John Clare Writings

Tony Abbott’s Inspired Restoration

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I grew up with P.G.Wodehouse, The Goons, Monty Python, etc, so I welcome Tony Abbott’s brilliant decision to re-open for this country the rich vein of ludicrousness represented by knights and dames. No sooner had he done so than every television identity had bestowed a title on his or her co-presenter. Childish, you might say. No worries. Laughing has been suppressed by Madame Speaker (soon to be Dame Speaker perhaps?). You can’t quarrel with that. We love titled folk as much as we love celebrities. In fact, what’s the difference?  We laugh at both. But we already have our honours, you might say. Really? Australian Of The year? Pshaw!. This only elevates you above the hoi polloi for 12 months, or less. Knighted scoundrels or genuine heroes brandish their titles in perpetuity, to be stripped only in cases so dire as to warrant the gun left tactfully on the table. I once worked for Sir Conrad Black. Make of that what you will.

After Tony’s announcement a delectable interlude was provided by Sir David Flint (I hope I do not jump the gun) bashfully waving away the possibility that he might receive the order of the pork sword, but professing staunch willingness to accept whatever honour ‘his soverign’ might confer on this humble Crucifer, shucks. Unfortunately he forgot to mention ‘his God’. Of course some might be labouring under the delusion that his God was a different God to that one and only divine being to whom The Queen – my sovereign and Tony’s – bent her knee. But no, not really. There is no contradiction here. Surely the Queen is not really a proddo! Henry VIII saw himself as a tyke (you’ll pardon me if I exercise my legal Bigot’s license) until the day he died.

The Pope saw it differently, but….hmm, ah… where was I? Oh yes, Elizabeth I had to be on her guard lest another Mick conspirator bump her off and replace her with… well, her Catholic sister for instance. Anyone laughing at my display of expertise in this area will be drawn and quartered. Now, where was I?

Ah, yes. The poms despise us, you might say. ‘Get your shitty stars off our flag!’ Troops of them coming out here and singing convict songs in Sydney pubs before the Ashes. All done with fondly patronising condescension. And we are too dumb anyway to know what they were singing about. We are so lucky to have the poms watching over us. You object to the term poms? Don’t you know that we have this wonderful new bigot’s licence. Why, I can call George Brandis Marshmallow Head or Poon Voice.

Sheer genius, Tony, Sheer genius.

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