Death by Blancmange

Former Foreign Minister Julie BitchUp (Oh I know, it just has a good ring to it though, don’t you think?) will travel to New York tomorrow to lead Australia's campaign for a binding UN resolution to support an open, transparent and international investigation into the tragedy.

You’ve got to hand it to politicians, any excuse for an overseas junket.

I’d like to see Julie BitchUp drown in junket, actually. I could imagine that famous stare, with the ball of my foot pressed firmly on her forehead, going slightly cross-eyed as her face slowly disappears from view under a sea of white pudding. Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug.

Watch her breath in the solid milk air in shorter and sharper bursts, blocking, nothing, gagging, still. It would froth around her nostrils and mouth, where it becomes thinner in consistency as it mixes with desperation until it lies in two layers, when the thrashing stops; thicker milk fats and thinner dribbles exiting Ms BitchUp, like bubbles floating away on the surface wake disappearing, in the silence of what once was.

Death by blancmange.

Flummery mummy.