Below, serial commenter True Believer accuses me of excessive Freudianism in relation to my posts about eels, trains and Desert Head.

Sorry, True, can't pay that one. My mum doesn't look at all like Peter Garrett (or a train for that matter). And as Freud himself once wrote: "Sometimes an eel is just a cigar."

Hey, remember how I deduced that Peter Garrett looks like a moray because of all that time he spent campaigning to save the Great Barrier Reef?

Well, it seems the process works both ways. Here's an eel whose contact with Desert Head has turned him into a committed environmentalist.

Bloody hell.

I don't know whether to be deeply touched or scared shitless!

I mean, if he can do this to fish just unconsciously then think of what he could do to the Labor Party if he sets his mind to it!

I'm keeping a very close eye on this cunt I can assure you.

A commenter called GB-Cobber has thankfully given me the answer to the Tim Freedman mystery.

Here it is.

Do I feel like a cockhead or what!

A few days ago True Believer said that Peter Garrett "looks more like a moray eel than any human has the right to".

Shit, you bloody nailed it there, True. And quite frankly, that analogy is so spot-on it's been haunting me the whole time.

Like, I had a gabfest and some brekky just this morning with the party faithful (including Desert Head). I wolfed back my share pronto, because I was worried Garrett's fugly bonce might just dart out from nowhere and snatch it from my hand (you know - like what they do to divers in those National Geographic docos).

I kept looking at him and thinking: Fuck - hope he's not our "Achilles Eel". ( Hey, maybe it was worth seeing that swords and sandals flick last night after all!) And why is he so bloody eely in any case? Being a champion of old growth forest and its unique fauna, you'd think he might look more like a bilby, or maybe even a funnelweb spider.

This whole paradox was really bugging the shit out of me. Then suddenly I had the answer: He's been campaigning to save the Great Barrier Reef for ages. That joint is Moray Central, fair dinkum!

But then later on at the same gabfest I saw
Michael Costa. He's even eelier than Garrett. I thought, what the fuck has public transport got to do with finless fish? But
then I finally twigged.

Which I suppose would make him less of a moray than an electric one!

And still on the subject of eels and politics: Don't you reckon
Mussolini was a dead ringer for the NSW Transport Minister? He was so damn eely, I reckon if he were alive today he could easily fill in for Costa and absolutely no one would notice! (Actually, it could even be a good thing, considering the disgraceful state of Sydney's railways, and Eel Duce's famous commitment to punctuality!)

Feeling a tad weary from my ongoing battle with the Arselicker and his army of sly pricks, I went in search of inspiration. Lobbed at that new blockbuster Troy with my other half Janine, which I was sure would have some top pointers on how to wage war against an implacable foe.

But I didn't learn much. Agamemnon and his mates ran a pretty shoddy outfit. And their tactics were chaotic to say the least - probably due to all that plonk they knocked back in their tents every night. Fair dinkum, if that's the way the Greeks organise a military campaign, then the Olympics are going to be an utter clusterfuck!

Still, the Trojans weren't the sharpest pencils in the box, either. I mean, they fell for that wooden horse shit. Suckers! Didn't they know the story? I learned it in bloody primary school...

Still, they do make a top range of frangers. Can't be too harsh on them.

Curious as to why Dad was in favour of this Freedman fellow, I endeavoured to find out about an hour ago. True Believer had just left a comment explaining that he was "against pokies" so I thought that might have had something to do with it. But when I called Dad and mentioned this he said, "Son, glad to hear it. But that's got absolutely nothing to do with it."

"So why the blessing, Dad?"

"Simple. He had the good grace to name his band after me."

"Is that all?" I asked, a tad let down.

"Yes. That's all."

Bloody hell. It seemed so odd. It's so vain, so egotistical. Just so unlike Dad.

I mean, that would be like yours truly acting in an imperious, undemocratic and elitist manner. Can you ever imagine that happening?

Anyway, I was curious about this band Dad spoke of. Googled for about twenty minutes, but no luck! Bit bloody weird, I thought. I mean, how can they be famous, but not be on Google? Or maybe their obscurity is what makes them so cool amongst the youth demographic...

Anyway, it's really done my head in. So I ask you, bonzer readers: Do any of you know anything at all about a band called The Goughs?

Desert Head is looking more and more like a liability with every passing hour. Still, I'll keep up appearances publicly. But just in case the whole venture becomes a total bloody quagmire - which it may well do - I've got another plan up my (rolled-up) sleeve.

See, being the clever prick I am, when we had that gabfest during which we chose Garrett, I said, "Any other musical whippersnappers that might be into it, if Pete gives us the thumbs down?"

My young, funky and mostly female advisors said that a young crooner called Tim Freedman - whom I'd never heard of before then - might be the go.

They played some of his music at the meeting. A bit nancy-esque for my liking. Still, he's got a few years on Desert Head - not to mention shitloads more hair! (Oh, and
Dad likes him, too. I haven't the foggiest why, but.)

So if all else fails I'll be on the blower to him pronto.

G'day people.

You've probably already sussed that I'm severely regretting the plan to install old Desert Head. As I wrote here just recently, he was never my first choice anyway. And now the skank and bile are out to get me, big time.

The Tories are beside themselves with glee. Here's Piers Clackerman having a fine
old gloat. So why don't I just burn the Midnight Oiler? Well, imagine if I did at this late stage. That would be another perfect example of flip-flopping wouldn't it? They'd be even happier then.

Damned if I'm going to let that happen. I'm not going to cut and run. That's not what a true blue Aussie does in a time of crisis. To pull out of the decision now would be disastrous!

Well, the invitation to Garrett is well and truly out there. He'd have to have bloody rocks in his head to refuse.

And speaking of which: it's not a very pretty sight now is it? I mean, if
that popped up in front of you in the middle of the night you'd pack your dacks sure as shit! He'd give this prick a run for his mummy in the horror stakes, now wouldn't he?

Remember when I said politics was "showbiz for ugly people"? Yeah, well I'm definitely putting that little maxim into action here. The guy is certainly in showbiz and about as butt-fugly as they come.

Still, he's got nothing on Laurie Brereton in that regard. His bonce resembled not so much a hatful of arseholes, as a whole bloody millinery full of them.

Which got me thinking: Why is the member for Kingsford Smith always such a fugly prick? Weird isn't it? It's kind of like the Victorian Premier-Blocked Nose Syndrome; or the Chick-Chunkiness Socialism Correlation - both of which I have written about on this blog before.

One day I'll have a whole book of these observations, you know.

G'day people. I assume you've all heard about our latest (potential) recruit.

Yielding to pressure from my advisors, I have tacitly endorsed the bloke. But really, he wasn't my first choice.

See, at a recent gabfest many on the lefter, leafier fringes of Labor kept telling me that if I really wanted to get the young 'uns on side I needed someone with his (or her, or his/her, or its) finger (or stump, or paw, or claw) on the youth pulse; someone with a high media profile and an aura of "funkiness" - or at least "righteous cool" - and hopefully a musical background to boot.

My zillions of intricately interwoven dendrites zapped instantly into action, and I had the perfect candidate in a matter of bloody nanoseconds: this guy!

Before my advisors could even gasp at the sheer brilliance and audacity of the choice, I was already dialling the number of his agent in LA.

"Woah, Mark!" my cohorts yelled in unison. "Let's think about this."

We had a bit of a debate. These were the most socialist of my fellow travellers, remember, so everyone's voice had to be heard.

The consensus was that while the idea was generally shit-hot and bonzer, Mr Loaf had three things going against him: He was an old cunt, a Seppo, and - worst of all - his name would alienate the vegan demographic, big time.

The only way they might consider him would be if he changed it to "Soy Sausage".

Of course, this was out of the question. The great man would never agree to that.

So, we settled on Garrett instead (who looks just like a soy sausage when you think about it!).