Thar she blows Captain, a snarking Bleagh and a keening from the Deaning ...

(Above: ah the good old days when a rugger bugger could dance on the table and piss in the streets, and who did it harm? Well apart from the table and the alley cat stench in the streets and the reputation of rugger bugger boofheads when they throw a party ...)

The pond rarely drops in on the lesser Bleagh these days, because little Timmie is frequently employed as a humorist, thereby doing great harm to the notion of humour and to readers who go in search of it in the Murdochian media.

Unconscious humour is by far the best way to go ...

And so it came to pass that little Timmie, still sharing in the sense of bereavement and grief that the Bolter is enduring - how little Timmie would love to be the Bolter in all his Bolterish glory - this very day penned a piece yearning for the wider community's love of the table wrecker...

And what do you know, he ended the piece this way ...

Here’s the strange thing about all of this unstoppable Malmentum, though. It isn’t translating into popular support at anywhere near the speed anticipated by Turnbull’s supporters. 

Last week’s Newspoll actually reported a slight drop in the Coalition vote, dragging it back to an exact tie with Labor. 

Could it possibly be that the media’s Turnbull fan club — or, to use a shorter term, “the media” — is out of step with the wider community? It wouldn’t be the first time. Some of us remember a vote on the republic, backed by every media group in the land but rejected by the electorate. 

Who was the leader of that doomed proposal?

Yes, this was the very day that the Fairfaxian poll happened to report the news of its latest poll ...

Now polls will come and go, and already the tragic Hartcher was hartchering away in his inimitable Hartcher style ...

But the poll news was out yesterday. Surely little Timmie could have changed his copy to bring it up to date a little more?

But no, because little Timmie is still bereft and befuddled, and doesn't know where to turn in his grief. The tears in his eyes stopped him from seeing the poll bounce as he wandered down nostalgia lane to the days he fought so valiantly for the right of all Australians to have Prince Chuck as their king ...

Little Timmie wanted to lash at the Fairfaxians in the usual way, and at Turnbull, but never mind that's also to lash at the Liberal party, such a beloved beast until the recent coup.

The result is an incredibly charming - because most peculiar - tone of surly resentment and unhappiness, which the pond wholeheartedly commends ...

As usual in recent Murdochian times, it's framed between a man cavorting in a dress - nothing wrong with that - and a bogan ambassador deep in his cups ...

What a magnificent spectacle, but let us cut to the text, which might be called a Spectator-lite moan, a keening worthy of a Deaning ...

An excellent beginning, to note how the Fairfaxians have foresworn Fairfax and their eastern suburbs legacy and young Warwick and are now thoroughly western suburbs bolsheviks ... just like the Liberal party electing that classic socialist Malware as their fearless leader.

It will all end badly, there's little doubt of it, and when talking of Malware, who else would spring to mind than Kim Kardashian, though it would be seemly of little Timmie to wipe the slobber off his mouth as he talks of curves and buttocks implants:

And who wants Prince Chuck as his king?

Say no more, but speaking of the Malcontents, the moaners and the whiners, and the keening of the Deanings, and humorists elevated into opinion-makers, this is the day that Rowan Dean moonlights in the deep north by turning up in the Currish Snail.

And once again there's no need to go hunting for Snarks, they hide in plain view, and in the usual way surrounded by a man in a frock - nothing wrong with that - and a bogan ambassador:

But let's push past this picturesque framing to the gloomy news that suddenly now Scott Morrison is an abject drop kick and a lost loser trapped beyond the valley of the wafflers:

Oh indeed, when a Master Mariner, an Astute Captain of the Ship, a veritable Hornblower, a latter-day Nelson with touches of Churchillian splendour, sets course, why the scurvy knaves mid-ships looked lively and cut throats.

But what happens when the ship is commandeered by a scurvy knave with no skills, a veritable Fletcher Christian determined to make life hard for the noble Captain Bligh and send him scuttling under his rum-sodden bed? Or at least to dancing on the marble table ...

Well perhaps the analogies and metaphors are not precise and apt - we might yet need to get to Captain Ahab and his obsession with that wickedly angry white whale Moby Dick - but let us return to the Ancient Mariner as he works out that there's a problem with the new captain:

Oh indeed, the three words or so slogan in all its essential simplicity.

Why that's the way to tackle the Australian economy! A few words like 'blow it up' or 'destroy that interest rate', and it's 'aye aye captain', and its onwards at full sail, me hearties and me lubbers ...

Why if we only had Long John's parrot to screech "pieces of eight, pieces of eight", the economy would be fixed in a trice.

Sure "stand by to go about" is a bit longer, but it'll do parrot, it'll do, as Dean goes about in a big way, heading back into the Tony past, shouting "shiver me timbers", "walk the plank" and "yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Bundaberg rum, Queenslanders":

And there you have it. The lesser Bleagh and the keening,  moaning Deaning of Rowan remain at full sail back to the future, and no matter what the new captain says or does - oh scupper the rascal, me mates - they remain inconsolable and resolute and determined to be bloody minded. 

Watch out for that Israel Hands in the rigging with the knife in his teeth young Jim ... or should it be, old Mal?

And so, mixing its genres and its books and movies one more time, the pond is inspired to think that we might yet see an outcome even better than Greg Peck's battle with the mighty whale ...

Yes, below is an artist's impression of Mal lad under attack by little Timmie and the keening Dean and the marble stomper intent on reclaiming his ship: