Still ticked off with Treasurer Timbo for his holier-than-thou attack on my serf workhouse empire.
I'm certain he's going soft.
He was clearly the 'senior government figure' who tipped off the UN last July about the enhanced encouragement measures I implemented at my gypsum picking factories.
I'll tell Timbo what I told Ban Ki-moon: Tasering isn't permanent and it increases gypsum production three-fold!
Regardless, I shan't talk to the Treasurer till I receive his written apology.
Until then, he can get knotted. He's off the Christmas cravat list.
Anyway, enough about him.
***
I was interested to read the overnight social media report Ferdinand delivered with breakfast.
'I see "Lord Lamington's Infant Elixir" is still trending across Latin America', I remarked, munching duck egg soaked sourdough muffin.
'Quite, my Lord', Ferdinand intoned.
'Honestly', I exclaimed, 'a few hundred Peruvian toddlers grow hoofs and people are still yapping about it weeks later!'
'Quite, my Lord'', Ferdinand said, spritzing my breakfast gin-shake with fresh mint.
'Have they nothing else to talk about? Don't they have a coup to plot?'
Ferdinand laid out the freshly ironed morning Murdoch papers.
'There's no evidence linking consumption of the elixir to the outbreak', I said, 'My lawyers tell me it's completely coincidental!'
'Quite, my Lord'
His butleratorial duties complete, Ferdinand began his reverential reversal through Berry Manor's long breakfast hall.
'So what if the elixir was the only sustenance taken by the newly hoofed children?', I said. 'Proves nothing'.
'Quite, my Lord'.
'And I tell you what', I shouted to him, 'Nothing Sean Penn says about me or my elixir in a GetUp ad changes anything'.
'He and Oprah can tweet #evilelixir at me till the cows come home and it won't make a lick of difference'.
I could make out Ferdinand nodding respectfully, the distance too far to carry his words.
'And I don't give a figging fig what three 'independent and rigorous' investigations reported'.
'Science is for the leftists', I seethed, 'I'm a proud Tory and a cloven-change denier!'
My voice was high and angry.
The heavy doors banged close at the far end of the hall.
I took a long sip from my breakfast gin-shake.
The last laugh will be on you Sean Penn, I chuckled.
The elixir was off the market and poised for relaunch to the thoroughbred industry as "Lord Lamington's Hoof Honey".
I'd send Mr Penn a carton.
But I digress.
***
In the last few weeks, about a dozen of them had been assembling at local intersections each morning in their treasonous red t-shirts, sitting beside their vile signs.
I tell you, this country's in the economic dung pile when serfs can afford portable chairs and the time off from their workhouse duties to sit on them!
From today's social media report I noticed the local Labor louts were planning to campaign at the Fiveways intersection in the middle of Ippy.
Mind you, sitting on your rump by the roadside isn't proper campaigning.
Proper Tory campaigning involves several stages.
First, one receives several supportive editorials in the Courier Mail/Australian. Des Houghton and/or Dennis Shanahan are the typical bylines.
The editorials crescendo with a fawning front-page story (minimum 192pt headline font) together with an image of a Labor politician/union thug/parent-seeking-needs-based-school-funding Photoshopped as a drug-toking Commie marsupial.
'Berry smashes Marxist Mulgara', or similar.
Second, for a week the IPA talking heads on ABC24 - yes, including Berg - proclaim you the best thing since Thatcher/Reagan/Tampa and the saviour of Western Civilisation.
Third, a mining company bankrolls your television ad campaign shot by James Cameron and featuring a retired rugby superstar.
Four, Bolt demands you be made Prime Minister.
That's how a Tory campaigns.
Not by sitting beside flashing traffic at the Ippy Fiveways.
Anyway, knowing the Labor louts would be there, I decided to make a dominance asserting appearance.
'Fire up the Berry Blaster', I told Ferdinand through the intercom.
It took only a few minutes reach the Fiveways.
I observe neither speed limit nor silly lane designations.
The Berry Blaster screamed to a stop in the middle of the red shirts.
Their terror was palpable. Almost olfactory.
I resisted the urge to loose a round from the Berry Blaster's 11 pounder gun over their heads.
Instead, I strode among them, their lord and master, and popped out an a-frame with a photo of the Premier and me.
I was magnificent in my herringbone suit.
I waved at passing traffic.
I saw their terror.
News Ltd might not be involved, but sometimes a campaign requires improvisation.
