EFFIE BATEMAN Lifestyle Contact

As he helpfully points to an area in the back seat where Jenny can place the last of his bags, former Prime Minister Scott Morrison takes one last wistful look at the house he’s called home for the past four years.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

Not that he was going to miss the actual house itself, but more so what it represented – that he, a simple, god fearing bloke from Cronulla, overcame all the odds to back stab his way into becoming the leader of this fine country.

If he was being perfectly honest, which he didn’t like to do, Scotty really hadn’t expected this outcome at all. In fact, he’d assumed women would have been too busy breastfeeding or whatever it is that they do, to actually vote him out. 

And god, he really hadn’t expected the Greens to do as well as they did – that one, he blames primarily on Tik Tok.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, mutters Scotty to himself, before letting out a low, slightly sinister chuckle, “or Scott Morrison scorned.”

Inspired by a sudden burst of wickedness, Scotty finds himself shovelling around in the boot of the car for his esky, which contains a few bottles of champers and some leftover seafood from last night’s wild celebrations. 

“Um, I’ll be out in a sec, hold on”, says Scotty as he places a kilo of packaged prawns under jacket, “I think I left something behind.”

Making a beeline for the nearest air con vent, Scotty takes solace in knowing that a bloke with Mediterranean blood will no doubt be cranking up the heating pretty hard come winter time.

More to come.


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