“Anyone had a ‘Rudd-experience’ yet?” Vader asked. The question ended any chance of playing A.G. Plonker today. (T.G.)
“I have a ruddy expression after a few ports in front of the fire,” Bazz offered.
“And you’ve been ruddy-well pissed a few times,” Irena stated.
“I should be on the front bench,” Bazz replied, with the ever-present Bazz-smirk.
“You’re always on the front bench when there’s food around,” Denise added.
“I’m just fulfilling my obligations according to the policies and ramifications of the kitchen, my dears,” Bazz lectured. “And that was what I was elected to do, on behalf of all Australian drinking families.”
“I can’t stand this bullshit,” Irena yelled, “come on Denise, the kitchen is calling.” They left, taking Bazz’s Verdelho.
“I don’t remember any of us voting for you Bazz,” I answered. “Who do you represent, besides yourself?”
“The AWD Party,” was his reply.
“I thought that would be ruddimentary, dear Watson,” Vader said, swiftly removing the Chardonnay from under Bazz’s nose. “That would be The Australian Wine Drinker Party, would it not?”
“Aye,” Bazz answered, “the perfect party for drinking families and bingers.”
“So you are no Ruddophile, then?” PCH asked, “in fact I would be surprised if there are any in this company.”
“More likely to be homoruddic,” I said, hoping to change the conversation, as we were in danger of circumruddicating and wasting the whole afternoon.
“I saw Jesus Rudd with the Pope,” Vader mentioned, “I wonder who made their altar wine?”
“All Saints, probably,” Bazz answered.
“I bet the Ruddangel did some crawling with the little German in white,” Vader said as he reached a Mount Pleasant Semillon. “Probably wanted help in renaming Sunday, Keventh Day.”
“I wonder what he would have us do on such a day?”Bazz asked.
“Lots of smiling.”
“Spinning and turncoating.”
“Meetings, investigations, summits.”
“Ruddifications, ruddeos and Ruddite conversions.”
All these suggestions were met with scorn and ridicule as good wine was wasted on the seriousness of the problem of our autocruddic ruler.
Luckily, as our bile wavered, the ladies entered with some trays of serious anti pasto. “What great timing,” I said, as I cleared the table of empties.
“So, what have you guys been talking about?” Denise asked. “You look a bit flustered.”
“Nothing much, actually,” PCH said.
The antipasto was attacked with relish, especially the home-made chilli, lime and ginger relish.
“What do you know about ‘cellar-gate’, WT?” PCH asked.
“Don’t you mean cellar-door?”
“No, Della Bosca and Belinda got kicked out of a Hunter Valley cellar.”
“Yeh, what’d they do?” Bazz asked.
“Complained about the wine; she kicked the winery dog; and they tried to use their position and influence to get to the reserve stocks.”
“Bastards, did they?” Vader yelled.
“No,” PCH explained, “the cellar manager’s pet iguana attacked them in a politically sensitive area and chased them to Broke.”
“Went for broke, did they?” I asked.
“Bloody oath. Now the reptile is posted at the gate to the cellar. Most cellars in the Hunter are going to have cellar-gates, I believe. Iguana prices have gone through the roof.” PCH then reached to a bag he had under the table, pulled out a large rubber lizard and placed it on the table.
“There’ll be no crap at this table,” he ordered.
“PCH,” Denise said, “you’re full of shit.”
We returned to the antipasto and a brace of reds. Bazz opened a Philip Shiraz. He studied the label for a while, then said:
“I guess John and Belinda didn’t find the mount pleasant.”
The smirk that followed told me that he had not finished.
“Do you reckon there’ll ever be a Fiddleback-gate?” he asked.
Irena was quick to reply: “If there is, it’ll be about me being up on a murder charge, you smart-arse.”
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