It ended in reality with the stepping down – shall we call it “abdication” – of Menzies from the leadership of that cuckold party, to retire to his preferred homeland to be near as possible to that unrequited love of his life; Elizabeth Two, that other love denied the colonial “rough” through geographical fault of birth, condemned to live his last term as Prime Minister dressed like a bad impersonation of a provincial Churchill. I recall pictures of him in the newspapers, heavy overcoats in a sun-drenched country, peering roguishly out from under a fedora of sorts tilted dangerously forward and soft kid-goat gloves for his delicate hands, denied the motherland of his want, denied the love of his heart and denied the image of a great warrior. Thrice denied … thrice a cuckolded king!
And that is where the LNP “kingship” ought to have ended. For Robert Menzies was a one-trick pony and the monarchy of Australia was his only role. He saw himself as “king” of a nation modernising in the image and example of America, with a lot of American capital. He saw himself as a “prince” of a people worshiping his regal command, when in reality they were a people weary of economic depression and battle weary of war – in some cases TWO wars – and were just hungry for peace, peace, peace at any price. And Menzies and the conservative media really gave it to them – in triplicate! – so much “peace” it could be easily confused with death!
Menzies’ LNP, along with the collusion of a heavily biased print-media bludgeoned the populace with scare after scare of “commie this and commie that”. Soviet reds under every bed and in every Union Hall and meeting … spies and agents lurking on every street-corner. You can pick up any newspaper from the fifties and the headlines will ring out with anti-union, anti Soviet, anti-ALP propaganda – especially upon the approaching Vietnam war, where Menzies even outdid himself and committed our troops to that forlorn hope of stopping the “communist dominoes” from collapsing right down to Swanson Street Melbourne. The Kingdom was at risk so the King went to war! Well, not actually himself, but many young men representing him did.
But no, even the Yanks cuckolded him. He had no real command nor control over his own army, so like a regent in a Shakespearean tragedy, he gave his solemn farewell speech and removed himself to be near, temporarily at least, to that “love that did but pass him by”. And he was duly awarded with “Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports”. Yes, ”piss him off to the Kentish coast and leave him there to rot”, was the agreement of the day.
And what followed that “regal presence”, but a motley collection of strugglers with intellect low, like the idiot sons of a base, inbred aristocracy. All of them less than remarkable, less than useful, less than regal. A platoon of poltroons. That is where the LNP “lineage” should have been left to die a “Habsburg” death, but no, the coarse cloth of conspiracy was eagerly donned by the next usurper of the LNP “right to rule” princelings, not for them, denial of what was their right! And with the assistance of a drunken buffoon representative of the always interfering English Crown and his judicial arm of Machiavellian advocates, a “New King” was crowned … out the back entrance, fittingly; the servants’ entrance, to Yarralumla, lurking there like a “stage-door Johnny” at a thespian review, too eager to snatch his tinsel crown.
Another coward from that rank of cowards either drooling idiot-like over the spoils of the nation, or carping enviously over their more courageous opposition. Like jealous ex-lovers, kidnapping the national bride in the hope she will one day love him more. And when again thrice refused, attempts to rape and debase the beauty of that bride; that national psyche … cowards, craven cowards to a person and a disgrace to the nation.
How many years have these frustrated regents spent plotting, planning and scheming with their coven of like-minded cronies in the business world? Troglodyte ghouls making secret deals with the traitors of a foreign media mogul to keep their worthless party in office … and to do that they would almost sell their arse … almost. Well perhaps yes … Yes! … that’s the least they would do, having sold their souls and honour years before. And so they lingered on, like some sort of exiled “pretender to the throne”, drunken fool followed fool in a conga-line of suck’oles until one … a most unlikely one got lucky and voila! A new LNP regent was born!
Fate and fortune smiled upon this weaselly one where otherwise only his mother could. Despised even by his courtiers as a “lying little rodent”, this wannabe King in a fool’s costume rode a wave of economic luck into a decade of calm waters. But here too was the flaw in the glass. Here too was the “warrior inside the little boy” wanting an empire of his own, his mind thrown back to long, quiet afternoons making machine-gun and bomb noises from spittle-flecked lips while maneuvering toy battalions over his counterpane.
So when the sky of New York was blackened with the smoke of attack of 9/11, he saw his moment and swiftly aligned “his kingdom” with his allies to wreak “shock and awe” on a helpless people. The wanton death of tens of thousands of men women and children but water off a duck’s back, for he wore that cloak of cruel weave like a mantle of armour, shielding his weak body from the slights and arrows of United Nations fury. And there in his candy-kingdom of sugar-coated deceit of the masses he poured the ambrosia of rapine and plunder of the nation’s wealth upon his “battlers”, basking in a false glory of self-deluded “royalty”, his only adorers in reality those whose “love” could be purchased with thievery, thuggery or favour.
But he too held a secret – wish eventually fulfilled -for he had been granted what he saw as his greatest achievement, his greatest moment. Not the success of three terms of office, not the legacy of the “gun buy-back”, nor certainly the cruel “stopping the boats” policy. No, his most treasured moment, his triumph of conquest, preserved in the pictorial archives of the stinking Murdoch press, that moment of hand-grasping congratulations from an idiot President of the United States of America, who bestowed upon his frail frame, smiling his now indelible trademark “shit-eating grin” … the hungered for title of “Man of Steel”.
And then not long after, he was voted out of office by a disgusted public, losing his own seat in the process. Cuckolded again!
And here in this space again, like a re-mutated virus, now stands the LNP political party, with no future, a shady past, no heroes save the one long buried in a local bleak cemetery, rather than in his preferred country other than where he was born. No social commitment to the people of their nation, no loyalty except that purchased with borrowed moneys or bestowed favours and no love at all, even to say more disgust and scorn than ever before, the people now keener than ever for a more attentative consort. But in the end we get nothing more than the choice between a drunken lounge Lothario and a political dilettante shaking his tiny, petulant fists at an increasingly uninterested nation.
And well shall we learn that hell hath no fury like a lover many times cuckolded.