BING Crosby's baritone thaws the chilly interior of Kirribilli House as wafts of ripe turkey and freshly halved onions strike nostrils.
"Oh Bing, you salty old dog. The White Christmas album, 1945. Those were the days," muses our serene leader, lungs tickled by raw onion emissions.
"A proper man's man too. No, not like that. No funny business.
"The bloke bedded Grace Kelly, for crying out loud."
It's Christmas with the Abbotts and everything is going to plan.
To be fair, they always start off well. A few beers with family and a nice round of backyard cricket.
But then Tony makes a dodgy captain's call, totally misreads the play and has to console the bawling kids with squinty-eyed cheek smooches.
It rarely works. Still, great practice for the cameras.
Things might get a bit awkward this year, though.
The guests should trundle in at 10-ish. Royal Commissioner Dyson Heydon made the cut, and he always brings good banter.
"Could get a bit icy with the sis, however," Tony frets.
"But it was four months ago. Maybe she's calmed down a touch.
"Honestly, what's the point of being in charge if you don't get to make the decisions?
"Conscience vote, schmonscience vote. Can't have two blokes getting married and that's the end of it."
The clock ticks over to 9.45am and Tony's palms are gushing harder than the time no world leaders would stand next to him at the D-Day commemorations in France.
His ears have turned cardinal red and his left eye is twitching like a porch dog.
Just then, a knock at the door and the imposing silhouette of his younger sibling.
"Margaret! I think I'm having a stroke," Tony yelps to his legally recognised wife.
"Fetch the onions and get Peta Credlin on the blower. She'll know what to do."
* This is satire.
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