Something about Kevin Rudd bothers me and, until recently, I hadn’t been able to pin it down. What is it about him that gives me an involuntary shiver? When I see him why do I get the creepy feeling my nervous system has hitherto reserved for unexpected encounters with larger lizards?
He does share the lizard’s liplessness. Has anyone measured his blood temperature? Hell, has anyone tested for blood?
His skin has that waxy sheen not seen since the Politburo presided at seventies May Day Parades.
Being no oil painting myself and remembering the injunction against judging books by covers, I decided it was unfair to condemn the man on looks alone. But then I saw him limply air punching in a soft roundhouse style at the news the Australian cricketers had won the World Cup. Even some children of my acquaintance emitted a collective and involuntary “eeeewww” at that.
That half hearted air prod got me wondering about him again. Anyone who works so hard at being seen to be good can’t be.
Anyone who so loudly professes his commitment to balance must be imbalanced.
A person who conspicuously needs to show he is capable of love (by licking his wife in public at every opportunity) is only capable of self-love.
There must be a cavity at his core - a soft centre that’s not there. Trying to be all things to all people leaves you being nothing at all.
I couldn’t help but think he reminded me of someone I’d met or seen or heard about. And when I remembered who it was, bugger me if that bloke wasn’t called Kevin!
All that need be said about Kevin Rudd was sung by The Undertones, the infectiously enthusiastic Irish rockers of the late seventies and early eighties.
These purveyors of perfect 2 minute pop precisely nailed a lot of teenage experiences – just listen to “Teenage Kicks” or “Here Comes the Summer” and try not feeling the old stirrings of longing and angst.
In “My Perfect Cousin”, Feargal Sharkey, the band’s lead singer bemoans the goodliness of his cousin Kevin. Read this in your head at top speed in an Irish falsetto, imbued with the timbre of a 44 gallon drum being dragged over concrete and the exasperated tone only teenage injustice can inspire:
Now I've got a cousin called Kevin
He's sure to go to heaven
Always spotless clean and neat
The smoothest you can get them
He's got a fur lined sheepskin jacket
My ma said they cost a packet
She won't even let me explain
That me and Kevin were just not the same
Oh my perfect cousin
What I like to do he doesn't
He's his family's private joy
His mother’s little golden boy
He's gotta degree in economics
Maths - physics and bionics
He thinks that I'm a cabbage
Cos I hate university challenge
Even at the age of ten
Smart boy Kevin was a smart boy then
He always beat me at Subbuteo
Cos he flicked the kick and I didn't know
Oh my perfect cousin…
His mother bought him a synthesizer
Got the Human League in to advise her
Now he's making lots of noise
Playing along with the art school boys
Girls try to attract his attention
But what a shame it's in vain total rejection
He will never be left on the shelf
Cos Kevin he's in love with himself
I bet Kevin Rudd did like The Human League and, worse, didn’t have the guts for the haircut.
Better than read it, let the boys sing it for you. Play it LOUD!
