Portrait of a Prime Minister

Portrait of a Prime Minister


There was an election coming up

so I wasn’t entirely taken aback

when suddenly on the Television screen

appeared the face of a sneering, smirking,

middle-aged, middle-class, born-again bully.

The camera pulled back to reveal,

slouched in a slovenly slump

the brutish form of an ageing corporate thug

turning to fat. Yes, it was non-other

than our beloved Prime Minister,

a former failed Advertising executive

and slap happy clapper, a ‘fair dinkum’ dickhead,

dud root and ‘Der’,

Yes, a full-dyed-in-the-wool Dipshit,

is our PM,

who calls servants, journalists and even strangers

by their first name, as a chummy gesture

towards Egalitarianism apparently, but really

it just makes him look like a condescending Creep

and everyone calls him ‘Mister’ in reply.

Despite being bald as a baby,

giving him the appearance at times of a pudgy

and somewhat bad tempered Cherub, the prime minister has

the loutish body language of a Tony Soprano, his whole posture somehow threatening even when lounging back in an armchair, chuckling away, jovial as Hitler with his favourite niece.

Yes, despite what News Corpse Columnists may parrot,

not all bullies are loud-mouthed, lumpen-prole louts

waving CFMEU banners on building sites, of course.

A grammar school education has given an oily veneer of Civility to many a budding young middle-class bully’s act,

and our PM is no exception.

Thus, like any professional psychopath, the prime minister

wears lightly the mask of being a civilised and educated human being and the mask becomes another weapon in his arsenal, to be drawn upon in need, like, say..the Mask of Sincerity, or the Thundering Pulpit of Righteousness.

Meanwhile he proudly stands beside those who wear their class like an impregnable armour, and has inherited

the traditional ruling class air of knowing that they’re better than other people. (and if you don’t recognise that superiority,

then it’s just a sign of how ignorant and inferior you are).

Happily for him, his religion reinforces the notion of being one of the Special Ones, one of the Chosen. And though his religious convictions may have no more depth to them than a Used Car Yard Warranty, still, when it suits him, he is God’s Spear.

True he is not popular with the Young, though you could argue that he is not “unpopular” either, seeing as how recent street surveys revealed most Young Folk neither knew his name nor recognised his photo. As a former Adman you’d think he’d be concerned at this lack of market penetration. But our canny PM is unfazed by this, knowing that the Young are also less likely to vote, being so turned off by the whole business, and so he’s off down to the Old Folks Home to tell their grandparents scary stories about how the Opposition leader will steal their savings and send their grandchildren to compulsory sexual re-assignment camps.

As mentioned earlier, most journalists and interviewers react to the PM’s oily attempts at unwarranted familiarity with a real and very unfeigned repugnance, retreating into a frigid formalism whenever the demands of their profession places them in the same room as him (it’s like dealing with the pervy uncle who’s always putting his hand on your knee at Family functions).

The exceptions to this rule

are the League of Ranting Right-wing Radio ‘Shock Jocks’,

a handful of sycophantic toadies or “Mates” as the PM likes to call them, a gaggle of ageing, privileged white men who are happiest when calling down FIRE & BRIMSTONE upon the Unemployed, Environmentalists, “Women’s Libbers”(sic), drunken blacks, young people on drugs who don’t want to do a days’ work and people in general who stand in the way of their own or their “Mates” business interests.

But in the presence of their “Maate” the PM,

they Coo & Croon in abject displays of homo-erotic admiration;

Maaate! I loved the way you had those trees cut down!

That’ll show those latte sipping, inner city Greenie types that you can’t stop Progress.

Maate,” the PM purrs, basking in the Glory,

I couldn’t have done it without your support! And

as a reward for your unflagging support I have a little surprise for you here in the studio..Alan, do you remember that lump of coal I brought into parliament

No loyal Australian could forget that moment Prime Minister. It was a great day for democracy and common sense in this country!

Well Mate I have that Lump of Coal hear now..would you like to see it?”

Oh yes please sir. I mean..I’d be honoured, Mate.”

Ambiguous rustling sounds over the airwaves, like an apple being removed from a very deep pocket, then the radio host’s hoarse voice gasping out;

Why! Its Beautiful! And so big! I didn’t think it would be that big! Do you..do you think I could touch it?

These sort of obscenely suggestive displays are bad enough to hear when your just half listening to as you’re trapped in a peak hour traffic gridlock. But the full Truth is reputedly more lurid still!

For rumours in the Industry have it that during Prime Ministerial interviews with cronies like Alan Jones & Co., all other radio station personnel are banished from the immediate Studio area while they are in conclave.

Indeed, aside from the PM & his Mate, the only other human being allowed on that floor is a blind, mute radio technician,

who can neither witness nor report the horrible abominations performed by the Radio Host and his Guest upon each other.

Can I touch it??

Horrible, just horrible. Indeed, on one memorable occasion, or so I am reliably told by my Informant, they had Christopher Pyne in a rubber Gimp Suit hanging upside down from a meat-hook on the ceiling during the whole Interview, and played Pinata with him using plastic police batons.

They had to gag Christopher because he was giggling so much”, my Informant claimed.

As I receive these unsubstantiated reports I am afflicted briefly by an awful vision of Tony Abbott & Alan Jones,

lounging back in studio armchairs, legs splayed wide with their pants down,

as they fondle each others genitals and they murmur sweet nothings.

In his glass booth, the blind, mute radio technician sees nothing and says nothing. With his Disability he’s lucky to have a job.

At this image the brain revolts and short circuits itself,

and the Listener turns to something else less disturbing.

Don’t call me again, I told my Informant, I’m blocking your number. You’re just lucky I’m not reporting you to the authorities.

Later I asked the I Ching, that ancient fount of Oriental Wisdom, who was going to win the forthcoming election.

Interestingly the answer was Hexagram 66, “Transmission Interupted”, perhaps the I Ching’s most ambiguous and gnomic prognostication.

I leave it for you to ponder;


Hexagram 66: Transmission Interrupted

A Radio Broadcast,

the Prime Minister addresses

the Nation

but the Reception was terrible.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance poet, an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

and a National Living Treasure.

No calls before 10AM


~ by reverendhellfire on April 14, 2019.

3 Responses to “Portrait of a Prime Minister”

  1. You got that right! Scomo is a heinous ACL prime minister with no regard for our Julian Assange.

  2. Damn right!

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