Monday, 2nd February, 1998
I’ve never sought to hide the fact that I am a Queen’s Person, and the Republic debate is in my belief a noisy skittish diversion from my government’s ongoing core purpose, that of kicking the head of any impertinent pauper (the term battler I think in this context has reached its use-by date) still able to afford dog food and thongs and a mouldy tent for his consumptive extended family; and shrinking the ABC to a monthly amateur hour with bird imitations in Leichhardt Town Hall, unbroadcast owing to budget constraints.
I and Minchin therefore proposed that election to what is not inappropriately known in abbreviation as the Con Con be (1) by me, or (2) by filling in twice, using three sides of the paper only, the already prenumbered squares of an 802 page voting form you didn’t, owing to postal difficulties, in fact receive. And that of course was only if you wanted to. I hoped thereby to achieve a jolly foregathering of postally stable and crossword-literate blue-haired monarchists enjoying tea and lamingtons, in the not inappropriately named Kings Hall, and singing Her song and waving flags.
What I got instead, I’m sad to say, was a swift widespread infectious plague of what I can only call Democracy, with the Chardonnay Jacobins of pinkest Paddington in the nightly asnigger on prime time television and tumbrils gathered on Parliament lawn. Minchin, perspiring, quickly proposed (and his head you mark my words will be the first seen gnawing the side of the basket if this fails) that he and one McGarvie put up, and force through, a model so comprehensively inane and vacuous (the status quo, no Queen, and my own ongoing benign dictatorship) that I then as Temporary Lord Protector could justly respond, ‘Why, good heavens, it’s almost exactly the same as what we have now, so I can’t see why it’s worth expending taxpayers’ money on a costly cosmetic exercise whose only imaginable purpose is to upset my close friend Her Gracious Majesty Lillibet of that Ilk. I will, however, don royal robes, and perhaps a laurel crown, and open the Olympiad myself. And that should please everybody.’ If asked to cop this, Minchin slyly avers, the Mob would then angrily and scornfully vote it into outer darkness thus over time accrue for me a well-placed Knighthood of the Garter (and a butt of Malmsey perhaps) from His grateful Majesty Charles III.
Minchin’s triple-sideways-back-flip-with-pike has gone down so badly (as did the prattling jellyfish McGarvie) that Costello and Abbott, in their usual matey knees-up antiphonal lather of smirking and thigh-slapping happiness, then abruptly chorused their support for Mobocracy, followed within hours, astoundingly, by all my loyal cabinet, excepting McLachlan, who was uncontactably outdoors observing the Crutching, and Tim Fischer, who was upstairs reading Proust.
The talk is now, amazingly, of my replacement and Costello’s imminent fuhrership (and coronation as Peter the Greater) under the New Order, with Reith as Himmler and Abbott, sadly, as Rudolf Hess.
And this is only the second day.
Watch this space.