Forgive me, dear reader, for beginning this communication with a misquote from that great writer, PG Wodehouse, who has given me many a laugh over the years.
Bertie Wooster once remarked, “A very clever politician, whose name I can’t quite recall, once said something profound which I can’t currently bring to mind, on an important subject the thrust of which for the present escapes me. But the whole point, and I want you to follow me closely here, is that I agreed with him completely.”
Now that misquote, you will be pleased to learn, has very little to do with the subject of this article.
Some readers will possibly recall, that back in the distant past, I was known (by myself) as your intrepid eyewitness and I employed my invention, the Spy-Fly, to park itself on various walls, usually parliamentary, in order to observe and report on the scenes that took place within the selected room.
This device I have refined over time and from what was initially the size of a bumble-bee (a fat one) and sounded like a DC3 during take-off; I shrank it to what is now about the size of a small housefly and is virtually noiseless. I can now monitor it from the comfort of my home office rather than parliamentary broom cupboards.
The latest model has been performing well and I recently decided that, being well overdue for a flight, I would send it for a spin down the corridors of power to see what it could pick up. Since the gladsome departure of Justinda Ardeau from the said corridors, there had not been much incentive to use the Spy-Fly as there has been what seemed to be a semblance of normality pervading parliament.
Lately, however, large rats, or even capybaras, of doubt had started to gnaw at my vitals and I began to suspect that the normality that I had perceived might actually be an illusion. After all, in a building populated largely by narcissistic egomaniacs and snollygosters, normality is a scarce commodity and it isn’t unreasonable to suspect that incompetence and the river of filth may still be surging about the place. Therefore, with freshly charged batteries and shining solar-panel wings, the Spy-Fly was set free in the building.
I guided it to a corridor wall and then I set it about its mission: to boldly go where no artificial fly has been for a number of years and to learn more about the life forms that infest the legislative vipers’ nest of OurTearRoar.
Flying silently down the corridor, the fly came upon a door inscribed with, “Rt Hon C Napkins”. As the door opened at that exact moment, I executed a sharp turn. The fly entered and I parked it on the wall in a strategic position. At that moment a wild-eyed adult human female (to all appearances) entered the room and the door closed.
I could see immediately that this was no other than Ĉԋłǒȅ Blackbrick, co-leader of the Groan Party.
“Welcome to our little meeting Ĉԋłǒȅ,” said Napkins, smiling like a recently unwrapped Egyptian mummy. “How are you feeling today? Recovered from last night, I hope.”
“I’ve never felt better,” said Blackbrick, her eyes wildly darting in every direction. “I’ve just done a few lines of Milo. I could bite a Tasmanian tiger.”
“Excellent,” said Napkins, leaning back in his chair. “I just thought that it’s a good idea to meet with our parliamentary allies every now and then. After all, we’re all on the same side.” He indicated a colonial-looking white woman seated in another chair. I noted that she had failed to wash her chin that morning and privately thought it was a bit disrespectful to attend a meeting in that state. “You know Debbie O’Ngarewa-O’Pucker, of course: the co-leader of the Almost White Party.”
“Ah to be sure, it’s knowing each other we are,” replied Debbie. “Top o’ the morning to ye, Brickers.”
“Morning Debs,” said Blackbrick. “Your accent seems to have changed a bit though. Have you been into the Milo too?”
“Faith and begob,” replied O’Pucker. “It’s embracing of my cultural heritage I am. Why, I can now drink of the good old Jameson whaskey without committing a colonialist sin. I’m liberated.
“Did you hear the one about Pat and Mike?”
Both Napkins and Blackbrick managed to avoid rolling their eyes. “Not recently,” said Napkins.
“Well, it’s a-fixin’ of that that I must do,” cried O’Ngarewa. “We Irish can laugh at ourselves you know. It’s a-laughing at myself all day I am. Well, Pat and Mike are walking through a cemetery one night, and it’s coming to a very small grave they are. Pat’s reading the tombstone and says, ‘Faith and begorrah, Mike: it says “Here lies a politician and an honest man”. ‘Begob and begorrah to be sure,’ replies Mike, ‘How did they fit them both in that small grave?’”
O’Pucker roared with laughter. “Did ye get that?” she shouted. “A politician and an honest man. Ha ha ha.” She continued with her uproarious laughter for a minute or two.
Napkins and Blackbrick looked at each other. “Jameson’s,” they said simultaneously.
After a few minutes, when O’Ngarewa-O’Pucker had calmed down a bit, Napkins spoke again.
“We’re in a difficult position,” he said. “We need to be serious here. We have a coalition government that is so similar to us that it’s a struggle to find points of difference. What can we do?”
“Milo is the answer,” said Blackbrick firmly. “More Milo. Lots more.” She stood up. “Speaking of which, I’m going to get some now.”
O’Pucker stood up too. “Jameson’s,” she yelled. “It’s Jameson’s being the answer.” She also headed for the door.
Napkins watched them depart with glazed eyes. “Fools,” he said. “The answer is communism. I thought they knew that.”
The door being open I took the opportunity to remove the Spy-Fly in preparation for its next mission.
