Paul Sheehan, prostitutes, hookers, fishnet stockings, mini skirts, and the elevated political discourse of inner city elites ...

(Above: low flying aircraft have also been known to influence voters in relation to the way they might vote).

Memo for Anthony Albanese or whoever else might turn out to be grand pooh-bah, lord high executioner, and distinguished honourable minister for infrastructure, transport, regional development, local government, and Sydney airport.

Off to greet a visiting pooh-bah on QF2, cynically scheduled for 5.30 am arrival, which managed to land and be taxi-ing at 5.07.25 this very day, and I have a text message to confirm it.

The pooh-bah, while waxing rhapsodic about the upgraded Bangkok airport, mentions with bemusement the strange ways of an airport where the ground crew with the wavie thingie things seem strangely absent, and the baggage handlers seem to be either lost or asleep, compounded by the arrival of four aircraft (including QF 6 and BA codeshare QF 302) which have landed before 5.30 am.

6 am curfew? Tell 'em they're dreaming. Meanwhile of course what with the delays in the baggage and the waiting, Macquarie gets to clip a little more wool from the sheep who parked in the airport carport.

Let's face it. There'll always be an airport at Mascot in my lifetime, and likely right up until the start of the third world war, but there's only so much you can cram into a pressure cooker until you need to let off a little steam.

As a result, we hope that your department will devise an urgent concept in a ministerial note suggesting that an urgent review be conducted, with a view to reporting that action should and will be undertaken, with said report due to report during the weeks preceding the next election, so that promises can be made that urgent action will be undertaken, in due course.

Then you can add it to the joint taskforce report due whenever in the second half of the year, remind everyone of your vocal insistence that you need to take action, as in Sydney needs second airport - Albanese, and throw it all in the recycling bin.

Meanwhile, the long term financial planning at the pond has taken an upturn, since we had a Mary Gilmore on Paul Sheehan being certain to scribble about the independents, and sure enough up he bobs with Independents' support for Labor would betray rural folk.

We plan to invest the ten bucks in lotto, and with the winnings, financial security at last will be ours, and it's off to the big apple. Or should we make a plunge on a cricket team?

Back to Sheehan. There's only a couple of highlights in what is otherwise a predictable squawk, the first being the revelation that, as we long suspected, it turns out that Sheehan is, like many others in the commentariat, part of a chattering inner suburban elite:

The night I took Bob Katter to dinner at the Royal Hotel in Paddington was, I believe, the first time he had been to the gentrified inner urban bubble that is historic Paddington. He wore his large beige cattleman's hat. He ordered a steak. (I have never witnessed Katter not have steak for dinner.) At the end of the meal, carrying his hat, he disappeared into the kitchen to thank the staff. I would love to have seen their expressions.

Naturally as a member of the gentrified inner urban bubble, Sheehan manages to mystically divine what would be appropriate for independent members of parliament, and also for "rural folk" aka bushies.

It's at moments like this, as a Tamworth rate-payer, that I feel like saying fuck off gentrified inner urban bubble elite.

Sheehan spends a goodly amount of time lathering up the spectre of the Greens - tell a Liverpool plains farmer about the joys of the coal industry some time - and an equally predictable amount of time explaining why the independents should fall in line with Tony Abbott, never mind whether he uses KY jelly, and whether his bully boys might be using strong arm telephone tactics.

Oh steady you say that's a coarse, crude use of a sexual metaphor in a political context, the jelly bit. Surely the political discourse should be a little more elevated than that.

True, true, but you see what can you do when confronted by the musings of a master of elevated discourse?

These men are never going to be easy company for the Coalition, especially the Nationals, but their ultimate mission is to reflect the will of their electorates. So if either Katter, Windsor or Oakeshott throw their fate in with the Labor-Green alliance, they may as well buy themselves some fishnet stockings, follow-me-home stilettos and micro-miniskirts because, for many bushies, they will have become streetwalkers, the prostitutes of Parliament Drive.

Now that's the sort of temperate metaphor we expect from sophisticated inner urban elite pub crawlers.

Where to start? Defending the honour of sex workers, unfairly compared to politicians because in contrast to politicians they deliver a better service at a fair price? Put sex workers in charge of Sydney airport, and things would begin to happen. The johns would be processed in a trice, and feeling quite chirpy in the process ...

As for the rest, what makes Sheehan think that bushies, or Liberals for that matter, have a problem with fishnet stockings?

But once again, you have to think that Sheehan, along with Abbott, might be playing a deep double agent game.

Abbott deep in his heart knows that dealing with the likes of Katter will require more than the odd steak in an inner city elite pub, and that the poisoned chalice of power will come with a price, which is why he and his merry mob have been writhing on the hook.

How are the commentariat elite helping him to consummate an unlikely, desperate marriage, sure to bring grief and tears, and the NBN to the bush, and lots of pork barreling? A marriage it might be wise not to consummate so that the Pope can annul it a little way down the track when the polls suggest a second seduction of the electorate?

Dearie me, you can see how this kind of scribbling is catching, like a virus.

Because in the case of Piers Akerman aka Akker Dakker, it was to accuse the independents of succumbing to Gillard's flattery and playing footsie with a collectivist dark age, while simultaneously accusing Gillard of prostituting Labor, tugging her forelock, lacking dignity, and shamelessly trailing her coat. (Ambush by the Five Amigos)

What is it with commentariat commentators and prostitutes?

Now we have Sheehan blathering on about streetwalkers, prostitutes, fishnet stockings, miniskirts, and follow-me-home stilettos (sweet absent lord, from which deep part of the fevered, tortured soul did he drag that phrase, or is he a habitué of Urban Dictionary and a devotee of ask me out boots, and fuck me boots).

What is it with commentariat commentators?

You have to go elsewhere for actual insight, as opposed to simple minded slagging off as the commentariat use words in the way of pimps pimping their hoes. Try Phillip Coorey in Kind and gentle no more than words:

Abbott is portraying a Labor-Greens alliance as some kind of evil threat to the bush. But as Gillard pointed out in a pre-election interview, whoever governs will have to do so in alliance with the Greens because they will control the Senate from July 1. If Abbott becomes prime minister, he will be under the same pressure to ''green'' his policy agenda, especially now as he has agreed to a three-year term, meaning he cannot go early if the Senate does not co-operate.

Roll on the NBN. And a little more Coorey:

He also again spoke of the faceless machine men who dumped Kevin Rudd and called the Labor Party corrupted. Yet these men, including Mark Arbib, were MPs and senators. And when the push was on, the rush to join among the rest of the elected caucus became a stampede.

When Abbott knifed Malcolm Turnbull less than a year ago - the Liberals' third leadership change in two years - this too was driven by ''faceless'' MPs and senators such as Nick Minchin and Kevin Andrews. There was nothing kind and gentle about that either.

Yep, those bloody faceless men with their aberrant taste for fishnet stockings, miniskirts and hookers. Could it be that the entire parliament is full of faceless men with a fishnet stocking fetish?

(Below: Alexander Downer showing how no politician need fear fishnet stockings).