*Bunny Champers
BrookesNews.Com
Monday 24 November 2003

Well would you believe it, I was just coming out of a coma, thanks to the anti-freeze the frogs put in that soup they called a Bordeaux. Anyhow, where was I? Now I remember, a tasty but reserved nice little red. No, that wasn't it. Oh yes, my coma. Well the family sawbones said I should take it easy, as if I could take it any easier without slipping into a another coma. If I did that I'd end up like the Adam Smith Club committee. I'm not kidding, honest I'm not, but there's more life in a cemetery on a Monday night than there is in that lot.

What was that you said? What was I doing in the cemetery? Mind your own damned business, you cheeky monkey. These nurses are more bolshie than the blokes. Mind you, I wouldn't have minded going down to the cemetery with the one who served me up this morning's champers. What a pair of…. Gee, I'm wondering again. Damn that anti-freeze.

Ah, that's just the ticket. Nothing like a glass of the bubbly to unscramble the old grey cells. Now where was I going on this before that cheeky monkey with the big you-know-what interrupted me? (By the way, just between us, I think she fancies me).

Now what's my coma got to do with Jew-bashing, you might well ask. Well, the truth be known, nothing. At least not directly. You see, it was about three weeks ago and I was lying on the sofa taking it easy at the old man's place when the help handed me the Sydney Morning Herald. (That Irish scumbag Gerry Jackson calls it The Saddam Times. It must be the only thing we ever agreed on, apart from liking Yankee Doodle Dandies).

Well would you credit it. The pages fell open, leaving me staring at Ali bin Ramsey's hate-filled face, the one that kinda introduces his articles. If that wasn't bad enough for the old ticker, the commie bastard actually accused Jews of starting terrorism in the Middle East. Not a word of condemnation of those fascist ragheads.

It's not that I'm an Uncle Solly myself. We de Champion's are solid Norman stock — and damn proud of it. It's just that my sister married Bernie Goldstein. What a mistake that was! Why he ever married that stupid cow I'll never know. I did warn him, you know. Anyhow, Bernie is a terrific brick, and he's got me out one or two financial straits. (Alright, alright, it was more like half a dozen).

So when I read what that evil Ramsey said about Jews asking for it, I just thought of poor ol' Bernie, who is a big supporter of Israel and even has family there, and my blood boiled. "That's it!" I roared, "I'm off to Sydney to give that Ramsey a good dose of stick — and I mean stick!"

Of course I was broke, but thanks to Bernie, you get my drift, I was able to buy a first class rail ticket. After I got on the train a funny thing happened to me. Before I could reach the first class compartments I ran into a bunch of rugby fans. Well, what could I do? As captain of the school rugby team I felt honour bound to share my experiences with them.

What a decent bunch of chaps. All working class you know. Not a grammar kid among 'em. Still, I never had so much fun since the time we tried to flush Stinky Snotgrass down the loo.

By the time we got to Sydney I wasn't too steady on the old pins. It didn't matter though because the chaps poured me into a taxi and told the driver to take me to The Saddam Times. And you know what? The driver knew exactly where to go.

Well what a place. I was no sooner through the doors of Ramsey's foul den than I felt a terrible dread overcome me. Either that or it was all the beer I quaffed on the train. Nevertheless, the place still felt that it needed a roman candle to circumcise it …. or is that exercise? Anyhow, someone should do both, just to be on the safe side.

It didn't take me long to find Ramsey. I just followed the rancid stench of hypocrisy — and there he was, lounging in his chair, face contorted with hate, every pore of his body oozing malice and his skin glistening with self-righteous slime.

Bunny is no coward you know. Reminding myself that I single-handedly tackled a whole Republican Guard division, I thrust my chest out with righteous anger, strode firmly up to Ramsey's desk and smashed his computer screen with my grandfather's walking stick, the one he used to chase our bolshie gardener with, and denounced him as an anti-Semitic rotter and a red cad to boot.

Then I challenged him to put up his dukes and slog it out like a real man. Well I never saw anything like it. His eyes turned positively reptilian and his mouth began to drip venom. "My God", I thought, "he really is the anti-Christ." I needn't have worried, the cowardly swine was taking the easy way out by faking a heart attack.

It was then that two screaming harridans called Gorgon and Whore jumped on me. As a rule, I'm very partial to having ladies jump on me, but this pair should have been working for Hammer Films. On the other hand, I suppose being Saddam Times' columnists was the next best thing, at least next to Hell, which is where they probably came from in the first place.

Things were beginning to take a nasty turn when four burly security also got hold of me and dragged me to the street. Not that I went quietly, you know. We de Champions are famous for our powers of resistance.

A job well done, I said to myself. By thunder, would you believe it, at that very moment old Batty Evans from grammar bumped into me. What a sight for sore eyes he was, I can tell you.

It was about four hours later and Batty and me were still holding up the bar in his local when I thought of that rotter Tim Blair. Now it's true I don't like that Irish guttersnipe Jackson, but at least he's a genuine lefty-hater, not a limp-wristed feather duster like Blair. He's also up front. When he's got something to say, he won't send out backstabbing emails behind your back, he'll tell you to your face.

So when Blairy sent out a cowardly email accusing Jackson of being an incompetent illiterate who deserved to be blacklisted by the club and that Brookesnews should shut down, even I saw red. Jackson's got his faults but he would never stoop that low. (It's still a rum thing when a professed conservative media Johnnie thinks blacklisting an anti-lefty is a jolly good thing). The cad even made the ridiculous statement that his mates were doing a better job than Jackson of defending the market.

With the intention of giving that cowardly Blair the Ramsey treatment, I picked my walking stick and made an erratic exit from the pub. Two days later I woke up in the family's old Toorak homestead. It seems I didn't even make it to the taxi rank.

Thanks to Batty — he really is good ol' stick — I was dumped on the next train back to Melbourne where the old man picked me up twelve hours later. Doesn't matter, though. That cad Blair is bound to come down here sometime, and I've still got my old school boxing gloves. Did I ever tell you I was the school's bully champion — I mean boxing champion?

Bunny Champers (Albert Bartholomew de Champion) is Brookes' correspondent at large — when he's sober.