Trumpery! Trumpery! All is Trumpery!
By Ira Maine, ESQ.  

Dear readers, the following is a compelling extract from none other than our esteemed historian, philosopher, futurist, Ira Maine, ( esq). Once and for all he lays it bare, and gives us a unique perseptive on all things Donald and turnip. Just another instance of our esteemed, P.M, Malcolm Turnbull’s ‘Ideas Boom’ at work. 

Caption, ” you can shove your turnips up your arse”, Arse turnip seller en route.

In a blinding flash of light, a moment of absolute revelation, of terrifying clarity, I realised that Trump, the neo-cons, the financial crisis, the whole kit and caboodle was all our own fault and  that the aristocracy had been right all along.  If only we had listened…

If it hadn’t been for the damned Black Plague wiping out all of the 14th century surplus labour back then, we could easily have been on the pig’s back by now. If ever there was a point where the Great Unwashed began to demonstrate their capacity for presumptuous uppityness, this was it. This was also the point where the rot set in, where the very foundations of society began their slow disintegration and  our present malaise (the triumph of Trumpery, of the lower orders) had it’s true beginnings.

The fourteenth century peasant to this point had always got what he deserved; a fourteen hour day and a wallop in the gob if caught shirking. His payment was a generous allocation of turnips, six rabbits a year and a good seasonal whipping.(which he had to pay for) Suddenly this same peasant, this Back Plague survivor, surrounded by mountains of piled up corpses, found himself in the box seat.

‘Who’s will bury these poxy corpses?’ cried his Lordship, a delicately worked and perfumed kerchief to his offended nostrils.

The great turnip schism of 1453.

‘I will, your Honour,’  pipes up the above, miraculously buboe free survivor, a cunning gleam in his eye, ‘but you can stick your turnips up your arse. Me and the lads will settle for nothing else but payment in gold and silver. How’s that sound?’.

‘Gad,’  this top of the pile old aristocrat thought, his world, of an instant, turned upside down, ‘I’m up against it and no mistake, I’d better watch it lest I go from the top of  one pile to the top of another, less perfumed one.’

The poor, put-upon lord, fuming inwardly at this lack of cap-doffing, taken wholly aback by this upwardly mobile fellow’s presumption and not a little aghast at his own sudden reversal of fortune very properly resisted the time-honoured urge to summon the troops and have the fellow hanged,. He found himself instead reluctantly agreeing to everything this thoroughly beastly peasant suggested.

‘Is there anything else?’ his Lordship sighed, his heart heavy as he resignedly handed out the necessary lucre.

Mr Black and Mr Death exhanging turnips during a discourse on the manure spreaders.

‘Just one thing, your Honour’, remarked this rapidly developing Wat Tyler of a man, his expression already hardening as he stuffed the cash in his pocket and lifted a questioning eyebrow. ‘You pay for the shovels?’

Following the Black Death, with the interment of millions of bodies all over Europe, and the consequent inconvenient lack of cheap, exploitable labour, the modern money market slowly fired up whilst the old feudal system, the turnip economy, began to disintegrate.

Well, the Roman church became  positively apoplectic. Business, the pursuit of profit was becoming  a threat. More than that, it was becoming, God help us, a religion!

‘Usury! Usury! ‘ they screamed, ‘Tis a mortal sin, so it is!’,

The money market’s  craw thumpers agreed. Usury was indeed a terrible burden with which to burden themselves. A far better plan would be to farm out the practice to a non-Christian. In this way there would always be a (non-Christian) scapegoat to persecute should the repayment of loans prove burdensome. This delightful example of transcendent expediency conveniently ensured that Christians, whilst yet remaining free of the horrors of mortal sin, could still borrow a few quid whenever necessary.

ln the eyes of the Church, lending money and charging interest on that loan was  a mortal sin, whilst borrowing money, without which  the habit of lending could not exist, was… not?

Harvesting marital aids. C.1422

This was at once a paradox and only  capable of true resolution  by very intelligent people, by Jesuits, the Church’s  intellectual body.  And what did they decide? Well, the matter is still under serious consideration but, in the interim and allowing for the benefit of the doubt…

Of course it wasn’t!

(And Ira Maine explains it all tomorrow)

Ira has a difficult time with technology

Our correspondent, Poetry Editor and Friend, Ira Maine, has had his difficulties over the past few months.  No one feels sorry for him.  However he has had a Dickens of a battle re-establishing contact after removing himself to the outer reaches of Tolmedia.  Not only was he with out phone, without interenet, and the mail delivery person refused to recognise his address but his computer decided to give up the ghost.  These trials would be hard to face for a younger person, they are morbidly trying for a not so tech savvy man in his golden years. Morbidity has been to the forefront of his mind.

Fortunately light has shone on his troubled visage.  His correspondence with Cecil Poole shows how the light plays.

Cecil, 

I have recently acquired a well used Apple MacBook from Wayne. (His son, ed)

‘It’s been under my bed for a year!’ he cried, ‘ I have all I need with my iPhone!  It’s a gift.  Take it!’

He held it out to me, his face flushed.

Ira and Cecil ” walk” the macbook home.

Humbly a tear welled up in my eye, but not before I almost broke his fingers wrenching the thing out of his grasp.  It reminded me of the cannibalism more than hinted at in that old Spencer Tracy film ‘The Northwest Passage’, I think?, where Spence marches his faithful (though starving) band of Davy Crockett look-a-likes all over the US in search of something to eat.  One of Spencer’s number solves this problem by casually eating a dead colleague.  Consumed with guilt, (and the tastier bits of his mate) the fellow goes nuts and, with all of the appropriate decorum of a well trained, rugged frontiersman, flings himself down into a deadly and dizzying chasm, never to be seen again.

This newly acquired bit of equipage has flung up correspondence that the old Tablet was ill equipped to deal with.  Suddenly a September message from yourself asks, craves and wonders if one might return a tome to you. ‘Boswell’s Presumptuous Task’ by Adam Sisman is the one I’ve dug out.  I have put it aside (providing that is the book in question) 

You will, naturally, visit the Algonquin whilst in NY and pay homage to Ms Parker and her scurrilous band, I hope.  (Strangely Ira assumes Cecil still in the USA, even though it is well past September -Ed)

I’m delighted you are both having a such a nice holiday.

Regards to Herself.

Ira 

To which Cecil responds cautiously –

Dear Ira

Ira transformed. New I Pad, hairstyle and blow-wave, ( courtesy of the Rt.Hon Christopher Pyne)

Due to continental drift we are now on Hamilton Island in the Whitsunday’s QLD.  Here for a few days then to Sydney where I’ve arranged to meet with Lord Atney of Rozelle, and straighten the mess that is the ABC.   Home via Canberra and National Museum, where History is told via One Hundred Objects.. 

Do hope you are able to navigate your way around the MacBook, mine seems to work most of the time.

Trust your leg has healed successfully

In Excelsior

Harold the Lost.

Then we have Ira again

Dear Jeroboam,

Ira still needs to be coached on correct ipad usage. Still, in Tolmordia this guarrantees good reception.

I have, due to hamfisted washing up techniques, not only broken all my continental plates, but local visiting dipsomaniacs have recently polished off all my tectonics.to the point where I have not a drop of tonic in the house. IN-Continental drift sees me frequently in attendance at the very best lavatory facilities in the area where man-made hurricanes provide vast amusement to passersby.

I am presently in Tierra Del Fuego where I hope to solve the ticklish intricacies of bartfargling my canticle’.s bromelitron.

I’ll be home in time for tea.

Ira Maine Esq.    

Today we continue with more poems from Ali Cobby Eckermann’s award winning novel Ruby Moonlight, following on from two posted a couple of weeks ago

The young woman has ‘survived’ the massacre.

Ochre

green and bright blue flits of colour
swirl in a malled-grey underground
amid constant bird song harmony

along the riverbank bee eaters
dart rainbows around her head
as she paints her body with yellow ochre

splash crimson on bleeding eyes
through the tunnel of darkness
honour the dead

Wander

the desert of her mind has determined wanderings
longer than forty days and nights
lead only by instinct

awakening from the deep trauma of tragedy
she whispers away the nightmares
drives out forbidden memory with smoke

her campfire will remain eternal
conflict between love and hate
will turn to ash

dying embers are carried by coolamon
tradition meanders a well-worn path
along a comforting river

red robins puff their breasts
fanning embers back to flame
a campsite is revealed

at last the woman rests her weariness
rests her grief
and smells rain

Ali Cobby Eckermann
Ruby Moonlight 
Magdala 2012

Due totally to editorial slackness this post is both late and should have been included with the Dispatch re-published last week.   ‘Umble ‘pologies.

Today’s dispatch is  Sorry.  Originally dispatched on 23 August  2015

Bon giorno amici,

The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat indeed.

Yesterdays’ (LAST WEEK’S, ED) dispatch contained an error that begs correction. A Sacksian Slip if you like.

Erratum:

The Russian Egg Principle was referred to. It should have been the Russian Doll Principle.

This resulted either from the unhealthy onset of dementia, or from a healthy flight of imagination. I like to think the latter.

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

Many years ago an Indian lady, Mrs. Rama Kushna taught at Yuendumu School. She taught cooking to senior girls.

In Warlpiri, ‘juru’ is head, ‘juru-rama’ means dizzy or confused (here those who know Warlpiri better than I must forgive translation inaccuracies- never let truth or accuracy get in the way of a good story) Crazy people are called ‘ramara’.

Inevitably Mrs. Ramakushna became known as Mrs. Ramara. When she tried to ethnocentrically convince her rather carnivorous Warlpiri pupils to use meat frugally, the aptness of her nickname was confirmed.

Kevin Rudd’s famous Apology to the Stolen Generations turned out to be empty words (the stealing of children continues apace)

I much prefer the following ‘Sorry’-
Mi dispiace:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drNqZWzj5GY

 Arrivederci,

Franco

Dear reader, a reflective piece from Cecil in which he journey’s to the core of the confusion that lies at the very heart of contemporary society. And don’t ask us, (the editors) as we’re just as confused ourselves. 

jeremiah, (Cecil) in a reflective mood. Enjoys the radiant heat of an open fireplace.

I’ve been feeling a bit grumpy of late. And I suppose that’s not surprising really, given that my name is synonymous with Lamentations, that wonderful Old Testament tome. The Lamentations of Jeremiah. Probably should be more grumpy, more often. Lord knows there’s enough to get grumpy about. I had a couple of good friends here for breakfast – I was going to say brunch, then you’d start to think mashed avocado, and I’d be labelled a latte swilling, chardonnay drink left wing yuppy elite. Well let me tell you we had no latte and no avo, mashed or otherwise. No, just a simple, but late breakfast, scrambled eggs (done the way Nero Wolfe likes them: “The client had admitted to Wolfe, in my hearing, that she didn’t know how to scramble eggs. . . He had admitted to her, in my hearing, that forty minutes was more than you could expect a (woman) to spend exclusively on scrambling eggs, but he maintained that it was impossible to do it to perfection in less with each and every particle exquisitely firm, soft and moist.) with smoked Salmon, dill, capers, all on freshly baked (by me) wholemeal bread, followed by hand ground coffee, freshly brewed. Our freshly squeezed orange juice was augmented by a touch of grated ginger and a slash of fresh grapefruit juice’.

Jeremiah warns of the perils of credit cards

As I say, just simple country fare, not an elite in sight. Then this idiot, this friend of mine starts to wind me up. The Banks, he starts, those rapacious bloody banks. Something really ought to be done about them, he says. I respond by saying they are in the business of selling money, of offering a service, and to my mind and in my experience they do it pretty damned well. If I’m late repaying my credit card they charge a very high interest rate. Well, of course they do. This is an unsecured loan and I’m outside the agreed terms and conditions. What would I expect I say, they are working in a system where it is quite important for businesses to make a profit. In fact some would argue that is the purpose of business. No, he says, they are rapacious bastards. I lie down with a damp cloth over my head and try to think. Is this “Bank Bashing” a throw back to our anti-semitic past? Of course not, these bank bashers only have the interests of the vulnerable at heart. And I now realise that Banks are ruining society as we know it with what must be a non-jewish conspiracy.

Jeremiah, holds forth at the golf club.

Then the other day another of my dear friends caused me palpitations. I called in to see this friend at her place of work before going for my weekly game of golf. (Actually I’m the only person who calls what I play “golf”, to the others it is totally unrecognisable as such.) The golf club is in fine fettle, the course wonderfully kept, by a diligent and hardworking ground staff. The club is managed by a competent administrator who seems to keep most people happy most of the time. The club has a strong competition, men and women play most days. The fees for this club are about a quarter of those at most golf clubs. This means that many more people can afford to be members and play regularly. We are talking a saving of $1500 on membership each year, that is about $30 per week. For many of us who play that is quite a sum. I regularly play with an 85 year old, this is his exercise, this is his friendship group, this is his “Mens Shed”. And it the “Mens Shed” for many others who play. I reckon it takes a lot of work away from health professionals and from counsellors, and quite probably reduces domestic violence.

Deep thinking in the “Throne room”

However there may be a problem. The Golf Club has gaming machines. It is the profit from these that subsidises the running costs of the club. My friend told me how dreadful these gaming machines were. How they absolutely ruined lives. How they prey on the vulnerable. How they were addictive. I suggested a couple of things. Firstly that gambling was not compulsory. Secondly that the staff at the Golf Club are acutely aware of their responsibilities to the gamblers, and to the reputation of the Club. The staff turnover is very low, they live locally and know most locals who gamble there. The staff feel that societal ‘duty of care’. That our Government has approved gambling and if the machine were not at the Golf Club then they would most likely be at a Pub in the town where the impacts and controls would be much more private.

Lamentations at the Golf Club post Trumpo-caust

Yet again I needed to lie down. Yet again I needed the damp cloth on my brow. Yet again I’m perplexed by people knowing what is good (or bad) for others, others more ‘vulnerable’ than themselves. Is it any wonder the despicable Donald Trump is President Elect of the USA?

NSW Premier Mike Baird. Strong leadership at work.

Late night revellers not yet accepting legislation designed for ” their own good”

NSW Streets cleansed of crime.

Dear reader, it is not often we feel obliged to give praise to a reformist government, but recent events in New South Wales compel us to give praise wherever it’s due. Crisis of confidence has galvanised the N.S.W government into a frenzy of activity. The government, long the standard in “progressive planning and policy” had to do something about drunken louts and abusive agressive behaviour on the streets. This is a fraught and complex issue. Leading planners and academics have long wrangled with the monoculturalisation of precincts in which all kinds of vices proliferate. In some, (we have been told) the drinks are horrendously expensive, and the character of the owners is shady to say the least. Added to this are the habits of club-goers. Often after consuming copious amounts of alcohol, they emerge full of fight and this atmosphere of alcohol fueled exuberance spills onto the street. The N.S.W government deliberated long and hard and arrived at a solution. Lock out laws. Overnight, the problem has ceased. Now New South Welsh, (is there such a term?) younger adults are encouraged to stay at home, play pokemon, or enjoy the infinite delights of television. There are rumours that sales of Tupperware and rubber-goods have skyrocketed since the late night curfews. And all the anecdotal evidence south of the border indicates that the live music scene is flourishing, such is the eagerness of northern bands to abandon New South Wales altogether. Either way you look at it, good, cleverly designed legislation has stopped the rot. There are no late night brawls, no horrific one punch incidents, because the venues have all closed down. As a consequence, ‘Drunk Crime’ has been eradicated.

Criminalising bicycle riders. More evidence of ‘Strong Leadership’

Similarly bicycle accidents. There were shocking incidents of horrific bicycle accidents. Some of these resulted in damage to cars. After publicly shaming cyclists by ‘radio personalities’, the New South Wales government stepped in. Rather than look at long term co ordination of bicycles as distinct from other traffic, and policies designed to integrate the transport modes the government opted for ‘Strong leadership’. In an instant, Bicycles were removed form the streets. Bicycle usage in Sydney had fallen dramatically. On a bike you can be fined for not having a bell, incorrectly adjusted seat, unattractive helmet, or in some instances “ unfashionable clothing”. As a consequence a new revenue stream has been opened, and like the backpacker tax, (for which Joe Hockey shall be justly remembered) the fines have proven staggering. Once again a demonstration of ‘Strong Leadership’ changing bad behaviour. Allegedly no one is game to ride a bicycle in Sydney at all, and as a consequence, the problem of safety and driver courtesy is solved.

‘Out with the old, in with the new’, Changing ICAC to reduce corruption.

Now these are just two small instances of good legislation solving behavioural issues. But most recently the New South Wales Government has gone further, Since the Rum Rebellion there have been allegations of systematic corruption. Some say it’s a part of NSW political Culture. As a consequence they instigated ICAC. The Independent Committee Against Corruption. ICAC was very busy, rooting out corruption. So busy it snared almost a dozen Liberal pollies in the first year of a new government. Once again “strong leadership’ was required. And by jingo they’ve done it. Now there will be three ICAC commissioners, their deliberations will be kept secret, and must defer to the government. Happy to say Corruption on NSW is Solved. Further evidence of Strong Leadership. Good governance begins with strong leadership. The federal government recognises this, and that’s why our federal attorney general will leave no stone unturned to root out corruption and conflict of interest. That’s why he’s keen to help out state governments with problems to solve, and ensure that we get in the long run the best politicians that money can buy. And isn’t that all the time?

Lionel Fogarty is a renown Murri Poet, is a great friend to this blog.

Earlier this year he and others, including Joe Geia ran a series of workshops at a residential diversionary program for young male Aboriginal offenders, Balund – a. The program operates from land overlooking the Clarence River near Tabulam in northern NSW.

The poem chosen is Bundjalung Bigambul

You call me Aborigine but I am the original Aboriginal
of this land you call Australia
When I say let me go walkabout back to the land
Where my ancestors roamed long ago, hunting and dancing
Sitting round the campfire listening to elders talking
Of how things were when they grew up
And that’s why I’m the ORIGINAL ABORIGINAL.  My oath.

Balund – a – you can’t break me
As you are built on the land of the Whalubul tribe
As I came here to free my mind
Of the bad things that put me here
And I will change into the proud man I know
I can and will be
Balund – a – I am a proud BUNDJALUNG man of the
WHALUBAL TRIBE

My Rose may not float like a butterfly
and sting like a bee
But he will do the shake a leg
Around you and hit like a roo
That’s what he will do to you
As he is the Original Aboriginal
My LIONEL ROSE, my OATH

CLINTON T. A.

Today’s dispatch is  Feedback.  Originally dispatched on 22 August  2015\

G’day you mob,

When a microphone is aimed at a speaker into which the signal picked up by the microphone is fed, an electronic loop is created. The result is a squeal known as feedback. Jimmy Hendrix used this effect to great effect https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53JpbrxM7O0 The pitch of the sound depends on the frequency at which the signal travels around the loop. Thus a shorter loop results in a higher pitched sound.

The same principle applies to electronic devices called oscillators but instead of audio frequencies, these generate radio frequencies that sally forth into the ether as electromagnetic waves. Higher frequencies still and you get light.

“ and we all know what happens when two mirrors stand face to face… a strange and infinite loop…” (the fellow being infinitely looped is Orson Welles in a scene from Citizen Kane)

Another way to describe this is to invoke the Russian Egg Principle or some images derived from Chaos Theory.

Feedback is also used to describe what happens in conversation.

Those wonderful people at the AFN (Australian Facilitators Network) are an infinite source of mirth and inspiration:

“… Excited to be co-hosting a class on ‘How to host intercultural conversations’…Will be relevant to any kind of facilitation work and we’ll be sharing practical tools from Adaptive Leadership & Deep Democracy & drawing on knowledge in the room. (I told you, feedback is everywhere) …we are both really passionate about creating spaces for people to reflect on, develop new insights & gain useful tools to support people to feel more confident & effective when they work inter-culturally …I’ve just returned to Melbourne after 12 years living and learning in and loving the desert and the top end of the NT…”

I am also excited, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mdt0SOqPJcg (Good Vibrations…. Giving me the excitation). I’ve suddenly worked out how I will be able to usefully and profitably occupy myself in my retirement. Using the Russian Egg Principle, I could end up hosting classes in how to host classes in how to host intercultural conversations.

Dr.Seuss: “…a bee that is watched will work harder you see. So he watched and he watched, but in spite of his watch that bee didn’t work any harder not mawtch. So then somebody said “Our old bee-watching man just isn’t bee watching as hard as he can, he ought to be watched by another Hawtch-Hawtcher! The thing that we need is a bee-watcher-watcher!”. Well, the bee-watcher-watcher watched the bee-watcher. He didn’t watch well so another Hawtch-Hawtcher had to come in as a watch-watcher-watcher! And now all the Hawtchers who live in Hawtch-Hawtch are watching on watch watcher watchering watch, watch watching the watcher who’s watching that bee…”

Thus within an expanding universe there is an expanding facilitators network. And an expanding justice system. And an expanding police presence. And an expanding prison system. All social loops generating feedback, ever more feedback (the noisy squealing type).

In Yuendumu’s Baptist church Napangardi read out from the Warlpiri bible (from 1 Peter 5. 1-7). Some extracts:

“…Nyurrurla jaajikingarduyu wiriwiri warrawarra-kangkalu-jana Kaatu-kurlangu yapa yangka jiyipikingarduyu-piyarlukuja kajana-warra-kanyi jiyipi nyanungunyangu…”
“…Warrki-jarriyalurla Kaatuku kujanya, kula talaku, lawa…”
“…Kuja kankulu-jana yapa warrawarra-kanyi jaajirla, kulalujana kulungku jinyijinyi-mani, lawa…”
“…Nyampunya wangkaja Kaatuju Payipulurlatju:
“Kaaturlu kajana yapaju mamparl-pinyi kuja kalu-nyanurla pulka-pinyi wiri-piyarlu. Kala nyanunguju ngurrju yapakuju yangka kuja kalu-jana yapa-patu-kariki wurdungu warrki-jarrimi”

Napangardi’s reading in Warlpiri was followed by her husband Jampijimpa repeating it in English:

“…Just as shepherds watch over their sheep, you must watch over everyone God has placed in your care…”
“…Let it be something you want to do instead of something you do merely to make money…”
“…Don’t be bossy to those people who are in your care…”
“… In fact, everyone should be humble towards everyone else. The scriptures say:   “God opposes proud people, but he helps everyone who is humble”

Myself I don’t go to church, but it has always struck me that the Warlpiri people who regularly attend the Baptist church are also heavily involved in Warlpiri spiritual matters.

I’ve since become aware that so much of what is written in the Bible perfectly fits the Warlpiri worldview. To be a “good Warlpiri” is synonymous with being a “good Christian”

As a non-believer I struggle with such concepts as the Holy Trinity. To Warlpiri people the Holy Trinity is a cinch. Their Jukurrpa (a cosmology most inadequately translated as “The Dreamtime”) is chock a block of sacred multiplicities.

As my mother used to say:
Ik ben niet protestant, ik ben niet Katoliek,
Maar toch ga ik naar de kerk voor de mooie muziek!

(I’m not Protestant, I’m not Catholic, but still I go to church for the beautiful music- In Dutch it rhymes)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KM2kbogwgBM

And, why not, another version from my all time favourite singer….
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NshR2v2Pqgg

See ya’s
Frank

Cricket Australia. Defending and exporting ” Australian Values’

The Australian test team stoically defending a wet pitch in earlier days

Dear reader, as you may recall yesterday’s thoroughly informative article suggested that the decline of Australian cricket had something to do with the decline of everything in this country. It’s a litmus test of sorts, and at the heart of it, was the tragic loss of direction from the selectors. They wouldn’t know if their arses were on fire, and possibly couldn’t hold a chook raffle. We’ve assiduously made no reference to brothel’s or paper bags. We believe that unlike the office of P.M or President for that matter, the office of selector of the Australian Test Team, and the most hallowed Chairman of Selectors is still held, (relatively speaking) in some high public esteem. But we are worried, the status of selector, (like politicians) seems to be declining.

Once upon a time, the Chairman of selectors, a Bradman, a Simpson, or a Chappell was looked up to as a demigod. Infinite wisdom and a sagacity bordering on all consuming, Now, we’re afraid their fall from grace makes them mere mortals. They’ve lost the power of the oracle, and their vision is clouded by management speak and the hideousness of corporatisation. Now, selectors, not only mere mortals, have the backbone of warm porridge. And where once intuition stood proud, just the words ‘moving forward’ and ‘benchmark’ instill in all of us a sense of utter dread.

John Howard. ‘Arguably Australia’s second greatest P.M’, ( Rupert Murdoch) Demonstrates skill with googly.

But there’s hope, If you think cricket is the canary in the cage, the cockroach in the terrine, the weevil in the biscuit of the Australian zeitgeist you’re absolutely right. It’s just not good enough being beaten by the South Africans. In spite of their predilection for Pic, Vim, and Pim as christian names, over out Brad’s Troy’s Nathan’s and Jason’s, their triumphalism is just too much. Got to the stage the only way we can get at them is with a Channel Nine cameraman, or wait till Peeto, (Kevin Pietersen) who used to play for Sth EEfrika, is caught not wearing a seatbelt on Warnie’s Facebook feed. Onya Warnie, you’re a bloody legend!!

Second Greatest P.M EVER, demonstrates his unique bowling skill whilst taming Afghan rebels.

But the fact remains we have the talent and great depth of skill. John Howard, (alone amongst the big three to avoid any responsibility whatsoever for invading Iraq) a self confessed cricket tragic has what it takes to be chairman of selectors. And he’s got the smarts too. He’ll know what to do, and in no time we’ll have a word beating team. Brimming with confidence and sang froid. And then, just to galvanise the smarts we could have Peter Dutton as selector. He could hold that with ‘Artful’ Arty Sinodinos and ‘Enigmatic ‘Eric, Abetz, and Corey, ‘Curveball’ Bernardii. What a selection panel!! And rather than throw out some poor bastard, as what happened to Callum Ferguson, our new players would stay and stay at the crease and stop the ROT!

Peter Dutton. Destined for greatness as Test Selector.

Peter Dutton knows what it takes to assess a man of character. And he’s on top of the job to ensure that undesirables are kept at bay, and if it’s good enough for ‘Team Australia’, it’s good enough for the first eleven. All selections will be based upon the tried and proven formula of only having players with one or two syllable names, (Exception to Corey’s). From hereon it’ll be only be Shane’s, Brad’s, Jason, Steve’s, Pete’s, Phil’s and Greg’s. All the rest are wankers and if you’ve got a really silly name like Usman, you’d just be better off playing hockey or some other fairy game. So keep the willow straight and watch success. A new era. Back to the future and heroic like .. Err…like…. Gallipoli.

The Sth Africans seem to be enjoying themselves.

Well we don’t know much about cricket, but from what we’ve been hearing and the fragments seen on television confirm is that the Australian team is just about Rock bottom. Or in sporting terms almost pure shit. Now in case you were wondering we think there’s something about Australian cricket that puts it exactly in the same spot as Australian governance. There’s a sort of kind of symbiosis at work. We know this is a crude comparison, but feel there are reasons for the decline of Australian cricket, and perhaps this underpins in some measure the triumphal return no less of South African cricket.

Test career, over in an over. Poor bastard!

Now cricket is an interesting game. Test cricket is absolutely fascinating. It requires tenacity, concentration and an ability to remain stoically at the crease, if the side needs backing up and swashbuckling our way to victory when the moment is just right. It also requires sagacity, candour and wit. Such attributes call for judgement, not just of the ball and bat, but of the opponent, and the relative strengths of your team. With such judgement tempered by experience, the day is won, or to be more precise the five days. And as often is the case the best team doesn’t necessarily prevail. That’s where the luck co-efficient prevails, the wind being in the right direction, the ‘weather gauge’, to coin a maritime phrase.

Spion Kop. Another Test series wipeout.

But the Australian team possess neither. They’re all at sea. They’re not sure if they’re slogging it out in the short form or the long form. In fact there are so many forms nowadays, and they’re not that good at either. And the selectors are fickle. It seems all the selectors are recruited from Business management 101 and Commerce (beers at $9.50 per pot). They have all the theory, but don’t possess an atom of emotional intelligence. It’s all very James Hird if you really want to know. One day you’re in as a debutant with the future ahead of you, and that very next innings you’re out. Forever!! Not much good for team morale, and it’s the sort of terror that the opposition seizes upon. Just like they did at Modder River, Colenso and Spion Kop. A weakness at the very core, which gives them the edge. And in cricket terms that’s the end. It’s a collective Fall of Singapore, a Gallipoli on a vast scale, our own little Vietnam, and as we celebrate all the battles we’ve lost, cricket itself runs the risk of being embedded in the psyche as code for failure, Glorious, inglorious, take your pick, but without stars to shine, the view is very dim indeed.

Colenso. Groundsmen removing the covers before another test disaster.

Chanel Nine Commentary team. Ritchie Benaud would be turning in his grave.

It’s got to the stage when the worst cricket commentary of all, the Channel Nine team of uber mates, Warnie, Slats, Tubby, Peeto, (when Sth Africa plays) and Heals, cant be bothered wearing seat belts and that’s the NEWS! All the towel flicking and jock puling, and self absorption, they don’t understand how they’ve contributed to the failings of the national game. Sound familiar? Hmm could just be the press gallery and the turnstile of recycled and newish politicians, who stand for very little are monosyllabic in their commentary and possess no imagination whatsoever.

Not a game, but boredom. A predictability borne by the selectors, (either party would do) and the anticipation that there’s no stomach for the long term. All hopes are on the short term and the luck will follow. It’s complacency in action. Still it aint all depressing. It’s not often that you see test careers start and finish in a single over. Bit like government all round really. But for the commentators at Channel Nine it’s all gravy. They’re just observers, and we the public, join in. Though test team selection is a national pastime, no one has the stomach to be on a losing side. Winners are grinners, and the rest is history. Or in other words. Our cricket performance is where we’re at on the real issues. Good thing Turnbull got to speak to Trump. Another example of the ‘Innovation Boom’ at work. The disconnect is palpable. Bowled team Australia.

Turnbull on the blower to Donald about Test selection.