Only known likeness of St Ira, Charcoal on otter-skin. Gottfried von Boyes-Garten, C 1543. (with permission) Sir Lancelot Boyeketeh, Grimwald unter den wald, 1812.

Dear reader, we take the briefest intervals from the excellent poetry of Emiritus Professor Geoffrey Boyes, (late of Magdalen College Ox)  to give you a fragment of an ancient, some say ‘Arisptophanic poem’. Inscribed on clay tablet in cuneiform it took quite a bit of translating, (we are indebted to Mrs Culthorpe prior to her internship with the Coalition for the translation) as it proves the cultural depth of  the near-north at a time when it was hitherto perceived as being coarse, vulgar and uncivilised. Credited to our favourite bard of the bucolic ballad, Saint Ira of Tolmie, it shines a light on the human condition.

Though the true origins of both the bard and the poem are at the very least enigmatic, we do know that, like his namesake St Patrick of Ira, he cleansed Tolmie of Vipers, and ensured that those attuned to his lyricism were gripped by an insatiable desire to procreate. Perhaps tellingly his poems fell on deaf- ears, but were widely adopted by the ‘bunnies’ in which he refers to.

Either way it’s a stirring poem and details, chapter and verse, what people did in olden days before social media, the telly and sportsbet 24/7

Sean Connery poses, ‘The lays of ancient Ira” J.A Rank Corp c. 1958. The first filmic adaptation of the life of the obscure Australian bard. Filmed on location Coogee, Sydney.

Take it away Ira,…..

God help us all.

I wandered out today, half kissed,

At the time when the mist was thickest,

Don’t dismiss this mist, may it still persist,

‘Til I buy myself some knickers!

This mist, of which I speak of here,

Adds nothing to this telling.

It’s merely here for atmosphere,

Though thick and evil smelling!

A bride, new wed, it’s said, fell dead,

While losing her maiden status,

Her life’s now fled, so’s her maidenhead…

Theatrical card “Ira’s Bunnies” unreleased Warner Bros Musical C. 1943. Starring Errol Flynn and Ziegfeld Girls.

 See how poems improve through pathos…?

But back to my fear of no under gear

And my need for—God help us, if only a

Shop would appear, no matter how dear,

If it saves my arse from pneumonia!

They say that a rabbit has the indecent habit

Of doing it from daylight ‘til dusk.

That’s why lady bunnies have permanent big tummies

But it’s their men who look permanently fucked. 

I’ll put an end to these verses which recount my reverses,

Whilst pursuing new knickers and sox.

But how cruelly perverse is this fellow who swears he’s

My friend? May the gods rot his jocks!

Obverse side of Cuneiform tablet, perhaps the only portrait of young Ira teaching Aristotle trigonometry. Unearthed Tolmie waste transfer station. C. 2011, carbon dated 412 b.c

He writes poems about me which we all plainly see,

Demonstrate very little research.

His attempts at biography and verse choreography

Do only his own standing besmirch.

 I would praise him much more, but his insults galore,

Have quite pierced this old mongrel’s heart.

Still, I regret to my core, my calling him a whore.

It’s his poetry makes him sound like a tart!

This might be part six, 

Mr Whu reminds the P.M that brain size isn’t all that important in politics

Dear reader we take up where we left off, Ces and Quent, the two heroes of this saga being swept along by a wave of raw sewerage under the very bowels of Parliament. Ces’s brain-wave that the sewerage was flowing IN rather than OUT, and Quent’s discovery that ‘Sheilah-shit’ looks exactly the same as ‘bloke-shit’. Which ever way you look at it’s a fundamental symbol of equality the world over. 

But worryingly, the turgid effluvium was not out bound but in-bound, 

Which begs the question; Why? 

And with scant knowledge of what goes on beneath the bowels of our nations capital, the near certainty, that their journey, no matter how traumatic, must COME TO AN END!

P.M ‘opens his lunch’. Disciplined staffer pretends not to notice.

As the parliamentary forecourt was only several hundred meters from the august (and tastefully designed) portico of Parliament itself, it had to, just like the P.Ms serious deliberations on Wimmin-hood had to be LEADING US SOMEWHERE!

Will their downfall be their outfall? 

Catch up in this excremental expose…….( read on) 

“Jeez Quent, no matter how we swim against it, it just keeps pushing us onwards. 

‘Yep Ces, it’s got a power all of its own, who would’ve thought that shit could be intelligent?

Yep it’s like Barnaby, there’s an irrefutable power of force at work, even though intelligence in any quantifiable extent is non existent!

Barnaby. A GENIUS on the Parliamentary floor! Straining under the pressure of a carbon policy.

Yep beats what’s going on in Parliament, if I had a microscope and a scanner I might be able to detect Barnaby’s shit from the general shit. Which would be a faeces (thesis)  in itself’. (Ces was fond of a pun under bleak circumstances) .

We both laughed, Barnaby and intelligence and shit was just too rich.

But still, with fear in their hearts they knew they were going somewhere, and it felt sinister. 

‘Jeez, Quent, its so dark, if we had something to hold on to? 

I know Quent , you cant get a grip on this, it’s just like the defilement of Mrs Culthorpe, no matter how close we get it just drifts past. 

Can you hear something? 

“What’!, Ces, doing a steady dog-paddle, replied, 

‘There’s this sound of surging, sort of like paddle wheels, or the sound the bath makes when it goes down the plug hole, and look’!

And sure enough there was a light ahead. Very faint and indistinct, and yet glowing and growing as the effluent bore them on. Then, just as it grew perceptibly lighter they could detect singing. 

Barnaby, on the cusp of choking out a carbon policy.

It was so faint and indistinct, but unerringly familiar. 

‘Jeez Quent, if this is heaven  I reckon the plumber should be sacked, 

Too right Ces, and the smell is up to high-heaven, but not in an enlightened kinda way’!. 

The stream increased its flow and they could now just float onwards.

YOU BEAUTY! Choked out a Hard-Dark-one and it stands as a Fair Dinkum CARBON POLICY! Another demonstration of GENIUS!

It was uncanny, but they’d got used to the odour, and reflected that if this was their last moment, it wasn’t all that bad. They could’ve been refugees on Manaus, or even little aboriginal kiddies destined for a lifetime of incarceration, or worse still a parliamentary intern who also happened to be female, Or even an intern of a private aged-care facility run by a bloke who happened to spend most of his time on the Greek isles. Sensing their demise, they’d become philosophical and with thoughts distracted and floating to a higher place, they resigned themselves to an aqueous immolation. 

But, to their surprise, the singing grew louder, and the stream became a torrent, and just as they floated into a blinding light a pair of massive hands picked them out and plonked them onto a sort of platform. 

Wiping themselves down, they blinked. Blinked again, then wiped their eyes. For though they could see the viscous discharge being directed to vats, which poured their oleaginous goo into rivulets, they also became aware of the bulk of a man who loomed over them, and just then the penny dropped.

After Choking out a fair dinkum carbon policy, Barnaby gets on to more urgent matters. A sheilah in Parliament policy!!

Who was this master of the nether regions? Who is the is Feurher of the foecal matter? What portentous event is about to vent? 

Find out in our next fulminating episode, “A suppository of wisdom”, or “Seven pillocks to Wisden”, and read what fate befalls those who stand to save the honour of the fallen women of parliament . 

Big Mac! A man you can trust.

Dear reader, as you may recall, the pcbycp duo of intrepid investigative journalists, Quent and Ces were on the hunt for the penis wielding oppressor who so shamefully defiled Mrs Culthorpe. And to demonstrate that honour still stood as a code amongst decent men they determined to catch the culprit at whatever cost!

The nationals in trouble. Another sheilah sacrifice is made. (To appease the ‘Man-Gods’)

But the closer they got to the PM’s office the more they became entangled in a Machiavellian Machination of miasmic malignancy, to whit they now find themselves about to be castrated and much worse by an angry mob of very very angry women hell-bent on exacting revenge upon the patriarchy.  But just when they were to be relieved of hemispheres hitherto held hinter-most the throng were distracted. And to a woman, stood up and listened. A live feed from somewhere within the interstices of Federal Parliament distracted them. Will, Quent and Ces escape the prerequisites of employment as eunuchs in the Caliphs court? Or will they roll away on hemispheres untarnished? Find out in this next circumferential episode. ….. 

The sounds Ces, Quent and the angry mob were uncanny, yet unerringly familiar. Quoit playing in Parliament? Or something much worse….read on….. 

This was beyond the pale., 

And then to confirm our worst suspicions, an exhaustive “Uggghhhhuuhhhhhrrrrr” from one of the un-named participants and a round of applause from his companions. Was the exhultative groan epithetic of some more visceral activity that affronted the very core of parliamentary standards?

Solid performers

Pole-axed, could this be true? Or was it the evil CCP infiltrating the corridors of power and making our leaders, respected and revered the world over to be  parodied as infantile, puerile, penis fixated, onanistic tools?

WE held our breath, clearly a Russian ploy, and as the ‘wimmin-hood’ paused, and stood aghast, we saw our opportunity and crawled right under em. And finding an attractively designed sewer maintenance, ‘person-hole’ we prised it open and slid in. 

And that’s where we found ourselves under the Parliament itself. In the sewerage system, the bowels of the nation so to speak, and that’s I’m afraid dear reader is where our next set of troubles really began.

Ces chuckled, he was always good to have in a tight squeeze; ’Jeez Quent, the rapist ‘d be shittin himself, who would’ve thought, one moment we’re about to be de- balled and now we’re up to our necks in shit’. 

MATESHIP! A force more powerful than Sheilah-Dom!

‘Funny’ I mused, ‘down here you can’t really tell sheilah-shit from bloke-shit’. 

‘There’s equity in that’! Ces sniggered. 

You had to admit it was funny, you’d think their shit didn’t’.. I never finished, we just collapsed with laughter. …

What troubles.

We were in a darker place than a backbenchers stipend unassisted by lobbyists from the Coal industry, and without the kickbacks or the proverbial barbed wire canoe, we were borne along by the flow of raw sewerage. 

Ces ejaculated: ’why’s it going the wrong way’? ‘Too right’! Quent affirmed; “these Sheilah’s have no idea’!

Deep thinkers within the Nationals

“Nah not that, it’s the flow of the sewerage. By my calculations the outflow should be going south, but listen’. WE listened and sure enough the ‘woosh woosh’ was getting closer. The dreadful truth dawned, the sewerage was not flowing away from Parliament, but towards it. With our heroes borne by the sludge. What lies in store? And why is the sewerage going towards the highest office in the land? Rather than away, as sewerage is SUPPOSED TO DO? Does this point to something portentous? 

Will Ces and Quent be able to save the office of the P.M from more ignominy? And what were those sounds that so distracted the throng?

Are Quent and Ces expecting a big job from Parliament?

Will their downfall be their outfall? 

Find out in our next evacuating episode of pcbycp;

 “A royal flush and you’re Prince Andrewed” or……. 

Mrs Culthorpes ereplacement tea-lady (extreme right hand side)

“A sink hole in Canberra? Spot the difference”. 

Scomo and Dutto upload another dick-joke during question time.

Dear reader, our heroes, awaiting ritual castration by a frenzied mob of angry sheilahs sought refuge in the solace that the PM always knew how to deal with the women problem.

And if we were to be mutilated to prove a point it was in the end a cause worth being mutilated for. There was sanctity in spite of the terror that was about to reign over us. (oblique references to Her Majesty are entirely coincidental). We take up where we left off, a couple of balls short of the Parliamentary Forecourt. 

We were listening in rapture to Scomo and Dutto telling another dick joke, unawares that this important and trenchant piece of imaginative story telling was being broadcast to the general public. 

We waitied breathless to hear the punchline. Was it the one about the uncircumcised Rabbi, who forgot his towel at the public baths? Or howsabout the one about the West Indian cricketers who were pissing off the Sydney Harbour Bridge? Could it be the one about the China-man who’d they called “the Button-Champignon”?

‘Too effing right Dutto you funny BASTARD’. P.M responds favourably to Dutto’s newie on the Rabbi and the public baths.

Ces who’s a bit of an expert on this subject hoped it was a newie. 

He’d worn all the others out and wasn’t up to thinking of any new angles. Though we’d become a multi-cultural pluralist society, here, as in Parliament it was all white-bread and refined sugar. It kept the taint of political-correctness at bay and ensured that whatever dick joke we did hear would be readilly transferrable to the bar at the Mathew Flinders Hotel.  Political correctness and wowserism had left a hole in Ces’s repertoire. And it was a source of some shame perhaps on a national perspective that dick jokes that sprang fresh from the mind of anedotal circumstance were in short supply. An insidious sign that perhaps within the cultural fabric of this mighty country, something was NOT QUITE RIGHT! 

But Ces brightened up and mused as the angry throng drew closer and closer; “Spose that’s what Parliament is for? To demonstrate leadership, and dick-jokes represent the progressive side of politics”! 

I had to admit, though the Coalition was allegedly conservative, they were leaders in ‘progressive  dick – jokes’. Once Again Ces was crystaline in his ability to assess a situation.

Michaela tried a dick- joke, but though she tried her very best it is acknowledged that sheilahs shoudn’t do dick Jokes. It’s ” Unbecoming” ( HRH Prince Andrew).

But there was something else, the live feed switched to another exigious corner of the  Parliamentary offices. Being a Friday arvo, we knew that this could only be a MEN- ONLY conversation, as no sheilah would dare stay back after hours after what had happened to Mrs Culthorpe.

Unfamiliar voices were talking about the Labor front bench, and then the women in their own party, all two of them. 

And then. We could hear this swishing sound, sort of like the sound a piston makes a ‘whoosh whoosh’ when it slides in and out of the cylinder block. We thought, this is odd, it just doesn’t sound like Senate Estimates. But this was errie, and the sheilahs, who were about to de- ball us just for being decent blokes in the wrong place at the wrong time were absorbed in what was crackling above their ears. For once, as in the kitchen, their nagging pre-disposition to emotional fury had been STILLED!

We could hear one bloke quite distinctively, (maybe a staffer?), saying; ‘I reckon I could hit her between the tits if I aim and shoot at the same time. And another;  go-orne i’ll betchya fifty ya cant’, an the other bloke saying, ‘I aint shot my load yet’!

What was this? We were staggered, 

Dazza does a great dick- joke and reckons quite rightly that ” people of colour” should have a laugh every now and then. No harm intended.

Were they playing quoits in the parliamentary offices, another clear sign of disrespect?

Der reader, is quoit playing allowed in Federal Parliament? Who’s quoit are they talking about? Find out in our next Parlaimentary session of high intrigue, “ A mis-timed Quoit and you’re’ Oit’?

Or…. “A plenary session obsession confession”