Following conservative commentator Daisy Cousens’, er, “interesting” tribute to Bill Leak in The Spectator, Crikey has acquired* a chapter from her forthcoming autobiography:
Many people ask me why I became a journalist. “With your looks, Daisy,” they say, “you could’ve been anything you want. Why enter the relatively unattractive field of journalism?” I always tell them the same story of why I decided to devote myself to exposing the feminist left via journalism rather than becoming a model or mistress of a billionaire as most people would assume I am.
It was the first day of my work experience placement with News Ltd. I sashayed hesitantly yet with a sensuous grace into the lobby, my form-fitting red sheath slinkily hugging my curves. As I stopped to make sure my seams were straight, I became aware that I was being watched. From across the lobby, a tall, ruggedly handsome man was transfixed, his piercing eyes tracking my every movement. I was startled, yet flattered. My face flushed with excitement, I looked him in the eye and introduced myself. “I’m Daisy,” I purred, moistening my heart-shaped lips. “I’m here for … experience.” It reminded me a lot of the time I saw Chris Kenny on the train and he told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Hello, Daisy,” he replied in a deep, resonant voice that spoke volumes about the quiet confidence that he carried with him always while also containing hints of the inner turbulence suffered by all men of conscience who wrestle daily with the civilisational crisis afflicting our world. You know the kind of voice I mean. “I’m Andrew Bolt,” he said, and I immediately went weak at the knees. Andrew Bolt? The Andrew Bolt? The man whose writings I devoured every day with the same voracious enthusiasm that an overweight woman would devour apple pies as a substitute for the love she can never have? I shivered with apprehension and pleasure as I took his hand in mine and murmured, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” he replied, giving me a roguish look. “You’re here to learn journalism, are you?”
I looked coquettishly at my amazingly expensive shoes. “I’m just exploring my options,” I replied, scarcely believing that I was actually having a conversation with the man about whom I had dreamed so many nights, the man whose writings on the Aboriginal grievance industry had in many ways made me a woman. This was even better than the time I shared a taxi with Rowan Dean and he begged me to come work for him.
“It’s always good to have options,” Andrew rumbled in that gorgeous, rational, free-thinking voice. “What the Left doesn’t understand is that the foundation of Western civilisation is freedom of choice. Political correctness restricts our choices and tells us that we are racist when actually we are the opposite. Leftists want us to have no options because they gain lucrative research grants that way.”
I gazed at him, giddy with euphoria. That was exactly what I thought. The man was a rare genius — I had never met anyone who could express my opinions so clearly and concisely. All my life I had searched for a man I could call my intellectual equal; how amazing to find him in the lobby of News, and how even more amazing that it turned out he agreed with me on everything.
In the lift, I had to fight to restrain myself from staring at Andrew, drinking in his powerful, toned form. He had been poured into his suit so perfectly it was almost as if suit and man were two parts of the same organism. No wonder the feminists hated him — he represented all they could never have because they were too ugly. On the second floor, the lift stopped, and in stepped another man: older, distinguished, carrying himself with the reserve of generations past and yet with the fire of secret passions burning in his eyes. “My goodness,” I gasped, “you’re Gerard Henderson!”
Gerard smiled kindly, yet flirtatiously. “Good morning,” he intoned, and I damn near lost control of my southern portions. I had thought his voice was sexy on TV; in person it was intoxicating. I could hardly believe that here I was, between Gerard Henderson and Andrew Bolt, just as I had fantasised so many times. I hadn’t been this excited since the time I met Miranda Devine in a McDonald’s and she told me I reminded her of herself.
“Gerard, this is Daisy,” said Andrew. “She’s here to learn journalism.”
“Ah!” cried Gerard, eyes a-twinkle with simple manly handsomeness. “So you wish to make a living exposing the hypocrisy and intolerance of the uncivil Left?” His talk of incivility was like an electric jolt to my nethers. “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, giggling in a way that I could tell Penny Wong would have hated if she’d been there. My phone buzzed. It was my friend Caleb, checking to see whether I’d received the enormous stuffed rabbit he’d had delivered to my house as a Queen’s Birthday present. I quickly texted back, “Can’t talk — mixing with gods”.
We had reached our floor. Linking arms with Gerard and Andrew, I stepped into the newsroom. With my beautifully painted toes gliding through the air, I allowed these two strong, honest men to carry me to the editor’s desk. Chris Mitchell smiled at me. “Welcome home, Daisy,” he crooned. God, his face was like a Greek sculpture of a centaur in heat. I had to concentrate hard to hear what he was saying, so vigorously was my feminine essence being whisked by the egg-beater of his manliness. He went on. “Your first assignment,” he said, handing me a folder. “Free speech enemies. I want five snowflakes triggered by 6pm. I know you can do it.”
I melted. And that, I tell people, is why I’m a journalist.
*As discovered by satirist Ben Pobjie