The Down Under Dalliance: Australia and China’s Courting Dance

Dearest Readers,

It has come to my attention that the fair nation of Australia is once again embroiled in a rather deliciously complex affair with none other than the formidable force known as China. One could hardly imagine a more mismatched couple, and yet, like a boozy bogan at a backyard barbie, they simply cannot stay away from one another. Thus, Australia sent over Jim Chalmers, first brave treasurer who dared set his foot on Chinese soil in seven years – or was allowed to. Naturally, there is only one thing binding these two countries together: a love so deep, so unshakable, so irresistible—money. Grab your cuppa, darlings, as we dive into this scintillating saga of trade, tantrums, and tension, as things were not mere sunshine and koalas.  

Australia’s Love for China: All About the Bling

Ah, Australia—sun-kissed and carefree, always more comfortable in boardies than in a business suit. One wonders why our laid-back land of kangaroos and koalas bothers courting a partner as demanding and, dare I say, controlling as China, out of sheer masochism? The answer is as clear as a summer’s day: cash. You see, dears, China is Australia’s biggest trading partner, read that in capitals BIGGEST, and without China’s endless appetite for Aussie resources, especially for iron ore, Australia’s coffers would be emptier than a stubby at a footy match. Without China, the Aussie economy would look flatter than a dead snake on a highway. One can only imagine the nation’s desperate dependence, as it watches its trade with China like a hawk watches a careless bunny. Oh, how love makes fools of us all!

China’s Interest: A Practical Arrangement, Not a Passionate Romance

But before we get too swept up in this tale of economic affection, let us not forget that China is hardly the romantic type. No, no, far from it. China’s interest in Australia is far from a sentimental attachment. It needs Australia’s iron, wine, coal and the like, plain and simple, to fuel its industries and keep the wheels of its gigantic economy turning. While some may claim this is a mutual relationship, let’s be honest—China is not here for cuddles by the campfire. Rather, it eyes Australia’s resources like a dingo eyes a baby. And with every tonne of iron ore that ships off to Shanghai, one wonders: Who truly holds the power in this couple?

Trade Barriers: China’s Spicy Little Temper Tantrum

As in all relationships, not all is hugs and loving words between these two. China, it seems, has a fondness for the occasional hissy fit, much like a diva who’s been served flat champagne. In recent years, trade barriers have been thrown up faster than a durry after a big night out. Wine? Barley? Coal? Lobsters? The Aussies might as well have been sending over a packet of Tim Tams for all the good it’s done them. Meanwhile, the poor Treasurer, in an act of desperation (or perhaps delusion), heads to China in hopes of sweet-talking the great dragon into dropping these inconvenient restrictions. Australia’s economy needs a little TLC, period! It’s a bit like trying to convince a magpie not to swoop—you can try, but you’ll probably still end up with a peck on the noggin.

Diplomacy or Dance of Deception? Australia’s Tightrope Walk

But it’s not just trade on the table, darlings—oh no. There’s also the ever-so-delicate dance of diplomacy to consider. Australia finds itself in the awkward position of needing China while also trying to keep its more Western allies (yes, that means you, Uncle Sam of America) happy. It’s a bit like being at a formal ball with one dance card but two suitors, and neither of them likes sharing. One can almost feel the tension in the Treasurer’s starched collar as he attempts to charm China without making it appear as though Australia’s fallen head-over-heels under its spell. Heaven forbid he should come across as too keen.

The truth, however, is that China’s influence in Australia is nothing new. From real estate to universities, Chinese investment is everywhere.

The Future: Will This Odd Couple Thrive or Dive?

And so, we are left to wonder: will Australia and China’s strange, symbiotic courtship endure, or are we merely witnessing the calm before another storm? If the Treasurer can convince China to lower its trade barriers and let lobsters land in China, perhaps this odd couple might find their way back to a more civil partnership. But if things go pear-shaped (as they often do), Australia might find itself nursing a broken heart—and an even more so, a broken wallet. Either way, dears, one thing is certain: the next chapter in this geopolitical love story will be one to watch.

Will Love or Money Win the Day?

As our Treasurer embarks on his mission to woo China, one can only hope his efforts are more fruitful than a Bunnings snag on a Saturday. After all, the stakes are high, and Australia’s economy is more fragile than a possum on a powerline. Should he succeed, perhaps we shall witness a new era of cooperation. But should he fail? Well, dear readers, it won’t be the first time that Australia’s grand ambitions have gone up in smoke faster than a bushfire in the dry season. One thing is for sure: this tale of trade and tension is far from over.

Until the next dance of dollars and diplomacy,
Lady Wombat

Why not show the kid's version in the Wombat Junior <here>!

AFL Grand Final 2024: Sydney Swans Soar to Victory

G'day, cobbers! If you didn’t hear the ruckus coming from Melbourne yesterday, well, grab yourself a cold one and park your backside, because Dame Wombat’s got the inside scoop on the AFL Grand Final of 2024—where Sydney Swans flapped their wings to clinch their first premiership since 2003. And let me tell ya, this win wasn’t just a casual stroll through the gumtrees; it was a 60-point walloping that’ll have the footy world chinwagging for decades to come.

A Parade Worthy of the Pub Chat

Now, for all you Aussie battlers who reckon the AFL parade is just another excuse for a sickie, well, you’re spot on. But the Melbourne mob sure knows how to turn a yarn into a showstopper, mate. The parade yesterday was bigger than a cane toad at a barbie, and boy, was it a sight! Footy fans flooded the streets like they’d just found out the price of a slab had been halved. Melbourne was buzzing—more than a mozzie at dusk—with supporters waving their flags, donning their colours, and belting out team songs as if they’d just sunk half a dozen schooners. If you weren’t there, you missed a bloody ripper. But fear not, Dame Wombat’s got your back with all the juicy tidbits.

The Swannies, bless ‘em, rocked up like true blue legends. The Sydney Swans brigade, looking sharp as a meat pie at the local servo, led the parade with the kind of swagger only a team on the verge of greatness can pull off. They strutted their stuff like a rooster in a henhouse, knowing full well they were about to leave Melbourne’s heart shattered like a dropped Tim Tam.

The Game: Sydney Swans Soar and Melbourne Sobs

When the final siren echoed through the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG), there wasn’t a dry eye among the Swans faithful—or a dry throat, for that matter. Fair dinkum, the Sydney Swans played like a mob of emus on Red Bull, giving the opposition no more space than a cockroach in a crowded outhouse. It was a 60-point belting, the kind that has you wondering whether the other team forgot to set their alarm clocks that morning.

And who better to lead the charge than Buddy Franklin? Ol' Buddy played like a man possessed, as if he’d downed a few too many espressos before running out onto the field. The bloke booted goal after goal, each one sending Sydney’s supporters into a frenzy. The opposition might as well have been trying to catch the wind with a butterfly net. By the third quarter, the Swans were flying so high, you could’ve sworn they were being fueled by a secret stash of Vegemite sandwiches.

But it wasn’t just Buddy, oh no. Callum Mills played like a bulldog chasing a postie—relentless, determined, and with no regard for the carnage left in his wake. The midfield was tighter than a dunny door in a cyclone, with the Swans dominating every contest, and their defence—led by the likes of Dane Rampe—was stingier than your old man after Christmas shopping.

The final quarter? Well, let’s just say if you’re a Melbourne supporter, you’d have been reaching for the remote faster than a possum up a tree. Sydney kept their foot on the pedal, driving home the kind of victory that legends are made of. When that final siren blew, the Swans had not just won the game, but they’d absolutely flogged the other side.

AFL’s Best Crowd: A Mix of Cheers and Groans

Let’s not forget the Melbourne crowd, eh? Those poor souls. They’d turned up hoping for a fairytale, but ended up with a tragedy fit for the Bard himself. By halftime, the sea of red and white in the stands was louder than a cockatoo at dawn, while the opposition fans sat quieter than a wombat in the headlights. And yet, as the game drew to its inevitable conclusion, the Swannies faithful were singing louder than a kookaburra on payday.

But it wasn’t just about the footy, folks. The post-game celebrations spilled out into the streets of Melbourne like a beer keg with a busted tap. The pubs were full, the streets were packed, and the atmosphere? Electric, mate. Sydney fans paraded around town like they owned the joint—because, after that performance, they practically did. Even the die-hard Melbourne locals had to tip their hats, albeit reluctantly, to the Swans' utter domination.

The Aftermath: Melbourne Left Picking Up the Pieces

As the dust settled and the celebratory schooners were drained, Melbourne was left to ponder what the bloody hell just happened. The media’s already having a field day, dissecting every missed opportunity, every fumbled mark, and every baffling decision made by the opposition. “Where did it all go wrong?” the pundits ask, as if the answer wasn’t staring them right in the face for four quarters straight.

Meanwhile, in Sydney, you can bet your bottom dollar that the party’s far from over. The Swans have reclaimed their spot at the top of the AFL food chain, and it’s going to take a crowbar to get them down anytime soon. Sydney’s celebrating like a kangaroo let loose in a lettuce patch, and who could blame them? It’s been 21 long years since their last premiership, and they’ve come back with a vengeance.

What’s Next for AFL?

So, where to from here? Well, the AFL landscape has well and truly shifted, folks. With the Sydney Swans back on top, you can bet your bickies that the other teams will be gunning for them next season. Will the Swannies be able to hold their ground? Or will another team come along and take them down a peg? Only time will tell, but one thing’s for sure: we’re in for another cracking season of footy, and Dame Wombat will be here, as always, to give you the scoop.

So until then, keep your eyes peeled, your stubbies chilled, and your footy banter sharper than a goanna’s bite.

Why not show the kid's version in the Wombat Junior <here>!

Treaty of Waitangi: New Zealand to Rewrite Māori Rights

 

Dearest Readers,

It appears that the ever-charming politicians of New Zealand have decided to pull on their gumboots, dance their own Haka and stir the pot once again, and the broth they are concocting seems to carry a distinct aroma of treachery. It has been reported that our dear neighbours across the Tasman Sea have taken it upon themselves to unravel the Treaty of Waitangi—yes, that “dusty old thing” from 1840, which the Māori, for some apparently “incomprehensible reason”, still consider to be relevant. They aim to unpick it like a dodgy jumper, stitch by stitch. Oh, how delightfully quaint! Allow me to enlighten you on this unfolding saga.

The Treaty of Waitangi: Signed, Sealed, and Soon-to-Be Delivered to the Bin?

Let us first indulge in a brief history lesson. The Treaty of Waitangi, signed in 1840, was an agreement between the Crown (that is, the British Empire, darlings) and the Māori chiefs. There are differences in the English and the Māori translation, but in short we can conclude the following: The Māori were promised certain rights—most notably, the recognition and ownership of their land, culture, and, heaven forbid, the right to govern themselves. The Māori are to have full rights and protection as British subjects. It also states that the Crown has pre-emption rights and any land the Māori  sell must be sold ONLY to the Crown. In exchange, the Māori  graciously allowed the British to plant their flag and call the place New Zealand. One might think that after signing a deal like that, both sides would simply live in perfect harmony.

However, the ink had barely dried before the Crown got a bit itchy and started, shall we say, renegotiating the terms—without bothering to consult the other party. A bit cheeky, wouldn’t you say? Nevertheless, the Treaty has endured, despite being chewed on by literal rats and metaphorically gnawed upon by politicians over the years. It is a wonder that this shredded old parchment has held up at all, but alas, its time on the mantelpiece may be nearing its end, as the current mob in power seems to think it’s time to put this “dusty relic” to rest.

A House Divided: Guests Democratically Vote for New Rules

Picture, if you will, a grand estate—lavish, with rolling gardens and stately halls. The owner of this fine abode is a classic Aussie bloke and has, in his boundless generosity, allowed a few guests to take up residence. He did this with a set of agreed-upon rules, naturally—certain rights and privileges that ensured the guests would not feel entirely like squatters. However, as time goes on, the guests begin to settle in. Oh, and settle they do! Still the kind Aussie owner always welcomes any guests into his house with a little welcoming greeting that says they are welcome to visit and share in the food.

The guests bring their own furniture, scatter their belongings about, and soon you can hardly tell it was the owner’s home in the first place. Motorcycles clutter the driveway, rice cookers hum in the kitchen, and air fryers occupy every counter. Suddenly, these guests are no longer just guests. They invite their own friends and relatives to come and stay without asking the owner. They demand a say in everything—what’s to be grown in the garden, which cheeses belong in the pantry (poor Dutch Gouda does not stand a chance!), and what language is to be spoken on the premises. Farewell to the owner speaking in Australian slang with his mother and brother on the phone. “Democracy!” the guests shout, as if they’re doing him a favour. And just like that, the bloke’s lost control of his own digs.

Why, it is nothing less than a hostile takeover! The owner is left with little more than the clothes on his back, while his tulips and cheeses, rooms and garden become communal property. “Democracy,” they say—how charming. But one might wonder, is it truly democratic when the original owner finds himself with no voice at all? Didn't he allow them to stay with a set of agreed-upon rules? What would his forefathers say if they saw how the estate was taken over by foreigners due to mere hospitality!

Same Story, New Zealand: The Treaty Takes a Back Seat

Returning to our beloved New Zealand, it seems that this house metaphor is playing out on a much grander stage. The Treaty of Waitangi was meant to be a fair arrangement, with both sides retaining certain rights. However, much like our poor homeowner, the Māori have watched as their control over their land and culture has slowly but surely been eroded.

The Treaty promised Māori tino rangatiratanga, which is a fancy way of saying "self-determination" over their lands, villages, and treasures. But what have they received instead? Land confiscations, suppression of their language, and laws that conveniently ignore their rights. For a long time the Māori were even forbidden to speak their own language. And their lands? Well, let's just say the Crown didn’t pay fair dinkum prices, as only the Crown could legally buy Māori land. Often it just outright confiscated what it saw fit and fair. Today, Māori is technically an official language (only since 1987, mind you), but the government is no longer rolling out the red carpet for it, in fact, its use in public services and official documentation is no longer expected.

The new government cozies up to the idea of… how shall I put this delicately? Abolish the Treaty in all but name. Why let such a pesky document stand in the way of progress, after all? The government seems to think that the Treaty, like an old-fashioned gown, is no longer fit for modern society. But if equality means stripping the Māori of what’s left of their autonomy, it’s looking more like a dodgy deal than anything fair dinkum.

The Grand Finale: Equality or Erasure?

One must wonder, however, what will happen if the Treaty is entirely unravelled. The government claims that they are simply seeking equality for all, ensuring that no one group holds more rights than another. In theory, this sounds quite noble, does it not? Democracy at work and an equal vote and voice for everyone. But in practice, it feels rather more like stripping the Māori of their final threads of autonomy.

It is as if our metaphorical houseguests, now fully in control of the estate, have decided that the original homeowner should no longer even have a say in his own affairs. “Equality,” they cry, as they rearrange his furniture, repaint his walls, and toss his tulip bulbs into the compost bin. How modern! How progressive!

And so, dear reader, we find ourselves at the cusp of a new chapter in this curious tale. Will the Māori continue to fight for their rights under a Treaty that seems to be crumbling faster than a day-old scone? Or will the government succeed in their mission to dissolve the past in favor of a shiny new future, one where equality is a lovely buzzword but true justice remains as elusive as ever?

As New Zealand flirts with the notion of “equality,” the once-cherished Treaty of Waitangi faces slow disintegration. Promises once made to the Māori now seem like yesterday’s forgotten obligations as the new government unravels this foundational document. Will the Treaty, much like our hypothetical homeowner, lose all control over what was once rightfully theirs? Or is this the final act in a long play where "fairness" strips the Māori of their hard-earned rights?

Whatever happens, you can be sure of one thing: I shall be watching with bated breath and spill the tea, ready to pen the next chapter of this deliciously scandalous affair.

Yours in disbelief and a smirk,
Lady Wombat

Why not show the kid's version in the Wombat Junior <here>!

A Blast from the Past: How Hezbollah's Exploding Gadgets Turned Warfare into a Retro Sci-Fi Sequel

 

Dearest readers, 

Gather ‘round as I, your ever-watchful chronicler of scandal and sabotage, unveil the latest in the absurd theatre of war. A new chapter in the endless saga of Israel and Hezbollah has unfolded this week, one that even the finest Hollywood writers couldn't conjure. And let me tell you, it's as bonkers as a dingo's breakfast.

A Blast to Remember—Literally!

It appears the gallant warriors of Hezbollah have been introduced to an unexpected hazard in their daily lives: their very own pagers, walkie-talkies, mobile phones, and laptops have turned traitors, blowing up like party poppers gone rogue. Thousands of pagers and walkie-talkies, thought to be a dead-reliable throwback to the 1990s, detonated across Lebanon and parts of Syria on two crisp September mornings, leaving behind chaos, confusion, and quite the mess. Hezbollah’s attempt to bypass Israel’s high-tech surveillance with this low-tech wonder of the past backfired—literally and spectacularly!

Reports suggest these devices were booby-trapped, likely in a scheme as intricate as knitting a scarf in a sandstorm. Israeli intelligence is fingered as the mastermind, although, as is their custom, they've given a cheeky shrug and said, "No comment, we have no idea what you are talking about.” I suppose that's what you call ‘taking the Fifth,’ Israeli-style. Hezbollah's own leader, Hassan Nasrallah, had previously insisted on ditching mobile phones for retro gadgets, claiming they were super secure. Oh, the sweet irony of it all.

An Explosive Introduction to New Era of Warfare

As if warfare in the Middle East wasn't already complex enough, this sneaky stunt adds a new layer to the game. Exploding pagers? Bombs in walkie-talkies and phones? What's next, exploding smart watches or booby-trapped Tamagotchis…or guns themselves? The operation, reportedly masterminded by Israel, shows that the future of warfare may lie not in drones or AI, but in supply chain espionage. A well-placed explosive here, a little hacking there, and voila—one hefty blow to Hezbollah’s operations when they least expect it. 

One can't help but wonder what else is spiced with something extra. Israel seems to have sent Hezbollah a scary message—quite literally, with rather lethal consequences. Some reports suggest the devices exploded after receiving a specially crafted message, which I imagine read something like, “Boom goes the dynamite.” Talk about a killer text, even a highly paid copywriter would envy how effective it was.

More Than Just a Pyrotechnics Display

But beyond the theatrics, this could very well escalate into something much darker. Hezbollah has dubbed the attack an “act of war,” and Israel isn’t ruling out the possibility of opening new fronts. With the smoldering remains of thousands of gadgets littering Lebanon, the region now faces the grim prospect of further retaliation. The last thing Israel needs is another active front, and yet, here we are, teetering dangerously close.

What does this mean for the future? Besides inspiring a slew of new conspiracy theories and perhaps a remake of Mission: Impossible, it highlights just how tech-savvy and sneaky modern warfare has become. A pager explosion today could easily lead way to making your backyard a battleground tomorrow. 

Until next time, darlings, stay alert and keep your gadgets in check. You never know when they might turn on you—quite literally.

Yours ever so scandalously,

Lady Wombat (or should I say, Lady Woom-Boom)

Why not show the kid's version in the Wombat Junior <here>!

Plastic: The Crown Jewel of Our Ruinous Folly

 

Dear Reader, 

Brace yourself for a tale of modern extravagance, where our insatiable appetite for convenience rivals only our carelessness in discarding its remnants. The empire of plastic, once hailed as the crown jewel of industry, now leaves a legacy far grimmer than even the juiciest scandal I could whisper about the ton.

The Unseemly Pile-Up of 57 Million Tons — Oh, How Positively Elegant

If ever there were a contest for poor taste, dearest reader, humanity has surely won it. Every year, we grace the planet with a staggering 57 million tons of plastic pollution – according to the esteemed folks at the University of Leeds. That’s right, imagine piling all that rubbish high enough to fill New York’s Central Park up to the tip of the Empire State Building. A lovely thought, isn’t it? A visual that will undoubtedly have us clutching our pearls, if not gasping for air—since those microplastics are also devilishly making their way into our lungs, food, and, wait for it... bloodstreams. Positively delightful! Gone will be the days of Blue Bloods and Mudbloods – greet the race of the Plastic Bloods! 

This isn’t just any common affair, mind you. The Global South, ever the underappreciated belle of the ball, bears the brunt of this disaster. India, with its generous contribution of over 10 million tons, leads this dire procession. Yet, somehow the Global North continues to strut about, batting not a lash while its own plastic waste conveniently disappears into the oceans and the hands of other nations. How terribly convenient for them! But let’s not heap all the blame upon our dear friends across the seas—after all, we all have a role to play in this particularly glamorous apocalypse.

But Fear Not, We Have Plans... Sort Of

Ah yes, plans. What scandal could ever be complete without a dash of empty promises? Now, darling, imagine the powers that be fluttering about, making grand declarations. As the UN merrily agrees to negotiate a global treaty on plastic waste, one can’t help but imagine the hilarity of it all. In a world where 1.2 billion people still lack access to basic waste collection, surely the noble intention to “manage waste better” will be solved, will it not? Never mind the fact that over two-thirds of this monstrous pollution stems from uncollected waste.

Oh, but of course, the real saviour is better AI models, ensuring we can calculate exactly how much more plastic we’ll drown in each year. What a joy! One can picture it now, the scientists patting themselves on the back as plastic piles grow ever higher.

A Glittering Future Awaits

And what, pray tell, is in store for us? Well, if today’s 57 million tons don’t make you swoon, just wait. The United Nations informs us that plastic production is set to triple by 2050. More plastic! In the oceans! The mountains! Why, even atop Everest and the Alps—how very chic! Just imagine future generations trying to outdo us as they inherit a planet where breathing in plastic particles will be as common as attending a ball. 

But let’s be fair, this isn’t a tragedy for everyone. The plastic industry continues to thrive—no expense spared! No caps on production, because why should we? After all, how would we fashion all those delightful single-use products and the charming plastic packaging they are delivered in to our greedy little hands? The kind we casually toss away like yesterday’s gossip, only to find them creeping back into our lives in the most intimate of ways. Ah, what a time to be alive!

So, my dear reader, do carry on. As we dance on the precipice of our glittering plastic kingdom, remember—it’s not the scandal we deserve, but it’s certainly the one we’ve created.

Yours in scanda
l and suffocation,
Lady Wombat

Why not show the kid's version in the Wombat Junior <here>!

Trump vs Harris Presidential Debate – It´s Showtime Folks!

 

Ah, dear readers, what a glorious thrill we witnessed on the night of September 10, 2024. In the ring, we had two towering figures: Donald Trump, the reigning champion of bombast, and Kamala Harris, the queen of cold hard facts. It was a clash of titans that was as chaotic as it was entertaining. With a blend of theatrics and policy, the night was worth living—who doesn’t love a bit of political biffo

Let’s break it all down, shall we?

The Donald: Reality TV Rhetoric or Presidential Persuasion?

Our favourite former reality star, Donald Trump, did not disappoint in the drama department. Oh no, he entered the stage like a gladiator stepping into the Colosseum, complete with swagger, smirks, and the bravado of a bloke who's just won the pub meat raffle. His entire stance seemed to say "They said I couldn’t do it again, folks, but here I am!" Like we didn’t see that coming, Donald.

To say Mr. Trump’s performance was hyperbolic would be an understatement. His tales of past victories painted his presidency as some golden age of America—cue the violins and the doves. We were treated to stories of perfect trade deals, a booming economy, and world peace, all thanks to him, naturally. One half-expected him to claim that he’d personally discovered fire and taught mankind how to cook snags on the barbie.

But here's the rub: for all his grandstanding, the man knows how to work a crowd. He tossed out slogans like confetti at a Bogan wedding, riling up his supporters with claims that bordered on fantasy. Facts? Details? Who needs them when you’ve got charisma and a cheeky grin? Trump is that mate who tells the most outrageous stories at a BBQ—you know they’re a bit dodgy, but you can’t help hanging on to every word. 

His weakness? Reality. His strength? Showmanship. And boy, does he know how to keep his mob entertained. You almost want to hand him a beer and say, “Good on ya, mate,” for the sheer audacity of it all.

Kamala: The Ice Queen of Logic and Precision

And then, ladies and gents, there was Kamala Harris, as cool and sharp as the crease in her power suit. If Mr. Trump was the rowdy bloke at the pub, Ms. Harris was the school principal, clipboard in hand, ready to mark him for every incorrect answer and tell him redo his homework. She spoke of unity, progress, and, dare I say it, actual plans for the future. Her tone? Measured. Her facts? Impeccable. Her eye rolls at Trump’s more “creative” claims? Pure gold. You could practically hear the collective "yeah, right" from anyone with half a brain.

Harris, to her credit, stayed on point like a roo avoiding a dingo. She calmly dismantled Trump’s claims with logic, reason, and coolness that could put out a bushfire. It was as if she had prepared for this exact moment her entire life—and maybe she had. Armed with a fact-checker’s dream of statistics, she delivered blow after blow, all while barely breaking a sweat.

But here’s the thing—while her substance was rock-solid, one couldn’t help but wish for a little more oomph. A bit of flair, a dash of cheek. The crowd loves a good fight, and while Harris won on points, Trump brought the razzle-dazzle. If there were medals for intellect, she’d have walked away with gold. But politics, as we know, isn’t just about smarts—it’s about connecting with people. 

Her weakness? A touch too prim and proper. Her strength? She knows the issues inside out, upside down, and backwards. You’ve got to admire her for that, even if you wish she’d let her hair down a little.

Who Won? A Tale of Two Very Different Leaders

So, my dear readers, who won this duel? Well, that depends. If you were looking for wild entertainment, outlandish claims, and the kind of spectacle that would make Shakespeare sit up in his grave, then Trump was your man. He’s like the Aussie footballer who charges onto the field, makes a mess, but somehow scores a try in the end. His talent for energising his base is undeniable, even if half of what he says has as much grounding in reality as a soap opera plot.

If, however, you were hoping for serious answers and a coherent vision for the future, then Kamala Harris was the clear winner. She might not have the same flair for drama, but she was the more adult person in the room—focused, determined, and in control. In a world where facts still matter, she would’ve won hands down.

And so, the battle rages on, with both candidates walking away claiming victory. But whether you’re Team Trump or Team Harris, one thing is for certain: this election season promises to be a wild ride, and I, dear readers, will be here to document every twist and turn. Stay tuned—because in politics, as in the Ton, nothing is ever quite as it seems.

Yours in awe and wonder,
Dame Wombat

Why not show the kids the Wombat Junior version <here>!