Dear diary*,
This is a very difficult morning for me, following a very difficult night... I'll repeat that. This is as very difficult morning for me, following a very chastening and difficult night. This is my last entry into my diary as Prime Minister of this great nation (ah yes, if anyone reads this, I do diarise just like I talk).
Last night after the plotters were finished with the knife, I gave the boys from the security detail the slip and took a walk past Lake Burley Griffin en route to my top bunk bed at the AFP training academy (we do thank them for their service, but who will thank me?), well aware it would be the last time that I skimmed a stone over its glassy surface, or took a sneaky piss behind a pine tree, as the first amongst equals in the cabinet of this Australian Commonwealth.
I am so very tired. I barely slept last night and was up before sunrise. I didn't even go for a ride this morning, the first time in as long as I can recall. I feel hazy, dull, and I must confess, a little weak. But not so tired that I am not filled with a righteous rage against that Brasenose shirtlifter Mr Turnbull. Indeed, if the whole world weren't watching I would give him the old left right combination to the face, shatter those black rim hipster glasses of his, which sit upon his snooty nose in a mockery of this office... I even toyed with the idea of printing out a picture of Turnbull's face and taping it to my heavy punching bag, giving it a good seeing to, but I realised I couldn't figure out how to connect to the bluetooth on the printer... Lord help me, by sheer force of habit I almost called Malcolm to ask him to pop around and help, before twigging to the lunacy of such a thought. I am so utterly drained...
It is important, it is important, to ensure I remain the bastion of Jesuit stoicism and strength my supporters, my predecessors and my God, have come to know and respect.
Still, that homo-lover will get his comeuppance, in this life and the next. Rest assured. For now, in these final hours of Prime Ministerial "me time", I gaze upon the gilt-framed photograph of a happier day in my tenure. Indeed, I can say that it the happiest day in my entire Prime Ministership, perhaps even my entire life, truth be told. Sure, the birth of my girls and the first time I got the leg over with a woman, they are up there too. My wedding day also rates a mention, but this was indeed a special day for me, for Australia.
An unseasonably warm Canberra day in late April, I woke up extra early full of the excitement of a kid on Christmas day. It was the day I would get to visit the facility at Fairbairn military airportand sit in the cockpit of a real F-35 stealth fighter jet! The cherry on top to the favourable polls which had me in the low 40s approval with a lead on Bill "Foetal Alcohol Syndrome" Shorten.
Technically the plane was a replica, but everyone in the cabinet (with the possible exception of the girl) were really jealous. Hockey even asked if he could come along and try too. I had nightmarish visions of the big guy struggling to get into the aircraft. Gastric banding is only so effective after all.
You could tell Morrison wanted to come too, but was too proud to ask. Instead he kind of sidled up to me the day before on some other pretense and said that he was looking forward to a mock reffo head-kicking op with the Sovereign Border crew on the Ocean Protector customs ship, but you could tell he was just posturing.
I should have taken him more seriously, though, in the end. Maybe the Liberal party is only big enough for one strong man. Dutton remained loyal, bless his hapless, amphibious face... I'm too hard on him though. Things have been really awkward since he tried to kiss me at the Midwinter Ball in June.
It's times like these that I think of the words of that tree hugger St Francis of Assisi:
Lord, grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference...
I suppose I'll remain PM as long as I refuse to leave this office... Margie and the girls might miss me, but will adapt. Cabin fever might creep in, though I could still do some pushups, situps to keep fit, a little shadow boxing...
Damnation! I'll go spare without my morning rides and triathlons truth be told. Time to fire up the fax and send off the official resignation to the Gov-Gen with a heavy heart, I think. I know how to use that machine fine thank you Captain Broadband!
Yours,
Prime Minister (as at time of writing) Tony Abbott.
*This is obviously political satire and should not be construed as anything more than one of the more inspired and better written parodies of a bloke who did his best only to find out it was really not that good.
