The Prime Minister, forced by continuing events to understand that Kevin Rudd is bent on exacting revenge that will never cease, dials, with shaking hand, Julia Gillard's personal number.
JULIA: Ha, ha, ha, haaaah! Wheeee! Sorry. Who's this?
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MALCOLM: It's Malcolm, Julia. Malcolm Turnbull. You might remember me?
J: Oh, Prime Minister. How lovely to hear from you. I was just lying here thinking of you.
M: That's, erm, unusual.
J: Not at all. Tim got up very early and fetched the papers. Brought them in with tea and toast. Cheered me up no end.
M: I see. Look. I need a bit of advice.
J: I can imagine.
M: It's about....
J: DON'T MENTION HIS NAME! Sorry, Prime Minister. I've got an aversion to it. I don't want to ruin the mood of this happy, happy morn. Tim and I have been bouncing around and having a jolly pillow fight after reading that wonderful front page concerning he-who-won't-be-named in my presence EVER AGAIN. Tea and toast and feathers everywhere. Get the shovel and the little broom, Tim. And the mop. There's a dear.
M: It's just that you've had a bit of experience with this nameless fellow, Julia, and I'm not at all sure how to deal with him. He keeps popping his head up. Like Banquo's ghost! Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy blood is marrowless; thy blood is cold!
J: Get a grip, Malcolm. Shakespeare's so wet. Was it you who was always calling me Lady Macbeth? Or was it that unfortunate fellow you took the sword to, Tony....
M: DON'T MENTION HIS NAME! Aversion. Comes with the territory. Out damned spot! Can't seem to wash some things away. You'd understand, Julia. Anyway, this...um...person who's shouting to the world that I wouldn't nominate him to run it. How can I shut him up?
J: You're asking me?
M: Yes, yes, I know you didn't have a lot of success on that front. But you've had a bit of time to think about what you might have done differently. If you'd give me just a hint I'd be deeply in your debt.
How do you feel about Paris, by the way?
J: Guillotine.
M: Well, quite. A while ago now. Spectre of it wouldn't bother you on a little ramble around the Place de la Concorde these days, of course.
J: I mean, Malcolm, the only thing that would guarantee the spectre-that-can't-be-named would clam up and disappear is if you dropped the blade of a guillotine on him. And you couldn't be perfectly sure he'd quit his haunting even then.
M: Bit drastic, Julia. Still. Errr. While you were cogitating about this, I suppose you didn't figure out exactly how you'd create the circumstances where some nameless person could be subjected to a guillotine in the 21st century, did you? For the sake of argument?
J: Diplomatic post.
M: But I've just told him he's not the sort of person who's suitable. Megalomaniac. Sociopath. Psychopath! Your own people said so.
J: Syria, Malcolm.
M: I'm not sure we have a post in Syria, Julia. Thank you for the chat. I'll talk to Julie. Foreign Ministers. Lord! You'd understand, Julia.
J: Bye, Prime Minister. Ha, ha, ha. Haaah. Oh, Tim. Stop that!
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