And pray tell, what's wrong with a quaffing prosecco, you dour, dullard, grey, taxpayer-funded goose?

As always, the pond is pleased to present the deep thoughts of a man employed by an institute, a research centre if you will, which has sucked deep and hard on the taxpayer's generous funding tit ...

The spectre of taxpayer-funded bludgers flaunting themselves in the lizard Oz no doubt haunts sensible folk around Australia, but that's the price that has to be paid for paying attention to the reptiles' money-losing business plan ...

And so to the thoughts of a man so resolutely lacking in a sense of humour that once again the pond is reminded of the theory that this might well be genetic ...

It's impossible to make this sort of stuff up. No, not the notion that the Caterists give a flying fuck about the suffering of the workers and the protection of the poor, as they saunter out from their fortified, taxpayer-funded institute - research centre if you will - given that it spends much time researching taxpayer grants ...

Rather, as noted, it's the possibly genetic complete lack of humour, a moot point when attempting to deal with a comedian like Brand.

Which means some of the Caterist humour must be completely unconscious and unintended, like the Caterists deploring the optimism of one of the founding fathers of the United States and lumping Thomas Paine in with the alleged prosecco-loving socialists...

This might come as something of a shock to devotees of the American corset-maker.

Never mind, let's get back to the full weight of the Caterists dishing it out to a reformed junkie and a comedian ... so that, like all the old farts shouting at clouds in the reptile Oz, we can target the real problem.

Young people! The youff of today! Ponytailed, man-bunning, tatt-loving, stubble- and beard-loving youff who litter the streets of Newtown and constitute a world wide plague and simply make life impossible for the thinking, discerning Caterist ...

Of course, if you're not abstemious like the pond, this raises an even deeper question. What the fuck's wrong with having a taste for prosecco?  What's wrong with drinking all kinds of coffee? What's wrong with liking tea picked on the side of mountains by hard-working monkeys? What's wrong with a little colour and movement? What the fuck is wrong with enjoying life and all that it might offer as we straggle through this veil of tears?

Is there a genetic resemblance amongst Caterists to dour fundamentalists of all persuasions?

What a grey, dour, dullard, solemn, prosecco-hating loon the man is, and even worse, a grey, dour, dullard prosecco-hating loon supported by the average Australian taxpayer's dollar ... too dumb to realise that somehow he's criticising the comrades for having a solid Italian taste for la dolce vita, as opposed to the dour, grey, dullard swill cranked out by the Soviets and the east Germans way back when.

The resemblance to Daesh carrying on about western decadence is a tad unnerving.

Will we ever get over the shorthand of abusing people for their willingness to enjoy a drink? Will chardonnay make a comeback, or is it prosecco hereafter?

Will the Caterists keep leading with whatever rhetorical cliche and stereotyped, half-arsed flourish that's near to hand?

Why, the thought affrighted the pond so much, we almost spoke out in favour of man buns and pony tails and carefully cultivated stubble and toilet beards and tatts of numbers and infinity symbols and whatever other inky garnish is doing the rounds this month ...

Almost ...

But speaking of imbibing, over the break the pond had the pleasure of the company of the family's Shortenistas, and they introduced the pond to a wonderful release ...

The pond found it a little sour, lacking in depth and imagination, with perhaps a few too many esters and not enough zing ... though if carbonated, it might have made a fine old Cold Duck.

To be fair to the winemaker, this might have been the pond confusing the plonk with the policies and the presentation ...

And to be fair to young people, you're better off getting into a cab sav - make sure you dunk your beard in it - than getting into quaffing down a glass or two of prosecco-fearing Caterist vinegar (hint: they likely store the taxpayer-funded grog out of sight in the cabinet out the back).