“Oh, pooh!”

Poor old Kevin.
A few years back, 22 million preferred to elect a mad monk in budgie-smugglers rather than Rudd to lead the country. And now this. First, Kevin’s not fit to run Australia. Now Turnbull declares he’s not even fit to run a New York-based insane asylum. How useless can one man be?

Despite my glowing recommendations posted in yesterday’s blog (copied to the PM), it seems that I’ve been overruled. Turnbull would much prefer to back a hideous Godzilla with a speech impediment from across the trench to run for UN Secretary General rather than one of our former Prime Ministers. 

Feeling a little sorry for him, I ring Kevin to offer my condolences and a few suggestions. There is always a good piss-up in a brewery to try his hand at, I say. And then there’s the “tits on a bull” option. In America, I continue, people move to Canada if they are not wanted. Why don’t you try to bugger off there? That numb-skull they’ve got in charge there now lets all sorts of garbage into the country, so why would he draw the line with you?

Maybe Rudd should start calling himself Tin-Tin, I suggest, before he hangs up on me. That way people might conclude that if he looks like and is named after a cartoon character so universally loved, the real thing couldn’t possibly be as God-awful as the utterly damning evidence might otherwise suggest.
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