Mate, what a load off. I finally did what I knew was right.

Like, I'd more or less decided to quit a few days back. (See below.) That all changed when Pancreas did a shit-hot job of convincing me he could hack it.

But then Head lobbed into the picture again and had a calm, quiet word in my ear. (Pretty easy, considering his possie.) After that I realised that Pancreas was just big-noting after all. So I reconsidered again. (And don't call it a flip-flop or I'll deck you, alright!)

Still, I was dithering wasn't I? Finally it was Heart who got me to bite the bullet. Bloody Heart, of all people!

Like, up to then he'd been blubbering like a bastard over the whole tsunami thing. But he stopped that for a while, and went all quiet. Then he spoke his piece.

Seems he'd had a bit of an epiphany, because I've never heard the cunt being so articulate. He skipped a beat to get my attention and said these words; words that I will never forget:

"Mark, mate, don't be so hard on yourself. You gave it your best shot. And that's all bloody anyone can do, let's face it. After that it's all in the hands of God. (And I repeat: that's God, not Gough, okay!)

"If I've learned anything over this past year - particularly with this bastard tsunami disaster, and, closer to home, all these dramas with Pancreas - it's that life is fucking fragile, mate.

"Fucking fragile as.

"So, you've just go to be true to what's really important. And what's that? Well, der! It's your sprogs. It's your other half. It's the rest of the Latham-Lacey clan.

"They love you, mate. And you love them. So don't let the bastards down.

"You know what to do."

And I did. And I did it. So it's done...

Sure, I feel sad. I'll miss the thrill of the fight. But I won't miss the pressure, or those cockheads across the floor, or the roosters in the ranks.

No way. They can go fuck themselves. They're all arselickers, after all.

So, see you round all you top blokes and chicks. And keep your arseholes behind you, eh!

I'm off to get a life.

Yeah, I know, you're all saying, "What the fuck's going on, Mark? You say one thing on this blog, then go and do something entirely different!"

Well, there's a perfectly rational explanation as usual...

See, only a few hours ago I was working on my speech along the lines of what I'd written below. Pancreas was sleeping soundly, getting the only peace he's had for yonks.

Then just as I'm putting the final touches on the final draft he wakes up. Gets on the blower to Head and says, "What's Mark up to?"

So Head gives him the low-down and what does he do? He goes spacko, doesn't he!

He says, "Mate, don't quit on account on me. You could eat three chip sangers a day for a year and I'd still be going. (Sure, I'd be feeling pretty shithouse, but I could still deliver the goods.)"

Then he cops this bastard pang right in his guts, and he doubles over in pain. But what do you know, he's still battling!

Clutching his tiny midriff he continues: "So Mark, mate. If you think I can't hack it you're wrong. Because I fucken can."

Then another pang hits him - BANG!

"Oh FUCK... I've got to sit down." And he does. "But don't worry, I'll survive. So, just do what... what you think is right, mate. Oh, you CUUUUUNT!"

Mate, I was inspired. Inspired as.

So I took a leaf out of Pancreas' little book. Penned my statement in ten seconds flat. And the rest is history.

Yep, it's back to work after Oz Day.

So if you've got a problem with that, then have the balls to lob at my office.

And. I'll. Deck. You.

(And Pancreas reckons he will too.)

It's pretty obvious that most comment posters to this blog are just wankerheads out to white ant my confidence big time. But every now and then one of them says something that - although usually way off - still sheds some apposite light on my condition - albeit in a quasi-contiguous kind of way. (Fuck knows how they do it; they're not the sharpest pencils in the box. I suppose it's just that even a busted clock is right twice a day...)

But anyway, re this, the Blue Deceiver wrote below (re my recent ruminations on whether to continue with the gig or not):

"I'd include your Gut, Head and Heart in any discussion if I were you. They seem to be running your existence right now."

Yep, that's right. I'm "considering my political future". Mulling it all over with the other half, the sprogs and the quack.

And all these skulking hacks and more than a few rabid roosters in the ranks are on tenterhooks wondering what the fuck I'm going to do.

Mate, they're really asking for it, they are.

So come Friday I might just announce that I'm... considering my political future.

What do you reckon, eh? Would that be a ball-tearing pisser or what!

Jeez I'm a funny cunt.

Fair dinkum, I'm really starting to arc up about this controversy about my alleged slackness re the tsunami disaster.

Like, now the hacks are claiming that I said fuck-all on the matter.

But scroll down and you'll see my public statement. (Actually a couple of them, on New Year's Day and a bit later - and both more eloquent and thorough than what Bonsai came up with. All he did was say a few words and write a bloody cheque! He's the slackarse if anyone is.)

But of course, I should have known. A blog entry doesn't qualify as a "public statement" in the tightarsed, Torified world of Canberra. No, you've got to lob outside some joint and wait for the hacks to start busily buzzing around you like blowies around a sheep's arse. Then they poke their mics up your nostrils, you give them a sound-bite, and they all fuck off to file their reports.

The Arselicker loves that. And so do they.

I don't, but. Which is why they're all telling porkies about me.

Cunts.

Fair dinkum, things are looking a little tenuous around here. I think the poor buggers who run the joint are having server trouble or something, becasue my blog keeps bloody disappearing!

I am fond of this home on the web. But just in case things become utterly, irretrievably cuntoxicated, I've set up another home at Blogspot. The URL is: markl1.blogspot.com.

Make a note of the address will you? If you can't lob here, that's where you'll find me.

I've always had a finger - if not my whole hand - on the pulse (or zeitgeist) of this bonzer nation. I've long known, for instance, that I was destined to become PM. (Okay, not this time. But one day I will, sure as shit!)

I've also always had like a sixth sense about sheilas. You know, how their minds operate, where their spiritual aspirations lie... what gets their rocks off.

I call this the chickgeist. And I can read it as accurately as Google reads the zeitgeist.

And like, sometimes both these geistological indexes illustrate exactly the same bloody thing!

Don't believe me? Well, read on...

Like, remember the time I met Jennifer Hawkins? My chickgeistometer was telling me in no uncertain terms that she wanted me, big time.

And now, Google concurs with that assessment.

Yep, she wants to be by my side so bloody desperately that she's actually lobbed right next to me in Google's zeitgeist search results for 2004! Have a look, we're both number ten in the Aussie section!

Mate, it's spooky as.

Mate, I'm still shaken to my core by this bloody Indian Ocean catastrophe. I'm having nightmares and shit - no shit!

The big problem for me is there's no one to blame. See, if I could arc up about something tangible, then I'd feel better. But this time it's just nature isn't it? What do I do, punch a tree's leaves out? Rugby tackle a wombat? Headbutt a fucking swan?

No way. So all that rage just goes inward. It's REALLY shitting me off.

Of course, the more paranoid among us do know who to blame. Some of Bob Brown-nose's acolytes are already whispering that the Seppos were behind it. You know, saying that there was some kind of conspiracy. But that's crap.

Like, fair enough, when there's a shitload of rain, or a gale like Satan's farts blowing, I often suspect the Yanks. Cunts are always full of piss and wind aren't they? That would be just their style...

But this? No way. Not even ten nukes going off under the seabed could have produced something like this. The Frogs have been blasting the shit out of the Pacific for yonks. Hasn't caused even so much as a pissy little shorebreak, has it?

Anyway, I suppose I should stop worrying and just get on with the gig. I do have more immediate concerns to deal with - for instance the resurgance of Kim Beazley as a threat to my leadership.

But I still can't focus for the life of me! Like, Big Kim could jump up on the Speaker's dais and do a bloody great belly flop right on top of me for all I care, and I'd still be brimming about this tsunami thing.

Fucking obsessed, I am...

Here we go. I've just discovered that 2005 is the Year of the Rooster.

It's got me worried, fair dinkum. I mean, does this also have some specific significance for me? Will that crowing cocknuckle Stephen Conroy usurp my leadership and completely buggerize the soul of our once great party with his eggheaded analysis and chicken-shit policies?

Mate, I dread to think.

Still, if the Chows have nailed it, and I'm destined to be out of the picture then it's not all bad. At least it means a Conroy-led Labor will win the gig in 2007. And that will be a vast improvement on the years from 1996 up to then, which could well be called the Decade of the Rat.

G'day again.

Apologies for being a real slackarse and not posting for several days. But to be honest I was utterly stonkered from my bastard year, and of course recovering from all the recent revelry.

Like, we in the Latham-Lacey clan aren't too tightarsed about observing the Chrissie ritual, but we do like to pig out and guzzle the grog big time, that's for sure.

And that we most certainly did! When you've had a whole turkey stuffed with chip-sangers then downed it with a slab of Toohey's, well you need a bit of time to recover don't you?

But I'm also recovering from the still unfolding news of this tsunami catastrophe.

Mate, how fucking cuntoxicated is this? It's really knocked me for six, fair dinkum.

I mean, I thought I had a shit-house time of late. But these poor bastards?

Bloody hell.

Like, lately I've just been wandering around the joint trying to wrap my bonce around the titanic scale of the carnage - with little success, I might add.

I'm finding it hard to arc up about anything. Even imagining the Arselicker doesn't put me in a fighting mood. Recently I saw Lexie Downer on the teev. He was quacking on about the relief effort and how bonzer the response has been from the citizens of Oz. Normally, even a glimpse of that poncy, puffy little mug would make me want to punch out the screen. But this time all I could do was mutter, "Yeah, top effort... And good on you, Lexie."

Some people reckon I'm a force of nature. But right now the force of nature is transforming me. It's made me feel quite bloody sombre, I can assure you.

So to all the poor bastards hit by the quake and tsunamis: I really hope and pray that this year turns around for you big time. I'll certainly be doing my bit to try to make that happen.

And to all the Aussies reading this: Have a bonzer 2005! Dig deep, and just keep on keeping on. You're a truly top bunch of blokes and chicks, fair dinkum.