Time for a junket, which is way better than warm milk ...

The pond is off on a junket.

The pond makes no apologies. A junket's a junket, and these days a junket is a rare thing, to be treasured.

Sadly this means saying farewell for a week or more to all the pond's favourite residents, to Mark Latham's meals at the AFR in which he discovers his inner right-wing soul; to Gerard "prattling Polonius" Henderson, routinely taking a fence, and the gate too at insolent leftists, feminists and the ABC; to the punch-drunk hordes at The Punch, too many to mention though surely Sophie Mirabella should be named and shamed every moment she exists and speaks; to Miranda the Devine and her war on bicycles, Satan's preferred form of travel; to Andrew "what Arctic sea ice" Bolt, and his denial of everything while in lap poodle service to the rich; and speaking of prancing poodles, to Christopher "all shaved hair and no meat, you expect me to have an education policy when I just want to say no" Pyne; to Generally grumpy and gloomy Paul Sheehan, on whom the sky falls each Monday without fail so he can gush like a geyser, or perhaps froth and foam like a coffee machine; to old favourites like Piers "Akker Dakker" Akerman, explaining how leftists have ruined everything, even rock 'n roll; to the Angry Submissive Anglicans, so startled and confused to see that the world has moved on from the first century AD; and to the whole loveable gang of rightwing ratbags that infest The Australian like a crusading pack of Joe McCarthy worshippers (Climate change? Isn't that a UN conspiracy?)

So many good times, so much fun, and yet the pond would ship them all down the river in favour of a junket quicker than a spiv would slip you a cut throat razor (so that you too can bring anarchy to the streets).

The pond leaves in good cheer, by fast sedan chair to Sydney's second airport in Canberra, comfortable and relaxed and secure in the knowledge that you can charge $2,000 a developer to access a Minister in New South Wales, and that the state government has this very day announced a brand new transport policy, uncertainly costed, and uncertain in roll out, but Guaranteed To Fix Everything. (Transport plan long on hope, light on detail)

Is it only the hard heads who can remember good old Nathan Rees and his Transport Plan Guaranteed To Fix Everything? (Axed $1.3b south-west rail link revived).

In other words, meet the new government, same as the old government, in much the same way that when you meet the new boss, they might well be the old boss. And we'll all get fooled again.

Now the pond disdains travel blogs, in which people put up gloating posts about their trip.

Rollicking images of life on a beach, or swanning around Amsterdam sipping hot chocolate while trying to work out the deeper mysteries of Andrew Bolt and being Dutch (what did happen to that Arctic sea ice this northern summer?)

Perhaps a trip to the opera while sobbing into a glass of red wine at the sheer tragedy of it all (what did happen to that Arctic sea ice this northern summer?)

Or perhaps yabbering on endlessly about why Singapore Airlines is now better than Qantas (ah that's what happened to it) ...

Enough of that already.

Though this could be a chance to join Jacquie Hayes at the AFR in revelling in what might be called "rich person's porn" or "snob smut". Yes, each week she regales the world with tales of the rich and the well heeled. You can catch her here at Private clubs in a league of their own:

I’d like to know why there isn’t a proper private members’ club in Australia. I’m not talking about those fuddy-duddy single-sex joints that have been in Melbourne and Sydney for a while. I mean truly elegant, rarified and flawlessly civilised places like those I was exposed to during a recent trip to Hong Kong and Europe.
The sole purpose of a private club is to allow the well-heeled to sally forth and partake in some night-time fun and frivolity among a select group of like-minded people. Celebrities and the international jet set are a regular part of the mix, but the environment is designed to cater to the upper classes. On offer is generally a cocktail bar, the option of a lovely meal served by hand picked staff, a dance floor and an unspoken guarantee of complete discretion.

Indeed Jacquie. The pigs must have their private pleasure grounds, and the swine must be kept at bay.

Generally, monthly accounts in clubs remove the need for pesky transactions when there are far more interesting things to do and see. They provide a stage for women to be spectacular, to don their diamonds, for men to power dress to the max.

Yes, and for banality and stereotypes and cliched gormless brain-dead blondes sipping champagne to run amok, as you do each week here.

The clubs are a shrine to sartorial civility, yet also a forum for intimate matters of business. Entry is denied for those who are not members or in the company of one, and wait-lists are long. Annual subscriptions may only be a couple of grand a year, yet the very best of this breed of private club are synonymous with sophistication, exclusivity and unapologetic snobbery.

Thanks Jacquie. Unapologetic is the word. We need to breed more blondes.

In the meantime, gentle pond readers, maintain the rage, or at least a sense of humour ...

... and let the pond's favorite inhabitants continue to produce a deafening crescendo of noise, much sound and fury, achieving diddly squat, while the pond junkets on in blissful silence ...