Tales of a miffed Mullet, a konfused Katter, and rapture ratbaggery.

This week: doing the political hokey pokey in The Mullet's Mundingburra, hocus pocus in Katter's Kennedy, and why Rapture could become a popular new Christian name.

First to local issues, and yet another pre-selection polka.

Labor folk out Mundingburra way should adopt as their official branch song the Hokey Pokey, the 1949 ditty that exhorts people to put the right one in, then take the right one out, then put the left one in and turn yourself all about. 

Because that is exactly what has happened this week, with ALP right-winger and long-serving foot soldier Paul Fletcher was declared the winner of a tight pre-selection race to face Kid Crisafulli in the state seat of Mundingburra, only to have that result overturned on a recount and the left faction's Mark Harrison placed first after the 'steward's inquiry' in Brisbane.

And Paul Fletcher isn't the only loser in this cock-up, The Moaning Mullet and Cuddlepie Wallace have had their influence and standing in the party  challenged at grassroots level. And even maybe - just maybe - by Brisbane. 

Read on for what's happened.

It hasn't been a good couple of weeks for Jenny Hill. No sooner had The Moaning Mullet wiped the egg off her face from a risible attempt to pin fiscal naughtiness on the Townsville City Council only to end up condemning herself and the previous Radiance regime, she has now suffered a party room defeat that might suggest her influence as a numbers powerbroker in the local Labor dens may be on the wane.

Both The Mullet and Cuddlepie backed Paul Fletcher's nomination to take over from retiring Lindy Nelson-Carr, and when the voting was all done and dusted last weekend, the Wallace office staffer was declared the winner by the narrowest of margins - some say possibly just by a single vote.

Fletcher, who is said to talk like Darryn Lockyer but is somewhat less nimble than in his own footy playing days - he is in his early 60s - had been a faithful foot soldier long enough to get to the head of the Labor Party Employment Rewards queue (ie a shot at parliament), with that time lately served in Cuddlepie's office. Any question of him not fitting the party's quest for generational change to younger blood was swept aside by factional buddies Mullet and Cuddlepie, who duly delivered their factions block of votes as required.

Many were a bit restive about this outcome, this candidature, in footy terms being seen as a 'hospital pass' and the LNP's Kid Crisafulli would paste him all over the polling booth floor. 

But a one vote win - maybe it was a touch more than that - was always going to attract a recount, so off trundled the local party say-so's to Brisbane with ballot box in hand. The Magpie hears that independent scrutineers down there detected several invalid ballots and deciphered at least one questionable one as being for Harrison, so in the end, it was clear that the political tyro from the Electrical Trades Union was triumphant by a handful of votes.

At the time of writing, the party's administrative bods were yet to sign off on the result, but The `Pie is told they will, and will not risk doing another disastrous ham-fisted 'Mooney' manoeuver and overrule the wishes of the locals. Or have they? Is this all an elaborate smokescreen to hide yet another Mooney Manoeuvre? Certainly, some outside the party think so, and its all a sign of desperation by the Brisbane bosses. 

The Mullet and Cuddlepie must be ripping up their nighties in rage at this factional flapdoodle - they're such a sensitive couple of little ... umm, ahhh ... souls. Like all the good folks in the ALP, both are great haters, but like all foot soldiers, reserve their deepest enmity for members of other factions in their own party. 

Sorry if raising that image of Cuddlepie in a skimpy little lacy black number put you off your Weetbix and breakfast bourbon. 

Taking the long view, it seems a shame that Fletcher wasn't preselected. He could have had his turn, copped a shellacking and retired in the knowledge that he at least had a shot. All that appears left for him now is to do a Marlon Brando from On The Waterfront and repeatedly mumble to his mates  'I coulda bin a contender'. There are plenty of the old guard who feel for him.

But if current sentiments prevail, the unfortunate Harrison (pictured) will cop whatever flak disaffected party members afford him - this is usually withdrawal of help in manning booths and handing out how to vote cards and the like. There are those in his own party who believe that while being the better candidate, Harrison will simply lose by less to The Kid than Fletcher would have, and possibly damage his prospects and his personal propensity to run again. 

Then again, there are others who think he can actually win, and history shows, in L.P Hartley's celebrated opening line in The Go-Between 'The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there'. It's been proved that anything can happen in Mundingburra. Like it did in 1996, when energiser bunny  Frank Tanti got home over a field 12 - yes, 12 - including Tony His Radiance Mooney. 

But if they were doing the hokey pokey in Mundingburra, the good folks further west and north were copping their regular dose of hocus pocus hokum from the Mad Katter of Kennedy. Bob 'There Aren't Any Poofters In North Queensland'  Katter has yet again demonstrated that he is a lovable old silver-haired hare-brain by threatening - again - to create a new political party. Or maybe I won't, he gurgled with his usual porridge-thick clarity. He suggested some vague grouping of like-minded independents. Hmmm, what do you call a mob of like-minded politicians?  Umm, wouldn't that be ... let's see ... a party? Psst, Bob, me old mate, being like-minded would cancel out any thought of independence, wouldn't it? 

But as The `Pie has previously reported, there's a ready-made name and slogan for a party should Bob miraculously go ahead this time around. Yup, the Mad Katter's Cut Snake Party would be a vote catcher, with the timely slogan 'I'm as mad as hell, and you can take that anyway you like'. Sadly, what Bob doesn't realise is that his political days are done if he does go ahead. Perhaps the reason we love the ratbag so much is because he reflects that outrageous bit of rat-baggery in all of us and we rejoice in his demented Katter speak. The real fun is watching people who first encounter what might be called Bob's 'stream of unconsciousness' delivery. But it is impossible to imagine him handling the vagaries, intrigues and cogent policy arguments of a party room. 

Now onto other doin's of the week. 

As it so always does, it fell to The Magpie to trudge alone along the byways of trivial inquiry into matters which attach themselves to the larger questions of the week. 

This rapture the-end-is-nigh load of horse-feathers raised one thought in The `Pie's twisted mind.

Many years ago, it was fashionable in boofy locker-room jock circles to rate 'wimmin' as 'a 10 second shiela' or 'a two minute bird' or, the insult of the game, 'a stopped clock'. The yuk yuk idea was that this was an attractiveness meter, so  when the end of the earth was indisputably just hours or days away, the time referred to was said to be how long it would be before the female under discussion was 'jumped'. The Magpie understood this to mean be the subject of an unsolicited and probably un-agreed sexual encounter. 

That throwback to throwback humour raised an interesting question about this 'rapture' nonsense invented by a drooling thought-disordered old coot. Crackpot or not, this twerp convinced thousands of people that the end was nigh, to the extent that many spent all their life savings on final flings, giving away cars, houses and other possessions. That being the case, did the principle of the locker room game kick in, and are we about to hear bizarre tales of final flings of the most intimate and outrageous nature? So keep an eye on those periodic lists of most favoured children's names, and if towards the end of the year we get a flood of bubs being called 'Rapture', it will be a bit of a giveaway.

But The Magpie was never fussed about this demented drivel ... all of his friends (both of them), his acquaintances and readers (both of them, too) were never a chance to be swept up to heaven in a rapture. We were always going to be sticking around for the booze and barbie awaiting the clip clop of the Four Horsemen with their blood-curdling cry of 'Hi, luvvies, what's for drinkies?' 

But it was always a safe bet to cast a subtle modicum of doubt on the idea, along the lines of  'You're faarkking kiddin?'  The senile, mind-wandering meat-head who came up with this one must've been on the turps a tad. It's the sort of thing you expect from some scruffy juvenile high on Fruity Lexcia and 'leafy green material', as the drug wallopers call it. 

But think about it, it was a no brainer to poo-poo the idea, because if you're wrong, none of those bloody goody two-shoes would be around to do the nah nah nanas.  Besides,  it was never going to happen because Sir Dicky Branson hadn't created a 'Cloud Nine' airline to exploit the uplift of the Raptured. And he isn't one to miss an opportunity. Sir Dicky was probably too busy in rumoured negotiations with our Muslim martydom pals to see if he can schedule flights to Paradise. Very cheap, since it would be one-way only for (what was left of) eligble passengers 'who can purchase at cut prices, halos, harps, and special 72-pack condoms. No carry on - at least not until you reach Paradise'. Dicky wanted to call the airline Path to Paradise, but the bombmeisters argued to retain for the status quo. They think their cause is better served in recruiting the young and dumb if it just remains Virgin Airlines. 

Enough, it is now away to Poseurs' Bar, where the `The Pie will hope to be being endorsed for a rapturous party, rather than as usual planking his independent way home.