You may have missed this in the news the other week, but our Prime Minister the Hon Kevin 07 (who prefers to be addressed as Saint Kevin the Infallible, unless he's in shape-shifting mood and is appearing in Parliament as a cardboard cut-out - usually on Fridays) was being harangued somewhat for dipping into the public purse and hiring a nanny to look after his offspring at The Lodge.
Well, one of the Rudd Rugrats anyway.
Yes, it seems, from my 3 minutes of research on the internet (and how could the www ever be wrong I ask you?) that it was only Saint Kevin's 14 year old son who required Au Pair servicing after school. I couldn't discover his name (or couldn't be ar$ed reading that far into the article) so I made it up. The PM's son goes by the name of Poncey McPonce from Poncetown.
Now if I recall myself at 14, all pimply-faced and peach-fuzzed balls, I would have been thrilled at the thought of a nanny giving me a right good "looking after" every afternoon after school.
Sadly, my hetero pubescent fantasies probably don't translate to the hero of our tale, the young Poncey, given his Dad is an ear-wax devouring poindexter.
But come the f*ck on, who, at 14, needs a professional nanny to oversee your after-school shenanigans? Although I suppose with a name like Poncey it's largely self-evident.
"Now, Poncey, you know that having an extra spoon-full of Milo only leads to chronic wind-pain and excessively fragrant flatulation, and we all know how unpleasantly that turned out when we were entertaining the Grand Duke of Fucktard and his attache, don't we hmmm?"
See, Poncey obviously needs to be protected from himself. Hence the nanny.
Quite obviously the little twerp can't be trusted to come home from school and sit the f*ck down to watch ABC Kids all on his lonesome without taking advantage of the lack of supervision to strip down and start humping the imported Italian-leather lounge suite like a f*cken Bonobo monkey on heat, or succumbing to his rampant and compulsive Onanism all over the house.
I can only imagine that Kevin 07 has grown tired of arriving home at The Lodge after a hard day crushing Brendan Nelson's tiny nuts in a vice and pimp-slapping Wayne Swan until-slap-he-slap-f*ckin-slap-does-slap-know-slap-what the-slap-f*ckin-slap-non-accelerating-inflation-rate-of-unemployment-SLAP-actually-slap-f*ckin is, only to discover that young Poncey has been left unattended again and has been manipulating himself furiously all afternoon around the house, jizzing and splooging with gay abandon all over the imported Turkish bathroom tiles and Persian hall-way runner.
I can see his point.
Enter the nanny, presumably a 7 foot tall Siberian "woman" called Borisya Ballsinajarovitch, who doesn't believe in 'happy endings' and will zap the living f*ck out of the game little chap with a cattle-prod whenever he so much as LOOKS like he might be contemplating a bit of the old "self-pollution".
Which, if he looks like his dad, could be almost all the time. Oh, wait, that was the card-board cut-out I was looking at, where our nation's brave and fearless Leader has BOTH hands THRUST DEEP, DEEP, DEEEEEP into his pockets - and who knows what mysterious joys lurk down there that would require so DEEP an EXPLORATION!?
Perhaps he was simply doing his bit to dampen INFLATION.
*boom-TISH*...here all week, try the veal etc etc...