KEY POINTS:
To Whom It May Concern (but especially Mr Owen Glenn, Sir Robert Jones and the influential Vela family),
Dear Sirs and Madams,
I write with hope in my heart and fluff in my wallet. Quite a lot of fluff, actually, a little fluff mountain in fact, upon which the bailiffs are clambering as we speak.
Alas, it's true. For I am not Theresa Gattung, ie maid of money. Instead, I am a human Hangover Finance, my assets frozen, my portfolio shrunk. DECLINED is the only language my Eftpos speaks.
Hardship is my handmaiden, Sirs and Madams, frugality my muse. My soul may be whole but there's holes in my soles. So dire are my straits I can't even pay my tailor, St Vincent de Paul. I am in short, a pauper poor.
However, certain wildly accurate reports in The Harold suggest that you are wonderfully generous folk for whom a $9999.99 donation is a mere drop in the anonymous bucket. And it should be my anonymous bucket, Sirs and Madams. Yes! Have you any idea how much it costs to buy a vote up here in the City of Snails now that it's the 78th-most expensive metropolis in the whole entire world?
I thought not. Suffice to say, it's become increasingly difficult for me to be the brave and fearless leader of a well-known political party poised on the brink of extinction.
But one anonymous contribution, one itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, payment (shall we say $100,000?) would change all that, Sirs and Madams.
It would give this brave and fearless leader the funds he needs to fight his fearless fight - and reduce the risk of extinction. Look, we are men and women of the world, you and I. We know the rules - and how to break them.
Accordingly, I have a lawyer, Mr X, who tells me nothing.
And I, commensurate with my Ministerial responsibilities and duties as a brave and fearless leader, make sure I ask him nothing too!!!
That way, as soon as you've given me a cheque, I don't know you've given me a cheque!
Instead, what happens is I might say to Mr X, "Gosh. I've got a brave and fearless legal challenge coming up. I'd better ring McDonald's to see if they need more Crew." Then, without telling me, Mr X would ring some of my political chums, we'll call them Messrs Y, who might also be keen to see my challenge succeed and Messrs Y would ring a very generous anonymous overseas billionaire and the billionaire, let's say, Mr O, would send a cheque to Mr X who would say, "Golly, where did that come from?" and put it in the bank.
Best of all, whenever people ask me if I had got any money from Mr O and I hold up a brave and fearless sign saying NO, Mr X would never ring up and say, "You should put a 'k' at the start and a 'w' at the end and an emphatic 'I don't' in front of the lot!!!"
Do I make myself clear? Of course not! We speak in riddles here. And deal in shadows. And you can be my shadows, Sirs and Madams.
Just tear this letter up, forget you ever read it, and await a call from Messrs Y or Mr X, whom I've never met. Then, when I become Minister and some delicate Consular or sporting matter arises, we can speak bravely and fearlessly, confident no money has changed hands.
Or none that anyone knows about, anyway.
There are sinister forces abroad, Sirs and Madams, powerful forces, foreign forces, willing to spend big money telling lies about a brave and fearless leader committed to exposing corruption almost wherever it occurs.
But you can benefit the nation, and yourselves, with an off-the-radar contribution to the best of all causes. Me. I trust my Trust will hear from you soon. (But I didn't say that.)
Yrs obliviously,
Mr W
Footnote: Ever his own man - and unduly fond of laudanum - the extinguished poet laureate, Mr Jam Hipkins, sadly missed National Poetry Day last Friday but has submitted this belated contribution, inspired by Tuesday's report that scientists have banished the pain of dentistry with a mouthwash that will fill cavities for us. But it seems the laureate prefers the brutal methods of his youth:
Bring back the treadle drill of old
So says this well-filled cynic
Bring back the antiseptic hell
That was the Dental Clinic
Bring back the mental dental nurse
Whose shoes squeaked on the floor
Bring back that chloroformic smell
You sniffed outside the door
Bring back the stiff starched uniform
The stockings thick and white
Bring back the throbbing molars
And the eyes shut, terror tight
Bring back the nightmare visit
Mercurial and sinister
Bring back the taste of smoke in mouth
And share it with a Minister
Say, one who can't remember
Who gave him all his dough
And one who says that who paid what
Are things he doesn't know
To jog his failing memory
And revive his fiscal nous
Just sit him down at a treadle drill
Bring back the Murder House!!!!!!!!
