Mary to Markson: Listen up!

Kancellihuset
18 October 2006


Mr. Max Markson
Publicity Hound for the Publicly Hounded
Markson Sparks
Level 1
113 Redfern Street
REDFERN NSW 2016

IN CONFIDENCE
SUB JUDICHE (can you look this term up please Max, it was something I picked up at law school, and fix the spelling)

CHRIST, Sparkie, you’re LOSING IT!

I was piped a treat via my many sets of eyes last night – you were out there touting Bindi Irwin as a potential gazillionaire OUT IN THE OPEN! If I didn’t like you I’d think you were dumb as dogshit. I leave Oz for a bit and PR is all over the shop. Does it occur to you to take a back seat? Do you have to be truthful and fuck up the main game?

And what THE HELL is with "elegant Amber" in Versace sitting next to Sydney celeb A-LISTERS and NOT pawing and clawing the footy player next to her? HOW CAN YOU DO THAT TO ME? If I have to settle for Prince Fluffykins then Amber has to settle for a gay hairdresser playmate or Jayson Brunsden, OK? She’s making me look like an Idol winner. Metaphorically speaking, gimme Shannon Noll runner-up territory, thank you, NOT Guy Se-fucking-bastian. GOD.

NOW. Back to me and MY empire (to be).

GODDAMMIT!!! What the hell are you doing? How did the Galathea business get out? What is Fred doing giving interviews to Ekstra Bladet leaking that he talks dirty with his sailor pals? You’re fucking with my ego, Snark. I don’t like it. If Fred’s ridiculous plan to get the Galathea to measure the currents with state-of-the-art equipment gets out, I’LL get the blame, thank you very much. No-one would believe that little dopey puppy could conceive of a devious plan like that to speed across the finish line faster than he can tackle a bottle of whiskey. While I think of it, Fred is to continue to be uxorious on the record even when drunk as a skunk, please. I’ll let you know when that changes.

So help me, I am so ropable right now! I cannot believe that such a fantastically conceived idea of mine could be so royally (shut up, Max) screwed up. POOF! Just disappears in a cloud of smoke thicker than the chimney-in-law’s exhale. Well, thanks for NOTHING. What passes for DRF publicity, as usual, is of no help as Lis Thingy’s bumblings make it look like we’d been planning something undercover for a while (never mind the truth – it’s perception that counts, f.i. Danish pink press) by stressing the unofficial nature of the trip instead of the usual "we don’t comment on their private lives". Well, at least the photographers will still be on alert that we’re coming and will require some good shots. I want you to arrange for some shots of me, facing the morning sun, wind blowing my hair back, and holding the bub. Gotta look REAL maternal and loving as if that were the way we always are. No bother what the kid’s expression is, just tell them to get me in my best light before I put the little squirmer down again. And you must promise: my sisters DO NOT share any shots with me. It's bad enough I'm starting to look as old and tired as them, we don't need to shout it from the rooftops with indisputable visual proof.

Back to sailing, do you have ANY IDEA how careful we have had to be with the scheduling for both the Galathea 3 thing and the Sydney Hobart race timing? Now it all may be in total jeopardy for Fred to participate in either. Do you know how hard it was to ensure the journos didn’t twig that an Arctic icebreaker has no business at the other pole? Hopefully, we can get Hamish and Chris to call about some back door deals on getting Nanoq into the Sydney-Hobart. Like I’ve always told Fred, it’s not what you know, but who you know. We HAVE to make this happen one way or the other. It was part of our pre-nuptial agreement: he boozes up his Inner Bogan and I get the credit card.

You have NO IDEA what kind of NIGHTMARE for me it is to have him around and NOT BUSY. Could you NOT possibly understand the level of secrecy and intricacy that we’ve had to work in? Getting that ship "cleared" through the damn Navy and science academies – they’re not stupid, and I’ve had to bare two more teeth at the side of my mouth while “smiling” to scare them - that was more work than Freddo’s done in about six years, he’s been too busy crying and licking my boots.

Down to the business at hand. Are we on the same page? No-ho. Nuh. Nuh-uh. (How do you say no in Danish? I forget.) SO. The plan was: flag our trip, get the Australian public clamouring to see us at pitstops, and get the lot for free courtesy of the subterranean – I mean Antipodean – redneck pollies, so we could chock up the bank account a bit. Parties in Europe specially those post-piste (yes, I get my own pun, thanks) are expensive, even when all the food and drink and accommo and cars and entertainment are free. There’s the stay-happy obliteration component, OK? And people to quiet on that front who want to reveal the truth. Well, the clock’s ticking since the game’s just about up with the chimney-in-laws, thanks to those ferals on that discussion board. I used to go there for ego stoking and stroking. Now I go there to get some blood rushing around my system. Hanging out with the household staff with bandaged knees, thick ankles and all talking Nooooord – probably Danish but I can’t tell - is NO RUSH, let me tell you. So get this, what happened at the opening of Parliament the other day: here I am thinking Daisy is still c-h-a-r-m-e-d and then the old bat just smiles at me through gritted teeth before giving me a little BITCH-SLAP. In PUBLIC! Where’s her control? WHERE ARE THE OLD GIRL’S MANNERS? She’s not falling apart fast enough for MY TASTE, that’s for sure.

I digress. Lots of campaign ground to cover, and lots already lost. SO. Now, instead of Kirribilli we get to park chez the cheesie premier of Tassie. Yuck. He’s way too essential Tassie to make me feel comfortable. Would YOU want to go hang out in your childhood ambience? I didn’t think so, so you’ve got to divert on that front or send a mainland substitute. Where’s the eastern suburbs adulation when I need it? Sparks, you faithless hound, I’m starting to wonder who is paying you to subvert my plans. Is it Amber? What’s with the skin, the hair? The class act? And what’s definitely up with the especially soignée grooming under-arm? I saw a shot of Amber’s underarm held right up to the camera: OK, so she was raising a champagne glass, but that was NOT her motive, taunting little bitch. Why is SHE freaking guest of honour at the Melbourne Cup? Why the hell wasn’t I invited? I’m ROYAL, babycakes, and Amber’s just a royal pain in the arse. ‘Memba?!

While I think of teeth – what was it with you and "fixing" Dad’s teeth? Was that your caper? I told you, Rob Roy Woad-bod warned us that those crooked, prominent teeth contain tribal secret business and Boganson tribal power. Dad isn’t even half the weird Pict chief-type he was without the Chad Morgan look. Now that he’s gone all Hollywood, he’s as vain as can be – so what? Did you have to indulge him? He thinks he’s fucking Sean Connery now. Johncock’s wife is the only other family member with teeth like that. Does this mean I have to work the family paedophile rapist into the mix somehow? That will test even MY skills.

There might be an upside to thatty though. Without his TEETH I don’t need Dad around so much any more. I might hand him back to my sisters who can deal with his new peacocking. There are other grandchildren, after all. I’m storing them up till they need the Bindi Irwin treatment. You know, like if I fall on hard times after the chimneys’ staff is on to my game.

By the way, have you managed to get those "DocuMEntary" outtakes removed from the net? It has Fred YAWNING when I’m talking about my old high school. And we’re about to return to Tassie and I would like to pull a thicker curtain down on the bogan past, thanks, I don’t want Fred to remember now that he’s post the first flush. Fred is to continue to be uxorious, infantile, grateful and depressed. GOT IT?

Sparks, I cannot take his shit much longer. I’m going to get Dr. Freudenborg to up Baby Boy’s meds. If you don’t like having a mooning loon around the traps (you should see it behind closed doors) when we come by, you better get cracking and onto damage control. SOON. I will be the only psychopathic lunatic in this court, thank you very much!

So here’re my instructions: One. Make sure "six day trip" is touted around harder. I saw it referred to as three to six weeks. That’s not good. Rule Number One: If it’s the truth, we DON’T LEAK IT.

Two. Bromides and lots of them for Fred, keeps him from thinking he’s a male while he’s drinking in his mates’ testosterone. You can get it from the Danish Army. We just tell them they’re for me - the court thinks they’re keeping me pumped so I can survive my work round. HA! They think they’re overworking me!! Even better, so do the slow masses!!

Three. Do something about Amber. I keep telling you she’s to be my foil and uglier than me, classless, etc. The way things are going she will show me up. I don’t want that, you don’t want that, neither of us want that and, Spark, if you insist on continuing to engineer Amber-Gorgeous, Mary-On-Verge-Of-Negative-Publicity-More-Profitable, I’ll toady to the Danish Secret Service, service my husband, and have your kneecaps swinging from my earlobes. GOT IT?

Speaking of kneecappings, look into flying Jade Alexander-Erber down to Tassie for a girl’s lunch. We’re starting to have things in common.

Suck it up,
HRH ME