The art of bomb disposal has come a long way since the days of “Dad’s Army”.
Indeed, it’s all high-tech now, which is unfortunate for Tony Abbott, as he has admitted he is “no tech-head”.
So, Tones went to the Australian Army base at Tarim Kowt in Afghanistan to see how the experts do it and, as an added bonus, get in a few good photo opportunities as the all-action guy who would make General Patton look like Dr Smith from “Lost in Space”.
However, as all the senior journalists are back in Australia, getting ready to cover the visit by the President of the USA, the editors have sent a few cub reporters to cover Tones’ Afghanistan bludge.
So, at Tarim Kowt, Tones is being helped into an IED (“Improvised Explosive Device”) Demolition Suit by a few diggers. The blokey banter is in full swing.
Tones: Hey, guys...does my arse look big in this...haw...haw...
Digger 1: Huh....that’s the least of your worries, Tones...with this suit on, you certainly won’t be able to sell your arse and pay off your big fat mortgage ...hee...hee...
Tones: Jeeze...I don’t know about global warming, but it’s really hot inside this thing – my nuts feel like two marshmallows on a stick at a scouts’ bonfire...haw...haw...
Digger 2: Oh...they’ve recovered after your mid-winter swim in Port Phillip Bay, have they Tones ...heh...heh...
Tones: Yeah...it feels like this suit is insulated with Gillard’s pink batts and they have self-ignited as usual ...hee...hee...
Digger 3: But don’t you worry, Tones...an H-Bomb could go off and you would still be safe in one of these...
Tones: Huh...an H-Bomb, mate? The real test is if I’m standing in Whyalla’s main street and I’m still in one piece when fat-arse’s Carbon Tax kicks in ...bwahahahahaha...
Digger 4: Jeeze, Tones...you’re a great joker...it’s fantastic you’re here to raise our morale...
Tones: Well, mate...as I always say, “if old po-faced Gillard can’t stop the jokes, she certainly can’t stop the boats”...heh...heh...
Digger 5: So, Tones...how does the suit feel – comfortable enough?
Tones: Errr...I’m not sure...it feels a bit heavy...which makes me think, mate, it isn’t made of carbon, cos if it was, the f***ing thing wouldn’t weigh a ton, like it does...hee...hee...
Digger 6: Anything else, Tones?
Tones: Well, I’m not sure about the glass visor...When I’m talking, people won’t be able to hear me...can’t I have a retractable visor like the one Sir Bedevere has in Monty Python?
Digger 7: Nah...you won’t need one, mate...there’s a microphone inside the helmet which enables you to communicate with us on the outside...
[However, Tones insists on his helmet being renovated to look more like Sir Bedevere’s. Somewhat peeved at Tones’ ungrateful stance and waste of their valuable time, they concur, but not without a change in the atmospherics. Whilst the changes are being made to Tones’ helmet, the air is a bit restrained between him and the once-friendly diggers.]
Digger 8: Heh, mate...I just worked it out...I know now who you remind me of in this suit – bloody Buzz Lightyear...
[All the diggers guffaw at Tones’ expense.]
[Tones is far from impressed with this comparison. He gives Digger 8 a dirty look.]
Digger 9: Yeah...I know now why you want one of our suits – you’re threatened by homosexuality...heh...heh...[following photo-shopped picture pinched from George at Poll Bludger.]
CLICK HERE.
[Again, Tones looks daggers at this insolent, fatigues-clad, upstart.]
Digger 10: Huh...you call yourself an IED Demolition Man...I reckon Malcolm Turnbull’s campaign against the NBN makes him the real Demolition Man...hee...hee...
[The mention of the name of his arch-rival, Malcolm, is a bridge too far for Tones. He locks Digger 10’s eyes into one of his notorious Mark Rileyesque nodding death-stares. After a few moments, Digger 10 can’t take any more, and collapses, completely stunned, to the ground.]
Tones (menacingly): Okay, punks...who’s next...
[All the Diggers, put completely on the back foot at this manifestation of Tones’ awesome stunning power, back off. Tones, with a self-satisfied, shit-eating grin, then ambles off as best he can in the cumbersome suit towards his digs at the Army base, which is only 100 metres away. However, he finds it so difficult to manoeuvre in the dalek-like integument, it takes him about an hour to cover the relatively short distance.
Once inside his room, he is so knackered, he flops down on the bed, totally unable to summon up the strength to get out of the infernal suit. Within a millisecond, he is in a deep sleep, wracked however, by nightmares about a large rat, with a face like Peter Slipper’s, gobbling up his favourite rodent, Johnny Howard.
Meanwhile, two of the cub reporters, Annabel Crabb and Melissa Clarke, spot Tones staggering into his digs. He was so tired, he didn’t even have the energy to close the door. They have a sticky-beak inside and notice he is lying flat out on the bed, out to the world, still clad in his IED Demolition Suit.]
Annabel: Wow...doesn’t Tones look so sexy lying there...he really is such a spunk, isn’t he...
Melissa: Oh, yeah!! I reckon he’s even spunkier than Justin Bieber!!
Annabel: I know!! Let’s go inside and get a souvenir while he’s asleep...
[The besotted and star-struck Annabel and Melissa creep quietly inside and tip-toe up to the bed. Annabel opens Tones’ Sir Bevedere retractable visor, plunges her hand down the inside of Tones’ suit, confirming their suspicion that he is only wearing his red budgie smugglers. Annabel whispers to Melissa.]
Annabel: Psssttt!! Pass me the scissors from your bag – the ones you use to cut out any good news items about Gillard from your reports...heh...heh...
[Annabel proceeds to slice down the side of Tones’ budgie smugglers. He is so dead to the world, they are able to roll him over without waking him up, thus removing the skimpy garment. Tittering with laughter, they stuff it in Melissa’s handbag, planning to sew it up again later and display their trophy at the girls’ table, the next time they are at morning tea in the ABC staff canteen.
Meanwhile, Tones snores away contentedly. Exhausted by his efforts in trying to walk in his IED Demolition Suit, he is deep in the land of nod for another three hours at least. Suddenly, he wakes up with a jolt.]
Tones (to himself): W...w...w...where am I? What time is it? Shit! The cub reporters will be outside in a jiff, ready to fire questions at me at the press conference! But, if any of the little bastards try to be smart-arses and ask me any tricky policy questions, I’ll just jump out of this friggin’ suit, clad in my budgies, smile for the cameras, and shoot through as usual...heh...heh...suckers...
[Just then, Tones can hear, outside, the brouhaha of the cub reporters all talking over each other, just like it was an episode of “Seinfeld” with all the gang congregated in Jerry’s front-room. He looks out the window. “Jeeze” says Tones to himself, “they look so bloody young – they make Wyatt Roy look older than Rip Van Friggin’ Winkle...”
He staggers out onto the patio, noticing, strangely, that his Sir Bedevere retractable visor is open. So, the first question is fired and it is from Annabel.]
Annabel (gushingly): Hi, Mr Prime Minister...erm...Mr Abbott...[giggle]...Do you think the people of Whyalla should start running for the hills now, or wait until the Carbon Tax has actually been brought in?
Tones: Well...good question, Annabel...ummm....ahhhhh...urgghhh...actually, if any of them are wearing one of these bloody suits, they should have started running about six months ago...bwahahahahaha...
Melissa: Erm...Tones...will it look bad for us...I mean the Liberal Party...if old duck-arse continues to improve in the polls?
Tones: Thank you for your well-framed question, Melissa, but, as you know, the polls won’t get any better from now on in for DEL – Dangly Ear-Lobes, that is – Shanners assures me of that...heh...heh...Next question...
[A wet-behind-the-ears cub reporter raises his hand.]
Reporter: Erm...Mr Abbott...are you not being a hypocrite by mixing in the company of notorious climate-change sceptics such as Andrew Bolt and Lord Monckton and, at the same time, saying your Direct Action Plan is greener than Bob Brown’s veggie garden?
[Tones is totally flummoxed. “Doesn’t this little prick know who I am”, he fumes to himself. Then, another cub raises her hand.]
Reporter 2: Erm...Mr Abbott...again, aren’t you being a hypocrite by wanting to stop the boats and, at the same time, opposing the Government’s “Malaysian” attempt at doing just that?
Tones realises it’s time to rip up stumps. He is just about to exit the suit, so that he is no longer encumbered as he legs it into the sunset, clad in his trademark budgie smugglers.
However, aghast, he looks down and realises he is totally bollock-naked!! “There’s nothing else for it”, he admits to himself, “I’ll have to make a ‘run’ for it in this confounded suit”.
So, closing his Sir Bedevere visor, off Tones trots. However, he is making so little headway, he looks like a slow-motion trailer for a car-crash movie. The cubs smell blood and fire their curly questions at Tones, knowing he can’t run that easily from this particular press conference.
He cops an NBN bazooka shell!!! Kappow!!!
Then a plain-packaging pipe-bomb!!! Bullsye!!!
Luckily, Tones is wearing the IED Demolition Suit, otherwise he would have been as dead, buried and cremated as WorkChoices was supposed to be.
However, he no sooner staggers to his feet, when he is again thrown skywards by the deafening blast of a hurled, over-generous, Paid Paternal Leave limpet-mine!!!
Then he cops a double-whammy with an MRRT missile and a Mandatory Pre-Commitment Molotov cocktail!!
By this stage, Melissa realises that, even if the suit has saved Tones’ life thus far, it can’t hold together for much longer.
She holds her hand up to the cubs, indicating to them that a temporary cease-fire has been called.
Melissa runs over to the stunned, totally-shell-shocked Tones, lifts up his Sir Bedevere visor, and shoves in his now-rent budgies. Tones grabs them gratefully, wrapping them as best he can around his demilitarised-zone and holds them on tight with one hand. Summoning up the last reserves of his energy, he leaps out of the suit and sprints as fast as he can away form this infernal press conference. Within minutes, he is well over the horizon and half way to Kabul, where he hopes that he can arrange a rescue mission by dint of that great aviator friend of his, Alan Joyce, of “Leprechaun Extremely-Low Altitude Flyers Inc.”
Meanwhile, back at the seriously disrupted press conference, two of the cub reporters are dusting off their hands, as if symbolising a job well done.]
Cub 1: Huh...he was very fortunate in the past to have got such an easy time from our more experienced colleagues...Obviously not Prime Ministerial material after all...
Cub 2: Yeah...very fortunate indeed...And, after that performance, it looks like he’s more of a washed-out, has-been soldier of fortune...
