The Poodle

A defining moment in Anglo American relations. 

And the President

Dear reader, by now some of you may be aware of the vexed question of diplomatic relations. How the UK ambassadors private description of the US President as ‘inept’ and ‘dysfunctional’ was leaked to the press. And how in the consequent furore, the diplomat was encouraged to take a leap by the presumptive PM Boris Johnston. On both sides of the Atlantic, pundits have sought to mark this as a new low in diplomatic relations. And a new low in the exercise of balanced protocols in favour of a more dynamic exercise of power nuanced though the principles of hubris, narcissism, immaturity and short-termism. The truth of the matter is that they’ve got it all wrong. 

The President of the United States is the man of our time. And the presumptive PM Boris Johnston, is the right man to lead UK from the wilderness to the uncharted waterfall that lies at either corner of the flat earth.

Toys

And gladly their collective vision repudiates the evil, misdirected conspiracy of scientists and historians to subvert the course of western civilisation through the principles of objectivity and clear mindedness. Because of this, we the public have been hoodwinked by elites who seek to destroy our understanding of things as they REALLY are, with fake news and crony-ism. Trump and Johnston, are symbols of our release from the curse of objectivity. The latest intelligence on Trumps repudiation of the Iran nuclear deal clear evidence of bi partisan clear sightedness of a common objective.  We await further analysis from the good folk of the Catholic Boys Daily. ( the Australian). 

But it was last week when the President staged his fantastic and worthy fourth of July the facts were revealed. One hundred and twenty seven years before the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, the Americans possessed a formidable airforce. No wonder the British coveted them, and it defines a moment in our collective history buried under the weight of FAKE NEWS. 

What were these aircraft you may say? 

They were formidable and untried, and  yet, at that moment of need their contribution was inestimable. As Washington said himself, “ in their finest hour.” 

And it is not to be forgotten the British possessed their own aircraft. 

First ever VTOL Aircraft

The following, just a snapshot of the aeroplanes that contributed so much to the war of independence, 

On the British side, the Cuthbert Cornwallis. 

No I squadron Cornwallis and Brexit.

And the Bristol Brexit

Note Cow bells on wings, First use of acoustic psychological weapon in warfare.

On the American side, the Liberty Belle

The Potomac Pusher

First ever Amphibious Aircraft.

And the legendary Bunkered Hill

And none finer than the Galvaston Grater

An aeroplane that made America Great. 

A good concept that was ultimately shredded

First ever Rocket powered interceptor.

And history.  A correct understanding of history, a tale of enlightenment that makes America truly free and Great. Just like Britain will do when they dump the interfering EU in favour of am alliance with the US. To do to them what 1776 did to George 111. 

Is-e-real Folate, patron saint of prejudice.

Dear reader it’s hard to keep abreast of what brand of religious intolerance we should be following, harder still to identify potential risks within society that may make us more “un- Australian”.

So in a paean to the past we pen this portrayal of good old fashioned prejudice so that we may reminisce more fully on a purer society. This piece is entitled empathetically, “Spastic Boots’. May Is-e-real folate lead us once agin to this promised land.

Spastic Boots

It was pretty plain he was gonna be called “spastic boots”, cos he wore calipers. Might have been the last of the polio generation. Or maybe he was just born “spazzo”. 

Some kids are like that, just a bit different. 

A bit like “One Ball” who failed the school medical. It might have been kept confidential but after lining up in your jocks on the stage of the school hall and having doctors in white lab coats asking you to cough and fiddle with your goolies, before passing you on. It was impossible for “ ONE BALL” to escape the mirth and sudden immortality. When your moniker is frozen at “One Ball”. Nothing can erase that fateful moment. It’s like the death of Lady Di or JFK.  Everyone who was there knew that moment. And it became crystallised as an eternal truth. Even now, good folk not intent on intimidation wave to him upon a chance encounter in the  street, “G Day One Ball”. And “One Ball”, with scarcely a hesitation strides purposefully onwards acknowledging the greeting with a cheery “Hullo”. There’s a nostalgia to such encounters. It’s ‘old school’. That’s why “Spastic Boots” was allowed to just hang around being pathetic and different.  He wasn’t a real spazzo, it’s just he was different, and he sort of accepted it. And we sort of accepted his lower status. 

We’d all have a good laugh when the Spastic bus would make its turn into Mitcham Road. You couldn’t miss it. It was Blue, the same blue that bureaucrats give to the interiors of  mental asylums and waste paper baskets in the tax office. And just in case you didn’t get it, it wasn’t big like the Bedford that took us to swimming or excursions. This was a little pint sized Bedford, sometimes a smaller Morris that was squared off at the back. And in the front, up top in a special moulded nacelle above the driver where you’d have the destination on a ribbon in bold white letters against a stark black background it just said ‘SPASTIC BUS’. And just in case you missed it, on the back in bigger letters sort of stencilled and half rounded it said with emphasis ‘SPASTIC BUS’.  And the driver who looked like he part timed-it as the delivery man for the Herald in the afternoon, wore a cap like chauffeurs or junior officers wear. And a grey dust jacket. Just like the one the paper delivery man wore as he tossed bundles of papers out at the newsagent.  And pretending not to notice us, he‘d just look fixedly ahead, and pass us by as though we  didn’t exist. Clearly it was important and serious business taking the ‘Spazzos’ to the ‘Spazzo Centre’. Where they’d spend all day stacking matches into matchboxes, putting clothes pegs in baskets or tearing up rags. Cos we knew that was just about all Spazzos were good for. They could never aspire to do real jobs, like deliver papers or be a policeman. That action alone branded him, and we rose to the challenge. The call would go out, “Here comes the Spazzos’ and as it paused at the lights, we’d race over to the chain mesh and round hollow section steel pipe fence, and perform our sacred ritual of the Spazzo bus’s passing. 

With howls and hoots and a unconscious sense of the Brueghellian we’d do ‘Spazzo walks’, conduct self administered ‘Spaz-attacks’ and ape-like, pretend to walk/crawl all awhile hoping that the Spazzo’s would be looking at us through their goz-smeared windows, goldfish-like with wide stupid blinking eyes at the antics being performed in their honour. To acknowledge our greetings, our enthusiasm, our inclusiveness, our welcoming into the bossom of our society as they passed. And when they did pass, and the blue bus faded into the distance we all opined the sadness that the performance must be shelved again for another day, and all that idiocy would soon be tamed by the dull metrics of education, the strap and the requirement to do what we were told. This before the era of multiculturalism gave us a taste of another world in which other people lived out a life of mystery. Incalculable mystery. Where some boys we has been told didn’t even have real dicks, and went to the toilet with a sort of kind of nozzle that was popularised by wine casks. Such thoughts made us gulp in suppressed wonder at our luckiness to be raised “ normal”.

Till then we only had a few amongst us to be amused by. Mathew with the hydrocephalic head we nicknamed ‘Bowling Ball’. Peter the kid who had the uncanny knack of pissing under the teachers desk, we nicknamed him “Puddles” The kid with incurable ringworm we called ‘Hole in the head’, and Sharon Keep who was smelly, but not a patch on Brett Ellingham who was dirt poor, smelt, became ‘Brett Smelingham” and wore plastic sandals cos his parents couldn’t afford shoes. But we tolerated them, never invited them to our parties, and knew they’d ever be good at cricket, footy or anything. But we felt a sort of proprietal custodianship, they were “OUR” spazzos, and they were special. Not special enough to go to the Special School but special enough. 

Nowadays, every kid has an allergy. Is on the spectrum. Are on drugs to abate their HDHD. They suffer psychosis, their neurosis, their eating disorders, their bulimia and their self harm. Their desire  to get out of this narrowing world of standardisation, consumerism and instagram. No wonder they want to be somewhere else. The standardisation of conditions and conditioning, and the dull uniformity of pity disguised as dignity re-badged as the NDIS. Marginalised and subjected to the dull abnegation of charity. Oh for the sanctity of the Spastic Bus.

Now we’re all bit spastic.

To be compartmentalised as Is-e real Folate would have it. 

Excuse us all, we’ve been a bit slack, as a consequence of School holidays. Yes indeed, for those of us not benefitting directly from the single greatest policy initiative EVER in the life of Australian Parliament (TAX CUTS)!, there is solace in reading once again a fascinating book review from our luminary of the near north Joe (Quentin) Blake.

More important than literature, poverty, humanity, everything according to the mandate given to the Coalition in the last election for TAX CUTS!

Joe gives it to us, boots and all.  And for those in thongs who will not benefit from the single biggest policy initiative in Australian political history, they can grow envious, or just shut up and DIE!

Take it away Joe….

Milkman, by Anna Burns, Faber and Faber, $29.99

Reviewed by Joe Blake

TAX CUTS will assist Christopher Pyne in his Post parliamentary lobbying!!

Before I start, I should give you a bit of a warning: a lot of people call this book “That bloody Milkman.” In other words, there’s nothing easy in it. For a start, there is really only one proper noun in the book; words that normally get a capital letter, like names of people, places or countries, just don’t make an appearance. People are known by their job, position in family, characteristic behaviour or something else that identifies them, like “oldest sister” or “maybe-boyfriend”. Places are known by their location, like “over the water”. 

All of this means that the writer has to be very skilled to (a) make her meaning clear; and (b) not bore the pants off the reader. Who better than an Irish person for such a task?

Christopher and Julie Discuss the benefit of TAX CUTS to ensure that we get the governance the lobbyists PAY FOR!

Without being told explicitly, we gather that the story is situated in Belfast in the 1970s, in the time of The Troubles. Knowing this, we could expect to earn about paramilitaries, renouncers, oppression by the state, and of course we do, but that’s only the start. What we really learn is how these things affect the hearts and minds of every living being; how the fear engendered permeates every interaction, even between members of the same family.

Our heroine in this story (of course she has no name, and known only as “middle sister”) is 18 and not married. Now in this society, that’s a disgrace, and a great source of worry to her Ma. She should have been wed at least two years ago, so she has to hide her relationship with the man she likes but is not committed to, her maybe-boyfriend. They spend a lot of time together, but neither knows what the next step will be. Perhaps they’ll go and live together without tying the knot, like a few others are doing?

DONALD made America GRATE through TAX CUTS!!

Maybe-boyfriend is a mechanic who loves cars, and this obsession leads him into political trouble, unlikely as that sounds. He brings home some car parts and, as is his wont, proceeds to work on them in his lounge room. His mates, gathered as usual for such an occasion, are totally impressed by the vehicle; it’s a prestige car, and pretty rare around here. All goes swimmingly until one of the mates gets a bit narky. “Hang on,” he says, “But that car comes from over the water. There’s going to be hell to pay if someone finds out.” As we discover later, he’s right.

Middle sister, meanwhile, has problems of her own. She has a habit, annoying to others, of reading while she walks, so she walks a lot. One day, while indulging her favourite habit, she’s offered a lift by the eponymous character, Milkman. He’s one scary dude; for one thing, he’s more than double her age. For another, he’s a leader in the resistance, so he doesn’t take no for an answer. Despite knowing all this, she refuses his offer, but he still manages to talk to her. He knows all about her, particularly her maybe-relationship. Despite being married, he wants her for his girl. After he accosts her a few times, everybody believes she is involved with him, so she’s alternately shunned and feared.

BORIS will make the UK Greater still through TAX CUTS!

In this environment, everybody is watching and judging everybody else, and those judgements have severe ramifications.

Despite the difficulties this book offers, you should seriously have a go at it; the rewards are worth the effort. It provides so many insights into a community under pressure, and how those pressures result in unexpected consequences. It’s not easy but it’s brilliant. I’m not the only one to hold that opinion; this book did win last year’s Man Booker for the world’s best novel in English.

Bonjour mes amies,

Back in the last century I read Herge’s ‘Kuifje in Amerika’ in Dutch. Half a century later a French friend gave me ‘Tintin en Amerique’ to help me improve my limited French. On page 28 a petroleum geyser erupts. On page 29 in quick succession a bevy of businessmen miraculously appears and offer Tintin large sums of money, “Je regrette infiniment,,.” that the oil belongs to the Indians Tintin tells them. “Why didn’t you say so?” The attention is then swiftly  turned to the Indian chief who is offered $25 to leave his country within half an hour “Le Visage-Pale est-il fou?…” retorts the chief, “The Paleface, is he crazy?” or as we say these days “Are you joking?”. A troop of soldiers with fixed bayonets promptly evicts the Indians, and a city springs up. Tintin who is still dressed as a cowboy is told by a traffic policeman that fancy dress is forbidden “Do you think you’re in the wild West?”

I’m more than half way through reading Mark Moran’s ‘Serious Whitefella Stuff’, a seriously interesting book. 

Chapter 6- Planning the Return to Mapoon includes: “On 14 November 1963, the Queensland Police forced a small party identified as the leaders of the resistance onto a boat and relocated them to New Mapoon. Most of their houses were burnt down during the removal, and the remainder (bar one) were demolished the following year…. Rachel Peters witnessed the burning firsthand…. ‘Even stoves, new stoves that were expensive, but they were burnt down, we didn’t have a chance to get anything out’ ”

One of the official reasons for the Queensland Government’s actions was an inadequate water supply

In 1958 the bauxite mining company Comalco had been issued a mining lease over the area.

In Yuendumu because of a looming water shortage it has been decided no more yapa (Aboriginal) houses would be built. The alleged water crisis doesn’t seem to have affected construction of kardiya (Palefaces) houses which continues apace.

A 2015 Dispatch contained the following based on Stephen Clarke’s book ‘1000 Years of Annoying the French’:

“…In 1713 King Louis XIV ceded all of French Canada to Britain (Treaty of Utrecht) including Acadie (Nova Scotia). Between 1755 and 1763 an estimated 12,600 Acadiens were deported…At Grand Pré, empty cargo ships arrived and all males over the age of ten were commanded to attend a meeting on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels. Colonel Winslow told over 400 assembled men and boys that “…. your money and household goods and you yourselves will be removed from this Province” As it transpired there was no room on the ships for the chattels, and contrary to promises families were split up and men and women transported separately…

The last (almost three thousand) deportees set sail, packed tightly as slaves in 14 vessels. If the Acadiens had had portholes they would have seen the smoke and flames rising from their settlements, as the soldiers burned houses and barns, to ensure the departure was final.

And then there was the East Kimberley community of Oombulgurri:

The West Australian- 26 June 2014:
“The Department of Housing confirmed this week about 44 houses and associated infrastructure like fencing, demountable school buildings, the power house, donga dwellings, various sheds and septic tanks would be buried ‘on-site’”

ABC News- 23 September 2014:
(Aboriginal Affairs Minister) Peter Collier said demolition was necessary to reduce further vandalism and theft, and to leave the site in a safe condition for future non-residential use by the traditional owners.

[Genius!!! Might this non-residential use include exploration for diamonds by non-traditional owners? Might the real reason be to ensure the departure was final?]

The Guardian- 27 Nov.2014:
“Finally, the 10 residents who resolutely stayed to the end were forcibly evicted, given just two days notice of eviction and allowed to bring only one box of belongings each. They had to leave behind cars, whitegoods, tools and personal possessions.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?

Propellerheads featuring Shirley Bassey- History Repeating

Ils sont pareil, n’est-ce pas?

Francois

“He knew he was loved”. Big Business Loved him.

CANT AVOID IT. IT’S WALL TO WALL. 

Double, quadruple, octuple double page spreads!

Every now and again we feel compelled to go against the grain. It’s not some form of adolescent angst that compels us to rant. Nor is it that God ordained right to oblique exceptionalism that drives good Queenslanders to want coal, despoliation and rapine rather than idealism. 

But this compulsion belongs to something much deeper. The need to take the piss, and revive that corpse of irrelevance they used to call “Larrikinism”. 

They loved him in the NT.

Before Australia became a supine rusk of insecurity. Before cultural cringe and managerialism had leached the very last atom of self assertiveness and replaced it with the entropy of nothing. Before, we were told by our leaders of what we could achieve as individuals before we were told why we couldn’t. 

Only casino operators may dream

Only banking executives may require ambition

And only hedge fund managers may dare think of the future. 

We have come to this. 

And though it may seem contrarywise, unkind and petty, we’d like to put the responsibility for being a supine, obsequious cowered rusk of our former selves to the greatest Prime Minister who ever said he was the greatest prime minister ever. R.J.HAWKE. 

He’s been DEAD an MONTH and still he’s front page news. 

HAWKIE gave us compulsory Superannuation so that we may never ever be radical again. 

He opened up the floodgates to ensure a few miners became FILTHY RICH!

HAWKIE took away free tertiary education.

HAWKIE tried the citizens card on us, years before facial recognition 

HAWKIE famously and hubristically pronounced that ‘no child shall live in poverty’.

Hawkie did the Aboriginal Deaths in Custody Royal Commission and achieved…. NOTHING!!!

HAWKIE, eschewed the Menzies tradition of getting his mates to stump up money to buy his house, by becoming one of the MATES! Ask RICHO? 

HAWKIE the mates mate. He had mates in big business., Hawkie could always turn a profit if his mates were involved. On the racetrack, enterprise bargaining, or shagging hosties. HAWKIE was always on top, 

It was HAWKIE, who became a very ordinary Prime Minister once Keating had left the front bench. 

Not a great role model for husbands, but then he was such a lad. Still holds the beer drinking record. 

Everyone loves a winner.

And who could begrudge him. 

Since Introducing enterprise bargaining, and the accord the union movement is almost dead and wages have stiffed. 

Introduced university fees, and turned places of learning into visa factories

Famously spent shitloads on sport so that we could be leaders in cricket, swimming and millionaire yacht races.

But most famously he’s had the longest ever funeral oration. He’s been dead a month and yet HAWKIE is still on the front page. 

The Australian, (The Catholic Boys Daily) loves him. 

Which made us think, HAWKIE is a GREAT LIBERAL, and possibly the greatest ever DLP Prime MINISTER EVER! Bigger even than Tony Santamaria.

Pissed his missus off to marry Kylie from Neighbours. How down to earth is that!!

Only bloke with balls enough to tell Frank Sinatra to piss off.  And a special thanks from the East Timorese for allowing Gareth to stitch them up good and proper with real- politic so that Richard Wilcottt could tell them all to  “GO AWAY AND DIE”!! 

All of these things HAWKIE did, and still, (this is the biggest part), to tell us he was a man of the people. 

And the people love him. Cos he told us so. 

He had a special relationship with the Australian people. Cos he told us so. 

So what ware we going to do about it? 

Sadly though, he was unable to afford the plastic surgery that kept his missus looking like Barbie.

We shall spend this entire week in tribute to our Greatest recently dead Prime Minister EVER!

Just in case you missed it here is the ABC Alumni response to the Jackboots

OPEN LETTER TO THE PRIME MINISTER THE HON. SCOTT MORRISON AND MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT

ABC Alumni, representing former staff, condemn the recent police raid on the ABC and the seizing of journalist scripts and notes.

We express our support and concern for all ABC staff who, like us, are deeply troubled by this assault on Australia’s national broadcaster. This police action, and others like it, strike at the heart of democracy by threatening media freedom.

The threat of imprisonment of journalists and their sources for disclosing information in the public interest is completely unacceptable. So too is the action of police in raiding the ABC in such a manner and in confiscating such a wide range of journalistic material. All documents seized during this raid remain ABC property and should be returned without alteration or delay.

We believe the legislation enabling this raid should be immediately repealed. In particular, police should have no right to delete or alter a publisher’s documents. The public interest must be paramount. We call on the Federal Parliament to pass legislation to protect the rights of whistle-blowers and the media, and to prevent this kind of intimidation.

We also call on the Australian Federal Police to adopt an interim protocol to protect journalistic freedom and integrity within the current law.

Freedom of expression and media are fundamental pillars of democracy. They should be a constitutional right for all Australians.

We urge ABC staff to remain strong in the face of this unprecedented intimidation, and we commend and support the actions of ABC management, the Managing Director David Anderson and the ABC Chair Ita Buttrose in defending the organisation.

Tony Souter
Elaine D. Cooke
Kay Nankervis
Amy Tsilemanis
Peter Marks
Sue Spencer
Ranald Macdonald
Helen Grasswill
Jeff McMullen
Heather Forbes
Catherine Shirley
Matt Peacock
Penny Chapman
Sue Tronser
Sandra Levy
Andrew Thorpe
Wendy McLeod
Mark Aarons
Coral Saunders
Deborah Nesbitt
Patricia Barraclough
Ramona Koval
Helen Matthews
Nick Goldie
Therese Kutis
Lynette Haszard
John Highfield
Don Smith
Rory Sutton
Robin Hughes AO
Peter Cave
Tim Ritchie
John Tulloh
Pauline Garde
Jan Land
Andy Nehl
Lachlan Brookman
Julie Rigg
Jane Jeffes
Emeritus Professor Ed Davis AM
Anne Fitzgerald
Dan Blu
Alison Caldwell
Sharon Carleton
John Lander
Bobbie Mackley
Richard Dinnen
Peggy Hayman (McDonald)
Ian Parmenter, OAM
John Davies
Peter Martin AM
Chris Williams
Jan Forrester
Maxine McKew
Glenda McNaught
John T Tan
Dasha Ross
Ken Begg
Peter Norden AO
Jacqui Sykes
Scott Feeney
John Challis
Tim Clark
Josephine Mercer
LIindsay Somerville
Linda Boland
Debbie Whitmont
Sharon Connolly
Luciana Peloza
Pepita Conlon
Jeremy Eccles
David Brill
Dr David Adamson
Gillian Appleton
Shaun Hoyt
Mike Honey
Kate Hodges
Michelle McDonagh
Eric R Hunter
Robert Garnsey
Margaret Pomeranz
Jonathan Holmes
John Lombard
Grace Speranza
Janice Drinan
Vivien Altman
James Beattie
Janette Morris
David Bates
Jackie
Margaret Reynolds, ABC Friends National
G Ruth Williams
Holly Raiche
Bill Bunbury
Christine Bratkovic
John Cleary
Jemima Garrett
Janine Burdeu
Wendy Page
Robin Sproule
Rolf de Heer
Molly Reynolds
Roslyn Simms
Robyn Ravlich
Wendy Borchers AM
Max Donnellan

ADANI IS GO!

It’s all SYSTEMS GO!!!

ADANI gets the GREEN LIGHT!

Coal is KING!

The Future is COAL BLACK!

WE have IGNITION!

LIFTOFF

(wait for countdown to be completed before reading the rest of this text)

TEN……… (TEN bureaucrats will find gainful employment for every actual worker)

NINE……… (NINE Government) departments will write white papers on the positive impact of this mine)

EIGHT…….. (EIGHT Million words will be written in just one week by the Catholic Boys Daily, (the Australian) as to why this is a vital and necessary step forward to secure Australia’s future).

SEVEN…….. (SEVEN Seas will be made slightly more acidic so that species may die)

Saint Bjelke of the Brisbane Line

SIX………… (SIX NGO”s will benefit from the upturn in Domestic Violence as a consequence of greater access to goods and services we don’t need)

FIVE……….. (Five percent of the mines profit will remain in Australia)

FOUR……….. (Four degrees of global warming is on TARGET)

THREE………..(Three Musketeers,  Christensen, Canavan and Hanson, will rejoice)

TWO…………..(There were at least two good reasons for stopping this mine, but we cant remember either of them)

ONE……….. ONE BIllionaire will make public his Noble sacrifice to donate as much as 1% of his wealth to mitigate climate change.

St Bjelke’s DAY!

St Bjelke’s Day

CANAVAN. ‘O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in Queensland

That do no work to-day!

SCOMO, What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin, Canavan? No, my fair cousin;

If we are mark’d to die, we are enough

To do our State loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Carbon, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

As recommended by Lady Blanche and St BOB of Hawke

No, faith, my Lumpeth of Coal, wish not a man from Queensland.

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Canavan, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this Mine,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made, 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d the feast of Bjelke.

Latest MINE equipment to ensure other lumps of COAL may enter PARLIAMENT!

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Bjelke.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say “To-morrow is Saint Bjelke.”

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say “These wounds I had on Bjelke’s day.”

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words—

Saint Tone of Santamaria, Lord Rupert of Murdoch, Canavan and Christensen,

Craigus of Kelly and Trevor St Baker, Lord Howard of Nihilism and Saint Bjelke—

Saint Peter of DUTTON

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Bjelke Bjelke shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in Southern States now a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

Lady Pauline of HANSON

That fought with us upon Saint Bjelke’s day.

Our old typewriter before it was seized

After being raided by the Federal Police, we’ve been a bit flummoxed. 

WE can’t even make tea, cos they reckon the urn was unlicensed. Clarrie asked; “Since when does an urn need to be licensed”?

And before you could say “Beach Enquiry” they slapped a restraining order on him.

When it came back it had been “re-configured”.

We subsequently discovered that according to section 245 C of the Prohibited Beverages Act it is a Federal felony and falls within the Prohibited Materials Act 2018. It’s only now, they let us keep the typewriter, but only after they had returned it from forensics for checking and told us that from now on we were on their ‘Persons of Interest Register’. 

Artists impression of the Lucky Eight Resort Complex

Cecil tried to look up their ‘Persons of Interest Register’ to see if anyone he knew was also on it, and his I-phone just sort of kind of konked out. It’s never been the same since, whenever he turns it on this big Federal Police Logo comes onto the screen. It tells him the phone is inoperable due to the application of Section 69 B of the Foreign Interference Act.  He tried to find out what that meant, but his phone was kaputt. The main computer had been taken away for analysis, and the spare computer could only function with a floppy drive. He was stymied. He then cleverly decided to wander down to the library and use the public library computer.

The Librarian being re-trained as a croupier at the “Winners Circle”

He’d forgotten though that the library had been sold off to the Golden Dragon Lucky Eight Corporation to be turned into a high level gaming casino and resort. He came back dejected, but he did show us the coupon he received from the lady who used to be the librarian. She is now being re- trained as a croupier. She told him there were much better opportunities for self expression and personal advancement in playing the roulette wheel as a croupier and looking after high rollers in Black Jack. Libraries and books she said were so “twentieth century”. 

Still though he showed us the coupon she gave him which offered one beer, a small packet of chips and a subscription to Foxtel, if he chose to redirect his Centrelink payment to the “Winners Club”. It gave him the option  of staying at the resort (at a reduced rate) with all the facilities on offer in the down season. He told us he was thinking about it. 

And then, as if some malevolent force had intercepted his enquiry and just sort of directed its fury onto his person his phone vaporised in his hand. What was strange about it, Cecil mused, was that it didn’t hurt a bit. No burning. Just fragments of phone. Like Cecil said; “ It never happened”. 

Since then he’s told us he’s lost his drive. 

They took our hard drive, our driver, and our screw drivers as an added precaution. Now when we want to change a light bulb it literally takes three of us. But then what’s the use, they’ve turned off the electricity as well. It contravened section 456 D of the Energy Transference Act.

Still, we’re looking for opportunities. As Clarrie opined; ‘no one reads us anyway, no one cares for journalism these days’. 

The Resort when completed will be “International Best Standard” and will employ more people than were EVER employed by the library under a new Enterprise Bargaining Scheme guaranteed by the Fair Work Commission, (Standard pay rates may apply in exceptional circumstances)

It was then he had an inspiration. 

‘We’ll sell books

Hard hitting books where people have a thirst for knowledge

Unfettered by the Federal Police and their draconian powers. 

We need a NEW START

IN………..

HONG KONG’!

Hola,
In the Alice Springs News a Letter to the Editor commenting on the election results in the electorate of Lingiari, which covers virtually the whole Northern Territory, starts off with: “As someone who once lived in the NT and has a daughter who has worked for years for the Aboriginal community, and a son-in-law who works with the Yothu Yindi Band, I am not speaking out of ignorance when I say that if…..”
What a nonsense!
As someone who has a son who works in IT, I am not speaking out of ignorance when I say that if……
So how then do you explain that when I tried to do an on line superannuation withdrawal I managed, after 5 hours of trying, to get my account blocked and will have to resort to ordinary mail?
I hear it all the time:
”Why don’t Aborigines do this…..?” “Why don’t they do that…? “Why don’t they grow their own veggies…?” “Why don’t they get a job….?”

Just turn this on its head. A delegation of Warlpiri go to Frankston in Victoria ”Why don’t you kardiya do this…..?” “Why don’t you do that….? Better still, launch a military backed Intervention…. in the Warlpiri language. Festoon Franston with signs: “No alcohol” “No Greed” “No value Judgements”

Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign? 
Signs,signs, Everywhere a sign- Five Man Electric Band:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLm3HMG8IhM

Myself, am not lacking in opinions, but heaven forbid I should think I’m always right and have all the answers:

I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you may be mistaken  Oliver Cromwell 1650…
Chau,
Frank
PS- making slow and steady progress on ‘tha book. Don’t hold your breath. Stringing a lifetime into a readable narrative ain’t easy, but it sure is fun!
….we’ve got to fulfil the book….
Bob Marley- Redemption Song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrY9eHkXTa4