To weddings and a resurrection

Not sure what Julia and Timmy are wearing to The Wedding, but Julia will probably be wearing the trousers regardless and why shouldn't she. She's got the legs for it. But will our Prime Minister be wearing Orstralian?

I certainly hope so and I also hope she's clutching a bouquette of trembling gladdies and that Timmy has a sprig of wattle in his toggle.

I'm not surprised those gladies are quivvering. Julia's approval rating is soooooo low that the tall poppy may well be subject to a palace coup in her absence. The knaves are gathering as I write.

Off with her red head. That Paul Howes your father has a lot to answer for. He and his sneaky mates have cost Australia dearly; and not just in monetary terms.

And was that Bill Shorten in his red spotty jarmies and matching sleeping bag sneaking into the side entrance of The Lodge having a practice sleepover? Goodness knows who he'll be getting into bed with now, politically speaking of course.

There's a fraction too much friction and a fraction too much faction.

Funny how Julia's boys are no longer yodelling her praises in quite the same way as they did after Rudd's unedifying deposing. They were full of puffery and self-importance then,weren't they, rolling around corridors of power like drunken mercenaries after a regime change.

Poor Julia is already a spent force. And yet, as our Deputy Prime Minister, her performance and public persona once held such promise; presumably in those pre dud Rudd days, she was the real, real Julia and not a stooged avatar.

Still, it will be luvverly for her going back to the old country. It could well be be her last overseas trip as Prime Minister. I hope she takes Timmy to see Barry. The place not the bloke. It will be nice for The Boyfriend to see where she was born.

Our man in London, John Dauth, Australia's High Commissioner (no Ambassadors for Members of the Commonwealth) who, after all once worked at Buckingham Palace and indeed, was Press Secretary to Prince Charles, could surely show Julia and Timmy around London; pop them on a double decker or the tube and maybe show them where some of our aboriginal heads are being stored in formaldehyde in one of those royal colleges of surgeons or museum basements.

While you're there in Dear Old Blighty Jules, could you pop in to see our Julian? You know, the one with the funny surname; Assange, rhymes with blanc mange; the colour of the little tacker's hair.

The one that you said was, like, illegal like, even though he wasn't charged with nuffink, innit.

Geez, no wonder the Poms think we're like, Bogansvillia. They is well out of order, innit Jules.

Unlike you, Julian was actually born in Oz. As Aussie as an honi soit qui mallee pense root.

Which reminds me,this very motto of The Most Noble Order of the Garter came into its own at the weekend, on George's Day, England's Patron Saint. No dragons allowed.