Some old Prime Ministers dont seem to die, but they still leave a bad smell!

Today The Blowfly is perched on the shoulder of our erstwhile former leader Paul Keating as he wreaks havoc on the world with his ascerbic views.

For The Blowfly it has been a fairly hairy ride.Paul is not one to sit and reflect .He is more of a 'run the ball up' sort of guy and frankly you've had to cling to his shoulder with vigilance during this most recent visit.

You do like the feel of Keating's Italian suits, but in your own mind you could always preferred Gough's shoulder because you can see further.

Paul likes taking a shot at most things associated with the old guard---except his mentor Jack Lang! So it was no surprise to The Blowfly when he tackled the subject of Canberra. Of course you know where Paul is coming from with his latest foray.

Like Paul you always preferred the garbage and swill of Sydney's western suburbs to the circular and benign grass-ways of our national capital.He had to uproot his family and move them to this false paradise. He found himself like a fish out of water. And he did what fish do when they find themselves out of water---he thrashed around frantically before suffocating and enduring a slow painful death.

Paul does not like Canberra. He never did and he never will! I'm sure there wont be many Canberran's who will give a rats about Paul's views. Talk about souffle's rising twice!

And The Blowfly was on Paul's shoulder when he had to shake hands with Malcolm Fraser just recently. For The Blowfly it was more satisfying than blowfly-sex.The atmosphere was electric! These 2 former leaders shaking hands for the cameras. You could feel the love in the room.Yours truly was ecstatic! You remembered the words of your father when he told you that there are some people 'who don't know how to have fun without laughing'. But you do! You know how to pick your moments and on whose shoulder to sit to maximise your fun.

The Blowfly notes that the other sad 'shadow of his former self' PM is also starting to strut his stuff on the speaking circuit. John Howard must've finished his post-
PMship counselling (paid for by the taxpayer) and is now ready to face the world and tell everyone what he now knows to be true.

The Blowfly wonders when he will turn his ultimate unrelenting wisdom to how the Liberal Party can rebuild itself.And how he will rationalise his role in its current despair.

The Blowfly then flagellates himself that he is one sick puppy by entertaining this thought and leaves Keating's shoulder to a more satisfying perch on an old hamburger he has spotted rotting in the sun.

The Blowfly finds himself singing "Heaven, I'm in Heaven".