King Tony awoke from a fevered dream, in a state of no small distress. They were getting worse: at times, he couldn’t tell sleep from wakefulness, so vivid were his nightmares. He went for a stroll on the damaged ramparts of The Lodge to clear his head, and to make sense of his troubling visions.

He saw dusky men and women, clearly infidels, rejecting his God-given right to call them names and make fun of their silly accents. He saw wenches rattling at their gilded cages, rejecting their sacred role as ambulatory wombs. He saw degenerates demanding to be treated as equals, despite choosing to do unspeakable things with their sacred apparatus of lust. He saw wimps in high office. In short, he saw an un-Australian dystopia.

Lord Boltemort, King Tony’s faithful soothsayer, appeared at Tone’s side. King Tony was startled: it creeped him out when Boltemort did that.

“King Tony, please,” Lord Boltemort said. “These dreams are prophecies. They await you in the future, but we have the power to ensure that the future never comes. Let us ascend the ivory stairs of the Tower of Entitlement, and stand on the Platform of the Straight White Male: denounce the Future, threaten Time with deportation. Verily, things will be black and white again, despite what the grey masses say. You shan’t hear their dissenting voices from that lofty vantage point, and their nuanced arguments will no longer confuse your troubled mind.”

He looked out at his domain from the vertiginous heights. He was tired from the climb, and so felt that he had earned his right to stand on his Platform. Much of the land was hidden by the fog of privilege, and he didn’t know what happened beneath: those regions scared him. The Caucasian Plains, though, were clearly visible, as was Macho Mountain.

King Tony was heartened by what he saw. The magic of the sorcerer Murdoch struck terror into the hearts of serfs. The serfs saw visions of scroungers and welfare cheats everywhere they looked, and tore each other apart. Meanwhile, Dame Gina burrowed deep inside the mountain: it was little more than a shell now.

Tony saw Angles and Saxons embracing each other as they overcame the scourge of racism, feeling the yoke of oppression lifted from their shoulders. He saw barbarians being kept from the Golden Shore by methods far more fiendish than boiling oil and tar.

King Tony saw the Earl of Pyne shouting shrilly at the rising sun of progress, insisting that it shine only on the Judaeo-Christian bits. He saw Sir George of Brandis quelling troubling outbreaks of moral courage with jousting stick and crossbow. He saw Dame Sophie of Mirabella infiltrating Fort Pinko, the stronghold of the Warmists and Academics that called for the future that Lord Tony so feared.

Finally, he saw the carcasses of Reasoned Debate and Simple Egalitarianism, his old foes, rotting in the desert wastelands of Tasmania. King Tony smiled: all was well.