After all the partyin’ and smashin’ and crashin’,
and all the glitz and the glam and the fashion,
and all the pandemonium and all the madness,
there comes a time where you fade to the blackness;
And when you starin’ at that phone in your lap and you’re hopin’ but them people never call you back;
But that’s just how the story unfolds,
you get another hand soon after you fold.
And when your plans unravel in the sand
what would you wish for if you had one chance?
Poor old Del (Shannon) Fentiman (above).
The Minister for Everything That She Isn’t – a parent, a child, ethnic, a perpetrator (as opposed to a victim) of domestic violence, a murderer (say ABORTION) – is in more trouble than Flashess Gordon as the runs pile up on her innings in charge of everything and nothing, and she seemingly can’t find the seam on the ball to engineer a little bit of reverse swing and save her wicket.
Now I’ve been a trenchant critic of Del’s ascent to the political alps from even before her journey from base camp – a run of the mill Labor law firm named Hall Payne – began. And as usual I was right and the bobble-headed party apparatchiks were wrong, even if Del’s cashed/mortgaged-up law firm partners did convince a union boss to splash a fortune of his members money to prevent me from telling you so in long and boring detail.
I suppose on behalf of the bored readers I should thank the bright spark for his electric inspiration, but the Wichita Linesman is still on the road – to nowhere – so it would be a waste of breath, and Sparky wouldn’t listen anyway because Del can do absolutely no wrong in the eyes of the divorced-from-reality union bosses who support her, even when the rest of Queensland is calling for her head.
It’s not that Del is incompetent.
That goes without question.
No, it’s the fact that little kids are being raped and murdered under her watch, and that women continue to be bashed senseless, and that communities seem no longer to exist as neighbors fail or neglect to see the failures of humanity that are right before their faces, and the best that Del can do is to get her hair done every day and holler for an inquiry.
I could bang on for hours about how and why a childless, careerist young politico/legal hack who shags up on her partner shouldn’t be gifted the gilt-edged ministerial portfolios that Ms Del has, but they’ve always said that a picture tells a thousand words, so let me paint one for you.
Do you remember Ben Hunt dropping the ball in Golden Point extra-time in the 2015 Grand Final? And what it did for both his team, his subsequent confidence and his whole goddamn once-glittering career?
Yeah, sure you do. Who could bloody forget it?
That’s Del for you ladies and gentleman.
Half-baked, hapless and hopeless.
The bell tolls, and it’s wringing (sic) out Del.
So so long baby, and be on your way.
You never should have been there anyway.