Friday, 13 May 2011


Cush however didn't feel so tired once he arrived back in his penthouse apartment. He noticed the red light blinking furiously away on his answering machine, but as usual ignored it. Horsey was still at the Council Chambers if there was any emergency there. And if it was that silly little bitch of a Brandi, well, he, Cush, didn't want to talk to her. Not yet. Not when he was feeling on top of the bloody world.

He reached into one of the kitchen cupboards and pulled out another bottle of no-name red and settled himself comfortably on the balcony overlooking the Cairns Esplanade.

Time for a little reflection and philosophy, he thought taking a huge swig of his red.

The sky was powdery blue and cloudless, the sea twinkled with diamonds, the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, birds sang all around him, and people lazed about on the Esplanade below. Paradise! thought Cush.

He reflected on the luncheon at the Cairns Chamber of Commerce that morning. He had given a bloody good speech, after changing it quite a bit from the politically correct nonsense and jargon the CEO had injected.

Bloody politically correct nonsense, thought Cush. People wanted to be told things how it was and he, Cush, was a man who called a spade a spade. Except of course for that big black shithouse of a Councillor Mingin, the Chucky Norris from Manunda. Cush had a sudden recollection of being hauled to his feet by a huge black arm with the strength of a fucken gantry crane, and spontaneously shivered.

Of course people liked a spade to be called a spade overall. Cush obliged them. Wogs were wogs, dagos and wops. Most Europeans, except for those with British ancestry fell into that category as far as Cush was concerned. Chinks were chinks, and gooks. Hindus were "dot heads" and "curry eaters." Sikhs were "ragheads" and "curry eaters".

None of this political correctness either for women or poofters. Cush had a huge repertoire of words to describe women. Why something which ovulated, menstruated, gestated and lactated should be allowed out into the public doman was beyond him. The Muslims had the right idea there, he thought, keep the women at home, out of bloody sight.

As for poofters, Cush called 'em that. Oh and didn't that give him the shits when those same people who swore they hated "politicaL correctness" got all offended like when he talked about poofters and turb blossoms. Like stupid bloody women. There they would sit, saying how the country was going to the dogs because of "political correctness" and when you responded by saying "Alright flossy, hows about you goes and gets a man a drink!" they got all huffy-like.
Morons! Cush couldn't stand them.

None of this bloody multi-cultural bloody nonsense either. Cush didn't hesitate to sound his opinions on that. If they come to this country, they got to learn English, or piss off home!
Cush laughed to himself. It was funny how almost all Australians today said they didn't believe in multi-culturalism, yet then they started making exceptions for the Italians, the Greeks, the Yugoslavs, the Dutch, the Germans, the Poles, the Finns, the Irish...... .

Yeah Aussies loved their Eyetie food, their Eyetie festivals, their bloody German beer and sausage, their Greek souvlaki and retsina, their Asian restaurants, their St. Paddy's day and green beer, but they reckoned they were dead set against multi-culturalism. Yeah, right.

It was like Aussies opinions on politics thought Cush, as he grew more expansive and reflective with the red he was steadily drinking.

Aussies kept on screaming out for the bloody pollies and even Local Governments to DO, DO, DO, DO and more DO. They wanted more roads, they wanted more schools, they wanted more hospitals, they wanted the guvviMINT to fund their construction industry.

Yet all of this, Cush knew, was just people who had nothing better to do, making shit-stirring noises. The two things Aussies wanted most of all, which effectively ruled out all the shit-stirring noises, was firstly no new taxes or rises in their rates, and secondly, a balanced budget or a surplus budget. It was that dead simple. Christ, even simple bloody Simon could work that out!

Aussies would cheerfully die at home in their beds without receiving any cancer treatment for a surplus budget, Cush reasoned. After all, cities like Cairns, with its growing population had been left without adequate cancer treatment facilities for decades. He tugged on his memory, becoming clouded with the cheap red he was drinking. He thought he heard Bomboniere say that Cairns only received radiotherapy facilities in 2010 or thereabouts. Well, there you go! he thought, something vital to people's life like that and the people sat back for decades and did fuck all to save themselves. Instead they thrilled to their backbones when the Federal Government which should have funded the bloody things, announced they had a "surplus" budget. How could you ignore a political reality as stark as that, Cush thought.

Most people whinging and whining weren't prepared to go any further than opening their big gobs, Cush thought. He had seen too much of it in his life. Few people were social or political warriors. The people in Cairns were all simpletons anyway. All they wanted in life was footie, sex, footie, sex, footie and more sex. And by God, Cush was going to give it to them. As he said at the Cairns Chamber of Commerce meeting, he was "changing lanes" in Cairns, for good.
None of this bloody nonsense that the previous female Mayor had spruiked about, bloody cultural centres. Christ almighty, the woman must have been soft in the head, deranged or something. "Culture" to Cairns people meant having a night out at the Open Pussycat, one of the strip and sex clubs he had approved in Lake Street.

He laughed again to himself. The sheer patronage of the "Open Pussycat" had confirmed his beliefs. The owners of the club said the place was packed to the rafters night after night.
And the Cairns Chamber of Commerce had given them all the thumbs up.

Cush's mind moved onto his future plans for Cairns. Munro Martin Park, in the heart of Cairns, was always on his mind. As he said to Horsey, it was too good a piece of land to be just lying there with only the indigenous cluttering it up. Cush didn't know who Munro Martin was, probably some long ago Mayor of Cairns who wanted a memorial to his ego or something, but apparently the land had been bequeathed to the people of Cairns. Cush didn't know much about the legalities of it, but he saw it as the perfect spot for the American Military's high rise hotel for their Pacific marines to enjoy their R & R in the city. And across the road, was the ailing and decrepit Cairns Civic Theatre, which Cush had refused point blank to spend any Council monies on repairing. As a result, it now stood empty. Oh, there had been some complaints, but when Cush stood firm, they had all faded away like bleating sheep. Cush saw the site of the Civic Theatre as perfect for another high-rise, featuring an American franchise restaurant, plus some shops on the upper floors. There could be a walkway connecting the hotel opposite to the restaurant and shops. Cush could picture it all in his mind's eye; the big hotel with American flags flying, and opposite a well known American restaurant with flags flying.

Cush and Horsey had other plans as well. The last Council had purchased all these blocks of land in and around Cairns, which he and Horsey had identified. How they both had laughed when they made plans to sell most of them and explain it away, as they did the waterfront land, as "necessary to reduce the huge debt the previous Council had left them and bring in a surplus budget."
The people would suck it up. Horsey was in the process of arranging to sell a large block of rainforest covered land, around 21 hectares, Cush thought from memory, overlooking Whitfield. Apparently the previous Council had purchased the land in 2011 for $1.5 million. Horsey's tentative feelers at this stage indicated they could sell it for around $20 million to a Hong Kong corporation. Cush smiled at this. Horsey had indicated they could all make themselves a couple of big ones each from the sale!

Life was good, Cush thought, as he drained his glass and refilled it. He had already made half a mill. and would make another couple of mill. before the year was out. He laughed out loud for a few minutes. And the beauty of it was, the people loved him, they loved him!!!

To be continued...........


  1. Cush has got "political correctness" right. People vehemently oppose it, unless it refers to them personally. Call an overweight person "lardarse" or "blubberguts" or "fatso" and watch them bristle like a porker on the attack. Love the series, keep on going.

  2. Thanks for the positive feedback Liz.

  3. Cush wouldn't be the first publicly elected representative to help himself to the community's hope chest and not only get away with it, but receive the public's gratitude and adulation as well. So, Cush is riding on top of the world right now, I'm waiting to see how he comes a gutser. As someone else wrote in your comments, I reckon it has to be Brandi who pulls the rug out from under His Fat Worshit.

  4. Ah, wait and see Anon. Wait and see. Personally, I don't understand why some of you have it in for Brandi. She is a sweet chicky after all?