MirandaDevine.com

Middle Australia has had enough of the left.

I ask you, Middle Australia: what do the following people have in common?

• Danielle Ecuyer
• Monica Attard
• Julia Gillard
• Germaine Greer
• Paris Hilton

Don’t think too hard about it now. The answer shall be made clear to you.

Syphillis!

How dare these cheap harlots of the left dare to question the importance of my fact-finding mission to the Middle East. How dare they question the eleven year reign of the benevolent John Winston Howard. How dare they ride around in all of the available taxis, flashing their rash-ridden privates to all and sundry!

But, Middle Australia, it is not the vicious attacks on my character that concerns me. I, Miranda Esmerelda Agapanthus Gloriosa Diamond Devine, am above their criticism. I rise above it like the image of Mother Theresa, and defecate on these insignificant little worms from on high. I shit, as it were, in their shoes.

No my dear readers, it is the little people for whom I am once again spurred into action. Rudely I awaken from my wonderful dreams (involving Daniel Craig, a family size tub of yoghurt and a rubber-coated 6 D-Cell Maglite) and hear the call of the downtrodden. Those poor, defenceless voices of the silent majority are once again being trampled by the louche left, smothered in soya and battered by barley, beans and brown rice.

The vegan left are slowly and efficiently oppressing Middle Austrlia, led by that communist cyclist Carl Scully, whose flag is flown by the bitter bitches who mourn the decline of their beloved leader and economic extirpator Paul Keating at the 1996 election. For eleven long years these denizens of depravity have attacked the very fabric of Middle Australian society, and like Abigail Williams have been ousting their enemies with wild, baseless accusations.

Caroline Overington, two-time Walkely award winner and author of Kickback, the story of the AWB scandal, dared to make an innocent joke regarding an old lover’s tiff. The louche left immediately cast her to the wolves, claiming interference with the political process, despite the presence of the “cyber wink” which made clear that this was a short, jocular conversation.

Meanwhile Danielle Ecuyer, with all the grace and sophistication of an elderly dachshund in heat, has been stirring up the media by making formal complaints to the AEC. It amazes me that she has the time or ability to even write a letter of complaint, as the rest of her campaign has been spent tarting her “credentials” in a manner more suited to the front cover of Penthouse.

Phooey to you, Danielle. After the election, you will be back to selling your body on Bayswater Road, and I will continue to be the voice of the silent majority. Yet again, the good guys win, common sense prevails, and the reds are locked back under the bed.

Toodles!

xx Miranda

Gypsy cabs – the way of the future

Following my glorious victory over fascist bullyboy and dog-owner John Thorpe, I am embarking on my freshest campaign. With the silent voices of a million Sydney-siders behind me, I grandly stride past my agapanthus and out into the North Shore wilderness, and for an instant, I understand just how Jesus must have felt as he delivered his Sermon on the Mount. Indeed, my next foe is equal in deviousness to those tempestuous money changers of biblical times, and for the sacrifice I am about to make, I will surely be hailed as a hero.

Middle Australia, people power has a face, and that face is Miranda. She will sweep all before her in third-person righteousness, and bring equality and justice to inebriated businessmen. She will leap from bar to bar, with a bottle of chardonnay in one hand and a copy of Quadrant Magazine in the other, and vanquish the vegan cyclists, union officials and beer-swillers back to the inner west where they belong. Sydney will become a haven of culture, sophistication, and the people will wait à bouche ouverte for deliverance from the greatest threat to our prosperity yet faced this decade.

The 3pm taxi changeover time.

For too long, the NSW Government has been allow to run this city à tort et à travers, and hard-working bons vivants have been forced to crowd into dirty pubs at lunchtime, only to find that there is no transport waiting for them when they leave at 2:30pm. The fat-cats fill their coffers with the cash from taxi licences, yet they do not attempt to ensure that the taxpayer receives a reasonable level of service! Friends, souses, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Thorpe, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones, so let it be with Thorpe. Let the streets be awash with fine wine, civilised conversation and concours d’elegance.

And now that we have won our first glorious victory, let us not rest, but let us raise our voices again, and demand that the city be flooded with taxis. And not just any old regulated, state-sanctioned taxis! In the name of Middle Australia, I demand that Sydney become a haven for Gypsy Cabs! The pinnacle of any society is its ability to generate employment for illegal immigrants through the transportation of the middle and upper classes, yet we lag sadly behind. My grandiose footsteps can carry me only so far, yea, even Miranda must eventually rest and be transported to her place of repose!

For it is only after returning home, following a few nice glasses of vin du pays, that this demimondaine can perch atop her sunbed, look out over her constituency, and continue to make the world a better place with her words of wisdom.

Governments come and go, but the Gypsy Cab dream is eternal. All we need is some daring young entrepeneur to make the dream a reality.

Toodles!

xx Miranda

To the Australian Hotels Association and all the barristers that represent it: each day I grow more powerful. I am the raging, flaming incarnation of Influence itself. I am an immolation, sent back in time to burn through red tape and be a beacon of courage. I am a lobbying superpower that galvanises glorious Middle Australia and coaxes it into action. One glorious, united, informed nation of Average Joes.

Truly Glorious.

Don’t fuck with me, John Thorpe, you blue-singletted buffoon. I strung you up from the rafters of the beer swilling barns that you love so much. To me, you are nothing more than the fart in the crowded pub that causes every Middle Australian to exclaim “That’s a bit wrong…was that you, mate?”. You were offensive, but you dissipated. You split into a billion pieces and wafted into the night air. You settled on the walls in tiny gaseous bubble particles. You are nothing more than a distant, lager fuelled memory.

Watch out, Joe Hildebrand of the Daily Telegraph. I saw your facetious comment to my post from a while back. I am the Big Dog of Australian journalism, and you just pissed on my fire hydrant. The audacity! Joe, if you dare write as much as one more word that even remotely attempts to criticise my astonishing talent, you’ll be joining Mr Thorpe.

My latest victory gives me much hope for November 24. According to the latest left-leaning poll, the Glorious John Winston Howard is really in a pickle. However, I am hoping that on account of the new and ‘funky’ bars that should start popping up as a result of my efforts, all the Leftist, Greenpeace-Loving Sausage Warriors will be drunk at the polls on that fine Saturday morning. As drunkards tend to do, they will vote for the Shooter’s Party, just for a laugh. Hah! Those Leftist, Marxist, university-attending comedians won’t be so smug when they find out where their preferences go!

A glorious plan! Honest John, you have nothing to worry about. Interest rates will not harm you. And with 15 days left, you also have plenty of time to recapture the House. After all, there’s plenty of ocean, there’s plenty of refugees wandering around the place (I have a large family rapidly multiplying on my roof, in fact), and my late uncle Ted willed me a leaky tinny that I’ve been trying to find a use for.

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Golly! You would think that we were slap bang in the middle of an election campaign or something!

There I was, relaxing in my lower north-shore rehab clinic, when all of a sudden who should appear but Mike Bailey! Union official! Communist! Leftist Labor candidate for North Sydney! And what’s more, former ABC weatherman and Kyoto sympathiser!

All these exclaimations had made me nervous, and it was time to return home. With joe Hockey’s face smiling down from every corner on my Toyota Monstrosity, I felt somewhat placated. The election campaign has begun, and it is time for some Miranda Magic to put the smile back on dear old Mr Howard.

Pulling in to my Willoughby mansion, I noticed that my agapanthus looked somewhat neglected. After making a quick phone call to the immigration deparment, who promptly came and deported my gardener, I was ready to unload the contents of my rainwater tank in order to revive the dear plants.

Here’s a handy tip for young players: plumb your mains water straight into a rainwater tank, and you can water your garden 24 hours per day, without any of those pesky greenies bothering (and possibly fatally bashing) you.

Forgive me for being a little North-Shore-centric, but people from the west are scum anyway and I don’t want them reading my column. I would now like to pay homage to one of the greatest names in Australian politics: Marcus Dudley Aussie-Stone. Check out this list of electoral achievments:

• 1972, Lowe (NSW) – lost to Billy McMahon (LP)
• 1973, Parramatta (NSW) – lost to Philip Ruddock (LP)
• 1974, NSW Senate – lost
• 1975, Bass (Tas) – lost to Kevin Newman (LP)
• 1975, Casey (Vic) – lost to Peter Falconer (LP)
• 1975, Cook (NSW) – lost to Don Dobie (LP)
• 1975, Diamond Vally (VIC) – lost to Neil Brown (LP)
• 1975, Henty (VIC) – lost to Ken Aldred (LP)
• 1975, Isaacs (VIC) – lost to David Hamer (LP)
• 1975, Lang (NSW) – lost to Frank Stewart (ALP)
• 1975, Paterson (NSW) – lost to Frank O’Keefe (NCP)
• 1975, Werriwa (NSW) – lost to Gough Whitlam (ALP)
• 1990, Wills (VIC) – lost to Bob Hawke (ALP)
• 1993, Blaxland (NSW) – lost to Paul Keating (ALP)
• 1996, Blaxland (NSW) – lost to Paul Keating (ALP)
• 1996, Blaxland (NSW) – lost to Michael Hatton (ALP)
• 1998, Bennelong (NSW) – lost to John Howard (LP)
• 2005, Werriwa (NSW) – lost to Chris Hayes (ALP)

And that’s just federal politics. Sure, he’s not much of a candidate for the glorious seat of North Sydney, but I will surely be giving my preference to him above the triumvirate of tree huggers: Labor, Greens and Dr Karl!

Speaking of luxurious vehicles, I hope that all of my readers have a chance to test drive the new Hummer H3. It’s not quite as large and magnificent as my Toyota Monstrosity, but the sheer power of the Hummer just makes me go all quivery in the knees. If you’ve got an attractive salesman riding with you, you’d better plan for an extra hour when you take it off-road, if you know what I mean. Glorious!

Anyhow dear readers, it seems that my new sunbed has just arrived. The front lawn is crawling with dirty RTA workers who have blockaded the street in order to hoist my magnificent, clean coal-powered beauty device onto my roof. I must dash.

Toodles!

xx Miranda

Brendan Nelson is a raging spunk of a hunk (Photo: ABC News)

Glorious middle Australians, I apologise for the dearth of words flowing lately from the fountain of righteousness that is my pen. You see, I am now an official member of the Brendan Nelson entourage. I am Miranda Devine, War Correspondent de la droit! It is now my official duty to report the cold hard facts!

Fact number 1: For a fifty-something political swashbuckler, Brendan Nelson is a raging spunk of a hunk. He is quite gallant, I must say! Hubba hubba!

Fact number 2: Back in August, I spent 48 hours touring the world’s anus. It was, as expected, hot, smelly, and full of brown things.

In 48 hours, one can learn a lot of things. I obtained my mathematics degree in a similar timeframe. I plan to cash in on my 48 hours on the ground for the rest of my illustrious journalistic career, until I enter the political fray.

You see, correct and level-headed denizens, I am somewhat of a modern day Wilfred Owen, with the exception that I am more correct than that crusty, warbling old goat could ever have been. There is no “Old Lie”. It IS sweet and glorious to die for one’s country, but let it be heard, O leftist, chardonnay-quaffing Incorrectinistas, that not a single Australian soldier has died since 2002.

Actually, make that since two days ago.

But the point still stands! DULCE ET DECORUM EST, PRO PATRIA MORI!!!

I must be off so that I can recycle and email my next “foreign correspondence”. I am a big fan of the internet. One can report from deepest darkest Turkmexicohyderabadistan, from the comfort of the sunbed. Glorious!

Expect much more ranting from me in the coming 11 weeks. I have an election to influence!

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

This cannot be happening.
Something is wrong here.
The prophecy is incorrect and my gloriously correct view of the world has been thrown into a state of quiet calamity.

Late last week, Greg McCleay was an ordinary Middle Australian. A glorious Middle Australian: the kind of Middle Australian that my weekly Nobel Prize-worthy dissertations exalt on the pedestal of Average. A nice man, with a nice air conditioned house, in a nice street with numerous battleaxes, with nice rhododendrons in the front yard, a magnolia tree out the back. A plasma screen in the living room.

A sunbed on the roof.
(Perhaps not. One does not spend much time basking on sunbeds when they actually have work to do.)

This man was taking his gloriously ordinary self out on a gloriously ordinary outing into the centre of Sydney for some gloriously ordinary yum cha. Sydney cuisine brings a tear to my eye. It is so gloriously ordinary.

Performing an ordinary road crossing, as ordinary Middle Australians are wont to do, Mr McCleay was molested by a squadron of swinish and overeager coppers.

His only crime? An absolutely horrendous Hawaiian shirt.
I would have thoroughly condoned his arrest had it been made on these grounds. But as a discerning legal authority on all things lex legibus legaleagle, I contend that the punishment must fit the crime!

Thinking dissenting thoughts? The death penalty is the only answer.
Being a Muslim? A plague on your house…and a stint in Guantanemo for you!!
Leftism? Try some chemical castration, celeryheads!!!!

But crossing the road? There is clearly no crime here. If Mr McCleay was a Thug of Middle Eastern Descent, it would have been a different story. But this man was only wearing a Hawaiian shirt. There was no towel on his head. There was no hotted-up hoon car or saddled up camel.

This man was an ordinary Middle Australian. Crossing the road.

(Which reminds me of a catastrophically hilarious joke I made up the other day:

What do you call a rubber chicken in a wheelchair crossing the road?
…
Stephen Hawking! HAH!)

Back to the crisis.

I’m not sure what to do about this. If I complain, I’m a raging civil libertarian who should be shot. If I don’t I am effectively condoning attacks on glorious ordinary Australians. I’m all for police brutality, but not when it concerns one of our own! Everybody knows that innocent people don’t need justice!!

The laws MUST protect US From THEM!!!!

I am in a serious pickle at this point in time. I am in quite the lather. There is a hot sweat running down my back. I fear somebody is going to disagree with my standpoint over the last decade, and I’m not going to have a comeback.

But, as a great man once said: “Don’t let a few Asian kids falling off a boat get in the way of a thoroughly correct opinion.” There is no way that I am wrong. I have jettisoned the proverbial Asian kids, and have backed the Miranda Devine vessel of correctness over them. The propellor is chewing them up this minute. We won’t hear from them again. What’s that, leftist scum? You told me so? No, I can’t hear you, I’m too busy backing up my boat.

Never fear, Middle Australia. There is nothing wrong with draconian legislation. The APEC catastrophy of the weekend was clearly a result of police boredom.

In fact, I blame the Muslim thugs from Cronulla from not coming out en masse to stir up trouble and give the police something to do.

See how I did that?

That was good journalism. All is right with the world. I need a stiff drink!!

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

Iraq (Photo: US Army’s Soldiers Media Center)

Listen up, naysayers, civil rights barristers, leftist bananabending cyclists and queer communist sympathisers. For too long you have gorged yourselves at the table of the naive bleeding-hearts, cramming your stomachs full of tofu and kidney beans and celery juice whilst decrying the “problems” with Australia’s involvement in Iraq and poopoo-ing the threat of militaristicist Islamitism.

But guess what? Dinner time is over, you raging leftist incorrectanistas! You’ve quaffed your final cup of organic wine! You’ve squeezed out your last vegan fart! Go back to the kiddie’s table, eat some prime Australian beef and follow it up with a large slice of humble pie!

Miranda Devine has been there and done that in the Middle East!

That’s right, glorious Middle Australians! For the last week or so I have been tramping around the barren countryside of the anus of planet Earth. I penetrated the world’s sphincter amidst sand, dirty sand-dwellers, and some extremely hunky Australian soldiers.

In the extremities, extremism prevails. I would like to think that my presence in Iraq and Afghanistan brought back some of the balance.

Why do I do it, you ask? Why leave the comfortable confines of my lovely McMansion and the hibiscus in the front yard and the sunbed and the Toyota Monstrosity? Why not just go to Bali?

After all, who is going to to feed the immigrants living on the roof?

Like Peter Garrett, all these questions are irrelevant. (For the sake of clarification, there are plenty of possums scurrying across my roof for the immigrants to eat.)

Because the nation needs to be informed. I am the rallying call to all soldiers of the Fellowship of the Completely and Utterly Correct. I am the messenger to the glorious Ordinary Australian, travelling through time, space and the supermarket. I bring the world to you, packaged in a neat and morally digestable parcel.

Because Middle Australia has a right to know.

So know this, leftist cuscus cuddlers – the situation is under control! We have the guns, and we have the surge, and the surge is surging very well. Victory will be ours very soon!

Extremist ideologues will be crushed, stripped naked and sacrified at the altar of average! Mediocrity will be king! The oil will be ours!

Oil? Did I just say oil? I meant… Peace on Earth.

That’s a total lie. Peace is for Peaceniks. OIL FOR ALL MIDDLE AUSTRALIANS!!

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Sydney Bitter – another fine product which went the way of the dodo under Carr

Once again I don my red cap with the gold star and head out into the fold to fight for the people’s rights. Feeling a little like Ernesto Guevara himself, I am greeted by literally thousands of fawning admirers, many of dubious race, creed and sexuality, but like El Che I put that aside and concentrate on the real enemy.

Looming large and shadowy on the horizon, with a finger in every pie and a briefcase full of cash in every state politician’s office, the Australian Hotels Association is doing its utmost to deny Middle Australia their right to enjoy a quiet Pimm’s Cup in a trendy, inner-city cafe. Lesbian dog-owner Clover Moore’s plan to introduce Melbournian-style licencing laws to Sydney was her first and only truly laudable idea, and yet it has been met with a brick wall of resistance, in the form of grey-suited jobs-for-the-boys advocates, who would be more at home taking Kevin Rudd out to Score’s nightclub than bumbling their way over a cocktail menu. These hate-filled hoteliers simply do not appreciate the pleasure that every upper-middle class housewife finds in a small lunchtime tipple, and will do everything they can to ensure that the booze dollars do not stray outside their smoke-filled, tradesman-friendly pubs and clubs.

The shadow minister for smallgoods, George Souris, extracted his tongue from AHA President John Thorpe’s trousers long enough to give this statement:

Sydney can go suck a fat one. Chardonnay is for f*ckwits. It’s beer or nothing in this man’s town.

Well, Mr Thorpe, the people simply aren’t going to stand for this much longer. Sure, drinking Pimm’s and lemonade while perched atop my sunbed is all well and good, but when I have had a hard day’s manicure in the CBD, I want to be able to relax Melbourne-style with a couple of cocktails before heading back north of the bridge in my Toyota Monstrosity. Besides, a couple of drinks relaxes me enough to be able to drive without attempting to run down cyclists, pedestrians, and musicians.

Influential economist (and close friend of mine) Dr John Nieuwenhuysen spent most of his childhood throwing rocks at black kids in Johannesburg, and is therefore the most qualified man in the country when it comes to licencing policy. He single-handedly changed the face of Melbourne, by allowing beauty parlours to serve cocktails as part of their service, reducing the reliance of Victorian housewives on Valium. I spoke to him on the phone last Friday (after half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire):

Mr Thorpe can go suck a fat one. He’s an absolute f*ckwit. It’s not up to him to tell Sydney what they want – that’s my job. Booze for all – except the abbos. They get high enough from petrol as it is.

In conclusion, I would like to blame the whole situation on Bob Carr. What kind of a nancy boy prefers museums to a football game anyway?

Photo by Michela

The staff at Villawood Immigration Detention Centre (glorious guardians of our way of life that they are) continue to dazzle me with their fantastic innovations.

Not content with their ingenious and thrifty measures of encouraging detainees to sew their mouths shut, thus saving Middle Australians tax payer millions of dollars on porridge and toothpaste, these glorious and hardworking saviours of Our Way Of Life have now put 3 silly immigrants on the roof top of the complex. I think this is a capital idea – a truly glorious notion! Clearly, the advantages are numerous:

• An immigrant detained on the roof keeps the gutters clean;
• An immigrant detained on the roof can patch a leaky roof (or, as an interim measure, can sit/lie down over the affected area and provide temporary relief);
• An immigrant detained on the roof can serve one drinks and nibblies whilst one basks on their rooftop sunbed; and most importantly; and
• An immigrant detained on the roof scares away pesky possums en route to destroying one’s precious magnolia tree.

I filed my application to adopt several detainees this morning. My gutters have been shocking as of late.

Marvelous!

I’m considerably outraged right now about the judicial vindication of Mohamed “ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US” Haneef by that insipid peddler of character-test garbage: Justice Spender. I’ll tell you something, Spender Queer Charlie Quite Communist QC. You and your band of terrorist sympathising, wig-wearing, chardonnay quaffing legal nincompoops had better climb back onto your red velvet mardi-gras float and row back to where you came from. I’ll give you my “judicial interpretation” of the character test, Justice (Tax Dollar) Spender: Innocent Australians don’t need justice! They need protection from old sausagedogs like you, and terroristic mobile phone users like Dr Mohamed “roflmao cya” Haneef!

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Un-Australian nancy-boys pledging support to Ms Devine

Being an intellectual person who enjoys keeping up with all things intellectual, I just finished reading The Kite Runner. An excellent book. Whoever the fellow was that picked the pen name “Khaled Hosseini” to author this book obviously has a sense of irony that is almost as delicious as Daniel Craig’s loins. No dirty, halal-chowing, towel-headed Afghan with a name like Khaled Hosseini could ever write as fluently as that. Or perhaps Mr Hosseini is simply the translator. I am looking for a good translator. When I release my latest seminal tome: “Muslims: Middle Australia’s Real Mortgage”, I expect to have it translated into 57 languages and published everywhere.

In other news, for the last week I have been championing the cause of chardonnay bars in Sydney. Sydney needs more of these institutions!

As a result, I have been using my tremendous wit and political clout to lampoon that heinous, blue-singletted bograt troglodyte from the Australian Hotels Association, John Thorpe. Fancy telling me where Sydney can and can’t drink. John Thorpe and Peter Garrett should really get married. A hairy, authoritarian woodchopper and a bald, saggy, greenie, pansy rockstar.

I’m not quite sure why I’m advocating same-sex marriage at this time, but this is my column. Identity crises and random self-contradiction are my prerogative.

But WHY am I marching for change in the Sydney pub scene, you ask? An excellent question, Middle Australians. After all, everybody knows that hole-in-the-wall chardonnay bars are little more than fortresses for leftist backslapping, gender-bending vegan cyclist bananabenders and Asian hermaphrodites. Everybody knows that hole-in-the-wall chardonnay bars are little more than orgies for civil rights barristers on their lunch breaks.

More than anything, though, everyone knows that hole in the wall chardonnay bars are far too expensive for ordinary, mortgage-paying, Middle Australians.

However, I, Miranda Esmerelda Diamond Gloriosa Agapantha Devine, have found a way around this.

The second I started ruffling the trollish John Thorpe’s feathers, I have become quite the first lady of the ‘chic’ lefty bar scene in vegan Sydney. I walked past one of those dreadful organic stores in Darlinghurst the other day, and despite the fact that I was wearing my orange latex biochemical suit (Darlinghurst is full of AIDS, one can never be too careful), a friendly homosexual offered me a free carrot and celery smoothie. I took it, somewhat bemused, and tried to avoid catching the clap while drinking it.

I thought the smoothie would be the last of the vegan gravy train, but it wasn’t. Lesbians and students mobbed me all afternoon, offering me free drinks. A chardonnay bar on Oxford Street had a sign out the front: “Miranda Devine, you’re so fine, you can drink free anytime”. And drink I did. I stumbled home at 4am, and awoke with a clobbering headache.

And I didn’t pay a single silver cent for it.

For the last week, my bank account has runneth over, and my stomach hath never been so full of tofu and chardonnay.

All of the great social activists were loathed before they were loved. I am no different. I have clearly struck a chord with the heaving mass of leftist rubble, the grime beneath Middle Australia’s toes. And I am scoring plenty of free booze for my efforts. Remember, there is no better way to infiltrate the enemy than to party with them. The leftists and communists now think I am one of them. Hah! Never! Leftist Inner-City Sydney is Troy, and I am the glorious wooden horse, stealthily rolling in for battle! Soon Oxford Street will be ours!!! Kings Cross will be the next HomeWorld site!

Then we shall dam Redfern and the prophecy will be complete!
Uglúk u bagronk sha pushdug Saruman-glob búbhosh skai!!!!!!!!!

Toodles!
xx Miranda