What The Truckie Told Kevin


The following conversation was obtained by means of a hidden video camera placed in the prime ministerial office of Parliament House. The surveillance is now believed to be a Liberal Party initiative.

Scene: A lavish office in Parliament House.

KEVIN RUDD is sitting at his desk, reading a back issue of The Monthly with approval.

RUDD: Ah, Reagan, Reagan, Reagan. Why wouldn’t you listen?

There is a knock at the door.

RUDD: Come in!

A large man in a blue singlet timidly walks in. He is sweating profusely.

RUDD: Why hello, Russell. Pull up a pew.

TRUCK DRIVER: Thank you, PM. Sorry I’m late — the traffic was terrible. I would have caught public transport, but it’s —

RUDD (slightly frustrated): Fair suck of the stubbie, mate! Talk to Brumby about that. Chiko roll?

TRUCK DRIVER: No, thanks.

RUDD: Sanga?

TRUCK DRIVER: Thanks, I’m fine.

RUDD: Salada? Another iconic Australian snack?


RUDD: This is a good day, mate: I got us our first saint. Australia 1; Atheists: 0. The Pope’s a total pushover. Nuns cure cancer, don’t you know. We’re going to install one in every hospital next month.

There is a prolonged silence between the two men. It is eventually broken by Rudd.

RUDD: So …


RUDD: Kevin. It’s Kevin. Kev. Now, how —

TRUCK DRIVER: (Nervously.) — yes?

RUDD: — did our, um, "plan" go? On a rolling basis, that is.


RUDD: It did "go", didn’t it? (Strokes the fluffy white cat on his lap which purrs contentedly.)

TRUCK DRIVER: I have something to tell you, PM.

RUDD: (Touches nose confidentially.) Frankly, the beer is in the Esky, right?


RUDD: The Torana’s in the garage, as it stands? Hmmmm?

TRUCK DRIVER: I’m afraid —

RUDD: The Aerogard’s in the swag, is what I’m saying. Going forward — if you get my drift.

TRUCK DRIVER: No, it’s like this —

RUDD: Can I just say this? The dingo’s on the pergola. Sorry, it’s a
tic. Go on.

TRUCK DRIVER: It didn’t happen.

RUDD: But he’s —


RUDD, shocked, is silent.

TRUCK DRIVER: He just got away. (Begins weeping quietly.)

RUDD: Well, paint me f*cking pink and call me a sheila. First the hairdryer, now this! What the f*ck did I hire you for?

TRUCK DRIVER: I just couldn’t do it.

RUDD: Guess what? I gave you three simple instructions. Programmatic specificity was total.

TRUCK DRIVER: I’m sorry, sir.

RUDD: Those were: firstly, drive towards him. Secondly, force him off the road. And thirdly, crush him. We were implementing a simple three-step plan to political recovery.

TRUCK DRIVER: But it’s unethical —

RUDD: Well, do you know what? I’m as buggered as a bilby’s breakfast.

TRUCK DRIVER: But couldn’t you just —

RUDD: I’ll tell you one thing: Tony’ll eat me up like an Iced VoVo now.

TRUCK DRIVER: Couldn’t you just defeat him … in the normal way?

RUDD: Can I just say: that’s impossible.


RUDD: Let me say this: he’s prettier than me.

TRUCK DRIVER: What’s that got to do with —

RUDD: Seen those cheekbones? For one thing, they’re sharp enough to shear a sheep with, folks.

TRUCK DRIVER: What’s that got to do with anything?

RUDD: Sheilas like him, for some reason. It’s over. I’m plumper than a portly potoroo.

TRUCK DRIVER: No, you’re —

RUDD: Rounder than a rotund rock wallaby.

TRUCK DRIVER: Don’t be silly.

RUDD: There’s only one thing for it.


RUDD: We’re going to have to —

TRUCK DRIVER: Rub him out?

RUDD: Yes. That would appear to be the most viable option. I’m referring to the responsible course.

TRUCK DRIVER: You mean —

RUDD: Well, yes. Make him an accredited insulation installer.

Launched in 2004, New Matilda is one of Australia's oldest online independent publications. It's focus is on investigative journalism and analysis, with occasional smart arsery thrown in for reasons of sanity. New Matilda is owned and edited by Walkley Award and Human Rights Award winning journalist Chris Graham.