Extraordinarily Christopher Pyne, MP, (‘the lip-sticked poodle’) did not resign in scandal as is common amongst Coalition MP’s but found preferment in private enterprise lobbying to his old portfolio. No conflict of interest here.
Dear reader, our heroes find themselves in a real fix, and not even ‘the fixer’, (does anyone remember our former Trade Minister Christopher Pyne?) can help them out. Faced with the titanic forces of a cyclonic updraft they are trapped, cocooned, entombed inside the stalled Rotodyne and about to be hurtled into a subatomic downdraft. Alone, dispirited and hanging on for grim life their captive, (‘is that a professor in your back paddock’?) Mirabella still screams insults from inside the cockpit even though she is trussed and hog tied more securely than a disaffected greens senator who wants a voice. Cos no one can be bothered listening.
What will happen? Could it be more implausibly plausible as a weather balloon? Tune into this atmospheric and meteorologically nuanced episode for the next meteorologically nuanced update…
‘WHAT THE’!
That was all Terry could exclaim in his exasperation as the aircraft, its crew and the bound and trussed Sophie bumped about in the maelstrom.
‘Tudgey’ was into the big picture, railways, robo-debts, and pork swords-manship. Proof that;’ The Sword is mightier than the pork’.
The Rotodyne borne by another upthrust plunged back into the cloud. They were plunged in darkness again… ‘If this goes on we’ll be in more trouble than Assange! Yup, and more knocked about than Benny-Boy’s missus’! In spite of the peril our heroes let out a laugh and from behind the bulkhead another withering blast of Sophie’s invective.
(Dear reader we shall not print the transcript of Sophies invective as it is coarse and vulgar, ‘unbecoming’ to an exalted member of the Fair Work Commission . Instead, we shall insert these symbols #@%8$$#@%* as an empathetic gesture to convey in some measure her dissatisfaction with being so treated.)
‘What’s the altimeter say? Ces exclaimed as his body splayed against the interior of the windscreen like a giant stick-insect looked to Terry for reassurance. ‘It’s gone off the scale, we’re either high up or plunging down….. but at this angle’, Ces replied splayed, spread eagled and exhausted, ‘it’s a situation not entirely to my liking, and if this thing doesn’t settle or crash sooner, I’m gonna have yesterday’s lunch splattered across the windscreen’.
We all flinched at the notion of Spam, Devilled ham paste and Jatz crackers fulminating within the confines of the cockpit. Ces splayed in such a way was entirely reminiscent of what happened to ‘innocent thrill seekers’ caught inside the unyielding vortex of ‘the Rotor’ at Luna Park. In which event, the collateral damage would be severe.
Luna Park Melbourne. When enjoying rides was not the equivalent to a weeks wages.
‘Isn’t that what used to happen at the Rotor’? Terry enthused.
‘Yep, but in them days it was more fairy floss and party pies, with a bit of jam donut thrown in, these days’….. Quent’s soliloquy about simple pleasures in simpler times where rides where less than an NBN connection was whisked away by what happened next.
No sooner had Terry volunteered a more comprehensive description of what happens when stomach contents are involuntarily splayed within a centrifuge at face height to an involuntary audience that they felt a thud. Almost imperceptible and as Ces slid off the windscreen and crumpled over the flight console we realised that whatever had lifted us up and down and around had by a quirk of nature landed us as softly as a feather. We all regained our composure, stunned. ‘What the’! And it was true, with the ‘fasten seat belts’ light still blinking, we composed ourselves. Here we were being flung about like a parliamentary intern, and now as steady as a rock, intact, and saved. Saved by a freak of nature.
Good, wholesome family fun on an empty stomach.
‘Well’, Quent enthused, ‘I’ll be a dead dingo’s donger, I never thought we ‘d pull that one off’!
‘Nor I’, Ces replied; ‘it’s like we’ve just been granted another life’. And their collective sigh of relief audible over the wind, which was subsiding more quickly than a wine export license to China. We realised at last, that we were safe.
Landed.
On level ground.
Not all the participants were necessarily all that good…. or wholesome. Thats why they shut the Melbourne Rotor down as the ‘wholesome’ eschewed public frivolity for Spa’s, Resorts, Retreats, and Monte.
And in spite of the serenity, it was almost reassuring to know that everything, even Sophie’s caterwauling, had returned to normal. “Well then are youse gonna fucken let me out” or are youse just gonna sit around scratching yer hairy arses. Im still gonna kills youse all, and feed youse to hubby’s blue heelers, so fucken get me outta this’!!!
‘But but, Sophie’! Ces pleaded. ‘We’d like to let you out, but you must be civil’. And Terry piped in; ‘and not say so many unkind things, even though as an exalted Fair Work Commissioner we understand you have a stressful job being at board meetings once a fortnight and must make weighty and far-reaching deliberations on a paltry 500 k per annum’.
Undisturbed and as implacable as ever Terry offered us all another Camel and joyously, we lit up..
We couldn’t believe it. We had been saved. And for the moment, with the storm receding and the reassuring fulminations of Sophie, we felt almost at home.
Not to be outdone Sydney, had a rotor which wasn’t even in a round building. Beat that!
‘I dunno’, Terry said phlegmatically: wherever we are it looks like this time we’re gonna be able to escape the evil hand that curses us. Yes indeed’, Quent demurred, ‘the evil force that oppresses us’. ‘Yes’! Ces opined; ‘the evil presence that is pressingly omnipotent’,
And Terry drawing on another Camel resignedly sighed; ‘And bastardry in general’.
Dear reader; Will bastardry be enough to save them?
Will they ever escape the knotty captivity that binds them? And to some measure Sophie?
Find out in the next Gordian episode,
‘Are knots useful to the have’s or hindrance to the have- nots’? or; ‘Knotted or knitted it’s still a perfectly tailored straight jacket, and it fits’!
Sydney then tried to upstage Melbourne with a Ghost train with real fire and skeletons. It was a roaring success, backed by no higher authority than members of the NSW Police. But absence of repeat customers led to its demise.