Andrew Bolt’s journal from the IPA Birthday Bash

2:11pm: I’m so nervous that even listening to Wagner on my Zune won’t calm me down. In a few short hours I’ll be up on that stage in front of the greatest freedom fighters in all of Christendom. Will they like me? Will Rupert let me kiss his ring? Does my ‘Wayne Swan The Dead Economic Terrorist’ ventriloquism bit go on for to long? I’m going to take another shower and practice my scales.

3:09pm: Had some troubles in the shower. I kept yelling to the staff that the water wasn’t getting hotter, but the barbarians insisted that it was. Quite badly burnt.

3:24pm: They’re preparing the hall for tonight’s celebration. I asked John Roskam why he has illegal immigrants setting the tables and he angrily told me he’d bought them fair and square. Still not sorry.

3:41pm: George Brandis arrived absurdly early, as usual. He insisted on inspecting the kitchen for weevils three times and did that weird shriek he always does when he realised he’d left his lice shampoo at home. He doesn’t even have hair.

4:09pm: Attempting to distract myself from worrying, so I did another drawing of Gina as Brunhilde. It’s OK, uploading it to my DeviantArt.

4:38pm: I can’t rehearse in the basement because Tim Wilson is playing “Let The Market Decide” with a bunch of homeless people. From what I can tell, it’s very similar to Russian Roulette except the player with the biggest smirk just shoots whoever he wants. Tim’s winning.

5:09pm: I’m on in less than two hours and Tony Abbott’s already here. I’m pretty sure he’s been hanging out with Piers because he won’t stop grinding his teeth. I congratulated him on cutting that communist witch down to size, but he just kept muttering “I am a jealous God” and laughing hysterically.

5:28pm: Chris Berg keeps trying to show me his DS – he’s named his whole Pokémon Black team after Ayn Rand characters. Cretin. I don’t recognise anything after Gold and Silver as canon.

5:47: Gina just arrived in her palanquin carried by forty-eight shirtless miners. Gave her a single rose that I grew for her with bilby’s tears, but I was too shy to say anything. Idiot!

6:03: Tony’s punching holes in the wall and crying. Joe Hockey is trying to calm him down by dabbing his head with a wet flannel, but he seems convinced that Piers has transformed into some kind of invisible telepathic serpent and is whispering dark secrets into his mind. He better pull himself together before his speech or Rupert will have us all whipped.

6:35: Rupert’s here! His ermine robes are spectacular. We all took turns kneeling before Him to present our tributes. George Pell gave Him the original Holy Grail and Gina gave Him Coober Pedy. My tribute was Bob Brown’s head on a platter of purest silver. I’d been keeping it in an esky but it still smelt a bit.

6:53: Disaster! I was having a quick final practice of my “Professional Aborignal” song and got shoe polish all over my white sequin tuxedo. I need someone good at removing uncomfortable dark stains, I wish Keith Windschuttle was here.

6:55: I’ve decided to just ignore the stain. If anyone asks I’ll pretend it doesn’t exist.

6:59: About to go on, armed with a cane in my hand, a boater on my head and Thatcher in my heart.

10:03: MC Bolta in the Menzies House! The show was a phenomenal success and I’m not ashamed to say that Gina’s forty-five minute poetry reading made me weep. The only hiccup was during my Burqa Burlesque sketch – Scott Morrison got confused and tried to shoot me with a harpoon gun. Tony was still out of his skull when spoke, he compared Rupert to the man who invented Penicillin and kept going on about Whitlam for some reason. I don’t think anyone noticed. Now I can kick back and eat some poffertjes with neoliberalism’s best and brightest.

10:31pm: “John Galt is evolving!” Fuck off, Berg.

10:58pm: Caught up with Grahame Morris, it was nice of him to tunnel all the way from his underground lair.

11:17pm: Just spoke to a British American Tobacco executive who is furious that his pitcher of human blood isn’t hot enough. I said there was no evidence that it had been warmed at all. He hissed at me and started talking backwards in Latin.

11:59pm: The Gillard effigies have smouldered to ash, Brandis has brushed his teeth for the twelfth and final time and Joe has tucked Tony safely into his Australian Flag sleeping bag. I don’t think there have been any nights this incredible in all of human history. Name just three.

– Andrew Bolt

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