I spent all day on this topic. It was a lot harder than I expected.
If only Andrew Bolt was free to speak his mind, none of those people would have died in London yesterday. If only the Bolter could just be free to tell us exactly what he thought of the mud races and their heathen ways, we would no longer have to live in fear of being violently disassembled by bearded nutters in chocolate shops or on the public thoroughfares.
He would give them a jolly good talking to and they would fold up like a cheap umbrella in a high wind.
Well rejoice, my friends, because that happy day is nigh.
Six years (and a never-ending News Corp campaign in the service of of bad faith and bullshit later) and the PM is released for a few minutes from the windowless cellar where he now lives with George Christensen whispering to him in the dark, “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.”