Geoff Elliott, The Australian and bugger all signs of intelligent life on earth ...

(Above: Crikey Bias-o-meter: The newspapers, 26 June, 2007. So what's changed? Well the tiger says it has no spots, the leopard has no spots, and loon pond has no loons. See below).

Here at the pond we're always late to the scene of the crime.

But that's because we have a strict rule about not paying to see Australian films in the cinema, unless they've been vetted and vouched for by a dozen people of impeccable taste. So it was only lately that we caught up with Accidents Happen, which was released in April, thanks to a friend giving us a copy of dubious provenance.

It turns out that this is a movie set in America, told with American accents, and with an American narrator, telling an American story by an American writer, who settled in Australia, starring Geena Davis, funded by Australian taxpayers, as part of their ongoing endeavours to sustain a national voice telling national Australian stories.

It's rare that we pay any attention to David Stratton, the Phillip Adams of film reviewers, as he went on a rant here:

DAVID: Well, it's bizarre because it's an Australian film masquerading as an American film and, when you think about it when we were trying to get an Australian film industry going in this country, the reason is to tell Australian stories. Why else would the government want to fund an Australian film industry if not to tell Australian stories? But here is a government-funded Australian film...

MARGARET: Ah...

DAVID: Hang on, let me ... which is telling not an Australian story but an American story, and it has a cast of mostly - I think there are a couple of Kiwis in there somewhere, but mostly Australian actors pretending to be Americans, in Australian settings that are pretending to be American. I don't get it and therefore I just don't relate to the whole thing.

Of course the short straw in the reviewing team didn't get his concerns, but surely there's a case for the entire board of Screen Australia to resign or be sacked? Well of course nothing's happened and it's months later, but here at the pond, we believe the arm of the law should be long, and justice delayed still shouldn't prevent the administration of justice.

Well at least I checked it out for free. Reminds me of the time I went to pick up a dvd of The Sentimental Bloke and the NFSA wanted forty seven bucks retail for their restoration job with booklet. I didn't have to disturb the red back spider cannily installed in my bag by my partner. Tell them they're dreaming. They're supposed to be spreading Australian screen culture, funded by the Australian taxpayer, and they want an arm and a leg for it?

Enough already, but thank you Australian taxpayers. Ever thought of starting up an American studio?

Speaking of crimes and Australia, that was just an elaborate detour, and now we arrive at the really comical turn of the day, in the comically titled rag The Australian, allegedly the heart of the nation. Golly, if that rag is the heart of the nation, do a Phar's Lap heart job on it, pickle it and stuff it in a museum somewhere.

But for that, we must gird our loins, summon up our spirits, and trudge into the actual swamp known as desolation pond to many, and as The Oz to others, and as three clicks of your heels and pray to god you end up in Kansas to friends of Dorothy.

In the usual way, one Geoff Elliott (Correspondent Geoff Elliot back as editor of Media) takes umbrage and scribbles furiously about the ABC's Media Watch presenter Jonathan Holmes, in Sorry, Aunty, the facts show you're off-target.

If nothing else, Media Watch should exist for the simple sheer perverse fun of watching it get up the noses of Murdoch hacks. But in this case it was Holmes' scribbling Agendas and bias on the media trail that sent the Murdoch hounds into a blood sniffing frenzy.

You see the Murdoch hacks love to fling barbs at all and sundry, but turn out to be remarkably thin skinned when anybody takes a look at them. Everybody knows that The Oz is generally to the right of Gengis Khan - as Crikey noted years ago - and nothing wrong with that, if that's your poison.

Some might prefer rot-gut whisky. To each their own, but the mere mention of this incredibly overt and obvious bias sends the hounds into a baying frenzy.

Holmes made the unremarkable point that The Australian's coverage is biased, and that in the current campaign its bias slip has been showing, and sometimes, to mix the metaphors, has been cranked up to eleven.

It was an understated piece, and unless you happen to be a French relativist philosopher, no more controversial than saying we live on the planet earth, which has a moon and revolves around the sun (Catholics and creationists, feel free to disagree) ...

Geoff Elliott's response?

Holmes declared last week The Australian was running a partisan agenda backing the Coalition for a win with a welter of negative stories about Labor. Perhaps he didn't read the front page of The Australian - a page he describes as a "brutal weapon" - on Thursday when the newspaper ran one of the flattering photos of the PM from The Women's Weekly and a story headed: "At last, we are seeing the real Prime Minister."

He's kidding right? A photo from The Women's Weekly, and it's all sweet, and all is forgiven? He's just teasing because he knows we all like a little pepper to please us with a sneeze?

Elliott mentioned another couple of stories, but it's clear he simply doesn't understand the nature of unrelenting bias. Come to think of it, it helps explain why The Australian doesn't have a clue about climate change either, and can't tell the difference between weather and the statistical implications of changes in climate ... on an almost daily basis ...

The rest of Elliott's piece induces horse laugh after horse laugh. Here's The Australian not having an impact on anyone:

But the Holmes piece was off-pace enough to have The Australian's bemused editor, Paul Whittaker, note that the cabinet leaks to Oakes and Peter Hartcher of The Sydney Morning Herald, along with the ABC's lead story on Kevin Rudd's national security faux pas when it launched ABC News 24, "have been more damaging to the government than what we have published".

Three cheers. Every cheerful Australian who refuses to waste their time paying for the drivel in The Australian must at last be having an affect!

"Our coverage in the first week of the campaign on population led the national debate and was critical of both major parties for their myopic view on immigration and failing to highlight its importance to economic growth," says Whittaker. He notes that "contrary to Holmes's assertions, I would argue The Australian went just as hard after the Howard government during the last few elections".

Argue away. As anyone with half a grain of interest in the media would surely confirm, after reading the ground and pound coverage of Labor, the left, greens, socialists, commies, cardigan wearers, scientist, believers in climate change, red watermelons, and so on and so forth and etc by The Australian, the rag's news pages are just as saturated with prejudice as the commentariat columnists who litter the opinion pages, and who set the tone for the rag.

We'd list them ... Shanahan, Milne, Albrechtsen, Ergas, Pearson ... but we'd run out of time and room, so let's just say once more, so on and so forth and etc.

But in fact the way that the rag has responded to the criticism is a big enough clue in itself. Any other rag thus accused would laugh it off, but the trouble with the truth is that it hurts. It's a bit like sticking a bit of litmus paper in a lemon and discovering it's acidic, and the lemon carrying on saying "what me? You've got the wrong lemon".

Never mind, if you want the full panoply of Elliott's denialism, excuses, and attempts to balance the scales (watch out, the butcher's thumb is on the scales, you'll be paying more for your mince), you can trot over and read the nonsense.

But here's another clue as to why the wretched rag published this pathetic, no, actually tragic, attempt at self-justification:

Says The Australian's editor-in-chief Chris Mitchell: "The problem for the ABC is it just does not have journalists of the quality of those covering major national news for The Australian.

"I can only think of two across the news and current affairs area I would offer a job to: Chris Uhlmann and Leigh Sales. Jonathan has an impish manner but is not serious."

An impish manner but not serious?

Well there's a little flaw in the logic board here. The Australian it seems has regularly missed all the scoops that are currently bedevilling Labor - that's all the fault of Laurie Oakes and the SMH and Aunty - yet The Australian is full of top flight journalists.

Go figure. Or perhaps, if you happen to pay for the rag, Think. Again.

Suddenly I feel the lyrics to a song coming on:

Whenever life get you down, dinkum newspaper reader,

And things seem hard or tough
And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft
And you feel that you've had quite enu-hu-hu-huuuuff

Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving
And revolving at 900 miles an hour
That's orbiting at 19 miles a second, so it's reckoned
A sun that is the source of all our power
The sun and you and me, and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at 40,000 miles an hour
Of the galaxy we call the Milky Way

Our galaxy itself contains 100 billion stars
It's 100,000 light-years side-to-side
It bulges in the middle, 16,000 light-years thick
But out by us it's just 3000 light-years wide
We're 30,000 light-years from galactic central point
We go round every 200 million years
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe

The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whiz
As fast as it can go, at the speed of light you know
Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is
So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure
How amazingly unlikely is your birth
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space
Because there's bugger all down here in The Australian ...

(Below: Now this is what I call thought leadership. National advertising campaign for the Atlantic October 2008, and for The Australian in 2009)

Gerard Henderson, and yet another dose of a Gradgrind with a bee in his bonnet ...

Tory Maguire struggling to understand Kyle Sandilands in No wonder our politicians treat us like we're stupid:

He’s not an idiot, but he clearly thinks his listeners are. Yet one million of them continue to tune in.

Sheesh Tory, that's because they're idiots. Ijeets to you.

We complain constantly that politicians treat voters like they’re stupid. Considering how so many of us a prepared to pretend we are, you can hardly blame them.

Maybe that's because the best way to pretend they're stupid is to read The Punch, Australia's dumbest conversation? How dumb is it to try to make sense of Kyle Sandilands?

Phew, now that's been sorted, we can attend to our regular weekly sermon from our very own antipodean Reverend Stiggins, the honourable Gerard Henderson, deputy Liberal shepherd from the Phillip street branch of the inner city chardonnay swilling chattering members of the Association of Grand United Order of pontificating poobahs, commonly known as the Sydney Institute (with apologies to Dickens and as a variation, since calling this scribe a prattling Polonius is as tiresome as repeated reminders of the fearful awfulness of a great big new tax, or alarums sounding about a bunker in Ultimo full of cardigan wearers, when usually it's full of visiting commentariat commentators ready to vent their spleen and drop their bile).

Wow, that's an elaborate introduction, so what's Mr Henderson got for us today that'll live up to the sell job?

Oh Magoo you've done it again, in Labor top of the list misjudging Abbott:

You see, you can always rely on the Pecksniffian, Gradgrindian Henderson to deliver a few lines like this:

The view that Abbott is unelectable reflects the mindset of the secular inner-city intelligentsia and finds expression among some journalists.

Dear long absent lord, has the man got a bee in his bonnet, or what. Which reminds me of that delightful, possibly Scottish phrase, and its explanation here in the excellent Phrase Finder:

This phrase clearly alludes to the state of agitation one would be in when finding a bee inside one's bonnet. It follows on from the earlier expression - 'to have bees in one's head', which had much the same meaning. This is recorded from the 16th century, for example, in Alexander Douglas's Aeneis, 1513:

Quhat bern be thou in bed with heid full of beis?

Beekeepers have always worn protective headgear when working with bees and it is possible, although entirely speculative, that the bonnet refers to this.

The first citation of 'bee in his bonnet' in print that I have found is the Reverend Philip Doddridge's Letters, 1790:

"I suppose you have heard of Mr. Coward's pranks. He has, as the Scotch call it, a Bee in his Bonnet."

Yes, the English language is always more interesting than Henderson.

Of course each time that Henderson launches a sally at secular inner-city intelligentsia and ABC journalists, the pond regularly remembers that Henderson is a member of an inner-city based intelligentsia and elite that bungs on high minded affairs, where the chardonnay, or similar, flows like sweet tasting nectar (as might be expected of a John Howard lover who remembers the man's fondness for reds and draining the taxpayer-funded cellar).

Why if you rush off tonight you can hear Kate Jennings and Shelley Gare, explaining the art of sticking your heard above the parapet, only to have Henderson take pot shots at it - but remember that will require you to head into the inner city and mingle with the inner-city intelligentsia.

If that's not to your taste, why shortly there'll be David Gonski and Elizabeth Broderick doing board representation balancing the gender mix, and next week David Marr and Nicholas Stuart doing over the Rudd Prime Ministership, and so on and on (it's all here), and if the pond happened to be a member of the inner city elite and intelligentsia, what a delight it would be to trot off and mingle and drop bon mots, and perhaps a little Francais, because you know one can ...

What's worse, we've just given the Sydney Institute a free plug, and the way we carry on makes it sound as if we have a bee in our bonnet.

Let's get back to Henderson's bees and their ever so predictable buzzing, which as usual involves the petulant stance of a young lad in shorts saying "it's just not fair, you're never fair and balanced like I am, which is to say that Tony Abbott is wonderful and masterful and a real challenger, and should win, and the only thing that's stopping him is the intelligentsia and the media, and in particular, secularists, and ... (here a stamp of the feet and a petulant pout) ... it's just not fair."

There is a pervading view Australians, particularly women, will not vote for a party led by a social conservative who declares himself to be an imperfect Catholic. This was very much the theme of Liz Jackson's Four Corners profile of Abbott in March. Even Manne acknowledged this was "the left-wing version" of the Opposition Leader. So far ABC TV has not aired a similar program on Gillard, where she is subject to cross-examination about her words and deeds of some three decades ago.

Ah yes, it's just not fair. What we need is a cross-examination of the words and deeds of what everyone said and did some three decades ago. And instead of doing a profile of Tony Abbott, why the ABC should simply ignore the Liberal party and stick to its natural turf.

Why, for example are there so few programs about the manufacture of cardigans? Why isn't the 7.30 Report replaced, now that they have a news channel for such dross, with an educational program for knitters, or perhaps a program aimed at cat lovers?

I'm sure the Enmore based Cat Protection Society, our local jewel in the crown for oldies anxious to save the cats - won't someone think of the cats as well as the children - would only be too happy to help improve and enhance the ABC's programming. (But won't someone think of the birds, and the parrots munching at the moment on cherry blossoms?)

Never mind, cats and the Scottish contribution to the English language are so much more amusing than Henderson. How's he going now?

It would be foolish to predict the election outcome.

That's it? If you started at the beginning - I couldn't be bothered - you would have copped Henderson doing over Bruce Hawker and (oh spare the predictability of it all) the likes of Robert Manne and Hugh Mackay.

Given the peculiar Henderson mindset, this was about as useful and meaningful as a coach for a rival team going over the weaknesses in the Sea Eagles rugby league line up (insert other detested teams such as Collingwood or the Crows to make this metaphor meaningful anywhere).

Yet when it comes down to it, all Henderson can do is put is elbow in the water and pronounce it ... well, it would be foolish to predict the actual temperature of the water.

Not to worry. We're dealing with bees in the bonnet, and here's a classic statement of the ongoing, perpetual motion, never ending conservative Henderson bee in the bonnet relating to the quite rough hewn and disturbing outer reaches of society, where there be dragons:

But the evidence suggests Abbott has a certain appeal among lower-socio-economic groups in the outer suburbs and regional centres where life is quite tough and long-term and youth unemployment disturbingly high. Outside the inner city, Abbott's social conservatism is not a reason for sneering - since most Australians are conservatively inclined.

But what does this actually mean? Does it mean Australians are socially conservative? As in finding homosexuals threatening? Or are they economically conservative? Do they care about climate change? Were they disappointed that Rudd dropped this particular bundle? Is it possibly to be so comprehensively stupid as to make such a bland blanket statement as "since most Australians are conservatively inclined", and think it actually means anything at all?

Well of course the point is as always political, and that requires an absolution of Tony Abbott:

It makes sense for Gillard to be Gillard. Yet this necessarily has come about because Abbott insisted on being Abbott, irrespective of those who dismissed him as a fanatical "Captain Catholic". As a Howard government minister, Abbott did not seek to change the abortion laws and he was not the driver of the Work Choices legislation.

You see. He's a clean skin. Nothing to do with him, and a perfectly safe pair of hands. He won't drop the ball.

But, but, but. ... if Australians are conservatively inclined, why should they care a whit or a jot about whether Abbott wanted to, or will seek to change the abortion laws?

Surely as social conservatives, they should be right on board, demanding the end to abortion, and a return to the good old days in the nineteen fifties of backyard abortions with coat hangers. Like the Catholic church ...

Or is Henderson simply talking through his pompous backside?

Because you could apply the same logic to Work Choices.

If Australians were economically dry conservatives, they should be right on board with Work Choices, demanding that the labour market be freed up, and everyone allowed the right to work for a pittance, so business can match the Chinese factory system, and flood the world with dinkum Aussie two dollar boomerangs ... (and watch out it doesn't come back to hit you in the head).

Or help out Henderson in getting young things to work for retail chains for three fifths of fuck all, serving up rubbishy food and other rubbishy junk made in our own dinkum sweat shops ...

On the other hand, you could, if you were so inclined, make a case that the larrikin myth of Australia is quite liberal and perhaps even a tad socialist (see Ward's The Australian Legend), and that there's a knockabout "I'll take you as I find you and as you do by me I'll do by you" aspect to the culture, with an open dislike for wowsers and Methodists and Mother Grundys and tosspot wankers. Only however if you were inclined like Henderson to sweeping generalisations to support your own particular, biased world view ...

But okay I'll bite, who or what is Tony Abbott:

He is a pragmatic politician with certain convictions.

With certain convictions?

Well that's as tidy a phrase as the celebrated "economical with the truth" and it takes Henderson to the top for evasive non sequiturs. Certain convictions? Well it gave me a hearty chortle, and that's a fact.

With this kind of form, our man could easily take out the 'gherkin of the week' award, but can we just - for the moment - settle for calling him a prattling Polonius.

And how does our Polonius call the election?

Which is why Labor is concerned about losing office on August 21.

Yes, the man doesn't even have the balls to barrack for his team, and say Abbott is certain to win the election. You know, rah rah, come on Tony, you can do it. No, it's Labor is concerned about losing.

Tragic. Talk about a stick in the mud. You know, the more we read Henderson here at the pond, we come to the conclusion he's an inner city intelligentsia wanker ...

And now, since it's been a while, and since we regret each day that Charles Dickens isn't around to do over Henderson proper-like, give that steaming kettle a right royal polishing, here's Dickens doing Gradgrind:

"Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!" The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a schoolroom, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely ware-house-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders,-nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodat-ing grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was,-all helped the emphasis. "In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!" The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim.

.... THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir-peremptorily Thomas-Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind-no, sir !

(Below: by golly that chappie looks just like the sort of chappie who'd be right at home in the Sydney Institute).

David Burchell, and that's not an elaborate cathedral of caricatures, this is a labyrinth of insights ...

(Above: a bronze age labyrinth in Galicia. Hah, that's nothing. This is a labyrinth).

Week after week here at the pond we valiantly lobby for David Burchell to be elevated into the inner circle of commentariat commentators.

But it's bloody hard work. Reading Burchell reminds me of a friend from university days, whose synapses snapped in totally different ways to mine. Put simply, I couldn't understand a word he said whenever he led a theoretical argument or debating point, and likewise if I spoke, I could see his eyes glaze over with incomprehension. We still speak occasionally, and life has worn off the edges a little, so we've both moved away from complete autism, but every so often we still go huh, what the fuck was that?

Okay so now you know the theme's incomprehensibility and how better to discover mutual incomprehension, than read Burchell's Revenge of the nerd on capital hill and wonder what the fuck it's all about.

Try some of these gems on for size:

Ask any harassed high school teacher in any stressed, close-to-the-edge outer-suburban or provincial school and they'll remark to you about the curious sense of destiny that seems to have overtaken classroom gender relations in recent decades.

Yes, yes, but most Australians live in dense congregations in urban environments. Is the wisdom of outer suburban provincial schools applicable to eastern suburbs schools, or private schools, or classy public schools? Is this a parable about the sense of destiny Riverview gives you?

Just wondering ...

While girls - ever since the doors of compulsory schooling were opened to them, after a short delay of a couple of millennia - have learned the value of at least pretending to be good, where goodness is defined as orderliness, self-discipline, a bright smile, minding your tongue and (perhaps most important of all) feeding back to the teacher those predictable, accredited sentiments they so evidently yearn to hear. Girls have, in short, been making up for lost time in a pragmatic, even ruthless manner - all the while evading the endeavours of the wild boys to disrupt their best efforts. Now even the prime ministership is within reach.

Sorry, words fail me. Will a simple WTF do?

It seems we're doing caricatures, so can we do a few more caricatures, and then apply them society-wide as a kind of vapid, impossible to prove, impossible to disprove, meaningless talking point about which nothing can be said? Sure thing:

At the same time, these counterposed roles have hardened into caricatures. A few very talented boys still soar in an idiosyncratic, if at times irritating fashion, and others are becoming better disciplined, while more and more seemed reconciled to their self-created fate as social dinosaurs. The strange effect of all this - as Tolstoy may have appreciated - is that all good girls seem to be good in the same familiar way, whereas all bad boys are bad in a style of their own choosing.

Yes and all seeming truisms wrapped in their own banality are bad in a style all of their own choosing. Much like platitudes or prejudices, as indeed Tolstoy may have appreciated. As indeed Fyodor Dostoyevsky might have appreciated ...

But wait, surely we can do better than this. Let's reduce the the notion of the world to the idea that it's a high school ...

Further, as politics has become more and more like an elaborate replica of high school - where the cleverest kids feel a rigid entitlement to lord it over their less-gifted classmates for the rest of eternity, in an endless replay of the Revenge of the Nerds ...

Great, that's more like it, though what a pity, what a tragedy that politics didn't take a better movie, like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, or display the kind of wit and humour to hand in Alexander Payne's Election as the role model to elaborately replicate.

I'm not sure what it all means, but I do love high school flicks as a sub-genre, even if recent blessings like Assassination of a High School President have been somewhat mixed. Still, where would the world be without Principal Skinner, or that evil dean in The Simpsons ...

Oh dear, I see I've been distracted, and so digressed, but the Burchellian metaphor keeps on rolling along. Let's pick it up again ...

... so many of the unloveliest features of high-school life have also seeped into politics, rather like the evil-smelling residue of a failed science-lab experiment wafting through to the classroom next door.

Oh yes a rotten eggs hydrogen sulfide joke. Take that you evil dean ...

But steady, an important point is being made.

Nowadays in the schoolroom of politics the most important virtues are: orderliness, self-discipline, a bright smile, minding your tongue and feeding back to the electorate those predictable, accredited sentiments you believe they yearn to hear.

Why that sounds alarming. Surely this is a metaphorical play explaining that rough boys have been ruled out of politics and it's all the fault of young women?

And so the accession of a new generation of able, efficient young women in the parliamentary Labor Party, and the disciplining of public life by our contemporary army of advisers and minders, have melded together in a curious fashion. Just as schoolgirls learn how to be good at seeming to be good, female Labor ministers are particularly skilled at grinding out mechanical, rehearsed, meaningless responses in deceptively personable, human-sounding ways.

Why yes, they're just like trained puppies, all blonde, and worst of all female. Just like a bunch of girls. Worse, just like a bunch of school girls. Ambitious and scheming and full of flirtatious wilful wiles and so difficult for young boys to handle. The southern Belle will yet rule the world, and frankly it's important to give a damn.

But wait, don't give up, because misanthropy can cut two ways:

Of course, in politics as in the schoolroom we still find those outsize male personality traits that give high-school teaching so many of its piquant challenges.

Who, after all, does not remember at least one driven, obsessive, unsociable boy who demanded all the attention for himself, was able to relate to other people only through the process of dominating them and forcing assent to his every thought, and whom, on account of his general odour of strangeness, nobody wanted to sit near in the playground? Didn't we always fear that, in the end, some boy like this might break through the self-created cocoon of his own disordered personality and thrust his way ever onwards in the schoolroom of life until he became prime minister?

Uh huh. And who might that be exactly? Tony Abbott? Kevin Rudd? Paul Keating? John Howard? Bob Hawke?

I don't know, I give up. Who is it?

And then again, wasn't there always some other boy - usually more adept on the sports field than in the classroom - who managed to combine his naturally demonstrative personality with a quirky, slightly manic and yet vulnerable charm, in a way the girls would find strangely attractive and repellent at once? And then as now, could we ever really be sure: would the exposed heart and the quirky charm carry him far enough, or would he be forced at last to domesticate that crazy, wayward will?

Uh huh. And who might that be exactly? Tony Abbott? Kevin Rudd? Paul Keating? John Howard? Bob Hawke? Malcolm Frasier? Bob Menzies? Gough Whitlam? Billy McMahon? John Gorton? Ben Chifley? John Curtin? Earle Page?

I don't know, I give up. Who is it?

Sorry, Luke, this is not the way to feel the force. The whole point of the game is never to actually say what you mean, or explain what you mean, or use examples to illustrate what you mean.

Instead let's go off on another high school metaphor tangent, preferably with a kind of right angled rhetoric:

Right now it's easy to picture Julia Gillard in the role of the stoic school captain. She has been forced through circumstances to adopt the demeanour perfected by school captains since time immemorial: dealing with unpleasant situations in a dignified manner; protecting the school's good name; dealing discreetly with scandal. We know the Prime Minister must have a ruthless streak - or else she would not have advanced nearly so far, despite her reported periodic bouts of hesitation. Yet she evidently feels constrained not to exhibit this ruthless streak in public - lest the school captain's dignitas and her good-girlness both be lost.

Dearie me, I wonder why? Could it have anything to do with the Liberal party and the commentariat comparing her to Brutus or Judas or a knife wielding back stabber on a more than daily basis?

Yes, for that kind of nonsense, why not troop off to Alexandra Carlton's attempt to promote a wretched magazine while slagging off Julia Gillard in 'I want to sledge them': Jess Rudd on her Dad's demise, exemplary proof that The Punch is by far the most fuckwitted conversation in Australia.

I would’ve broken ranks and yelled, “He f—-ing got asked to step down all of you f—-ing idiots. I’m Rudd’s f—-ing daughter and he did not f—-ing resign. Gillard is a selfish piece of shift [sic], who cares about herself and not the f—-ing Labor Party. Have fun with the country, I hope to never vote for this god foresaken party every again [sic]. F—- all of you.”

Yes, that's what passes for a clever satirical flourish in the lucky country these days. And how about this for a nice little backstabbing of that selfish piece of shift (sic):

It’s unfortunate Julia Gillard doesn’t have kids – not because it makes her less of a woman or gives her a diminished understanding of families. But because we could wedge them under a microscope and prod indelicate outbursts out of them that would give us a much clearer insight into the woman herself.

Yes, what a pity she's barren, it's so hard to have any clear insight into the woman ...

But I digress, as you might expect by Carlton's early bid to win the worst person in the world award for the week.

And yes, sob, I admit it, I started to nod off while reading Burchell - it happens all the time - but we must plough on, a bit like Homer Simpson's snow plough, to reach a deeper understanding of the high school in which we all live.

It's also clear that - as the brightest apple on Labor's tree - Gillard must have reflected on the foibles and foolishnesses of the past three years, when projects were set off half-cocked in all directions, partly out of a self-created panic that the world was tumbling down, and partly out of electoral calculation.

The great global recession a self-created panic? Dear lord, who is this gibbering loon? So much for getting out of jail, and skating through, while economies crashed all around, and still might in Europe, in best lucky country style ...

She has signalled to us, albeit in low tones, that a re-elected government must cleave towards the Labor ethos of the Hawke-Keating days, when public programs were devised in a spirit of enabling the private economy to prosper, rather than as some act of spite against it. Likewise she has scratched in some cross-hatching towards a new micro-economic reform sketch, taking up where the micro-economic agendas of the 1980s and 90s left off.

Um like her school hall policies?

I keed, I keed. But isn't it interesting that Burchell lives in such a remote high school that he simply doesn't seem to have actually read any of the abuse or criticism of Gillard or her work as a Minister these past few months ...

Yet the overall effect is still too polite and discreet by far. Gillard, having become the good schoolgirl, has ceased to be a real, living personality. Further, the Prime Minister's two overwhelming problems evidently require a joint solution. She clearly can't address the former prime minister's behavioural problems without also addressing the schoolroom craziness of his prime ministership: the manic activity marred by the absence of clear strategy; the urgency combined with an incapacity to act, which led essential decisions to be postponed just as harebrained schemes were trotted out without proper thought.

Phew, at last I get it. Burchell is really just Paul Sheehan in drag, ensuring the tradition of a manic Monday continues, and he really doesn't like former Chairman Rudd ...

She will have to accept her share of responsibility for this situation, but she will also have to disassociate herself where necessary, and this will require a large dose of ruthlessness. As Machiavelli might have said: sometimes in order to deal with people who are bad you cannot be afraid of seeming bad. The danger otherwise - verging on certainty now - is that the classroom will continue to be dominated by the disruptive boy at the back, and nobody will become any the wiser.

Oh yes, now I really do get it.

Tony Abbott is the disruptive boy at the back. It's all the fault of Riverview. Sure you might have thought that Saint Ignatius' college was a rich lower north shore school for rich Catholic ponces, but you don't have a clue.

Oh wait, what's that? Hang on, what if she wins, and then what if former Chairman Rudd is the disruptive boy at the back, and I've got it all wrong.

Oh no, it gets worse. Could Sophie Mirabella be the disruptive boy at the bac?. Could it be Julie Bishop? Could it be Bronwyn Bishop? Could it be a pod or a brace of Bishops? Did they use a ruler to flick spitballs on to the ceiling, just to show the boys they were sharper and tougher and smarter?

Could it be Malcolm Turnbull? Could it be Mark Arbib?

Meltdown, meltdown, nothing computes ...

I know, I know, you've got to the end, and you're none the wiser. But that's the whole point, that's the whole joy. Think of it as being like reading or watching Alain Robbe-Grillet- Last Year at Marienbad say - or a trip into the Labyrinth built by the legendary artificer Daedalus to hold the Minotaur ...

Indeed you could waste your time reading the wiki about the various ancient, medieval and modern labyrinths built to delight or tease or frustrate, but with Burchell offering such a splendid maze of meanings and wonderful caricatures, why be picky or perverse?

And to think that The Australian offers this joy once a week, and not hidden behind a paywall. Is there a long absent lord or what?

(Below: now please return to your casual girlie lounging about ways, as shown here in Last Year in Marienbad).

Paul Sheehan, sprouting the usual tripe in his inimitable metallic way ...

(Above: gasp, it's Robbie the Robot, one of the pond's favourite icons, and the metallic bubble headed booby is doing things to that sweet young thing).

After the sordid and unpleasant business know known as the "Affair of the 'Double Agent'", or what came to pass as the "Affair of the 'Inverted Commas'", which we're currently turning in to a most excellent Sherlock Holmes adventure, it was with anticipation that we turned to Paul Sheehan today for a more solid outing.

How dull, predictable and tame is In one month, a good woman has become Labor's latest robot.

In it Sheehan rehearses all the usual moves, in a way that suggests he's been out of country, and now he's come back in country, his insights are somehow novel or interesting.

He trawls back over Gillard's ascent to power, and at the same time, for affectation and a kind of purported balance, he trawls back to Abbott doing over Turnbull.

But then he swiftly nails his colours to the mast. Asserting that Mark Latham's diaries are a bible of bile, what better place for a commentariat commentator to frolic and feast than on said bile?

Sheehan quotes Latham approvingly on Gillard, and disapprovingly on former chairman Rudd, but of course that's only so he can approve of the dumping of Rudd, and then dump on Gillard.

Naturally in the process Sheehan manages a goodly swipe at Rudd:

This is why he was executed by his own party. His Napoleonic compulsions had become overbearing. His mania for centralised government had failed. Once the voting public started coming to the same conclusion, reflected in the polls, an overwhelming majority of Rudd's colleagues wanted him gone. He was a pain in the rectum.

He even manages to ignore the folly of the "Affair of 'Alexander Downer'" to quote him as another nail in Rudd's coffin.

Speaking of metaphors, why was I suddenly in the grip of a vision of Sheehan as a vulture, hovering over the carcass, picking at it and complaining of his rectum? Or if not a vulture, or a skulking howling coyote, perhaps a gravedigger, a clown, at the graveside. You know, enough to make a Hamlet clutch a skull and brood:

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once:
how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were
Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It
might be the pate of a politician, which this ass
now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God,
might it not?

... Or of a courtier; which could say 'Good morrow,
sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This might
be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord
such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

...Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and
knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade:
here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to
see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding,
but to play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think on't.

Yes, you've guessed it, we're heading into political metaphor time with Sheehan, and where does he woefully and predictably land, but in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, a torture oft inflicted on children in schools, the good interred with the bones, and his target of ire is one Mark Arbib.

Yes the tiresome commentariat columnist returns once more to rehearse the assassination scene, long after its done, the punters home abed and the theatre lights switched off.

He (Arbib) is also straight out of central casting as Marcus Junius Brutus. Surely, therefore, he must become a primary target of the opposition's election campaign.

But hang on, not that here on the pond we approve of political assassinations, but we do get a little agitated by Sheehan's appropriation of Brutus.

You see, Caesar was done over by a bunch of aristocrats, not apparatchiks, and they did so because they feared he was going to be in power for life:

Ancient biographers describe the tension between Caesar and the Senate, and his possible claims to the title of king. These events would be the principal motive for Caesar's assassination by his political opponents in the Senate.

Plutarch records that at one point, Caesar informed the Senate that his honors were more in need of reduction than augmentation, but withdrew this position so as not to appear ungrateful. He was given the title Pater Patriae ("Father of the Fatherland"). He was appointed dictator a third time, and then nominated for nine terms as dictator, effectually making him dictator for ten years. He was also given censorial authority as praefectus morum (prefect of morals) for three years. (here at the wiki, assassination of Julius Caesar).

Yep, as usual the troublemakers were ponces, well off toffs purporting to care about the republic when they only cared about their own power base, and of the kind you can these days find in Paddington furiously scribbling about the joys of fifteen dollar loaves of bread.

You could, if you were determined, and had the same over arching desire for simplification and uglification, build a narrative out of the assassination of Malcolm Turnbull by shadowy far right conspirators lurking in the darkness, or hiding within the billowing tunics of the likes of Nick Minchin. (Ah but you see that vortex was one of Turnbull's own making, and Abbott just a dumbfounded happy recipient of lady luck).

Never mind, hey nonny no, on we go:

Because it was Marcus Junius Brutus Arbib who, with the other members of the Senate, not only knifed Rudd for Gillard but have subsequently encased her in the shell made by the Hawker Britton spin doctors, the party's focus groups, pollsters, lobbyists, factional debt collectors and union kneecappers.

Oh the poor thing, she's had to endure all this plastic wrapping. That must have been a remarkable transformation, and only in a month:

This is why the Julia Gillard of June was so unlike the Julia Gillard of July.

Yes, I knew it, from June to July, and suddenly a Frankenstein roaming the earth, or perhaps since we're in to historical metaphors, one of the rabble of san-culottes, labourers and radical Jacobins, guided and shaped by the evil Robespierre (more at the wiki here).

Surely this is a most remarkable transformation:

The Gillard that people, even Mark Latham, admired, has become the inheritor of a raft of grandiose policy failures, the principle architect of the Building the Education Revolution gold-plated feeding trough, and the sprouter of generic slogans.

Oh dear. Even Mark Latham. Et tu Marcus? But hand on a second, sprouter? Are we thinking of spouter?

–verb (used with object)
1.
to emit or discharge forcibly (a liquid, granulated substance, etc.) in a stream or jet.
2.
Informal . to state or declaim volubly or in an oratorical manner: He spouted his theories on foreign policy for the better part of the night. (here).

Or are we thinking of sprouting?

–verb (used without object)
1.
to begin to grow; shoot forth, as a plant from a seed.
2.
(of a seed or plant) to put forth buds or shoots.
3.
to develop or grow quickly: a boy awkwardly sprouting into manhood. (here).

I think the latter, because it seems Gillard has awkwardly sprouted into a machine:

This creation, this metallic creature of the machine, could not get past the X-ray detectors at the airport, and the public has recoiled from the process.

Um, is it at all unkind, perhaps a tad unsporting to note that back in June, Gillard was still the principle architect of the Building of the Education Revolution, and inclined as like any other politician to be the sprouter of generic slogans, putting forth many buds and shoots (who can forget the generic enthusiasm for the My Schools site amongst the commentariat?)

Amidst all Sheehan's bile and attempts at Frankenstein, or should that be Robbie the Robot building, I suppose that we should be grateful that he fails to note that this metallic creature, this robotic machine, is of course incapable of reproduction, is barren in the way that machines are, and speaks with a peculiar rasping metallic lilt reminiscent of Altona and utterly unlike the way metallic machines speak in North Unley, not so much a postcode as a way of life.

But in the end, in constructing this narrative, with its necessary dip into bilious bile, and the elevation yet again of Mark Latham from maddie to informed insider, would it not have been simpler (and kinder to his readers) for Sheehan to simply adopt the pose of a surly grouch, harumph, clear his throat once or twice for effect, say "I'm going to vote Liberal like I always do, and I hope they win, and you can all bugger off."

There, done and dusted in a few simple words, and none of us having to waste precious time as we crank up on a Monday morn, trying to get a few sparks into the old starter motor and then in to the pistons, as we must, we metallic creatures.

Yep, another day where banal cheerleading of the most simplistic and rhetorical kind replaces informed opinion and insight.

Well you get what you pay for, which is why I'm pleased to pay nothing ...

(Below: look out sweet young Julia, the hideous metallic monster will get you. Or worse still, you might even become his bride!)

>

The Sunday Terror and the quotation marks that clatter ...

(Above: the quotation marks that clatter).

Check this strange beverage fall out from the sky
Splashin' Baghdad on the Hudson in Panther Martin's eyes
He's high and outside wearin' candy apple red
Scarlet gave him twenty seven stitches in his head

With a pint of green Chartreuse, ain't nothin' seems right
You buy the Sunday paper on a Saturday night

Tom Waits, 'til The Money Runs Out

So here's a quote from Alexander Downer:

"I don't use the c-word, but I do use the f-word pretty freely, and I can tell you that Kevin Rudd is a f****** awful person," he said.

Now go look for it in the full unexpurgated transcript of Alexander Downer's revelations in relation to former chairman Rudd and his hapless exploitation as a "double agent", as published not just in the Sunday nee Daily Terror, here, but also as regurgitated at The Punch, here.

Strange. I couldn't find it. I could find this:

... I don’t know if Julie Bishop tells these stories but - I sent him and Julie Bishop on a parliamentary delegation to Zimbabwe, he was using the c-word to her all the time. I mean you’re a woman, women don’t like that. There was all that sort of language that she found - she came back and complained to me about it.

And then there was the matter of the use of the words "double agent".

Amazingly I found it. In the introduction by Penberthy to his piece:

... Alexander Downer has questioned The Sunday Telegraph’s treatment of his comments about Kevin Rudd, particularly the use of the word “double agent” to describe Downer’s claim that he used to leak Rudd information damaging to his opponents the Labor Party.

Yes, there it is, "double agent", and in quotation marks, what's more.

But when I went looking for it in the transcript strangely I couldn't find it. With or without the window dressing of quotation marks.

Yet here's how it's presented in the header to the story, which, you see is titled Libs: Kevin 007 was our 'double agent'.

Yes, there it is. Libs: Kevin 007 was our 'double agent'.

Now let's refresh my memory, since grammar isn't my strong suit.

Noun 1. inverted comma - a punctuation mark used to attribute the enclosed text to someone else

Why lordy I guess a reader more informed than me about grammar might think that Alexander Downer was being directly quoted to the effect that former Chairman Rudd was a "double agent" for the Liberal party.

That got me thinking about the difference between single and double quotation marks, and of course it's wreathed in tea party wars with the old country, as explained in Single vs. Double Quotation Marks: Once Again British and American Usage Differ.

As always, quotation marks have their own wiki here, but it would seem no matter how you cut it, a quote's a quote when you put it into quotation marks.

Hmm, but it seems that Alexander Downer didn't actually say "double agent" or if you will 'double agent'.

That was just put in the header to spice things up a little, and explain the tremendous spiffing graphic of former chairman Rudd as special agent 007.

Oh it's such a grand graphic. As we've said before, it's so witty and clever. Certain to sell newspapers on a slow day in an election campaign which clearly needs a little spice, if not chilli and garlic and a hearty dose of black pepper.

There's no doubt from the actual transcript that Alexander Downer is a goose who shot off his mouth. But that's not a revelation, or an insight, or a story, that's a truism, a banality. The Terror could have hung him out to dry, without needing to sex up the story, or rush off to invent some kind of dodgy phrase, almost up the mark of a "dodgy dossier".

Is it possible that the Sunday Telegraph's sub-editors, editor, and possibly the journalists involved simply don't understand that quotation marks should refer to an actual quotation.

Clearly the Sunday Terror would like to dump it all in Downer's lap. Penberthy dubs his piece "The things that natter: Downer's full Rudd transcript". I usually use italics to indicate a title or a link, but I think it's nice to use quotation marks to show it's a direct quote. So you wouldn't mistake it for something like the twits that batter, or the wits that splatter, or the gits that blather.

Never mind, I'm sure any decent lawyer could have a lot of fun with the whole damn thing.

And now, since we don't have to be "economical with the truth", a splendid phrase we owe to UK Cabinet Secretary Sir Robert Armstrong, as explained here, let's have a few more quotations:

I should define punctuation as being governed two-thirds by rule and one-third by personal taste. I shall endeavour not to stress the former to the exclusion of the latter, but I will not knuckle under to those who apparently claim for themselves complete freedom to do what they please in the matter.

That was found here, on Quotation Marks and Direct Quotations, wherein you can find such splendid and troubling examples of the usage of quotation marks as:

General Sedgwick's last words to his worried staff were "Don't worry, boys; they couldn't hit an elephant at this dist—".

President Kennedy famously exclaimed "Ich bin ein Berliner!"
Madonna is fond of declaring "I'm not ashamed of anything."
"The only emperor", writes Wallace Stevens, "is the emperor of ice cream."

And here's a wise warning for the unwary:

Now notice something else which is very important: a quotation is set off by quotation marks and nothing else. A sentence containing a quotation is punctuated exactly like any other sentence apart from the addition of the quotation marks. You should not insert additional punctuation marks into the sentence merely to warn the reader that a quotation is coming up: that's what the quotation marks are for. Hence the first two of the following are bad style, and the third one is wrong:

*President Nixon declared, "I am not a crook."
*President Nixon declared: "I am not a crook."
*President Nixon declared:- "I am not a crook."

Now we've contemplated that handy lesson, let's remind ourselves once more of the actual meaning of quotation marks, by breaking the rule and using a colon:

The chief use of quotation marks is quite easy to understand: a pair of quotation marks encloses a direct quotation — that is, a repetition of someone's exact words.

Hey, I think I've got it, by George I've got it.

What's that? Not in the antipodes dude?

Can anyone confirm that the Sunday Terror has an actual style guide in the building, or do they make it up as they go along?

Hey ho, hey nonny no, that's the last we'll say on this, but let's go out with Tom Waits, since strangely it feels like I did buy a Sunday paper on Saturday night, and tomorrow I dare say I'll read a Sunday paper printed on a Monday, and apologies for the rough out point at the end of the number ...

UPDATE: clearly we understand nothing. So when we read Karlis Salna's Spectre of Kevin Rudd hangs over Labor, scribbled for the Sydney Morning Herald, and given a 5.54 PM publication date, this 1st day of August in the year 2010 of the absent lord, we read it in the quest for enlightenment, normally reserved for our visits to Zen Buddhist monks.

Former Liberal foreign minister Alexander Downer has since attempted to pull back from the claims, published by News Limited on Sunday, saying his comments were misinterpreted.

But a statement issued on Sunday evening by News Limited said the organisation stood by its report in which Mr Downer is quoted as saying Mr Rudd was used "mercilessly to embarrass" then-Labor foreign affairs spokesman Laurie Brereton, whom Mr Rudd later replaced.

An unedited transcript of the interview with Mr Downer was also released, clearly showing he did in fact make the remarks.

Yes, but did he say "double agent"? Or was that an invention of News Limited? I mean, you can wriggle and you can slime, but really the English language should be sacred ...

Is there a style guide available in The Sydney Morning Herald? Or are the dullards in control there as well? Does anyone on the planet understand what quotation marks are meant to mean? Hello ....

Whatever, here's hoping that former Chairman Rudd takes the lot of them to the cleaners ... A pox on the lot of them.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE IN THE MANNER OF A PARTICULARLY OPAQUE AND STUPID TIM BLAIR:

The story so far. In a quest to understand the nature of quotation marks, loon pond has resorted to many sages and sought much wisdom, and so bizarrely, and with singular stupidity, ended up at Tim Blair's blog, wherein the saga is retold from the viewpoint of a Murdoch hack.

UPDATE IV. The reporting on Downer’s claim is solid. Here’s the interview transcript. Note, too, that Downer had no objections when the Sunday Telegraph reminded him that the piece was about to be published, and when the paper asked further questions about the claims.

Yes, but Blair too features the splendid Kevin 007 graphic featuring 'Double-Agent'. Who or what said the actual words 'double-agent', and so earned the right to the quotation marks?

Well there's cretins and gooses and then there's Tim Blair doing his quadruple bypass updates, and why on earth did the pond expect any understanding of punctuation from him?

Note too, and to self. Blair doesn't have a fucking clue ... as Lord Downer himself might have muttered into a port in his darker moments in the Adelaide Club ...

Put it another way. "Double fucking agent. C'est quoi ce bordel?"

Yes, you can quote the pond on that one ...

And now, at last, back to Tom:

When a newspaper knows no shame ...

(Above: The Australian purporting to be a serious rag. What me? it exclaims, while calling for a bowl of water wherein to wash its grubby paws, it's the Sunday Terror what done it).

By 10.04 am today, The Australian had caught up a little with recent grub street events, with Rudd threatens to sue over 'spy' claims and finding the time to quote Alexander Downer's denial of The Sunday Telegraph story about Rudd being Downer's sock puppet.

The Sunday Terror, which travels as the Daily Terror online, was as shameless as ever, with Libs: Kevin 007 was our 'double agent', bylined at 12.00 am to Claire Harvey and AAP.

But how to wrinkle the denial issued by Downer? Well put it in the story, way down in the piece, so meanwhile you can have all the fun of the fair, until the spoilsport turns up to ruin the party:

Mr Downer issued a statement on the matter from overseas, not denying his comments, but saying his comments had been misinterpreted.

Uh huh. So either Downer or the Terror is in continuing error.

Let's see what Downer thinks of the misinterpration:

“Kevin Rudd was not used by me or other members of the Liberal Party as a so-called 'double agent' to leak material against other members of the Labor Party,” he said.

“Unfortunately, (the journalist) has created a more controversial story than my comments warranted.”

The Terror's seemly response to the only source for this aspect of its story? The sole basis for its James Bond graphic, no matter how much it distorts, skews, drags in red herrings, or otherwise attempts to swing in the breeze. Why natch, it's not just to run it on the front page, but to run the graphic with an 'updated' version of the story:

But of course the rag made every attempt to establish the truth:

The Sunday Telegraph telephoned Mr Rudd's spokesman, Patrick Gorman, with the Downer claims at 6.15pm yesterday. Mr Rudd responded by email, denying the allegations, at 9.27pm.

The Sunday Telegraph had attempted to contact Mr Gorman several times after speaking to Mr Downer last week to put the allegations to Mr Rudd. Mr Gorman failed to return those calls.

Yep with Rudd having just undergone an operation, what better time to slip in the surgeon's knife and demand answers! And just before the hot fetid presses started to roll, perhaps fearful that someone might shout out, for the love of the lord and the geese hold the front page.

When a newspaper knows no shame ...

And when the Murdoch media denies that it has an agenda, and is just intent on reporting the news in a fair and balanced way ...

Chortle a little, and demand Glenn Beck do a tour of the antipodes ...

But isn't the graphic lovely. So irresistible. Now the question is, was Lord Downer the goose, or is the paper the goose? Or are they geese together? Is the rag going to call Downer out for being at best a dissembler, at worst a teller of porky pigs, or fibs, or lies? A liar? Or is the rag going to admit it made an error of interpretation, or perhaps was 'economical with the truth' or took a line that suited an agenda?

Who knows. Don't hold your breath. Over a couple of minutes and it can be fatal ... but this is the rag that ran photos of a nude Pauline Hanson. Surely, it's true the woman was nude. But was it Pauline Hanson? Well we know the answer to that, and maybe down the track a court will answer the question as to the truth of the matter here.

Meanwhile, let's learn the lesson from Valuable lesson from Pauline:

The saga of the fake Pauline Hanson nude photos ended quietly with negotiations last week between News Ltd and Hanson's lawyer, Stewart Littlemore, QC.

Hanson received an undisclosed settlement and a brief apology on page two of this weekend's Sunday Telegraph, acknowledging that she was not the subject and ending with the words: "We have learnt a valuable lesson."

No they didn't, they didn't learn a bloody thing. The bloody geese ...

Oh sweet absent lord, I'm so sorry geese ... I know you're tetchy and carry on and show an aggressive streak, but I've apologised, so let's make that a perpetual carry over apology

We know you're not the Sunday Terror ...

but isn't the graphic so witty and clever?

An apology to geese ...

Loon pond unreservedly withdraws any imputations, sly innuendoes or muttered implications, let alone imprecations, in comparing geese to Alexander Downer ...

The pond understands that such allegations and misrepresentations are hurtful, damaging and upsetting to geese, and profoundly apologises for any suffering or tearfulness thereby caused.

Oh and by the way, Alexander Downer denies Rudd double agent report:

... Mr Downer has released a statement this morning saying the interpretation placed on the comments he made are "wrong".

"The interpretation placed on my comments to the Sunday Telegraph is wrong," he said.

"Kevin Rudd was not used by me or other members of the Liberal Party as a so-called 'double agent' to leak material against other members of the Labor Party."

Mr Downer says the journalist who wrote the story has "created a more controversial story than my comments warranted".

That'd be the story prepared for the tabloid gutter Murdoch press by a "Staff Writer" - handy that if it came to legal action - under the header Libs: Kevin 007 was our 'double agent'. (And as featured also in The Australian, and already celebrated on the pond).

Uh oh. Done it again.

Loon pond unreservedly withdraws any imputations, sly innuendoes or muttered implications, let alone imprecations, in comparing gutters to the Murdoch press ...

The pond understands gutters perform tremendously useful work channeling storm water away from dwellings, and that gutters aren't responsible for the refuse dropped into them by litterbugs, and that the mud that sometimes congregates and often sticks in them is actually the fault of poor council maintenance, and not the fault of gutters, who just try to do their jobs to the best of their ability.

Loon pond understands that gutters do sterling dinkum hard Aussie yakka, oi, oi, unlike the Murdoch press, which is totally useless, when not being vicious or acting like a common sordid reprehensible town gossip flinging mud in the hope that some of it will stick.

Loon pond understands that such allegations and misrepresentations and comparisons of gutters to the tabloid press are hurtful, damaging and upsetting to gutters, and profoundly apologises for any suffering or tearfulness thereby caused.

On the other hand, loon pond isn't terribly worried about calling the Murdoch press tabloid yellow, including The Australian. Yellow isn't our favourite colour, and it must take it according to the company it finds itself in.

Think. Again.

Oh oh. This just in. Loon pond apologises to town gossips, as it understands that town gossips perform a useful function by relating matters of harmless trivia to other members of the town, such is "lordy, ain't it hot today" and "did you hear she's having twins", thereby providing oil to ease the squeaks of discontent, and therefore such gossiping is totally benign and utterly unlike the guttersniping squalid sordid ways of the Murdoch press.

Oh bugger it, no we're not going to apologise to guttersnipes, even if originally snipes performed the socially useful job of gathering refuse from the gutters of city streets.

They didn't clear out the Murdoch press, did they, and for that the snipe must be damned to eternity ...

(Below: meanwhile, can someone at the ABC explain why its radio news service ran with the Murdoch story in the morning, without checking, cavil or precaution, before finally coming up with this?)

Chance the Gardener, an exclusive for the punters from the Herald and an exclusive for the parrots from Lord Downer of Baghdad ...

(Above: a coot, a sentimental bloke, who has a go).

Watching the mynah birds and the parrots fight over the succulent juices in a Formosan cherry tree made me think somehow of the mysteries of the seasons, the election cycle, and the meaning of life, as explained in the impeccable Being There:

President "Bobby": Mr. Gardner, do you agree with Ben, or do you think that we can stimulate growth through temporary incentives?
[Long pause]
Chance the Gardener: As long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden.
President "Bobby": In the garden.
Chance the Gardener: Yes. In the garden, growth has it seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again.
President "Bobby": Spring and summer.
Chance the Gardener: Yes.
President "Bobby": Then fall and winter.
Chance the Gardener: Yes.
Benjamin Rand: I think what our insightful young friend is saying is that we welcome the inevitable seasons of nature, but we're upset by the seasons of our economy.
Chance the Gardener: Yes! There will be growth in the spring!
Benjamin Rand: Hmm!
Chance the Gardener: Hmm!
President "Bobby": Hm. Well, Mr. Gardner, I must admit that is one of the most refreshing and optimistic statements I've heard in a very, very long time.
[Benjamin Rand applauds]
President Bobby: I admire your good, solid sense. That's precisely what we lack in Canberra.

Oh okay, it should be Capitol Hill, but there's nothing like a little local colour because the current election campaign has all the charm and depth of a conversation with Chance the Gardener.

That's the dull official campaign.

In the unofficial campaign, all the squawking parrots are out and about having a fine old time sticking their beaks into the cherry blossoms.

Taking this "exclusive" story in The Sun-Herald by Jessica Wright and Ellen Lutton under the header Parties bet they will lose:

Senior Labor figures have placed significant bets on the outcome of the federal election, with some punting against their own party. A major betting agency said bets had been placed on members of the opposing team to win marginal seats in NSW and Queensland.

By golly, that's shocking, disturbing news. Australians celebrate two up as being at the core of the nation's mythology, not to mention a love of betting on two blow flies racing up a window, and here's punters punting against their party. Have they no shame?

Luckily the source is properly identified only as a major betting agency, and there's clearly no commercial benefit to be gained by their being named as a good outfit where you can place a bet:

Centrebet primary analyst Neil Evans said: ''I can't tell you who but I can tell you this: these are people very high up betting on some of the critical seats and I can tell you they don't always stay faithful to their party - they swap sides.

Sorry, it seems Centrebet can tell us that they're a good place to place a bet, and dinkum, do they respect client confidentiality or what. But they can tell us there's some schismatics, some deviants, some splitters, some rats in the ranks, who'll take long odds and likely make a fortune by placing a bet at ... Centrebet.

Now once again, who are these punters?

''They are well-known Labor figures and associates that are punting on these seats. A lot of Labor-connected money has been backing a Coalition win in marginal seats and, to a lesser extent, the Coalition has been doing the reverse.''

Uh huh. Why that's so revelatory I just reel away shocked and astonished by the revelation. But hang on, as a well know loon pond figure and associate, what are the odds of which I might partake?

The revelations follow a 24-hour betting frenzy in which the Coalition's odds tightened from $3.32 to $2.64 and the ALP eased from $1.32 to $1.46.

A Herald/Nielsen poll published yesterday showed the Coalition - buoyed by damaging leaks against the Government - has an election-winning lead with a two-party preferred vote of 52 to 48 per cent.

With the ALP at its longest price in the betting markets since Prime Minister Julia Gillard deposed Kevin Rudd, bets of $10,000 at $3.25, $7800 at $3.10, $5000 at $2.90 plus scores of other small bets were recorded for a Tony Abbott victory.

By golly, those are truly remarkable and tasty revelations. A plug for the Herald's poll, a plug for the plunging odds and a plug for gambling ...

Why I might get into that game. But who could I place a bet with? Hmmm ....

Election betting is on track to reach record levels across the country. More than $1 million in head-to-head bets have been placed with Centrebet alone.

Centrebet! That's where the punters are heading. More than a million smackeroos .That's it, I think I'll place a bet with Centrebet.

By golly those revelatory odds are sensational. And did I mention Centrebet in this exclusive piece? And it's nice to know I'll be amongst the prominent politicians having a flutter. Oh sorry, did I say politician? Here's what I meant:

The Sun-Herald understands the figures include parliamentary staffers, advisers and senior party officials.

Why it might even include politicians for all we know, but since it's a no names no pack drill day, let's not name anyone.

Come to think of it, since here at the pond, we like to be fair and balanced, all this talk of gambling is making me nervous, so what kind of nelly, some anti-gambling crusader, some lone valiant independent, some mother grundy, can we wheel out to cluck about this deplorable tendency by the unnamed to drop their dollars at ... (trumpets and alarums please sound) .... Centrebet?

Independent senator and anti-gambling campaigner Nick Xenophon said: ''In the same way in the AFL officials and players can't bet on the other team, the same rules should apply for election betting. We have those rules in place so matches aren't thrown and, when it comes to a democracy, the stakes are much higher and therefore the standards should be accordingly higher.''

Today the senator will call for all politicians, party officials and advisers to be banned from election betting.

Oh dear sweet absent lord, and tormenter of Penola, it seems politics is just an AFL game in disguise.

Well there you have it, a handsome splash for Neil Evans and Centrebet, and surely a chance to make Media Watch as a throwaway item, but you can always bet (we offer odds currently of 1.01 to 1.00) that there'll be a fly in the ointment, a spoilsport, a goody two shoes who'll rain on the parade:

Sportingbet operations manager Bill Richmond confirmed the practice of high-ranking party officials and even politicians taking a punt.

''Not that I've heard of it this year, although it has happened before,'' he said. ''They may be with other betting agencies but they're not with us.''

There you go, done and dusted. If you're an aspiring loon pond figure or associate, the mugs at Sportingbet are clearly not the go, it's Centrebet for you ...

But if politics is just an AFL game, then what position would we place Lord Downer of Baghdad? Why surely as head kicker, shirt front grabber, stiff armer, and wielder of a fierce coathanger arm, and if only he could play across the codes, then surely a deliverer of fierce grapple tackles.

You see, Lord Downer has entered the fray with his own "exclusive" for The Australian, which ABC radio news bizarrely deemed suitable fodder to lead off its news stories this Sunday.

Alexander Downer accuses Kevin Rudd of Labor betrayal is the header, and it seems the cunning Lord Downer used former chairman Rudd as a patsy, publishing leaked information to him so that Kevin Rudd could take down Laurie Brereton as shadow foreign affairs minister.

The infinite subtlety of this fiendishly clever plan? Why Rudd got the job and then became leader of the opposition and then won the election and became Chairman, and now Lord Downer is just a gibbering feather duster prat photographed like a goose or a parrot lolling on his lounge in his Mount George home.

Now you might wonder what you think of the ethics of a politician who would leak dark dire secrets to the opposition. But have no doubt that the prattish Lord Downer knows how to take a firm principled stand:

“I don't use the c-word, but I do use the f-word pretty freely, and I can tell you that Kevin Rudd is a f…ing awful person,” he said.

“He was so incredibly unprincipled.”

But you were the incredibly unprincipled one that leaked to him, you fucking goose, you lord fucking Downer of fucking Baghdad. And if you were leaking matters of state, how unprincipled is that. And if you were leaking the usual drivel, how drivelish do you now sound ...

But at least the dingbats at The Australian, in the grip of this mud-racking, storm in a tea cup, carp in a loon pond exclusive, had the sense of mind to appreciate one of the many ironies in this bit of egg beating:

As Labor's opposition foreign affairs spokesman, Mr Rudd politically linked Mr Downer with the Australia Wheat Board oil for food kickbacks scandal in Iraq.

Politically linked him? You mean the Foreign Affairs Minister could just wash his hands of the AWB Oil for Wheat Scandal that happened on his watch?

How about linking him to unprincipled leaking to unprincipled types, like a fucking leaking faucet?

Never mind, I'm sure all is peace and quiet on the plush lounges of Mount George homes, as the feather dusters go about their fucking business, except for the burbling sound of the parrots making out on the lush cherry blossom nectar in the garden ...

But enough already. If reading this kind of tosh is how you spend your Sunday, why is it that I have a sudden urge to go place a bet?

Will someone offer me good odds on the proposition that the amount of drivel in an election campaign increases exponentially to the point where you think Chance the Gardener is speaking solid good sense?

(Below: and now for a break without a kit kat, and no mention of Centrebet, as Alec "the force" Guiness, Anthony Steele and Muriel Pavlow are shown the art of two up, by members of 78WG, while on location for the filming of Malta Story, found here).