I am an elder statesman, but I’m a versatile old bugger.
In about a month’s time I’m hitting the boards in Austin, Texas as a support act for Dame Edna. She’s not a happy lady about it because we’ve never hit it off, or got it off for that matter, and she’s got this bee in her bonnet that the Seppos (Septic Tanks — Yanks) might find me a bit too forthright in the language department and I could end up as popular as a bastard on Father’s Day. I beg to differ. She can stick her opinions as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve got a gut feeling I’m going to turn up in America when they need a man with my positive outlook more than at any other time in their history.
I’ve just been in San Francisco on a recce and boy, did I cop a strong whiff of the déjà-vus! That’s where I wanted to be when I was a kid, hanging out at Woodstock with Dylan Thomas and Billy Hendrix. Back in the Sixties in Sydney I was a flower child, believe it or not, and so was my yet-to-be bride, Gwen Dolan. She never went the whole way in the lifestyle department, or in any other department for that matter, being a well-brought-up Mick, but she wore a tiedyed kaftan which I found the other day in the glove compartment of the family vehicle. A bit the worse for wear. Somewhat like Gwen herself, the Lord bless her.
Iguess Gwen’s hippy period gave her a taste for mood-altering substances and she’s still off with the fairies most of the time. Knocking back the Valium and bugling the vody miniatures that I bring back after my overseas flights, God love her! Between you and me, Gwenny also suffers from haemorrhoids and the doctor has given her pills that look like submarines, except you would never get anyone to pilot them unless you could find a midget with a death wish. Her main problem is administering her medication when I’m not around. You see, my Gwen has put on a lot of weight in recent years and she has extremely short arms. Get the picture?
Igot a mayday from her only the other week when I was in Wall Street trying to sort out the Seppo money crisis. She was ranting and raving down the blower and it was a real case of what the doctor calls ‘roid rage’ due to the frustration of not being able to bung in the capsules. ‘What are neighbours for?’ I said to her gently. ‘There must be a kiddy across the street who’s keen to earn a bit of pocket money.’ And I guess pocket money is the appropriate term. Normally speaking, I wouldn’t discuss my wife’s intimate problem in public like this, but due to my long absences overseas at the taxpayer’s expense, Gwen’s problem is pretty well known in our neighbourhood, and quite a few young kids in our area have tended to exploit my wife’s vulnerability, I’m sorry to say. Back here in Australia, the powers that be are driving me nuts getting me to be a mentor and mediator to some of our political loose cannons. Mind you, we were lucky our great nation was founded by convicts, scallywags and red-blooded randy bastards, and not Puritans like America. We have a long and colourful history of eminent politicians who have been caught with their pants down — and proud of it! Prominent amongst these was a former prime minister who went to a conference in Memphis, had a few sherbets with a hostie at the bar, and ended up in the small hours wandering around the hotel lobby wearing little more than a nice shirt and a pair of budgie-smugglers! Then there was our one-time treasurer, who took a friendly little lass to a motel in Sydney, registered under another name, and croaked on the job. The poor bastard thought he had ticked all the boxes, but the box tosser was too much for the box ticker, who hadn’t counted on rigor mortis. That Governor Spitzer in New York who was caught bumping uglies with a hornbag in Washington would be a hero in Australia. And look at the fuss the Seppo media made when Britney got out of the car in her short frock and flashed her tarantula. When I offer a lift to a research assistant I get them to check their knickers at the car door, no worries!
Our new Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd (the dentist), has had as many overseas trips at the taxpayer’s expense as I have. Unlike a couple of his predecessors, he has not sought my advice about discreet rub-and-tug shops in Bangkok, though I would have been delighted to assist him should he be desirous of getting his rocket polished in a tasteful setting. He needs to watch his back however, because Malcolm Turnbull — the next Prime Minister incidentally — is waiting for the first opportunity to shaft him. Malcolm, like me, comes from a good old Irish-Australian background, but he once gave me a serve in the British press accusing me of damaging Australia’s overseas image. I didn’t give a stuff because, quite frankly, I am Australia’s overseas image. But I had to hand it to old Mal. If you’re a nonentity, as he was at the time, the best way to get a bit of publicity is to impugn the patriotism of a bloke everyone knows and loves. I felt like shaking his hand, though my hand was pretty busy at the time. Are you with me?
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