It’s sixteen hours before Anthony Abbott delivers his victory speech, leering like a blue-tied Caesar over the smouldering ruins of Gaul. I’m hunkered in my bunker staring at this screen, draped in a ratty grey dressing gown and struggling to think of a word to write. Maybe it would be easier if I thought that Labor had a chance, but that’s impossible outside the crumbling, ember-flecked Library of Alexandria that is Bob Ellis’ mind. Ellis, once a luminary activist, has lost the plot, vanished entirely inside himself, a bag of potatoes gone to seed – like he’s the jowly personification of the ALP itself.
Antony Green, infallible election elf and the only being in creation who fully understands the preference system, has foreseen that it’s not only over, but that Abbott will probably win control the Senate, unfettered except for the blood-stained rubber stamps of a couple of right-wing minor parties. That’s $4 billion gone from foreign aid for the hungry; refugee arrivals will be censored from the media then turned back to their potential deaths at gunpoint and all serious action on human-made Climate Change to be ravaged, while scientists across the world are talking about “Near-Term Human Extinction”. I’m currently working on a fun hemlock drinking game for tomorrow night, so far it’s pretty simple:
1. The results are announced. Skull.
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