it's a damned queer affair about these colonial johnnies from Australia, what?
Not content with stealing sheep and loaves of bread from honest shopkeepers in the 19th century, what do they do when they get transported to the world's most God-forsaken hell-hole?
They make it into a veritable University of Crime, that's what the sewers do. First they hunt the aboriginals to extinction. Then murderer talks to embezzler and revolutionary listens to wife-beating gin-soaked extortionist. And it's not long before the bastards are breeding like rats, and sending their poisonous offspring back across the sea to poor old Blighty, to devastate our culture.
There's all these hideous soap-operas full of simpering pretty-faced simpletons, there's that dreadful bearded little spiv with his paintbrush and his appalling songs about kangaroos and three-legged men, and now we've got this leather-visaged old goat doing his best to destroy British journalism.
Oh they might close the cess-pool that is News International down. But it's too late. They're out there. They have infiltrated. The barbarians have spread like malignant cells in the disease-ravaged body of Great Britain.
Even now, the police-force is being bribed and telephones are being hacked.
Why did we let them back in? We might just as well allow the inhabitants of Wormwood Scrubs, Strangeways and Dartmoor to run what's left of this ruined nation.
I blame Free Trade and Liberalism. Those few of us - and there are a few - and they are us - prepared to stand fast against the filthy tide of degeneracy are a dwindling band indeed. Only last Michaelmas, poor "Warthog" Guppy, my trusty batman, went to the great officer's mess in the sky after eating a jugged hare that was not quite the thing. This time last year, Colonel "Aylesbury" Ducke, of the Third Buffs, left this mortal coil after running a postman to ground.
The great are few, but the few are indeed great.
Lord Lieutenant Sir Norbert Horsebladder-Wilkinson,
being an Australian over here in England on retirement, I feel obliged to correct what appears to be an erroneous perception on the part of a great number of your English people.
It's about the fauna of Australia, you see. I don't know what it is about you people, but so many English folk seem to have something of a soft spot for creatures like the kangaroo, the wombat and the spiny echidna.
But let me tell your readers - if you had to do daily combat with these blighters out there in the bush, you wouldn't consider them to be such cuddly little chaps.
Speaking as one who has had many a stand-off with the Southern Hairy-Nosed Wombat on the great Nullarbor Plain, I can confirm that these are vicious little bastards.
I am retired now, and I made my fortune out of sand and flies. Sand and flies. There's not much else out there on the great Nullarbor Plain, let me tell you. The great Nullarbor Plain did for many a good man. Many a good man set out across the great Nullarbor Plain with high hopes and boundless ambition. And, one by one, they either came back, broken, or, worse, went mad and went into show business, like that old bludger, Rolf Harris.
Rolf couldn't handle the flies and the Hairy-Nosed Wombat, let alone the sand. So he let the sand alone, and ran away to England.
Frank Ifield, he was another who came second to the Hairy-Nosed Wombat. That's why he got into the yodelling and the easy-listening music.
Me, I was made of sterner stuff. I conquered the Nullarbor Plain, and I made my fortune out of the sand and the flies. But it wasn't easy. Those wombats, you see, they're cunning little buggers. They used to chew through the telephone wires. And when we developed unchewable telephone wires, the blighters took to climbing up the telegraph poles and sitting there, with their ears to the line, listening to the telephone calls.
You might think, "a wombat wouldn't be able to listen to telephone calls", but you'd be wrong, mate. Before you could say "wombats can't listen to telephone calls", you'd take a delivery of fly-papers and beer, and the flaming wombats were surrounding the homestead, begging for a drink. They'd heard me phoning in the order, you see.
I reckon I got out just at the right time. All these pooftahs over the years protecting the wombat have just made it worse. They've made it impossible for a man to make a living out on the great Nullarbor Plain nowadays. By the time I retired, the wombats had got as far as selling double-glazing, being Jehova's Witnesses and sending in stories to News International.
They've ruined the great Nullarbor Plain, as far as a man being able to make an honest living out of the sand and the flies. Now it's all blackmail, phone hacking and the Hairy-Nosed Wombat has taken over. Just like England.
So all this talk about cute little wombats and kangaroos is a mite hypocritical, really, when you think about it.
Les "Wombat" Wilson,
I would just like to say in your most steamed magazine that I am most grateful to the great "Australia Fair", for the many great benefits that fine nation has brought forth to the world.
Thank you, Australia Fair, for wiping out those dreadful old "aborigines", and clearing the way for the many great things of the modern Australia, viz.
- Rolf Harris
- Kylie Minogue
- Jason Donovan
- Ned Kelly
- Rupert Murdoch
Where would we be without these cultural icons of "Australia Fair"?
Where indeed? I for one shudder when I think.