The end is nigh, dear reader, or at the very least the beginning of a truly spectacular hangover. In a move that has startled kangaroos and baffled the local emus, the United States and Japan have decided that the Australian outback is the perfect venue for a jolly good military knees-up. Yes, thousands of troops are massing in the red dust, presumably to practise fighting a war against an unnamed adversary who is definitely not China. Because everyone knows the best way to prepare for a conflict in the South China Sea is to get heatstroke in the middle of nowhere while being savaged by a drop bear.
Let us examine this strategic alliance through the bottom of a gin glass. The logic, as I see it, is as follows: Australia, a continent that is essentially one giant sunburn, becomes a massive aircraft carrier for the Yanks and a practice range for the Japanese. The locals, meanwhile, are expected to provide the beer, the decent steak, and the occasional cry of 'Fair dinkum!' as a squadron of F-35s rattles their corrugated iron roofs. It is a beautiful symbiosis of empire and tourism.
But spare a thought for the poor diggers. They have been training in this heat for decades, perfecting the art of looking stoic while their skin melts. Now they must play host to a bunch of jet-lagged marines and SDF soldiers who have never experienced a proper Australian summer. I predict a spate of incidents involving sunstroke, mistaken identity, and a terrifying shortage of cold beer. The Pentagon has assured us that the exercises are purely defensive. But when has any such reassurance ever been worth the paper it's printed on? Since when does 'defensive' require fifteen thousand troops, a dozen warships, and enough ordnance to turn the Great Barrier Reef into a car park?
The real question is what the emus make of all this. Those feathered icons of absurdity have a long memory. They remember the Great Emu War of 1932, when the Australian military was famously defeated by a flock of flightless birds. Now the birds watch, unimpressed, as foreign powers trample their territory. Do not be surprised if the emus launch a counter-offensive. They are patient. They know that empires crumble, but emus are eternal.
And what of the politicians? Scott Morrison, a man whose hair appears to have been welded on, is no doubt frothing at the mouth at the prospect of being seen on the world stage. Japan's Prime Minister, ever the eager puppy, is likely already composing a haiku about missile silos. Meanwhile, Joe Biden's handlers have assured us he knows where Australia is. Probably.
I have a modest proposal. Instead of these expensive, planet-warming war games, why not a different kind of exercise? Let the troops compete in a series of challenges: who can find a decent cup of tea in the outback, who can survive a night at a pub patronised by actual miners, and who can sustain a conversation that doesn't involve the word 'shrimp' on a barbecue. The winners get to go home. The losers have to stay and learn to appreciate Vegemite.
But no, we must play at soldiers. We must pretend that the apocalypse is near, that we need to be ready. The real apocalypse, of course, is the gin shortage that will inevitably result from this logistical nightmare. I can only hope that somewhere, in the blistering heat, a resourceful private has stashed a bottle. Or two. For the sake of sanity, and for the sake of journalism.
Until next time, keep your powder dry and your gin cold. This is Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off from the edge of reason.
