In which the pond's house is divided, between the siren song of the doona and the siren song of the bromancing reptile ...

Good old Tony, still living on as a meme. No, not the onion-munching Tony, though we'll come to him soon enough ...

First a confession. This morning was hard for the pond. Sydney is never what any sensible person would call cold. It's never Canberra or even Goulburn cold, it's not even Adelaide or Tamworth cold, and it's certainly not Armidale, or even worse, Guyra cold.

But this morning was nippy, and the siren song of the reptiles was no match for the siren song of the doona, not even the best of them, spreading their dawn chorus of fear, loathing, unhappiness and general despair at the state of things.

Between shouting at clouds and the depths of a warm doona, the pond was a house divided. After all, the night before had been fun, what with Mad as Hell mocking Tony Abbott for shouting out to his mum in his Warringah electoral triumph, and mocking her tendency to stay close to the bar, presumably so she could get as pissed as a parrot ...  because drinking to excess and falling down dead drunk is just soooh funny ... 

Such a predictably crass boofhead, and you can, at the moment, iView the show here ...

And before that the pond had watched on 24 David Cameron make his farewells to the British parliament, before tottering off into the distance, a plucked peacock realising that in politics all that was left to him was to be a decorous feather duster ... while silly old Boris has scored a gig which will soon reveal his shortcomings ...

There should be more of the comical British parliament on view, MPs bobbing up and down like meerkats seeking the Speaker's attention, or if you will, refugee ferrets, weasels and stoats from The Wind in the Willows ...

But all this is by way of distraction, because how tedious the siren song of the reptiles can sometimes sound.

Look, how the cry began ...

Yes it was good old Kev, an irrelevant pimple on the bum of the body politic, who first got to howling at the moon ... and naturally the reptiles paid attention ... and soon enough there were others yowling in the chill night air ...

If Kev says it makes sense, it's a sure sign it's probably completely senseless...

No doubt at some point the siren song will go up to give the restless Cory a place in the sun ... if only because his splendid initiative was also deemed worthy of a spot on Mad as Hell ...

There's something deeply weird and strange about that man, and his willingness to display his fully buffed and cut condition - not that the pond has anything against the god Narcissus even if he did get tangled up with Nemesis - but meanwhile, as surely as Cory loves to stare into a mirror, sure enough there came the bromancer, echoing Kev ...

That sounds suspiciously like a stand-over man in a Scorsese movie, or one of the gang that strolls up and down King street in Newtown. 

Lovely big window you've got there, shame if it got broken, shame if a ball bearing whizzed through the night and shattered the glass ... by the way, don't you know, it's fuckin' hilarious to make jokes about your mum getting pissed as a parrot ...

Oh okay, it's nippy, and the siren song of the reptiles isn't warming up the pond the way it should but we must press on and kill a few trees just to see if we can produce a little heat and shake down a few suckers ...

Around this time the pond often likes to link to How I learnt to love Tony Abbott, A bromance for the ages, which taught the pond the concept of the bromance ...

And so on and so forth, and so, fortified and infatuated, we can move on to the substance of the shake down ...

Now there's a sublime discordance between the bromancer sagely explaining the many errors that Abbott made while in the PM's office, before, with a leap and a bound, arriving at a worshipful discussion of Abbott's political skills, and how they would prove most excellent and useful to Malware ...

Somewhere lurking in mind's eye was the sight of David Cameron heading off into the distance, with grace and humour, and possibly a sense of relief, even if the pond could never shake that Steve Bell image of him as an off-colour lobster condom ... but at least he knew there were other things to do, as opposed to hanging around like a shag or a Kev or a Tony on a rock ... 

It was that image that comforted the pond as we staggered towards the last bromancer gobbet ...

Yes, there it is again, that barely disguised thuggee threat. 

You don't give my little friend a job, why things could get very difficult for you and your handsome window. Not to mention your pretty toff face and your handsome eastern suburbs government. We know the ways of the west, my friend, and consider that knee to the groin just a Cory love tap ...

Just remember the ball bearings that whizz through the night, and the cut-throat razors that slash the cheek in larrikin style ... oh and have you heard how uproariously funny it is to joke about your mum getting pissed at the bar ...

Now here the pond must offer a disclaimer. It would be in the pond's, though probably not the nation's interest, if Malware promoted the onion-eating wall-puncher, and brought Kev back from the zombie dead so that he might stalk a gaggle of public servants, and offered Cory a position that allowed him even more time to preen in front of a mirror.

The pond needs its loons, and it needs them on a daily basis, and on a nippy day, it needs classy loonishness to lure the pond out of the comforting arms of the doona ...

Now there are delights ahead, the pond has a certain hunch about that, but as Peta heads off to bunker down with Packer, why not make sure that the coalition bench offers the same sort of mayhem  that the Senate is sure to offer?

And so the pond joins the bromancer, and possibly Mad as Hell, in urging the recall of the onion-muncher. Because we can never get enough jokes celebrating the rich humour of mums getting pissed as parrots ...