The wrinkle is that exotic lands turn up at the top of a humungous tree inhabited by a bunch of weirdos with way too many saucepans, too much washing, too much forgetfulness, too much pixie cuteness or way too many explosive moonface treats. The lands always move along with a creaking and a groaning, but not before a bunch of kids get to explore the assorted pleasures or perils of the diverse lands.
Well if it was good enough for V for Vendetta (a classy graphic novel, a so so film) to reference, then it's good enough for this humble site - especially when you begin to see how it all fits together. For a start Miranda the Devine can only be that heavy hitting teacher Dame Slap (though in the later bowdlerised versions, she's called Dame Snap and made to give up the cane - damn you p.c. perverts, damn you all to hell, you've ruined the devine metaphor for the young and innocent).
Most of our stable of columnists would qualify for a visit to the land of tempers (since they all seem to be terribly unhappy), and not a few resemble the angry red goblins who get trapped in the bowels of the tree's slippery slip after demanding a set of spells which will trap and ruin lefties and greenies ...
In one book, the kids get terribly worried about the tree getting sick and trying to cure it, rather than chopping it down and shipping it off to Japan as wood chips so the Japanese can produce endless paper to wrap all their endless little gift items. That tells you all you need to know about the politics of Enid Blyton!
There's something about Michael Duffy that reminds me of the magic snowman ... and surely Piers Akerman, the fat owl of the remove, lives in and runs the land of the know alls.
How else to explain the fat owl's latest rant, Rudd package is nothing but a burden. The header explains it all, summarises the content, in fact is the content, as the fat owl explains how we've all been ruined, are being ruined, and will be ruined by the evil Kevin Rudd. There's a policy vacuum, an existential emptiness at the heart of the Rudd government.
The poor old Ruddster has been urging Australians to be happy and spend, and then he back flips and warns us of the severest ecomic doom.
The fat owl is outraged at the policy decision to tax alcopops - it has nothing to do with any column he might write in the future where's he outraged by the activities of young binge drinkers slurping down the alcopops and then trashing Manly. As for the condensate excise ... say no more because that has nothing to do with taxing petroleum products as we say farewell to the age of gas, but is just a revenue grabber.
And then that fellow, that chappie, he's a socialist don't you know, has the indecency to abandon promised tax cuts for a cheap, one off, cash in the paw offering. The Liberals are bemused, and so is the fat owl, and what's worse it looks like the electorate will pocket the change and not mind a bit. Oh it was never like this in the Howard years, never like this at all.
I remember when ... reading Enid Blyton was a good guide to the world economy.
The Coalition, which the electorate turned its back on in November 2007, took decisions to cut taxes and had surpluses. Rudd has taken decisions to increase taxes and the nation now has deficits.
That's right you losers, it's all your fault for voting in Rudd. Howard and the fundie Pastor Danny worshipping Peter Costello would have decreased taxes, produced surpluses, performed a couple of magic tricks, and wrapped the show up by doing a wonderful harmonious two step to the delight of voters everywhere (so in step on everything were they).
But sob those days are gone, killed by the careless and the uncaring. Pausing to wipe away the tears, the fat owl does admit almost as an afterthought that "we live in extraordinary times". Indeed fat owl, the most extraordinary being your expectation that people will turn to you for insight into economic policy and the future directions government should take when confronted by the current storm.
If you steer the tiller in only one direction, you tend to go around in circles until you hit the iceberg. Or end up down the slippery slip. That much Enid Blyton taught me. Or was it the Titanic?
And if you keep sobbing on about the golden Howard years, I swear I'll dobs ya in to Miranda the Devine. So many of these right wingers to tell on to Miranda, so she can give them a damn good Dame Slapping for crying in public.