Nobody told the pond there'd be days like these in reptile land ...

The pond is in deep mourning this day.

Thanks to the lack of foresight in the Labor party it seems that the much yearned for bout, a grudge match of the classic Sydney fibro v. silvertail kind, the Marrickville mauler v. the Woollahra waffler, will never happen.

Or will it? Will they stick with the Billistas and their false idol Bill, who wouldn't have the first clue what to do with a baseball bat when confronted with a silvertail?

Now of course pedants might argue that the pond has got it wrong. That the previous, barely lamented incumbent was the actual silvertail of a Manly kind.

But as every Sydney sider knows, a Woollahra chook is an even bigger silvertail than a seagull going about his gulling business ... especially one peddling malware fraudband ...

It's a state of mind, and they even made a documentary about it:

Speaking of the barely lamented, the reptiles are full of it this morning, with much keening, and sighing and moaning and exclaiming, and offering excellent top notch coaching - of the kind which so helped the previous barely lamented incumbent - and with an eye to digital posterity, or perhaps digital posteriors, the pond thought it should screen cap this splendid outpouring:

Excellent work reptiles and the pond awards special honours to standout Sean Parnell, the only one who remembered that the primary object - the destruction of Medicare - should remain front and centre in these turbulent times, and to Paul Cleary, in his bold bid to suggest that whatever he is, big Mal hasn't turned into a privileged eastern suburbs ponce of the humbug, fibre-destroying kind, a Woollahra silvertail in a top hat.

But wait, you forgot your steak knives, because there was more, much more, as the reptiles struggled to come to terms with their loss:

Again there must be special mentions and commendations, and the bromancer sticking up for good old fundamentalist stick in the mud Kev surely must be given a gong.

And what a relief to see the dog botherer, who so ably assisted big Mal in his first hopeless, destructive bout as opposition leader, reassuring the punters that it isn't a hostile takeover (such a clever business reference) and it'll be conservative business as usual, with a kind of Abbott-lite ...

Out of this astonishing, wondrous array of material, naturally the pond turned to a hardened warrior, a safe pair of hands:

Wait, don't flinch. Of course there's a simple answer as to why Philip was knighted, and that's the obvious one - that Abbott's a numbnut dumb wombat of the first water.

But really it's only a tease, and the bromancer provides a top notch survey of his hero, so settle in.

Make sure you have plenty of popcorn, and the pond will provide a few cartoons and other distractions along the way, because it's a long haul, and there will be endless "are we there yet?" questions even from hardened observers of reptiles, but when we finally reach the glowing final reference, everyone will surely decide the journey was worth it.

So let's get that Philip thingie out of the way first:

Uh huh. Well what else was Sir Walter going to do when confronted by this dreadful predicament?

Now let us move on from this noble gesture to discuss many other matters of grave import:

Phew, the pond warned it would be a long haul. What outstanding achievements, what a tremendous record. 

You at the back of the class, did you mutter and mumble that Abbott was the worst Prime Minister in living memory, and was so judged by his peers, and so given a term shorter even than Rudd or Gillard?

Hmm, perhaps we need a cartoon for a distraction? Is there a splendid Pope in the house - why there's certainly more Pope here ... and oh look, who has a top hat can of worms on his head of the fibrous node kind? And just look at those naughty seagulls!

Settle, settle, enough levity up in the back row. 

Let us return to the bromancer, singing his song of bromance, though in the way of terminal interminable bores, probably not for the last time, as a few worms emerge from the sour apple:

Ah, the ultimate excuse. No one wanted to drink actual blood and munch on actual flesh, little understanding, the philistines, the deeper mysteries of transubstantiation, and so the poor goose could never reveal the personal side of his identity ... you know, the bizarre, primitive, climate science denying side. Who would have a clue he was a luddite medievalist?

Yep, when in doubt never reach for the obvious truth ... a man who became an accidental opposition leader, because of the incompetence of the incumbent, and instead ignore the bleeding obvious by using the 'everyone picks on the tykes' ploy ... and then see what happens ...

Hey ho, nonny no, on we go, and let's start out with that poignant plea that has resounded down the ages, "I am not an animal, I am a human bean":

You see - where else would you get lines like "he had the potential to be the Liberals' Bob Hawke", where else would you find someone blathering about picking Joe Hockey in SU's second grade rugby union team? 

Now do you remotely begin to understand all this silvertail stuff?

And as for the great achievement, and more pluses than minuses? Well you can't expect the bromancer to ask the obvious question:

But the pond reckons Greg Hunt needs to update that wiki entry on Historical rankings of Prime Ministers of Australia ... (watch out for any stray lurking walri).

And now, enough of the rear view mirror look at life, because there are splendid times ahead ...

Yep, the Bolter's just getting going, the Bolter's just winding up, as the conservatives have already begun to foment and foam and propose to eat their own. How weird can it get?

Splendid stuff, and that splendid joke here, with forced video.

And so it's on to the next stage of the journey. Watch out for the salmon mousse:

And so to a couple of cartoons and memes contemplating to the post-bromancer world into which we do a ghostly Bergman dance of deathly delights ...

Don't forget the memes!

Oh indeed, indeed ...