Considering the outrageous success of my last post, a Fraction Too Much Factions talking about factionalism in the hard left movement, I’ve decided to pen a hit sequel. About the Labor Party! Here’s a brief synopsis. I’ve done a lot of research, though there may be some factual inconsistencies.
The Labor Party was founded in 1854, behind a chicken coop at Eureka Stockade, by Peter Lalor, Karl Marx and Ronald McDonald. Originally planning an international franchise specialising in cheap and kitsch nativity woodcuts, the sudden arrival of British troops changed all this, and much to the chagrin of Marx, the Labor part morphed into a worker’s movement.
Ronald and Marx escaped the fiery conflagration which followed the battle at the Stockade, whilst Lalor was captured by Him’s Majesty’s forces and taken to the throne of Queen Victoria. Before the Iron Lady’s gilded throne, Lalor was made to answer for his crimes of treason, shoplifting, and making lewd comments concerning certain breeds of dog. It was at this point that Lalor spouted his most famous quote. A quote that has subsequently been lost.
Lalor was transported to notorious Devil’s Island, off the coast of French Guiana, where he languishes in a malaria ridden state of delusion to this very day with Alfred Dreyfuss, Simon Crean and Captain America. Do not attempt to rescue him, as there are many sharks.
Meanwhile back at home, Marx had moved to Germany to pursue a degree in Ice Hockey, and Ronald to America’s Midwest, converting to Buddhism and rehashing the Labor Party idea yet again into a transnational conglomerate that rapes the Third World for resources and has a catchy jingle. The Labor Party itself remained dormant, the papers lying hidden, covered in a thin layer of dust, in a basement deep under the Michell Library in Central Sydney.
But like Tolkien’s Ring of Power, the Labor Party is both shiny, old and corrupting to all who join it. It also has the power to call to its victims across the trivial bounds of time and space, and thus, Gough Whitlam was lured.
Gough was a bright faced young Liberal, who liked picnics, prayer, alcohol and blood sports. Upon his joining of the Labor Party however all this changed. In an eyeblink the man became a fiend. A devious monster infected with the disease of progressive reform. He abandoned the wholesome ways of the world and took up the cause of the degenerate lower classes. He brought in new laws that brought women out of the kitchen and into the laundry. He robbed poor hardworking British lords of their ancestral homes in the Northern Territory, and brought in that legendary farce, Medicare, in which even commoners can be treated for wounds and ailments!
Thanks to a divine union of good old-fashioned English values, kindly white folk, and the Power of Menzies, the heroic Viceroy, Billy the Cur banished Whitlam to the hellish furnace of the badlands (Dubbo). At that point the scourge of the Labor Party seem’d vanquished. But the plans of the glorious right had not yet come to complete fruition! Operation Lizard was about to begin.
Using their alien allies in the Andromeda Galaxy, Emperor Menzies, known at that point as Ming the Merciless, installed a double agent in to the party. He was known as the Lizardman, but his alias was Keating. Keating masqueraded as a harmless Irishman, not exactly rare in the Labor Party, by drinking copious amounts of alcohol and consistently wearing the colour green. Soon the IRA sympathisers of Labor accepted him as one of their own, dubbing him ‘Patrick’.
Patrick Lizardman Keating, once in a position of power, ousted fellow yacht-loving alcoholic Hawke off the peak of Mount Druitt. Now in a position of power, he began to implement his devious agenda. One by one, like a mass of devout termites, he destroyed the planks of the Labor Party, replacing them with the iron foundations of those of their perennial rivals, the Tories.
Privatisation was pushed to the fore, a dogmatic yet fully justified worship of America, and a general ditching of that common lot’s interests for those of the more important soon followed. With Labor weakened to the point of emaciation, and with the rise of the apocalyptic Fish Cult, the misguided people of Australia turned to the frail, bony arms of Dark Lord Howard.
Lord Howard’s regime put a stop to all of that communist riff-raff and helped the economy and whatnot. Aborigines and poor people were suitably ignored. They didn’t have all that much money, and were plainly the wrong sort. But who could stop the Dark Lord now? The Labor Party was emasculated, like an Albanian goat in the spring time. Those pinko Greens in Tasmania couldn’t lift but one of their eleven fingers. A bright future seemed assured.
But thence came the Third and Most grievous coming of the Laborites, whence Lo! From the green hills of Outer Brisbane, rode KRudd on a mighty steed. Vanquishing the hosts of the dark Lord before him. KRudd occupied the palace of Kirbilli, and for a while, held all of Middle Earth in his sweaty palms. But no sooner had they come to power, then the deviant communists began fighting amongst themselves. Rudd’s lieutenant, the Fiery One, stabbed KRudd in the back with her mighty dagger, and so took Australia.
Now is a horrid time for the right. But the weak halflight of victory is visible on the horizon, for the Labor Party is fractured and so weak. The time is ripe for a revolution, so more power can be handed to the benevolent corporations and political class. Stand with me brothers. We shall overcome.