Lot's Wife Edition 1 2017

Burnt In Bali
edition one
No moisturiser,
lot’s wife
no drink
and certainly
no lawyer.
The day after the Brexit vote I woke up in my suite on the
bottom floor of the Komaneka Bisma – an expansive property
on the edge of Ubud, a village in central Bali. As I woke up, I was
greeted to a slow-burning pain all across my stomach and inner
thighs, the previous day’s post-lunch lounge by the pool having
left me with such severe sunburn that scores of empty Aloe Vera
bottles lay sprawled around my bed. My journey to the shower
proved difficult, pockets of green sludge unsteadied my footing and
the burn had affected my quads so harshly that every step brought
sharp and destabilising spasms.
There is no question that I was duped into an elaborate joke by
the staff at my hotel. I was told that the bottles of spray on each
lounge chair side table was certified ‘Grade A’ 60+ SPF sunscreen.
In hindsight they appear nothing more than the discarded oil from
tuna cans. Where my wintery and pasty Melbournian skin suffered
dearly under this ruse, the blonde wife of a Russian oligarch had
profited greatly – on my balcony later that evening, over a quart of
American Bourbon, she loudly illustrated the impending jealousy
from her Moscovian sisters upon witnessing her tan. Playing the
femme-fatale beautifully, she consoled me and suggested I sue the
bastards for general damages. I sighed and explained I didn’t have
access to a Balinese lawyer who specialised in these sorts of things.
As I was reeling from the shock of my egregious overconfidence
in the power of hotel-provided sunscreen, the world too was
recovering in a similar manner from United Kingdom’s vote to get
out of the EU. None of the King’s Court soothsayers anticipated
such a decisive victory for the Leave camp, over a million votes
favoured a Fractured Kingdom over a United Europe. What
was framed by the Brexiteers as an opportunity to precipitate
a renaissance of the United Kingdom, seems to have created
the exact opposite result. Not that this consequence is entirely
surprising either – the entire contemporary political narrative
will be rewritten by this vote. The political elites have begun
sharpening their knives for what is sure to be a grand feast at the
political theatre. I imagine David Cameron, having lost the vote
and ultimately his Prime Ministership, probably wasted no time in
scouring his teledex for contacts in the Cobblestone Underbelly to
survey his options for retribution. One hell of a sunburn.
A call was forwarded to my room straight from the Labor Party
HQ on Collins Street. The receptionist explained that they had
reversed the charges and asked for permission to bill it to my room.
Upon my loud and profane protestations, he put me on hold. This
was the sort of penny-pinching tomfoolery that the Australian
Left believe they can get away with. The xylophonic holding music
finally ceased and I was told the call was urgent. He insisted that
I accept the call. I agreed and told him to connect the call in 25
seconds, on the condition that my caller be subjected to the holding
melody at its maximum while they waited.
I rushed over to the fridge and grabbed four dark miniatures to
mix myself a drink; no doubt I was about to be swooned over by
a secretarial hack and like shit I was going to allow it sober. The
mystery caller turned out to be an old drinking buddy of mine from
my brief stint at Melbourne University. We developed a habit of
camping out at the craps table in the Mahogany Room in Packer’s
Crown Casino all on our parents’ dollar, to begin revision for our
politics exam, usually scheduled for the forthcoming afternoon.
“Kim Carr, I should’ve guessed it! You fucking snake, where do
you get the gall? No doubt extracted from the testicles of freshfaced
Socialist-Left recruits?”
“Jesus Charlie, you are in Bali aren’t you? I’m told this resort
they’ve got you in is more luxurious than Bob Hawke’s bayside
manor. You’ve got no good reason to be so strung out.”
“Kim, ol’ darling, I know your kind don’t care much for private
credit but this is some serious cheek. Charge it to the party!”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“Ho ho! In a spot of trouble? Don’t tell me the wire’s going
to read; Labor Heavyweight – in both figure and stature – uses
campaign money to fund Bikie-run pooch nabbing scheme.”
“No, no, we gave up on that enterprise in Oh Five. It’s much
worse, our Accountant tells me Campaign Central has run dry, they
mistakenly approved the printing of four million glossed pamphlets
to be sent to each marginal household in Victoria. The order was
irreversible and now we owe millions to some supplier in Ararat.”
“Ararat? There’s no industry there Kim, only housing for
paedophiles and tourists venturing into Western Victoria on poor
intel. This sounds much worse indeed.”