to me?
Mower: Shut up, Sean. It’s happening to all of us and as to who “they” are - it’s whoever wants to keep us on this island.
Sean Bean: One of us could swim to the mainland - it’s not far. I’d go myself but I can’t swim. How about you, Mower? Aren’t you ASIO agents trained to swim 40 miles with a howitzer strapped to your back?
Lizzie: Hang on, Sean. I thought you told me you were a schoolboy swimming champion.
Sean: Yes, well that was at primary school and it was for the Toddlers 5 metre Doggy Paddle. How about it, Dicky? You could do it.
Mower: Nobody is going swimming today. Take a look out there.
(200 metres out from the island a black rubber boat is on slow patrol. Figures in the boat appear to be scooping something from buckets and throwing it into the wake.)
Ann Appuladay: They’re chumming. Morton Bay is a breeding ground for sharks and that crap those guys are tossing in the water will bring sharks around this island like a deadly ring of teeth. Dicky’s right – nobody is swimming away from here. We’ll have to think of something else.
Mayor Porker: Who are these people?
Mower: Well, the guys in the boat are definitely SAS.
Mayor Porker: How can you tell?
Mower: Now and again one of them stands up. You’ll notice a bulge around the midriff area.
Lizzie: Oh yes. Look at that one; it looks like he’s wearing a black tutu with something sticking out at the front. It looks a bit obscene to me.
Mower: Elite combat troops carry their weapons and ammo across the chest and back. A normal life jacket would get in the way so these fellas are wearing mat black rubber duckies. It’s standard SAS issue for sea-ops.
Mayor Porker: I get the feeling we’re going to be here for a while. What the hell should we do?
Sean Bean: We could shout for help.
Mayor Porker: And who’s going to hear us, Sean?
Lizzie: Shouldn’t we build a tree house? That’s what they did on Swiss Family Wilkinson.
Ann Appuladay: Mayor Porker, may I suggest we scout the island a little. Find out if anyone is here, if there are any places we can shelter and we can check out the food situation. If we split up into three groups, group one could check the outer island clock-wise, group two counter clock-wise and group three could recce that road heading across the middle. We could all meet on the other side of the island in say four hours from now.
Mayor Porker: Good idea, Ann, thank you. Dicky, pick three and head clock wise. Ann, pick three and go the other way. I’ll take the rest across the island and we’ll meet over there at 11-30.
Sean Bean: Why aren’t I leading a group?
Lizzie: Because you’re a dick-head and you would get lost before you got off the beach.
Mower: And it would be as well to remember not to touch anything sticking out of the ground if it’s got a pointy end and bang written on it.
MOWER’S GROUP
(Dicky Mower, Lizzie, Luke and Winnie Quark travel along the beach but soon the beach ends and they are faced by cliffs and dangerous rocks. Mower guides his group inland and they eventually come to the ruin of a large house.)
Lizzie: Such a shame, knocking down a lovely old place like this must have been. You can see the remains of a lovely veranda that must have been all round the house. Such a shame, all deserted and forgotten.
Mower: Not sure about deserted Liz. These tracks in the dirt here are fresh, can’t be more than a day old.
Winnie: The footprints are quite small aren’t they?
Mower: Could be kids I suppose, but what are kids doing in an SAS guarded military area?
Luke: The tracks lead into that mound of rubble. I’ll take a look.
(Luke goes to the hill of rubble and looks around. He drops to his knees and then begins to crawl into a space between some fallen timbers. A few moments later he slowly backs out, stands and raises his hands above his head. Three small children have crawled out after him. They are each carrying M4 Double Triphammer machine guns that are now pointing menacingly at Luke and his companions.)
Mower: Steady lads; let’s not do anything silly now.
Kid 1: Well, put yer bleedin’ hands up then. Who the fuck are you lot? You with that SAS mob or with the Chinks?
Luke: I know you! You’re part of the bunch that we saved from Mount Browneye. You were the kids that destroyed the Bogan Chain of Office. (See Comedy of Errors link at top of right hand column.)
Kid 2: A lot of thanks we got for that. Slung into the lock-up, that’s what we got while Mayer Porkshit got all the credit for saving Queensland from the National bogyman.
Mower: Hang on a minute guys. What do you mean –“Chinks”?
Kid 1: Who are you?
Mower: My name’s Dick Mower. I’m an agent with ASIO.
Kid 1: Wow! What, like a real secret agent? A spy?
Mower: That’s right and I’ve been sent to get you out of here, but first you have to tell me about the “Chinks” and where you got the guns.
(The kids hesitate. They look at each other then, after a few moments, they seem to come to an unspoken decision. They lower the machine guns but still hold onto them firmly.)
Kid 1: Okay. We’ve been here about a week. We nicked a pedalo over at Vicky Point and pedalled across in the dark. We only wanted to see what it was like on a real island, never been on one before. Anyway the pedalo drifted off on the tide when we was fucking about in the old ruins so we got stuck here. We’ve been hiding from the SAS boat patrols ever since - but that’s easy. They just don’t expect anybody to be here so they aren’t very watchful.
Mower: Those guns are SAS issue. How did you get hold of them?
Kid 2: Oh that was a real joke. The SAS patrol came ashore one night and had a barbeque on the beach. They ended up getting really pissed and falling asleep. We just walked up and took the guns and ammo for a laugh. When they woke up they must have thought the Chinks had ripped them off because they never came looking for us.
Kid 1: No, but that big ugly SAS bugger was having a real good go at one of the Chinks the next day. We couldn’t hear what he said but it must have been about the guns I reckon.
Mower: Who are the “Chinks”?
Kid 1: Just Chinks. Hundreds of the buggers, maybe thousands, down in the underground warehouses. That’s where we spend most of our time. It’s great down below. Plenty of food, plenty of places to hide up and loads of tunnels and trap doors. You can travel all over the island in the tunnels and pop up anywhere you want to.
Mower: Show me.
MAYOR PORKER’S GROUP.
(Mayor Porker, Sean Bean, Axeman and Shidehawk make their way up Elizabeth Street toward the middle of the island. Mayor Porker is on the alert but the others throw stones, slash at the scrub with sticks and generally behave like schoolboys.)
Mayor Porker: For fucks sake you three, keep your wits about you. We’re looking for food and shelter; we’re not on a nature walk.
Axeman: Relax, Porky, we can hardly miss a hotel or a supermarket even if they have all been flattened. There, look, an ice cream sign. Must be a shop amongst the scrub somewhere. I’ve saved us all.
Sean Bean: Bollocks! I would have seen it in another second. Anyway, I’ll be first to get there and commandeer all the best grub.
(Whooping and hollering the trio race for the bush leaving Mayor Porker seething with frustrated fury. A few moments later the high-spirited shouts become screams of terror – and then silence. Mayor Porker slowly heads into the scrub. She is trying to look in all directions at once as she searches for her companions. Behind a dense patch of Grandle bushes she discovers a large opening in the ground. Broken planks and disturbed scrub indicate that the other three councillors have fallen through into a hidden shaft. Mayor Porker carefully moves to the edge and looks down. It is dark and she can see no bottom but metal rungs are set into one wall of the shaft. They lead into the darkness below. Mayor porker has just decided to get help before attempting a rescue when she feels a small hard object pressed to the back of her head. She then hears a familiar voice.)
Bart Rugarse: Turn around slowly, Mayor Porker. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you like I did with the Deathdozer so if you as much as breathe the wrong way I’ll blow your head off.
Mayor Porker (turns around): Rugarse! Are you completely mad? What the hell are you doing? What’s all this about?
Bart Rugarse: Answers later, Porky. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, we will carefully climb down that little ladder to join your mates. Don’t worry it’s quite safe and so are they – for now.
ANN APPULADAY’S GROUP.
(Ann Appuladay, Grimy Hobo, Shizeknicker and Fondleschaft have made their way to the northeastern point of Coochiemudlo Island. They are standing on the beach and looking at two huge spits of sand that sweep away from the island like a swallows tail.)
Grimy: This isn’t right, Ann.
Ann Appuladay: What do you mean?
Grimy: I used to come here when I was a kid. The family always came to this part of the island and we would have barbeque just around the corner there. There were no sand bars like this then.
Shizeknicker: Sands shift. Maybe dis wass throwed up by a storm or a cycloid.
Ann Appuladay: No way this feature could have happened naturally. That’s man made. It’s too precise; it almost looks like a harbour.
(Grimy has wandered across and is standing on one of the spits of sand. After a minute or two he waves the others over.)
Grimy: The water in the inlet formed by the sand bars is very deep; look at the colour. That’s got to be twenty metres or more deep. And another thing, stand quite still for a minute.
Fondleschaft: Vy do ve do dis?
Grimy: Shut up and stand still.
(After a few seconds they all become aware of what Grimy has noticed.)
Ann Appuladay: The beach is moving with the swell. These sand bars are floating.
Grimy: This is a huge floating dock. Ann, this is very, very strange.
Ann Appuladay: And that’s not all that’s strange. Look up there.
(The others all turn to follow Ann’s pointing finger. A lone coconut palm stands at the beginning of one of the sand bars. High up, where the coconuts should have been, a row of gleaming security cameras are pointing down at them. With a sudden flurry and an electronic whine a patch of Carda Grass lifts and a tunnel opens up on the beach. A scurrying group of men rush out and surround the councillors. These men carry machine pistols and are dressed in a military style. They also each carry chopsticks in one of their battledress pockets and that definitely marks them as Chinese soldiers even without the eyes.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
4/10/09
The Gilligan Factor - Part One
It is the Bogan Council Chamber and all of the councillors except Mayor Porker are present and sitting at the board table. Most are subdued and even seem a little depressed. Shizeknicker and Fondleschaft are playing cards. Grimy Hobo is picking his nose. Lizzie, Luke, Winnie Quark and Ann Apuladay are drinking coffee and talking quietly. Sean Bean, Axeman and Phil Shidehawk are the only ones who seem remotely cheerful; they are giggling and clearly in the middle of a farting competition. Dicky Mower is surreptitiously cleaning the fluff out of the end of his Glock.
Shizeknicker: Haff you got Miss Bun da baker’s dotter?
Fondleschaft: Nine, I haff’nt. Haff you got…….
Shizeknicker: Chust a minute. I know you haff got Miss Bun da bakers dotter, why are you cheating on me?
Fondleschaft: I vood not cheat on you if you vass on fire.
Shizeknicker: I know you haff got Miss Bun because I haff turned down da corner of dat card.
Fondleschaft: You dumb fuckings, you haff turn down da corners on half da fuckings cards in da pack. Now it ist mine turn. Haff you got Frau Bun da bakers vife?
Shizeknicker: Ah, Shit! Yah, here ist Frau Bun da baker’s vife.
(Shizeknicker slaps the card down and Fondleschaft picks it up. Fondleschaft then lays down the complete Bun family including Miss Bun.)
Shizeknicker: You cuntings! You said you did not haff Miss Buns!
Fondleschaft: I didn’t. Dis one ist her sister.
Shizeknicker: Oh……..sorry.
(Meanwhile, on the other side of the table Lizzie is addressing the coffee group.)
Lizzie: I’m really disappointed. That’s the first time I’ve ever starred in anything and I only had one song before Yuteman stopped it all. I think I did that song pretty good too even if I do say so myself. I was practicing for days and it nearly drove my family crackers but I was determined to make it as nice as what that Julie Andrews done, although the words were a bit yuk of course. I still don’t really know why Ron pulled the plug.
Winnie Quark: To be honest, I’m quite glad it ended. I was supposed to play the part of Nanna von Crap and with a name like that it was bound to have been embarrassing.
Luke: What about me? Doctor de Mize for goodness sake. I suppose I would have been a mass murderer. No, I think Winnie’s right. We are much better off without Ron Yuteman and his weird productions.
Lizzie: Perhaps, but I would have liked to have done a few more songs. Oh God! Who did that? That is so foul. Oh, yuuuuk!
Sean Bean: That was Shidehawk’s feeble effort and I think he’s in serious trouble!
Phil Shidehawk: Oh, dear me. I’m sorry everyone but I will have to dash off for a minute.
(Shidehawk hobbles quickly out of the room.)
Sean Bean: BAAHAHAHAHA! One down, one to go.
(The door opens again and Mayor Porker steps into the room. She is grinning broadly.)
Mayor Porker: Heads up everyone, I’ve got great news! Jesus, did something die in here?
Grimy Hobo: Don’t ask. What’s the great news?
Mayor Porker: I have just been talking to Channel Nine and they want us to take part in a new show on prime time TV. Apparently Ron Yuteman was trying to get them interested in putting on his Comedy of Errors. They thought his show was crap but were very impressed with all of us and so they’ve developed this new show as a vehicle to introduce Bogan Chitty Council to the world. It’s a tremendous boost for Bogan Chitty and it won’t do us any harm either.
Sean Bean: Wow, Porky! This is the big time. I knew you could do it. I must phone my Mum.
Lizzie: When do we start? What is it about? Oh, I’m so excited!
Winnie Quark: I bet I have to do something dreadful in it.
Ann Appuladay: If anyone even mentions “garden gnome” - I walk. My agent has warned me about typecasting and I’m thinking long term now.
Sean Bean: For God’s sake Ann, we don’t know anything yet. You have an agent?
Mayor Porker: Okay, I can give you most of the info but we’ll find out more tomorrow when we get to the island.
Luke: The island? What island?
Mayor Porker: The show is called “The Gilligan Factor” and it involves a bunch of people who are marooned and they have to work together in order to escape from an island. The show will run over several weeks but don’t panic, that’s only for the viewers benefit. In actual fact the whole thing is filmed over one weekend and we fake the days passing. It’s the usual TV con. We start tomorrow and a helicopter will be landing in the Bogan Council Offices car park at 6 AM to take us to the island. Pack for a short weekend camping trip and don’t forget the sun block plus a suitable hat. Any questions? No? Well, don’t be late in the morning or you’re out of the show.
Sean Bean: Yippee! Here we go again! Break a leg, everyone!
THE NEXT DAY – BOGAN COUNCIL CAR PARK, 5-30 AM.
(The main car park is deserted apart from Lizzie and Dicky Mower. Lizzie has a Dora the Explorer backpack and Dicky Mower is carrying a large black holdall. Lizzie is chattering and excited but Mower is pensive. They are standing near a tape barrier that sections off a very large area of the car park. The tape has “KEEP OUT” printed repeatedly all along the tape’s length.)
Lizzie: Oooh, I didn’t think it would be so chilly as this. I don’t usually get up till about 9 and it’s lovely and warm then. Do you think the island will be in the Whitsunday’s? I expect so, don’t you? All that lovely tropical foliage and clean white sand; I can’t wait….. You’re very quiet. What’s up?
Mower: Don’t know. Something is though.
Lizzie: Here come the others.
(By 5-55 AM all of the councillors have arrived except Sean Bean. With 30 seconds to spare he squeals into the car park in his Mazda MX-5, drives straight through the “KEEP OUT” tape and parks in the centre of the sectioned off area. He leaps out of the car, waving, gyrating and generally acting like the obnoxious prat that he is. Sean is dressed in a day-glo orange T-shirt and huge mauve board shorts that almost reach down to his ankles. He flips up his clip-on sunglasses as he greets the others.)
Sean Bean: Hi-De-Hi, shipmates. All ready for Treasure Island are we? Don’t be nervous, just follow my lead. See what it says on my T-shirt? “THE MASTER”. Says it all doesn’t it?
Lizzie: What’s written on the back? BATER?
Mower: Uh….I’d move my car if I were you Sean.
Sean Bean: What the fuck for? There’s plenty of space.
(Mower raises his face as though scenting the air. He is still for a second or two.)
Mower: Gunship. Barrabus A35.
Sean Bean: What?
(From a steady throb to a clattering roar and a howling gale the car park is transformed to a terrifying theatre of noise and brutal power. The Barrabus A35 gunship slowly descends then hesitates above Sean’s car. There seems to be activity and a short discussion inside the gunship and then a figure leans out and fires a squat black weapon. A grapple, trailing a slender cable, pierces the roof of the car and the cable is swiftly locked to an anchor point on the gunship. In a few moments the car is suspended over a nearby area of wasteland and the cable is released. Sean watches with no external sign of emotion as his beautiful Mazda MX-5 drops from 20 metres onto a dump of broken concrete and twisted bits of rusty metal. When the dust clears it is difficult to make out where the dump ends and the Mazda begins. At last Sean finds his voice.)
Sean Bean: What the fuck? I mean – What. The. Fuck. People. Just What the fuck do you think you’re ….just who the fuck do you think you are? What is this fuck? I’m fucked. You are a fucking fuck fuck and Fuck You – you fucks! What the fucking fuck? Oh, Fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
(Sean races to the gunship and begins pounding his fist against the side of it. He screams at the nearest occupant)
Sean Bean: I’ll fuck you up, you fuck. Get fucking out here and fucking get ready for the fucking fuckinest fucking up you have ever fuck fucked – you fuck!
(A massive figure uncoils and manoeuvres its awesome bulk to the outside of the gunship. The face kindles a faint memory and then Sean recalls a photograph he saw of that same face sticking out of the ground on Easter Island. The figure stands over Sean who can’t help noticing the SAS insignia. When this living monument speaks it seems to be in words formed by the rumble of many very large boulders tumbling down a mineshaft.)
SAS: I admire your passion little fella and I confess to a certain thrill of fear when you threatened me. Please tell me what it is you intend to do with me. I must know before I die.
Sean Bean: Uh….um…..well….um…..challenge you to a farting contest?
(SAS shows his teeth and Sean hopes he is smiling.)
SAS: Well, we had better get you all aboard the skylark eh?
(SAS turns and lifts one leg to step back on board. As he does this there is a sound that the main sail of a ship of the line might make when torn asunder by a South Sea typhoon. It is the sort of effort that Sean could only dream of and never hope to equal. SAS looks back at Sean and winks.)
Sean: Heh, heh. I couldn’t win a single-ticket raffle today could I?
(One by one the subdued and now very nervous councillors climb into the gunship. SAS is careful to make sure each passenger is secured and comfortable. He is kindness itself but his eyes have the dead gaze of a shark about them.)
SAS: I hope everyone will be comfortable. It’s not a long flight and there is water and a biscuit or two if you need something to keep your strength up. Oh, hello Mr.Mower, sir. I heard you would be on this trip. Long time no see, sir.
Mower: Hello Garth.
Sean Bean (whispering): You know him?
Mower: No. I’ve never met him in my life and I’ve forgotten him already. So should you if you want to last the day.
30 MINUTES LATER.
(The gunship settles it’s considerable bulk on a sand beach beside a jetty. The passengers clamber out and look around them in obvious confusion. It is an island but it is definitely not a Whitsunday island. The best that can be said about it is that it is quiet. The mainland is a kilometre away as are several other islands.)
Grimy Hobo: What is this place? I know we’re in Morton Bay but other than that I can’t think where we are. Is that Redcliffe over there on the main land?
Mayor Porker: It’s Victoria Point.
Lizzie: Then this must be…..
Mayor Porker: Yes, it is. Look.
(Mayor Porker is kicking at the sand that partly obscures a fallen sign half buried on the beach. The councillors crowd around to look)
Grimy Hobo (reading): Welcome to Coochiemudlo Island. Bloody hell, that takes me back a bit. Used to come here when I was a kid. There were houses then and a shop, what’s happened to the place?
Mayor Porker: It wasn’t very long ago. Somebody digging in their garden found a dump of World War 2 shells. The Army came in and found dumps all over the island. They reckon it will take years to make the place safe. It was evacuated and abandoned. They even bulldozed the homes to keep out squatters. It’s a military area now.
(There is a sudden blare of engines and the gunship lifts off. The councillors are forced to turn away from the blast of sand and debris as the rotors bite. When they are eventually able to look up they can only just make out the grinning face of SAS as the gunship tilts and clatters away toward the mainland.)
Sean Bean: They’ve run out on us. The bastards! I told you, Porky, I warned you this was a mistake. This has got Yuteman written all over it. That arsehole is up to his tricks again.
Mayor Porker: No, Sean. Even Ron Yuteman doesn’t control the SAS. This is Federal and my guess is it has something to do with the shells dumped here. If you need someone to blame I reckon Bart Rugarse is the likely candidate.
Mower: I think you’re both wrong.
Sean Bean: Ah, Mr.ASIO, do tell. Who do you think needs the rough end of the tomato?
Mower: Don’t be a prick, Sean. This is serious. For a start, it wasn’t a few shells that were found. The Americans used this whole island during WW2 as a major ammunition store. The back of Coochiemudlo, the side away from the mainland, is a hollowed out shell and, as near as can be figured, there’s about 2000 tonnes of WW2 ammo buried here which is now at a critical stage of deterioration. God knows how, but this was all forgotten in the joy of giving the japs a good thumping. It was simply overlooked.
Mayor Porker: So why are we involved and who’s calling the shots?
Mower: Not sure, Porky. But it’s not the Federal Government. Without months of discussion Kevin Rudd doesn’t have the authority to call out a band of girl guides let alone a crack SAS unit with Garth Cutler in command. And that gunship! Kidnapping local government officials! It all adds up. I smell CIA.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Shizeknicker: Haff you got Miss Bun da baker’s dotter?
Fondleschaft: Nine, I haff’nt. Haff you got…….
Shizeknicker: Chust a minute. I know you haff got Miss Bun da bakers dotter, why are you cheating on me?
Fondleschaft: I vood not cheat on you if you vass on fire.
Shizeknicker: I know you haff got Miss Bun because I haff turned down da corner of dat card.
Fondleschaft: You dumb fuckings, you haff turn down da corners on half da fuckings cards in da pack. Now it ist mine turn. Haff you got Frau Bun da bakers vife?
Shizeknicker: Ah, Shit! Yah, here ist Frau Bun da baker’s vife.
(Shizeknicker slaps the card down and Fondleschaft picks it up. Fondleschaft then lays down the complete Bun family including Miss Bun.)
Shizeknicker: You cuntings! You said you did not haff Miss Buns!
Fondleschaft: I didn’t. Dis one ist her sister.
Shizeknicker: Oh……..sorry.
(Meanwhile, on the other side of the table Lizzie is addressing the coffee group.)
Lizzie: I’m really disappointed. That’s the first time I’ve ever starred in anything and I only had one song before Yuteman stopped it all. I think I did that song pretty good too even if I do say so myself. I was practicing for days and it nearly drove my family crackers but I was determined to make it as nice as what that Julie Andrews done, although the words were a bit yuk of course. I still don’t really know why Ron pulled the plug.
Winnie Quark: To be honest, I’m quite glad it ended. I was supposed to play the part of Nanna von Crap and with a name like that it was bound to have been embarrassing.
Luke: What about me? Doctor de Mize for goodness sake. I suppose I would have been a mass murderer. No, I think Winnie’s right. We are much better off without Ron Yuteman and his weird productions.
Lizzie: Perhaps, but I would have liked to have done a few more songs. Oh God! Who did that? That is so foul. Oh, yuuuuk!
Sean Bean: That was Shidehawk’s feeble effort and I think he’s in serious trouble!
Phil Shidehawk: Oh, dear me. I’m sorry everyone but I will have to dash off for a minute.
(Shidehawk hobbles quickly out of the room.)
Sean Bean: BAAHAHAHAHA! One down, one to go.
(The door opens again and Mayor Porker steps into the room. She is grinning broadly.)
Mayor Porker: Heads up everyone, I’ve got great news! Jesus, did something die in here?
Grimy Hobo: Don’t ask. What’s the great news?
Mayor Porker: I have just been talking to Channel Nine and they want us to take part in a new show on prime time TV. Apparently Ron Yuteman was trying to get them interested in putting on his Comedy of Errors. They thought his show was crap but were very impressed with all of us and so they’ve developed this new show as a vehicle to introduce Bogan Chitty Council to the world. It’s a tremendous boost for Bogan Chitty and it won’t do us any harm either.
Sean Bean: Wow, Porky! This is the big time. I knew you could do it. I must phone my Mum.
Lizzie: When do we start? What is it about? Oh, I’m so excited!
Winnie Quark: I bet I have to do something dreadful in it.
Ann Appuladay: If anyone even mentions “garden gnome” - I walk. My agent has warned me about typecasting and I’m thinking long term now.
Sean Bean: For God’s sake Ann, we don’t know anything yet. You have an agent?
Mayor Porker: Okay, I can give you most of the info but we’ll find out more tomorrow when we get to the island.
Luke: The island? What island?
Mayor Porker: The show is called “The Gilligan Factor” and it involves a bunch of people who are marooned and they have to work together in order to escape from an island. The show will run over several weeks but don’t panic, that’s only for the viewers benefit. In actual fact the whole thing is filmed over one weekend and we fake the days passing. It’s the usual TV con. We start tomorrow and a helicopter will be landing in the Bogan Council Offices car park at 6 AM to take us to the island. Pack for a short weekend camping trip and don’t forget the sun block plus a suitable hat. Any questions? No? Well, don’t be late in the morning or you’re out of the show.
Sean Bean: Yippee! Here we go again! Break a leg, everyone!
THE NEXT DAY – BOGAN COUNCIL CAR PARK, 5-30 AM.
(The main car park is deserted apart from Lizzie and Dicky Mower. Lizzie has a Dora the Explorer backpack and Dicky Mower is carrying a large black holdall. Lizzie is chattering and excited but Mower is pensive. They are standing near a tape barrier that sections off a very large area of the car park. The tape has “KEEP OUT” printed repeatedly all along the tape’s length.)
Lizzie: Oooh, I didn’t think it would be so chilly as this. I don’t usually get up till about 9 and it’s lovely and warm then. Do you think the island will be in the Whitsunday’s? I expect so, don’t you? All that lovely tropical foliage and clean white sand; I can’t wait….. You’re very quiet. What’s up?
Mower: Don’t know. Something is though.
Lizzie: Here come the others.
(By 5-55 AM all of the councillors have arrived except Sean Bean. With 30 seconds to spare he squeals into the car park in his Mazda MX-5, drives straight through the “KEEP OUT” tape and parks in the centre of the sectioned off area. He leaps out of the car, waving, gyrating and generally acting like the obnoxious prat that he is. Sean is dressed in a day-glo orange T-shirt and huge mauve board shorts that almost reach down to his ankles. He flips up his clip-on sunglasses as he greets the others.)
Sean Bean: Hi-De-Hi, shipmates. All ready for Treasure Island are we? Don’t be nervous, just follow my lead. See what it says on my T-shirt? “THE MASTER”. Says it all doesn’t it?
Lizzie: What’s written on the back? BATER?
Mower: Uh….I’d move my car if I were you Sean.
Sean Bean: What the fuck for? There’s plenty of space.
(Mower raises his face as though scenting the air. He is still for a second or two.)
Mower: Gunship. Barrabus A35.
Sean Bean: What?
(From a steady throb to a clattering roar and a howling gale the car park is transformed to a terrifying theatre of noise and brutal power. The Barrabus A35 gunship slowly descends then hesitates above Sean’s car. There seems to be activity and a short discussion inside the gunship and then a figure leans out and fires a squat black weapon. A grapple, trailing a slender cable, pierces the roof of the car and the cable is swiftly locked to an anchor point on the gunship. In a few moments the car is suspended over a nearby area of wasteland and the cable is released. Sean watches with no external sign of emotion as his beautiful Mazda MX-5 drops from 20 metres onto a dump of broken concrete and twisted bits of rusty metal. When the dust clears it is difficult to make out where the dump ends and the Mazda begins. At last Sean finds his voice.)
Sean Bean: What the fuck? I mean – What. The. Fuck. People. Just What the fuck do you think you’re ….just who the fuck do you think you are? What is this fuck? I’m fucked. You are a fucking fuck fuck and Fuck You – you fucks! What the fucking fuck? Oh, Fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
(Sean races to the gunship and begins pounding his fist against the side of it. He screams at the nearest occupant)
Sean Bean: I’ll fuck you up, you fuck. Get fucking out here and fucking get ready for the fucking fuckinest fucking up you have ever fuck fucked – you fuck!
(A massive figure uncoils and manoeuvres its awesome bulk to the outside of the gunship. The face kindles a faint memory and then Sean recalls a photograph he saw of that same face sticking out of the ground on Easter Island. The figure stands over Sean who can’t help noticing the SAS insignia. When this living monument speaks it seems to be in words formed by the rumble of many very large boulders tumbling down a mineshaft.)
SAS: I admire your passion little fella and I confess to a certain thrill of fear when you threatened me. Please tell me what it is you intend to do with me. I must know before I die.
Sean Bean: Uh….um…..well….um…..challenge you to a farting contest?
(SAS shows his teeth and Sean hopes he is smiling.)
SAS: Well, we had better get you all aboard the skylark eh?
(SAS turns and lifts one leg to step back on board. As he does this there is a sound that the main sail of a ship of the line might make when torn asunder by a South Sea typhoon. It is the sort of effort that Sean could only dream of and never hope to equal. SAS looks back at Sean and winks.)
Sean: Heh, heh. I couldn’t win a single-ticket raffle today could I?
(One by one the subdued and now very nervous councillors climb into the gunship. SAS is careful to make sure each passenger is secured and comfortable. He is kindness itself but his eyes have the dead gaze of a shark about them.)
SAS: I hope everyone will be comfortable. It’s not a long flight and there is water and a biscuit or two if you need something to keep your strength up. Oh, hello Mr.Mower, sir. I heard you would be on this trip. Long time no see, sir.
Mower: Hello Garth.
Sean Bean (whispering): You know him?
Mower: No. I’ve never met him in my life and I’ve forgotten him already. So should you if you want to last the day.
30 MINUTES LATER.
(The gunship settles it’s considerable bulk on a sand beach beside a jetty. The passengers clamber out and look around them in obvious confusion. It is an island but it is definitely not a Whitsunday island. The best that can be said about it is that it is quiet. The mainland is a kilometre away as are several other islands.)
Grimy Hobo: What is this place? I know we’re in Morton Bay but other than that I can’t think where we are. Is that Redcliffe over there on the main land?
Mayor Porker: It’s Victoria Point.
Lizzie: Then this must be…..
Mayor Porker: Yes, it is. Look.
(Mayor Porker is kicking at the sand that partly obscures a fallen sign half buried on the beach. The councillors crowd around to look)
Grimy Hobo (reading): Welcome to Coochiemudlo Island. Bloody hell, that takes me back a bit. Used to come here when I was a kid. There were houses then and a shop, what’s happened to the place?
Mayor Porker: It wasn’t very long ago. Somebody digging in their garden found a dump of World War 2 shells. The Army came in and found dumps all over the island. They reckon it will take years to make the place safe. It was evacuated and abandoned. They even bulldozed the homes to keep out squatters. It’s a military area now.
(There is a sudden blare of engines and the gunship lifts off. The councillors are forced to turn away from the blast of sand and debris as the rotors bite. When they are eventually able to look up they can only just make out the grinning face of SAS as the gunship tilts and clatters away toward the mainland.)
Sean Bean: They’ve run out on us. The bastards! I told you, Porky, I warned you this was a mistake. This has got Yuteman written all over it. That arsehole is up to his tricks again.
Mayor Porker: No, Sean. Even Ron Yuteman doesn’t control the SAS. This is Federal and my guess is it has something to do with the shells dumped here. If you need someone to blame I reckon Bart Rugarse is the likely candidate.
Mower: I think you’re both wrong.
Sean Bean: Ah, Mr.ASIO, do tell. Who do you think needs the rough end of the tomato?
Mower: Don’t be a prick, Sean. This is serious. For a start, it wasn’t a few shells that were found. The Americans used this whole island during WW2 as a major ammunition store. The back of Coochiemudlo, the side away from the mainland, is a hollowed out shell and, as near as can be figured, there’s about 2000 tonnes of WW2 ammo buried here which is now at a critical stage of deterioration. God knows how, but this was all forgotten in the joy of giving the japs a good thumping. It was simply overlooked.
Mayor Porker: So why are we involved and who’s calling the shots?
Mower: Not sure, Porky. But it’s not the Federal Government. Without months of discussion Kevin Rudd doesn’t have the authority to call out a band of girl guides let alone a crack SAS unit with Garth Cutler in command. And that gunship! Kidnapping local government officials! It all adds up. I smell CIA.
TO BE CONTINUED.
4/8/09
Just Because You're Paranoid.......
I was going to slip a quick post in here apologising for the series of Star Chamber Files that has just ended. It was a rotten series and was going nowhere so that’s why I ended it abruptly. Of course, I tried to let you know briefly what was supposed to happen. I didn’t want you to think you were going to miss out on something really good and by doing that I managed to end the series in a far better way than was originally intended (at least, I thought so).
Apropos (don’t you just love the word ‘apropos’? I used to think it was similar to ‘après-ski’ except it was something you did after taking a dump) communicating with my public – that’s you – I took the advise of our local bloggerboss, Lin Hall of Cedargroveview, and added a sitemeter gizmo to my blog. If you scroll down to the bottom of the first page (yes, aaaaall the way to the bottom) you will see this little green and black logo. If you click on it you will be taken to a CIA site in America where you can see all sorts of information about who visits the blog etc. You can find out who the visitors are, where they are, photos of them picking their nose or taking a shower (don’t worry – I was making that up). But you can get quit a bit of information.
If you click on the individual visitor boxes you will be taken to another screen with details like IP address, (what the fuck is that?) resolution of the computer screen used by the visitor, version of browser and a general location. For instance, one of my regular visitors (the second one of the two regulars) is identified as gov.au and when I click on that I can see it’s someone from the Logan Council network (G’day, how’s things over there?).
There are other bits of info like the time of the visit but nothing to identify the individual. Having said that, I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t take much more information to identify the actual work-station used and, knowing what time it was used, you could make a fair guess at the identity of the user (that could be YOU).
The reason I’m telling you this is not to worry you but to warn you. Which brings me to my main point. How anonymous are we these days and why all the desperate need to wire up every home with broadband? I mean, in our part of the world we have been desperately trying to get the beautiful little hospital at Beaudesert up and running properly, our water infrastructure is still piss poor when you consider the number of new people moving in and most of the roads are real ball breakers with pot holes you could lose a prime mover in. There must be situations like this all over Australia and, instead of fixing these potentially life-threatening things as a matter of priority, we are going to spend 42 billion dollars on getting a fibre optic broadband link into every home. Why???
I know King Rupert 1st has been pushing for very high speed broadband so he can get every Australian locked into Foxtail and Sky TV but it looks like a real piss-take if the Australian tax payer has to provide the means for Rupe to rip them off. And then, for fucks sake, we will probably sell the infrastructure to him in five years time for possibly 10% of what it cost to build.
And what about Telstra’s take on this? They were so arrogant they wanted to contribute fuck-all to the cost of broadband. They just dicked around with their proposals as though they had a God given right to just take and never give. I don't think Telstra want to build a broadband network. I think they just want it given to them so they can sit down with Murdoch and bleed it white.
Can someone PLEASE tell me what, apart from providing King Rupert’s super, is the desperate, for-God’s-sake-we-will-all-die-if-we-don’t-do-this reason for the building of a broadband network? Go on – give me some reason to think we aren’t just making a thing that serves no other purpose than to give our free market something to obsess about - even if the thing in itself is pointless, a bit like the abstract Widget products that always featured in spreadsheet tutorials.
To me it makes as much sense as being told we all just have to have a life sized artificial, biodegradable blue cow in our backyards. It’s the 21st century thing to do and boy, are you going to look a prick if you don’t have one. The blue cow would serve the same economic purpose as broadband. It would just be a means to ensure the pointless circulation and recirculation of wealth according to a set of rules only the wealthy understand. I just don’t get it - so I’ll probably die.
Oh, don’t get me started! Back to sitemeter before I blow a gasket. During the last part of the Star Chamber Files I mentioned a COMPLETLY UNTRUE and TOTALLY IMAGINARY scenario where CSIRO accidentally invents a dooms day chemical pesticide. Imagine my surprise the next day when I checked out sitemeter to see if anyone had visited my new post and I found there had been 10 visitors. TEN! That’s a record for me, I usually only get two and one of them is me. Even more surprising was that the greatest percentage of visitors logged in from the CSIRO. It’s true, check it yourself, just click on the logo and look up visitor details. What is going on here?
The most innocent explanation would be if one of my regulars had, say, a brother-in-law who worked at CSIRO. My regular sent him an email saying, “I didn’t know your mob was into chemical warfare research, Ho Ho – read this.” followed by the url of my post. The brother-in-law checked out the post and got onto his mates at CSIRO saying,
“Look what this prick has written. Um….we didn’t, did we?”
Or it could be something far more sinister. Some of the visitors on sitemeter cannot be identified at all. Everything is “unknown”. One of the “unknowns” was visiting from North America but that was all that sitemeter could tell me. So just maybe the following might be a possibility.
******************************************
CIA Agent 2: Hello, Pentagon? Put me through to Admiral Cogzugger please. Hi Admiral, Agent 2 here. This may be nothing but our ThreatScan has flagged something from Australia. It’s just a crappy little thing blogwise but it mentions a project from the 1970’s to load high-tox pesticide onto a British Blue Streak missile. The blog also claims the project originated with the Australian CSIRO.
Admiral Cogzugger: Fuck! I thought that was dead and buried. Look, get on to Mick at ASIO. Tell him to take care of this asshole.
CIA Agent 2: Uh..sure Admiral. When you say ‘take care of the asshole’ do you mean like ‘take care of the asshole’?
Admiral Cogzugger: The fuck do I care! Just take care of it Jim.
CIA Agent 2: Sure, Admiral.
LATER.
CIA Agent 2: Hi, Mick. Hows tricks?
ASIO Agent 796: Fine, Jimo. Good to hear from you, what can I do you for mate?
(The CIA agent gives the ASIO man the details about the blog and explains the problem.)
ASIO Agent 796: Just looking it all up now, Jimo mate. Shit, I’ll be glad when we get a decent broadband connection. Ah…got it. Okay….yeah….yeah…..yeah. Well, Jimo the prick is a nobody and probably got onto this by accident but we’ll shove a bit of a shock up his arse. If that doesn’t work…….I can see he takes pills for just about every disease known to man so a quick alteration in his pharmacy files and we could get the hearse rolling in a couple of days - tops. In the meantime, mate, I’ll have a yarn with my contact at CSIRO to see how close our little blogging dick-head is to the monkey’s nuts.
CIA Agent 2: Good man. See you around Mick.
ASIO Agent 796: Uh…..just before you go Jimo mate. I was sort of wondering….you know mate…. when will your Brisbane field office be putting on the next ‘special party’ if you know what I mean mate. We poor fucks in ASIO are lucky to get a Big Mac from our lousy mob so we really look forward to a bit of a beano with you guys.
CIA Agent 2: Sure, sure Mick. Not a problem. I’ll get on to Brisbane and get an invite sent right out to you and your lovely wife.
ASIO Agent 796: Well……not the wife, actually Jimo mate. Last time you gave me the low-down and set me up with………..you know mate.
CIA Agent 2: Right on Mick! A fast little filly with real good legs huh?
ASIO Agent 796: Actually Jimo…if it’s all the same to you, mate, a certain big black one would be nice.
CIA Agent 2: Yeah, okay Mick. You ASIO guys sure like to win big on Eagle Farm Race Day don’t ya? 100 to 1 on Black Night. It’s as good as past the post. Take care Mick; see you in the CIA marquee.
ASIO Agent 796: Bonzer Jimo mate.
CIA Agent 2 (after hanging up): Fuck-wit.
ASIO Agent 796 (after hanging up): Cunto.
LATER.
ASIO Agent 796: CSIRO? Professor Marco Gelato thanks.
Prof. Marco: Hello.
ASIO Agent 796: Hi, Marco-o, it’s Micko from ASIO. Just phoning my old mate at the CSIRO to check a few things out.
Prof. Marco: Micko, great to hear from you. Hows the gang? Haven’t seen any of you since the last Uni reunion night.
ASIO Agent 796: Good, Marco-o. All except Robo of course.
Prof. Marco: Robo? The guy who was always dropping his pants and sitting on the photocopier? Christ, I think every female who ever went to that university has a signed picture of Robo’s arse and bollocks. What’s wrong with him?
ASIO Agent 796: Testicular and rectal cancer. Died last week.
Prof. Marco: Ah, tough shit.
ASIO Agent 796: I suppose it must have been. But that’s not why I called. You’ve been with CSIRO for a long time and I was wondering if you knew anything about a sort of Dooms Day pesticide that might have been developed by CSIRO in the 1970’s.
Prof. Marco: Of course. Pocahydradiatedchlorocyafine. It was the next step up from Agent Orange and we were calling it Agent Pale Shade Of Lilac. Deadly stuff. We buried it with a bloody long spade. What makes you ask?
LATER
Prof. Marco: General Bruce please……..Hi General, it’s Professor Marco Gelato, CSIRO. Do you remember a pesticide the army thought might come in handy back in the 1970’s. It was called Agent Pale Sha……….Yeah, that’s the one. Could you tell me what you actually did with it?……………Fifty gallon drum, okay…………on top of a blue streak? But how?………lashed up with fence wire. Okaaaaay. Where is it now? Oh shit! I’ll get back to you General.
LATER
Prof. Marco: Put me through to Agent 796 please…………Micko? Get on to the pharmacy – fast!
*********************************************
So, I will be watching sitemeter over the next few days and I will know if you all suddenly disappear it’s because you’re coming for me. But as soon as I get a sniff of an assassin or see someone that looks even slightly like Matt Damon or Daniel Craig, I’m blowing the whistle.
My only difficulty is, I know who I’m blowing the whistle ON but I haven’t a fucking clue who to blow the whistle AT.
Apropos (don’t you just love the word ‘apropos’? I used to think it was similar to ‘après-ski’ except it was something you did after taking a dump) communicating with my public – that’s you – I took the advise of our local bloggerboss, Lin Hall of Cedargroveview, and added a sitemeter gizmo to my blog. If you scroll down to the bottom of the first page (yes, aaaaall the way to the bottom) you will see this little green and black logo. If you click on it you will be taken to a CIA site in America where you can see all sorts of information about who visits the blog etc. You can find out who the visitors are, where they are, photos of them picking their nose or taking a shower (don’t worry – I was making that up). But you can get quit a bit of information.
If you click on the individual visitor boxes you will be taken to another screen with details like IP address, (what the fuck is that?) resolution of the computer screen used by the visitor, version of browser and a general location. For instance, one of my regular visitors (the second one of the two regulars) is identified as gov.au and when I click on that I can see it’s someone from the Logan Council network (G’day, how’s things over there?).
There are other bits of info like the time of the visit but nothing to identify the individual. Having said that, I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t take much more information to identify the actual work-station used and, knowing what time it was used, you could make a fair guess at the identity of the user (that could be YOU).
The reason I’m telling you this is not to worry you but to warn you. Which brings me to my main point. How anonymous are we these days and why all the desperate need to wire up every home with broadband? I mean, in our part of the world we have been desperately trying to get the beautiful little hospital at Beaudesert up and running properly, our water infrastructure is still piss poor when you consider the number of new people moving in and most of the roads are real ball breakers with pot holes you could lose a prime mover in. There must be situations like this all over Australia and, instead of fixing these potentially life-threatening things as a matter of priority, we are going to spend 42 billion dollars on getting a fibre optic broadband link into every home. Why???
I know King Rupert 1st has been pushing for very high speed broadband so he can get every Australian locked into Foxtail and Sky TV but it looks like a real piss-take if the Australian tax payer has to provide the means for Rupe to rip them off. And then, for fucks sake, we will probably sell the infrastructure to him in five years time for possibly 10% of what it cost to build.
And what about Telstra’s take on this? They were so arrogant they wanted to contribute fuck-all to the cost of broadband. They just dicked around with their proposals as though they had a God given right to just take and never give. I don't think Telstra want to build a broadband network. I think they just want it given to them so they can sit down with Murdoch and bleed it white.
Can someone PLEASE tell me what, apart from providing King Rupert’s super, is the desperate, for-God’s-sake-we-will-all-die-if-we-don’t-do-this reason for the building of a broadband network? Go on – give me some reason to think we aren’t just making a thing that serves no other purpose than to give our free market something to obsess about - even if the thing in itself is pointless, a bit like the abstract Widget products that always featured in spreadsheet tutorials.
To me it makes as much sense as being told we all just have to have a life sized artificial, biodegradable blue cow in our backyards. It’s the 21st century thing to do and boy, are you going to look a prick if you don’t have one. The blue cow would serve the same economic purpose as broadband. It would just be a means to ensure the pointless circulation and recirculation of wealth according to a set of rules only the wealthy understand. I just don’t get it - so I’ll probably die.
Oh, don’t get me started! Back to sitemeter before I blow a gasket. During the last part of the Star Chamber Files I mentioned a COMPLETLY UNTRUE and TOTALLY IMAGINARY scenario where CSIRO accidentally invents a dooms day chemical pesticide. Imagine my surprise the next day when I checked out sitemeter to see if anyone had visited my new post and I found there had been 10 visitors. TEN! That’s a record for me, I usually only get two and one of them is me. Even more surprising was that the greatest percentage of visitors logged in from the CSIRO. It’s true, check it yourself, just click on the logo and look up visitor details. What is going on here?
The most innocent explanation would be if one of my regulars had, say, a brother-in-law who worked at CSIRO. My regular sent him an email saying, “I didn’t know your mob was into chemical warfare research, Ho Ho – read this.” followed by the url of my post. The brother-in-law checked out the post and got onto his mates at CSIRO saying,
“Look what this prick has written. Um….we didn’t, did we?”
Or it could be something far more sinister. Some of the visitors on sitemeter cannot be identified at all. Everything is “unknown”. One of the “unknowns” was visiting from North America but that was all that sitemeter could tell me. So just maybe the following might be a possibility.
******************************************
CIA Agent 2: Hello, Pentagon? Put me through to Admiral Cogzugger please. Hi Admiral, Agent 2 here. This may be nothing but our ThreatScan has flagged something from Australia. It’s just a crappy little thing blogwise but it mentions a project from the 1970’s to load high-tox pesticide onto a British Blue Streak missile. The blog also claims the project originated with the Australian CSIRO.
Admiral Cogzugger: Fuck! I thought that was dead and buried. Look, get on to Mick at ASIO. Tell him to take care of this asshole.
CIA Agent 2: Uh..sure Admiral. When you say ‘take care of the asshole’ do you mean like ‘take care of the asshole’?
Admiral Cogzugger: The fuck do I care! Just take care of it Jim.
CIA Agent 2: Sure, Admiral.
LATER.
CIA Agent 2: Hi, Mick. Hows tricks?
ASIO Agent 796: Fine, Jimo. Good to hear from you, what can I do you for mate?
(The CIA agent gives the ASIO man the details about the blog and explains the problem.)
ASIO Agent 796: Just looking it all up now, Jimo mate. Shit, I’ll be glad when we get a decent broadband connection. Ah…got it. Okay….yeah….yeah…..yeah. Well, Jimo the prick is a nobody and probably got onto this by accident but we’ll shove a bit of a shock up his arse. If that doesn’t work…….I can see he takes pills for just about every disease known to man so a quick alteration in his pharmacy files and we could get the hearse rolling in a couple of days - tops. In the meantime, mate, I’ll have a yarn with my contact at CSIRO to see how close our little blogging dick-head is to the monkey’s nuts.
CIA Agent 2: Good man. See you around Mick.
ASIO Agent 796: Uh…..just before you go Jimo mate. I was sort of wondering….you know mate…. when will your Brisbane field office be putting on the next ‘special party’ if you know what I mean mate. We poor fucks in ASIO are lucky to get a Big Mac from our lousy mob so we really look forward to a bit of a beano with you guys.
CIA Agent 2: Sure, sure Mick. Not a problem. I’ll get on to Brisbane and get an invite sent right out to you and your lovely wife.
ASIO Agent 796: Well……not the wife, actually Jimo mate. Last time you gave me the low-down and set me up with………..you know mate.
CIA Agent 2: Right on Mick! A fast little filly with real good legs huh?
ASIO Agent 796: Actually Jimo…if it’s all the same to you, mate, a certain big black one would be nice.
CIA Agent 2: Yeah, okay Mick. You ASIO guys sure like to win big on Eagle Farm Race Day don’t ya? 100 to 1 on Black Night. It’s as good as past the post. Take care Mick; see you in the CIA marquee.
ASIO Agent 796: Bonzer Jimo mate.
CIA Agent 2 (after hanging up): Fuck-wit.
ASIO Agent 796 (after hanging up): Cunto.
LATER.
ASIO Agent 796: CSIRO? Professor Marco Gelato thanks.
Prof. Marco: Hello.
ASIO Agent 796: Hi, Marco-o, it’s Micko from ASIO. Just phoning my old mate at the CSIRO to check a few things out.
Prof. Marco: Micko, great to hear from you. Hows the gang? Haven’t seen any of you since the last Uni reunion night.
ASIO Agent 796: Good, Marco-o. All except Robo of course.
Prof. Marco: Robo? The guy who was always dropping his pants and sitting on the photocopier? Christ, I think every female who ever went to that university has a signed picture of Robo’s arse and bollocks. What’s wrong with him?
ASIO Agent 796: Testicular and rectal cancer. Died last week.
Prof. Marco: Ah, tough shit.
ASIO Agent 796: I suppose it must have been. But that’s not why I called. You’ve been with CSIRO for a long time and I was wondering if you knew anything about a sort of Dooms Day pesticide that might have been developed by CSIRO in the 1970’s.
Prof. Marco: Of course. Pocahydradiatedchlorocyafine. It was the next step up from Agent Orange and we were calling it Agent Pale Shade Of Lilac. Deadly stuff. We buried it with a bloody long spade. What makes you ask?
LATER
Prof. Marco: General Bruce please……..Hi General, it’s Professor Marco Gelato, CSIRO. Do you remember a pesticide the army thought might come in handy back in the 1970’s. It was called Agent Pale Sha……….Yeah, that’s the one. Could you tell me what you actually did with it?……………Fifty gallon drum, okay…………on top of a blue streak? But how?………lashed up with fence wire. Okaaaaay. Where is it now? Oh shit! I’ll get back to you General.
LATER
Prof. Marco: Put me through to Agent 796 please…………Micko? Get on to the pharmacy – fast!
*********************************************
So, I will be watching sitemeter over the next few days and I will know if you all suddenly disappear it’s because you’re coming for me. But as soon as I get a sniff of an assassin or see someone that looks even slightly like Matt Damon or Daniel Craig, I’m blowing the whistle.
My only difficulty is, I know who I’m blowing the whistle ON but I haven’t a fucking clue who to blow the whistle AT.
4/6/09
Star Chamber - File Five
Posted by Professor Wowser Brak. April – 3009
(Professor Brak is the Meritorious Professor of Primitive Politics and Early Political Demonomics at The Pauline Hanson Memorial University, Boganville.)
This is the fifth part of a report on the discovery of early electronic media describing the administration of Boganville before The Failing of 2010 - 2012.
Ron Yuteman has begun production of his musical The Sound of Prozac in which we see some interesting examples of 21st century behaviour. Among them will be noted the treatment of non-productive members of society. Instead of putting these elements back into the food chain our ancestors seemed to prefer to prolong the misery for no other purpose than commercial gain. This obsession with commercial gain may be significant.
We begin this fifth part of the report with a meeting in the Star Chamber between Mayor Porker and Councillor Sean Bean.
Prof. W. Brak. Boganville,
April 3009
*********************************************************
Mayor Porker: This had better be good, Sean. I was going to have an early night.
Councillor Bean: You did tell us to keep alert for anything significant so I’m just doing what you said, Porky.
Mayor Porker: Okay, what is it that’s so significant it can’t wait till tomorrow?
Councillor Bean: Well, me and Gerhardt are supposed to be representatives from Social Services in this Sound of Prozac thing, right?
Mayor Porker: I don’t know, I’ll take your word for it.
Councillor Bean: We are. Anyway, Me and Gerhardt were told by Ron Yuteman to wander around getting a feel for our parts. He must think we’re playing a couple of wankers. (laughs) See? Feel for our parts? Wankers? Never mind. So we are looking around in the Catheter Creek admin area under the watchful eye of the real DON, Ethel Crabstick. She said we could look at a few files to see how the records worked and things like that so I’m picking a few at random and having a look when I see a name I recognise - Charles Brigalow.
Mayor Porker: And you know this Charles Bigalow?
Councillor Bean: Brigalow, Porky, Brigalow. I don’t really know him but after you told us about the constitution and your plan I did a bit of research on the Internet. There’s quite a bit of reference to Brigalow associated with Queensland and land tenure. I’ve even heard the stories myself. It’s a conspiracy buffs dream and every nutter in Queensland is rabbiting on about how we’ve had all our land rights pinched by the state and stuff like that.
Mayor Porker: That’s it is it? You’ve found a resident with the same name as a half-assed conspiracy theory? That’s why I’m here instead of in bed with a mug of cocoa?
Councillor Bean: No that is not it. I looked through the file and it said Charles Brigalow had been brought to Catheter Creek in 1999 and at the time he was 94 years old and had advanced Alzheimer’s disease, he had also lost an arm during World War Two. Charles Brigalow had no family recorded in the file and the date of death box was blank. At this point Ethel Crabstick looked over my shoulder to see what I was looking at. She snatched the file away from me as though it was her personal pap smear results and threw us out of the office; it was that sudden. One minute we were a couple of amusing little actors doing some role research and the next minute we were a pair of snooping arseholes. I’ve never seen anyone get so upset, so quickly.
Mayor Porker: Maybe she just didn’t like you looking at confidential files. She screwed up and she fixed it as best she could.
Councillor Bean: That’s what Gerhardt said but I checked around a bit more. I visited the Dementia Wing and there was a party going on. Some old dear called Doris was having a birthday and one of the nurses told me Doris was Catheter Creek’s oldest resident at 102 years old. I asked her about Charlie Brigalow, because, according to information I had, he would be 104 years old but the nurse just laughed and asked me where I’d got that information. She introduced me to Charlie who was wearing a Davy Crocket hat and he poured me an orange squash. The Charlie Brigalow they have is 78 years old and he’s got two good arms. He’s got Alzheimer’s all right and can’t remember his own name but otherwise he’s quite sprightly. Not only that but he only arrived at Catheter Creek six months ago. The nurse knew that because it was the day after the Dementia Wing had a complete change of staff. The entire nursing staff, including the nurse I spoke to, were replacements drafted in without notice the day before Charlie was brought in. So what do you make of that?
Mayor Porker: Perhaps they’re just lousy at record keeping and perhaps that’s why the DON was so uptight, she doesn’t want anyone to know they are a bunch of useless buggers. They sound a bit like Bogan Council actually.
Councillor Bean: Yeah, perhaps, except for two things. I talked to some of the staff in the other sections. One of them has been here for twelve years and she remembers Charlie Brigalow arriving. She said it was just before the millennium celebrations because she was working in the Dementia Wing at the time and she was the nurse told to look out for Charlie during the celebrations. This nurse told me Charlie died about two years later in 2002. She remembers it because the entire Dementia Wing staff members were moved to other sections just after Charlie died and she couldn’t go to the funeral because her new shift times didn’t coincide. I talked to others in the place and everyone knows Charlie Brigalow but as far as I can tell there have been at least three different Charlie Brigalows at Catheter Creek since 1999. All of them with Alzheimer’s and none of them had any living family. Now………..
Ron Yuteman: That’s enough! Stop now! No more, no more! Cease, desist and end it, all over! Just bloody well stop right there!
Mayor Porker: What’s going on?
Councillor Bean: Yeah, what’s going on? I was going well then.
(Yuteman gestures wildly. He waves his arms trying to show that he is referring to the words, to the names of characters, to the story line, to the blog itself, even the entire blogosphere and not forgetting the complete history of mans futile attempts to communicate.)
Ron Yuteman: This……..whole thing is shit! I can’t believe I let it get this far. I mean what are we doing? Charlie Brigalow? Stealing Queensland? Sound of fucking Prozac? What was I thinking of? It’s going to stop right now!
Mayor Porker: Steady down Ron for goodness sake. It’s not that bad surely?
Councillor Bean: Yeah, I thought I was handling it just right. I think I had the exact nuance and……
Ron Yuteman: Nuance? Bleeding nuance? Sean, your acting makes Bela Lugosi look subtle. Anyway, it’s not just the acting. The concept is crap and that’s putting it mildly.
(Another figure scurries into the Star Chamber and confronts Yuteman.)
Professor Wowser Brak: Excuse me, aren’t you in the wrong bit?
Ron Yuteman: Who the fuck are you?
Professor Wowser Brak: I am Professor Wowser Brak of the Pauline Hanson………
Ron Yuteman: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, the bloke supposed to be from 3009 looking back on all this shit and trying to make sense of it all and not doing a very good job. Look - just piss off, will you? There’s a good chap.
Professor Wowser Brak: I will most certainly not piss off! You, sir, are an egotistical fool and this part of the post is mine. You should confine yourself to the little musical you have been composing and leave the more complicated machinations of time and the universe to me. Now kindly leave the Star Chamber where your betters are attempting to unravel the convoluted mysteries of history.
Ron Yuteman: Convoluted mysteries of history my arse. This whole plot is mine, I’m ashamed to say, including the bit where a dick-headed professor from the future tries to find…. Ah, Bollocks! Look, I’ll prove it! This is your convoluted mystery:
The whole thing is based on some cataclysmic disaster that is supposed to occur in 2012. You are viewing this from 1000 years in the future after you have managed to dig your way out of a stone age you were chucked into by this disaster. You find some old records that tell you the story of The Bogan Star Chamber, a mob who have been persuaded to involve themselves in a quite ridiculous plot to steal Queensland
There’s a lot of complicated shit that boils down to a bloke called The Principal Land Commissioner Attending. This character turns out to be Charlie Brigalow, an identity invented by the establishment to act as fall guy if their take-over of Queensland goes belly up.
First though, to trigger the take over, there has to be a serious threat to Queensland so I made up the following bullshit. The threat is to be contrived by using a few drops of an unbelievably powerful pesticide developed by CSIRO in the 1960’s that turned out to be monumental balls up by CSIRO. They had accidentally invented a dooms day chemical that could destroy all plant life on earth so CSIRO had hushed up the discovery and buried all the pesticide with the radioactive shit in Maralinga, South Australia. However the Australian Military thought this chemical might prove to be a useful weapon. So they dug it up and began The Green Dragon Project.
A few army bush engineers stuck fifty gallons of the dooms day pesticide into a warhead and popped the warhead onto a Blue Streak missile the Poms had left behind when the Black Knight project was cancelled in 1971. It then dawned on the Australian Military that they couldn’t actually use the weapon unless: (A) they were suicidal or (B) they were barking mad. Therefore the Green Dragon Project was abandoned and the missile was left hidden in its underground silo. All records of this silo together with the records of the nearby underground launch centre were destroyed.
The missile launch centre was accidentally uncovered during the building of the new Bogan Council Offices in 1980. Nobody knew what the room was for but the underground facility became useful for the violent interrogation of rate payment defaulters and for holding really wild council parties - so no more questions were asked.
The silly Queensland stealing plot was actually engineered by Gerhardt Fondleschaft who turns out to be a former East German Stasi agent who is barking mad and determined to destroy the world. The Stasi knew all about Australia’s Dooms Day Missile and Gerhardt knows the missile is in a silo hidden under the Bogan police station. What he does not know are the launch codes. By involving the Bogan Council in the crazy plot to steal Queensland Gerhardt drags ASIO into the picture via their agent in council, Dicky Mower. Eventually, through ASIO, Gerhardt discovers the launch codes and prepares to fire the missile.
Mayor Porker and Sean Bean find out the truth just in time and there is a tremendous fight in the Star Chamber and Fondleschaft is killed just before he presses the launch button. Sean Bean, a fuck-wit to the last, starts to big note his role in saving the world and he sits down on the launch button. The world as we know it is destroyed.
There! That’s your convoluted history. Anything else you want to know?
(While Ron has been talking the rest of the Council has drifted in and have been listening to the story intently.)
Professor Wowser Brak: Do you seriously expect me to believe this ridiculous tale could have the catastrophic effect necessary to destroy civilisation?
Ron Yuteman: No,no,no! You haven’t been listening. I made it all up including you. There is no catastrophe. There is no 3009. There is no Professor Wowser Brak. It’s all an imaginary brouhaha created by me!
Professor Wowser Brak: You silly little egotistical man!
Ron Yuteman: Who are you calling egotistical, shit-face! I’ll put a full stop at the end of your existence that you won’t believe!
Mrs.Yuteman: WHAT’S ALL THAT BLINKIN’ SHOUTING? I’M TRYING TO WATCH CORONATION STREET OUT HERE!
Ron Yuteman: Oh shit. Now we’ve done it.
Professor Wowser Brak: Don’t try to intimidate me you imbecile! I am………
(Mrs.Yuteman storms into the Star Chamber. She is very, very, very cross.)
Mrs. Yuteman: I SAID - WHO’S MAKING ALL THE NOISE? I CAN HARDLY HEAR MY PROGRAMMES.
Professor Wowser Brak: Madam, where I come from a woman knows her place so I suggest you get back to your place while your dolt of a husband and I continue our rudely interrupted discussion!
Ron Yuteman (quietly): Oh, you poor sod.
WHAPPP!
(Some people may wonder about the significance of the word WHAPPP! What can it mean? It isn’t really a word at all and it certainly isn’t a sound. It is intended to convey an action and an action so violent, so silent and so devastating that it can only be imagined. Therefore imagine the strike of a death adder or the slash of a razor or the instantaneous transition from consciousness to coma. Brak didn’t see it coming and he didn’t feel it happening, he simply ceased to be the man he once was and immediately became someone entirely at odds with himself.
WHAPPP!
Mrs. Yuteman looks down at Brak and then moves across the room like a death in the family. She pauses to hiss something at Ron that drains the blood from his face. Mrs.Yuteman then leaves the Star Chamber and it seems to became brighter with her absence)
Ron Yuteman: I have to go now. This thing is over. I’m leaving you all here in this room and I’m going to seal it. At least, I’m going to write that I’m sealing the room and that comes to the same thing.
(Ron leaves the room and seals it.)
**************************************************************
End Note by Professor Wowser Brak
And so my history was formed. Some of you live in the time of 2009 and can read the words written in 3009. There is nothing strange about that. The computer works in many ways at the quantum level and instantaneous transfer of information across time is normal.
However, nothing I do in 3009 can change what has happened since 2009 because I must already have done it of course. Therefore the future’s influence on the past is forbidden. What is permissible is for the past to fundamentally alter all futures. But not instantaneously - it takes time.
So when Mrs. Yuteman WHAPPPED me it had no immediately discernable effect because Mrs Yuteman and I are just words on a screen. We are words that represent real people but still only words. Rather like shadows represent solid objects and when one shadow strikes another not too much happens. Except – Mother Nature is nothing if not patient and eventually Mrs Yuteman’s WHAPPP got through to me. It took 1000 years.
When it did hit me the result was not immediate. Mrs Yuteman had struck at my shadow and time dealt the blow to the shadow caster. In 3009 I flinched and my 2009 shadow flexed to that reaction – the forbidden influence of future to past had taken place. This new past shadow influenced the future shadow caster in accordance with natural law but then the shadow caster reached back to the shadow once more. It was a tiny effect that defied all laws of physics. It was tiny but it grew, or by your 2009 measure – it grows. And so it continues, the pulse of action and reaction of shadow and caster becomes a resonance that turns to a catastrophic wave of misplaced time that will change your world to mine.
In a few months cyclones will be turning seas into mountains of heaved water. Shrieking winds will scour the earth, blasting rock and soil into the atmosphere until the sun is buried and then the ice will come. For decades this world will lie in a frozen pod and almost all living things will perish. Eventually the dust will fall from the atmosphere and darken the crust of ice. When the sun glows through the clearing air, its warmth will melt the frozen mountains of water and they will sink back into muddy seas and, as the long winter night ends, life will gradually return to archipelagos of land pushed above the swamps.
My research has revealed other examples of Ron Yuteman’s work. In one essay he has this to say about Mrs.Yuteman.
“Those who choose to provoke Mrs.Yuteman do so at their peril for they shall surely meet a dreadful fate more terrible by far than any death imagined.”
It might be thought that the writer was being ironic or being sarcastic - he was not.
I often visit the Star Chamber, now rebuilt in the History Hall of our university. I look at the skeletal remains of the Council who had all been written as creatures of flesh and were therefore expected to naturally decompose. Then I look at the mummified remains of myself. A character written as a shade of ‘life to come’ and devoid of solid form can only fade and wither on the page. This page has ended.
Professor Wowser Brak. Boganville,
April 3009
FILE COMPLETION.
.
(Professor Brak is the Meritorious Professor of Primitive Politics and Early Political Demonomics at The Pauline Hanson Memorial University, Boganville.)
This is the fifth part of a report on the discovery of early electronic media describing the administration of Boganville before The Failing of 2010 - 2012.
Ron Yuteman has begun production of his musical The Sound of Prozac in which we see some interesting examples of 21st century behaviour. Among them will be noted the treatment of non-productive members of society. Instead of putting these elements back into the food chain our ancestors seemed to prefer to prolong the misery for no other purpose than commercial gain. This obsession with commercial gain may be significant.
We begin this fifth part of the report with a meeting in the Star Chamber between Mayor Porker and Councillor Sean Bean.
Prof. W. Brak. Boganville,
April 3009
*********************************************************
Mayor Porker: This had better be good, Sean. I was going to have an early night.
Councillor Bean: You did tell us to keep alert for anything significant so I’m just doing what you said, Porky.
Mayor Porker: Okay, what is it that’s so significant it can’t wait till tomorrow?
Councillor Bean: Well, me and Gerhardt are supposed to be representatives from Social Services in this Sound of Prozac thing, right?
Mayor Porker: I don’t know, I’ll take your word for it.
Councillor Bean: We are. Anyway, Me and Gerhardt were told by Ron Yuteman to wander around getting a feel for our parts. He must think we’re playing a couple of wankers. (laughs) See? Feel for our parts? Wankers? Never mind. So we are looking around in the Catheter Creek admin area under the watchful eye of the real DON, Ethel Crabstick. She said we could look at a few files to see how the records worked and things like that so I’m picking a few at random and having a look when I see a name I recognise - Charles Brigalow.
Mayor Porker: And you know this Charles Bigalow?
Councillor Bean: Brigalow, Porky, Brigalow. I don’t really know him but after you told us about the constitution and your plan I did a bit of research on the Internet. There’s quite a bit of reference to Brigalow associated with Queensland and land tenure. I’ve even heard the stories myself. It’s a conspiracy buffs dream and every nutter in Queensland is rabbiting on about how we’ve had all our land rights pinched by the state and stuff like that.
Mayor Porker: That’s it is it? You’ve found a resident with the same name as a half-assed conspiracy theory? That’s why I’m here instead of in bed with a mug of cocoa?
Councillor Bean: No that is not it. I looked through the file and it said Charles Brigalow had been brought to Catheter Creek in 1999 and at the time he was 94 years old and had advanced Alzheimer’s disease, he had also lost an arm during World War Two. Charles Brigalow had no family recorded in the file and the date of death box was blank. At this point Ethel Crabstick looked over my shoulder to see what I was looking at. She snatched the file away from me as though it was her personal pap smear results and threw us out of the office; it was that sudden. One minute we were a couple of amusing little actors doing some role research and the next minute we were a pair of snooping arseholes. I’ve never seen anyone get so upset, so quickly.
Mayor Porker: Maybe she just didn’t like you looking at confidential files. She screwed up and she fixed it as best she could.
Councillor Bean: That’s what Gerhardt said but I checked around a bit more. I visited the Dementia Wing and there was a party going on. Some old dear called Doris was having a birthday and one of the nurses told me Doris was Catheter Creek’s oldest resident at 102 years old. I asked her about Charlie Brigalow, because, according to information I had, he would be 104 years old but the nurse just laughed and asked me where I’d got that information. She introduced me to Charlie who was wearing a Davy Crocket hat and he poured me an orange squash. The Charlie Brigalow they have is 78 years old and he’s got two good arms. He’s got Alzheimer’s all right and can’t remember his own name but otherwise he’s quite sprightly. Not only that but he only arrived at Catheter Creek six months ago. The nurse knew that because it was the day after the Dementia Wing had a complete change of staff. The entire nursing staff, including the nurse I spoke to, were replacements drafted in without notice the day before Charlie was brought in. So what do you make of that?
Mayor Porker: Perhaps they’re just lousy at record keeping and perhaps that’s why the DON was so uptight, she doesn’t want anyone to know they are a bunch of useless buggers. They sound a bit like Bogan Council actually.
Councillor Bean: Yeah, perhaps, except for two things. I talked to some of the staff in the other sections. One of them has been here for twelve years and she remembers Charlie Brigalow arriving. She said it was just before the millennium celebrations because she was working in the Dementia Wing at the time and she was the nurse told to look out for Charlie during the celebrations. This nurse told me Charlie died about two years later in 2002. She remembers it because the entire Dementia Wing staff members were moved to other sections just after Charlie died and she couldn’t go to the funeral because her new shift times didn’t coincide. I talked to others in the place and everyone knows Charlie Brigalow but as far as I can tell there have been at least three different Charlie Brigalows at Catheter Creek since 1999. All of them with Alzheimer’s and none of them had any living family. Now………..
Ron Yuteman: That’s enough! Stop now! No more, no more! Cease, desist and end it, all over! Just bloody well stop right there!
Mayor Porker: What’s going on?
Councillor Bean: Yeah, what’s going on? I was going well then.
(Yuteman gestures wildly. He waves his arms trying to show that he is referring to the words, to the names of characters, to the story line, to the blog itself, even the entire blogosphere and not forgetting the complete history of mans futile attempts to communicate.)
Ron Yuteman: This……..whole thing is shit! I can’t believe I let it get this far. I mean what are we doing? Charlie Brigalow? Stealing Queensland? Sound of fucking Prozac? What was I thinking of? It’s going to stop right now!
Mayor Porker: Steady down Ron for goodness sake. It’s not that bad surely?
Councillor Bean: Yeah, I thought I was handling it just right. I think I had the exact nuance and……
Ron Yuteman: Nuance? Bleeding nuance? Sean, your acting makes Bela Lugosi look subtle. Anyway, it’s not just the acting. The concept is crap and that’s putting it mildly.
(Another figure scurries into the Star Chamber and confronts Yuteman.)
Professor Wowser Brak: Excuse me, aren’t you in the wrong bit?
Ron Yuteman: Who the fuck are you?
Professor Wowser Brak: I am Professor Wowser Brak of the Pauline Hanson………
Ron Yuteman: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, the bloke supposed to be from 3009 looking back on all this shit and trying to make sense of it all and not doing a very good job. Look - just piss off, will you? There’s a good chap.
Professor Wowser Brak: I will most certainly not piss off! You, sir, are an egotistical fool and this part of the post is mine. You should confine yourself to the little musical you have been composing and leave the more complicated machinations of time and the universe to me. Now kindly leave the Star Chamber where your betters are attempting to unravel the convoluted mysteries of history.
Ron Yuteman: Convoluted mysteries of history my arse. This whole plot is mine, I’m ashamed to say, including the bit where a dick-headed professor from the future tries to find…. Ah, Bollocks! Look, I’ll prove it! This is your convoluted mystery:
The whole thing is based on some cataclysmic disaster that is supposed to occur in 2012. You are viewing this from 1000 years in the future after you have managed to dig your way out of a stone age you were chucked into by this disaster. You find some old records that tell you the story of The Bogan Star Chamber, a mob who have been persuaded to involve themselves in a quite ridiculous plot to steal Queensland
There’s a lot of complicated shit that boils down to a bloke called The Principal Land Commissioner Attending. This character turns out to be Charlie Brigalow, an identity invented by the establishment to act as fall guy if their take-over of Queensland goes belly up.
First though, to trigger the take over, there has to be a serious threat to Queensland so I made up the following bullshit. The threat is to be contrived by using a few drops of an unbelievably powerful pesticide developed by CSIRO in the 1960’s that turned out to be monumental balls up by CSIRO. They had accidentally invented a dooms day chemical that could destroy all plant life on earth so CSIRO had hushed up the discovery and buried all the pesticide with the radioactive shit in Maralinga, South Australia. However the Australian Military thought this chemical might prove to be a useful weapon. So they dug it up and began The Green Dragon Project.
A few army bush engineers stuck fifty gallons of the dooms day pesticide into a warhead and popped the warhead onto a Blue Streak missile the Poms had left behind when the Black Knight project was cancelled in 1971. It then dawned on the Australian Military that they couldn’t actually use the weapon unless: (A) they were suicidal or (B) they were barking mad. Therefore the Green Dragon Project was abandoned and the missile was left hidden in its underground silo. All records of this silo together with the records of the nearby underground launch centre were destroyed.
The missile launch centre was accidentally uncovered during the building of the new Bogan Council Offices in 1980. Nobody knew what the room was for but the underground facility became useful for the violent interrogation of rate payment defaulters and for holding really wild council parties - so no more questions were asked.
The silly Queensland stealing plot was actually engineered by Gerhardt Fondleschaft who turns out to be a former East German Stasi agent who is barking mad and determined to destroy the world. The Stasi knew all about Australia’s Dooms Day Missile and Gerhardt knows the missile is in a silo hidden under the Bogan police station. What he does not know are the launch codes. By involving the Bogan Council in the crazy plot to steal Queensland Gerhardt drags ASIO into the picture via their agent in council, Dicky Mower. Eventually, through ASIO, Gerhardt discovers the launch codes and prepares to fire the missile.
Mayor Porker and Sean Bean find out the truth just in time and there is a tremendous fight in the Star Chamber and Fondleschaft is killed just before he presses the launch button. Sean Bean, a fuck-wit to the last, starts to big note his role in saving the world and he sits down on the launch button. The world as we know it is destroyed.
There! That’s your convoluted history. Anything else you want to know?
(While Ron has been talking the rest of the Council has drifted in and have been listening to the story intently.)
Professor Wowser Brak: Do you seriously expect me to believe this ridiculous tale could have the catastrophic effect necessary to destroy civilisation?
Ron Yuteman: No,no,no! You haven’t been listening. I made it all up including you. There is no catastrophe. There is no 3009. There is no Professor Wowser Brak. It’s all an imaginary brouhaha created by me!
Professor Wowser Brak: You silly little egotistical man!
Ron Yuteman: Who are you calling egotistical, shit-face! I’ll put a full stop at the end of your existence that you won’t believe!
Mrs.Yuteman: WHAT’S ALL THAT BLINKIN’ SHOUTING? I’M TRYING TO WATCH CORONATION STREET OUT HERE!
Ron Yuteman: Oh shit. Now we’ve done it.
Professor Wowser Brak: Don’t try to intimidate me you imbecile! I am………
(Mrs.Yuteman storms into the Star Chamber. She is very, very, very cross.)
Mrs. Yuteman: I SAID - WHO’S MAKING ALL THE NOISE? I CAN HARDLY HEAR MY PROGRAMMES.
Professor Wowser Brak: Madam, where I come from a woman knows her place so I suggest you get back to your place while your dolt of a husband and I continue our rudely interrupted discussion!
Ron Yuteman (quietly): Oh, you poor sod.
WHAPPP!
(Some people may wonder about the significance of the word WHAPPP! What can it mean? It isn’t really a word at all and it certainly isn’t a sound. It is intended to convey an action and an action so violent, so silent and so devastating that it can only be imagined. Therefore imagine the strike of a death adder or the slash of a razor or the instantaneous transition from consciousness to coma. Brak didn’t see it coming and he didn’t feel it happening, he simply ceased to be the man he once was and immediately became someone entirely at odds with himself.
WHAPPP!
Mrs. Yuteman looks down at Brak and then moves across the room like a death in the family. She pauses to hiss something at Ron that drains the blood from his face. Mrs.Yuteman then leaves the Star Chamber and it seems to became brighter with her absence)
Ron Yuteman: I have to go now. This thing is over. I’m leaving you all here in this room and I’m going to seal it. At least, I’m going to write that I’m sealing the room and that comes to the same thing.
(Ron leaves the room and seals it.)
**************************************************************
End Note by Professor Wowser Brak
And so my history was formed. Some of you live in the time of 2009 and can read the words written in 3009. There is nothing strange about that. The computer works in many ways at the quantum level and instantaneous transfer of information across time is normal.
However, nothing I do in 3009 can change what has happened since 2009 because I must already have done it of course. Therefore the future’s influence on the past is forbidden. What is permissible is for the past to fundamentally alter all futures. But not instantaneously - it takes time.
So when Mrs. Yuteman WHAPPPED me it had no immediately discernable effect because Mrs Yuteman and I are just words on a screen. We are words that represent real people but still only words. Rather like shadows represent solid objects and when one shadow strikes another not too much happens. Except – Mother Nature is nothing if not patient and eventually Mrs Yuteman’s WHAPPP got through to me. It took 1000 years.
When it did hit me the result was not immediate. Mrs Yuteman had struck at my shadow and time dealt the blow to the shadow caster. In 3009 I flinched and my 2009 shadow flexed to that reaction – the forbidden influence of future to past had taken place. This new past shadow influenced the future shadow caster in accordance with natural law but then the shadow caster reached back to the shadow once more. It was a tiny effect that defied all laws of physics. It was tiny but it grew, or by your 2009 measure – it grows. And so it continues, the pulse of action and reaction of shadow and caster becomes a resonance that turns to a catastrophic wave of misplaced time that will change your world to mine.
In a few months cyclones will be turning seas into mountains of heaved water. Shrieking winds will scour the earth, blasting rock and soil into the atmosphere until the sun is buried and then the ice will come. For decades this world will lie in a frozen pod and almost all living things will perish. Eventually the dust will fall from the atmosphere and darken the crust of ice. When the sun glows through the clearing air, its warmth will melt the frozen mountains of water and they will sink back into muddy seas and, as the long winter night ends, life will gradually return to archipelagos of land pushed above the swamps.
My research has revealed other examples of Ron Yuteman’s work. In one essay he has this to say about Mrs.Yuteman.
“Those who choose to provoke Mrs.Yuteman do so at their peril for they shall surely meet a dreadful fate more terrible by far than any death imagined.”
It might be thought that the writer was being ironic or being sarcastic - he was not.
I often visit the Star Chamber, now rebuilt in the History Hall of our university. I look at the skeletal remains of the Council who had all been written as creatures of flesh and were therefore expected to naturally decompose. Then I look at the mummified remains of myself. A character written as a shade of ‘life to come’ and devoid of solid form can only fade and wither on the page. This page has ended.
Professor Wowser Brak. Boganville,
April 3009
FILE COMPLETION.
.
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