Simple Simon met a pieman

“OK, Simple, you do the business and we all might win.”

“But suppose ’07 won’t play ball?”

“He will. I’m sure. Well, I think I’m sure, he wants it so much he can taste it. I spoke to him yesterday and I got the distinct impression he was determined.”

“The distinct impression! What exactly did he say?”

“Well I admit that I couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of all of his sentences, exactly. He became a bit prolix, even more than usual if that can be imagined, but I distinctly heard him say that he was programmed specifically to do in all of those ‘rat-f*****s’ that sold him down the river; if you take my meaning and pardon the expression.”

“So when he said, ahem, the “r” word, you don’t think he was referring to the Chinese again?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Simple.”

“My, my, this is difficult,” Crean whimpered, wringing his hands. “She knows I think she’s a complete dipstick; though I can’t be too openly critical, her being the leader of the Party’s coterie of capable women.” As he spoke, he shivered at the thought of drawing their feminist ire.

“But she’s bound to take the Party to the cleaners unless I act. Yet if I do something brave — perish the thought in normal circumstances — and it goes wrong, I’m sunk for certain. The key is that bloody prima donna, ’07. Which way will he pirouette?”

“Who knows, I suppose. He’s a prissy, self-important, bureaucratic pedant which, for some unknown reason, doesn’t seem to get through to the great unwashed in voter land. So he might baulk at getting into a fight unless he’s absolutely sure he will win.”

“But we have the numbers. Don’t we?”

“Absolutely! And, as I’ve said, ’07 is raring to go.”

“Who are you by the way – that balaclava and sunglasses make it difficult for me to make you out.”

“Don’t worry about that Simple; we all have your back. We won’t leave you like shag on a rock. We’re Labor mates don’t forget. As I’ve said, you do the business and we are in like Flynn; and we’ll make you deputy to keep an eye on ’07.”

“Deputy you say. What does ’07 say about that?”

“Oh, he’s in on board with it, for sure. His only concern is the numbers.”

“But you said the numbers were in?”

“Exactly, so there is nothing to worry about at all.”

Good and brave Crean, as he will now forever be known, made up his mind to go to the aid of his Party. Alas, as with many good and brave men, Crean came a cropper.

The moral of the story is clear: Don’t trust men who come to you dressed in balaclavas and sunglasses. Alternatively, never underestimate the resilience of a woman you want scorned. Or, alternatively, never overestimate the courage of a prima donna in the face of possible rejection.

“Yet another fresh start for us then, Julia”, Wayne said.

“Yes, Wayne, so this time let’s try and not mess up the budget, shall we? Sometimes I think I’m the only competent one around here; apart, of course, from my loyal and capable lady colleagues.”

“Do we have to worry about Windsor, Wilkie, and Oakeshott?”

“You concentrate on fudging the budget numbers and giving that misogynist wretch Abbot such a black hole he’ll never dig himself out. Leave me to make sure those self-important toerags fall into line. I’ll give them an offer they can’t refuse: oblivion now or in six months time.”

“My God Julia you’re tough alright.”

Peter Smith, a frequent Quadrant Online contributor, is the author of Bad Economics