Only known likeness of St Ira, Charcoal on otter-skin. Gottfried von Boyes-Garten, C 1543. (with permission) Sir Lancelot Boyeketeh, Grimwald unter den wald, 1812.

Dear reader, we take the briefest intervals from the excellent poetry of Emiritus Professor Geoffrey Boyes, (late of Magdalen College Ox)  to give you a fragment of an ancient, some say ‘Arisptophanic poem’. Inscribed on clay tablet in cuneiform it took quite a bit of translating, (we are indebted to Mrs Culthorpe prior to her internship with the Coalition for the translation) as it proves the cultural depth of  the near-north at a time when it was hitherto perceived as being coarse, vulgar and uncivilised. Credited to our favourite bard of the bucolic ballad, Saint Ira of Tolmie, it shines a light on the human condition.

Though the true origins of both the bard and the poem are at the very least enigmatic, we do know that, like his namesake St Patrick of Ira, he cleansed Tolmie of Vipers, and ensured that those attuned to his lyricism were gripped by an insatiable desire to procreate. Perhaps tellingly his poems fell on deaf- ears, but were widely adopted by the ‘bunnies’ in which he refers to.

Either way it’s a stirring poem and details, chapter and verse, what people did in olden days before social media, the telly and sportsbet 24/7

Sean Connery poses, ‘The lays of ancient Ira” J.A Rank Corp c. 1958. The first filmic adaptation of the life of the obscure Australian bard. Filmed on location Coogee, Sydney.

Take it away Ira,…..

God help us all.

I wandered out today, half kissed,

At the time when the mist was thickest,

Don’t dismiss this mist, may it still persist,

‘Til I buy myself some knickers!

This mist, of which I speak of here,

Adds nothing to this telling.

It’s merely here for atmosphere,

Though thick and evil smelling!

A bride, new wed, it’s said, fell dead,

While losing her maiden status,

Her life’s now fled, so’s her maidenhead…

Theatrical card “Ira’s Bunnies” unreleased Warner Bros Musical C. 1943. Starring Errol Flynn and Ziegfeld Girls.

 See how poems improve through pathos…?

But back to my fear of no under gear

And my need for—God help us, if only a

Shop would appear, no matter how dear,

If it saves my arse from pneumonia!

They say that a rabbit has the indecent habit

Of doing it from daylight ‘til dusk.

That’s why lady bunnies have permanent big tummies

But it’s their men who look permanently fucked. 

I’ll put an end to these verses which recount my reverses,

Whilst pursuing new knickers and sox.

But how cruelly perverse is this fellow who swears he’s

My friend? May the gods rot his jocks!

Obverse side of Cuneiform tablet, perhaps the only portrait of young Ira teaching Aristotle trigonometry. Unearthed Tolmie waste transfer station. C. 2011, carbon dated 412 b.c

He writes poems about me which we all plainly see,

Demonstrate very little research.

His attempts at biography and verse choreography

Do only his own standing besmirch.

 I would praise him much more, but his insults galore,

Have quite pierced this old mongrel’s heart.

Still, I regret to my core, my calling him a whore.

It’s his poetry makes him sound like a tart!

This might be part six, 

Mr Whu reminds the P.M that brain size isn’t all that important in politics

Dear reader we take up where we left off, Ces and Quent, the two heroes of this saga being swept along by a wave of raw sewerage under the very bowels of Parliament. Ces’s brain-wave that the sewerage was flowing IN rather than OUT, and Quent’s discovery that ‘Sheilah-shit’ looks exactly the same as ‘bloke-shit’. Which ever way you look at it’s a fundamental symbol of equality the world over. 

But worryingly, the turgid effluvium was not out bound but in-bound, 

Which begs the question; Why? 

And with scant knowledge of what goes on beneath the bowels of our nations capital, the near certainty, that their journey, no matter how traumatic, must COME TO AN END!

P.M ‘opens his lunch’. Disciplined staffer pretends not to notice.

As the parliamentary forecourt was only several hundred meters from the august (and tastefully designed) portico of Parliament itself, it had to, just like the P.Ms serious deliberations on Wimmin-hood had to be LEADING US SOMEWHERE!

Will their downfall be their outfall? 

Catch up in this excremental expose…….( read on) 

“Jeez Quent, no matter how we swim against it, it just keeps pushing us onwards. 

‘Yep Ces, it’s got a power all of its own, who would’ve thought that shit could be intelligent?

Yep it’s like Barnaby, there’s an irrefutable power of force at work, even though intelligence in any quantifiable extent is non existent!

Barnaby. A GENIUS on the Parliamentary floor! Straining under the pressure of a carbon policy.

Yep beats what’s going on in Parliament, if I had a microscope and a scanner I might be able to detect Barnaby’s shit from the general shit. Which would be a faeces (thesis)  in itself’. (Ces was fond of a pun under bleak circumstances) .

We both laughed, Barnaby and intelligence and shit was just too rich.

But still, with fear in their hearts they knew they were going somewhere, and it felt sinister. 

‘Jeez, Quent, its so dark, if we had something to hold on to? 

I know Quent , you cant get a grip on this, it’s just like the defilement of Mrs Culthorpe, no matter how close we get it just drifts past. 

Can you hear something? 

“What’!, Ces, doing a steady dog-paddle, replied, 

‘There’s this sound of surging, sort of like paddle wheels, or the sound the bath makes when it goes down the plug hole, and look’!

And sure enough there was a light ahead. Very faint and indistinct, and yet glowing and growing as the effluent bore them on. Then, just as it grew perceptibly lighter they could detect singing. 

Barnaby, on the cusp of choking out a carbon policy.

It was so faint and indistinct, but unerringly familiar. 

‘Jeez Quent, if this is heaven  I reckon the plumber should be sacked, 

Too right Ces, and the smell is up to high-heaven, but not in an enlightened kinda way’!. 

The stream increased its flow and they could now just float onwards.

YOU BEAUTY! Choked out a Hard-Dark-one and it stands as a Fair Dinkum CARBON POLICY! Another demonstration of GENIUS!

It was uncanny, but they’d got used to the odour, and reflected that if this was their last moment, it wasn’t all that bad. They could’ve been refugees on Manaus, or even little aboriginal kiddies destined for a lifetime of incarceration, or worse still a parliamentary intern who also happened to be female, Or even an intern of a private aged-care facility run by a bloke who happened to spend most of his time on the Greek isles. Sensing their demise, they’d become philosophical and with thoughts distracted and floating to a higher place, they resigned themselves to an aqueous immolation. 

But, to their surprise, the singing grew louder, and the stream became a torrent, and just as they floated into a blinding light a pair of massive hands picked them out and plonked them onto a sort of platform. 

Wiping themselves down, they blinked. Blinked again, then wiped their eyes. For though they could see the viscous discharge being directed to vats, which poured their oleaginous goo into rivulets, they also became aware of the bulk of a man who loomed over them, and just then the penny dropped.

After Choking out a fair dinkum carbon policy, Barnaby gets on to more urgent matters. A sheilah in Parliament policy!!

Who was this master of the nether regions? Who is the is Feurher of the foecal matter? What portentous event is about to vent? 

Find out in our next fulminating episode, “A suppository of wisdom”, or “Seven pillocks to Wisden”, and read what fate befalls those who stand to save the honour of the fallen women of parliament . 

Big Mac! A man you can trust.

Dear reader, as you may recall, the pcbycp duo of intrepid investigative journalists, Quent and Ces were on the hunt for the penis wielding oppressor who so shamefully defiled Mrs Culthorpe. And to demonstrate that honour still stood as a code amongst decent men they determined to catch the culprit at whatever cost!

The nationals in trouble. Another sheilah sacrifice is made. (To appease the ‘Man-Gods’)

But the closer they got to the PM’s office the more they became entangled in a Machiavellian Machination of miasmic malignancy, to whit they now find themselves about to be castrated and much worse by an angry mob of very very angry women hell-bent on exacting revenge upon the patriarchy.  But just when they were to be relieved of hemispheres hitherto held hinter-most the throng were distracted. And to a woman, stood up and listened. A live feed from somewhere within the interstices of Federal Parliament distracted them. Will, Quent and Ces escape the prerequisites of employment as eunuchs in the Caliphs court? Or will they roll away on hemispheres untarnished? Find out in this next circumferential episode. ….. 

The sounds Ces, Quent and the angry mob were uncanny, yet unerringly familiar. Quoit playing in Parliament? Or something much worse….read on….. 

This was beyond the pale., 

And then to confirm our worst suspicions, an exhaustive “Uggghhhhuuhhhhhrrrrr” from one of the un-named participants and a round of applause from his companions. Was the exhultative groan epithetic of some more visceral activity that affronted the very core of parliamentary standards?

Solid performers

Pole-axed, could this be true? Or was it the evil CCP infiltrating the corridors of power and making our leaders, respected and revered the world over to be  parodied as infantile, puerile, penis fixated, onanistic tools?

WE held our breath, clearly a Russian ploy, and as the ‘wimmin-hood’ paused, and stood aghast, we saw our opportunity and crawled right under em. And finding an attractively designed sewer maintenance, ‘person-hole’ we prised it open and slid in. 

And that’s where we found ourselves under the Parliament itself. In the sewerage system, the bowels of the nation so to speak, and that’s I’m afraid dear reader is where our next set of troubles really began.

Ces chuckled, he was always good to have in a tight squeeze; ’Jeez Quent, the rapist ‘d be shittin himself, who would’ve thought, one moment we’re about to be de- balled and now we’re up to our necks in shit’. 

MATESHIP! A force more powerful than Sheilah-Dom!

‘Funny’ I mused, ‘down here you can’t really tell sheilah-shit from bloke-shit’. 

‘There’s equity in that’! Ces sniggered. 

You had to admit it was funny, you’d think their shit didn’t’.. I never finished, we just collapsed with laughter. …

What troubles.

We were in a darker place than a backbenchers stipend unassisted by lobbyists from the Coal industry, and without the kickbacks or the proverbial barbed wire canoe, we were borne along by the flow of raw sewerage. 

Ces ejaculated: ’why’s it going the wrong way’? ‘Too right’! Quent affirmed; “these Sheilah’s have no idea’!

Deep thinkers within the Nationals

“Nah not that, it’s the flow of the sewerage. By my calculations the outflow should be going south, but listen’. WE listened and sure enough the ‘woosh woosh’ was getting closer. The dreadful truth dawned, the sewerage was not flowing away from Parliament, but towards it. With our heroes borne by the sludge. What lies in store? And why is the sewerage going towards the highest office in the land? Rather than away, as sewerage is SUPPOSED TO DO? Does this point to something portentous? 

Will Ces and Quent be able to save the office of the P.M from more ignominy? And what were those sounds that so distracted the throng?

Are Quent and Ces expecting a big job from Parliament?

Will their downfall be their outfall? 

Find out in our next evacuating episode of pcbycp;

 “A royal flush and you’re Prince Andrewed” or……. 

Mrs Culthorpes ereplacement tea-lady (extreme right hand side)

“A sink hole in Canberra? Spot the difference”. 

Scomo and Dutto upload another dick-joke during question time.

Dear reader, our heroes, awaiting ritual castration by a frenzied mob of angry sheilahs sought refuge in the solace that the PM always knew how to deal with the women problem.

And if we were to be mutilated to prove a point it was in the end a cause worth being mutilated for. There was sanctity in spite of the terror that was about to reign over us. (oblique references to Her Majesty are entirely coincidental). We take up where we left off, a couple of balls short of the Parliamentary Forecourt. 

We were listening in rapture to Scomo and Dutto telling another dick joke, unawares that this important and trenchant piece of imaginative story telling was being broadcast to the general public. 

We waitied breathless to hear the punchline. Was it the one about the uncircumcised Rabbi, who forgot his towel at the public baths? Or howsabout the one about the West Indian cricketers who were pissing off the Sydney Harbour Bridge? Could it be the one about the China-man who’d they called “the Button-Champignon”?

‘Too effing right Dutto you funny BASTARD’. P.M responds favourably to Dutto’s newie on the Rabbi and the public baths.

Ces who’s a bit of an expert on this subject hoped it was a newie. 

He’d worn all the others out and wasn’t up to thinking of any new angles. Though we’d become a multi-cultural pluralist society, here, as in Parliament it was all white-bread and refined sugar. It kept the taint of political-correctness at bay and ensured that whatever dick joke we did hear would be readilly transferrable to the bar at the Mathew Flinders Hotel.  Political correctness and wowserism had left a hole in Ces’s repertoire. And it was a source of some shame perhaps on a national perspective that dick jokes that sprang fresh from the mind of anedotal circumstance were in short supply. An insidious sign that perhaps within the cultural fabric of this mighty country, something was NOT QUITE RIGHT! 

But Ces brightened up and mused as the angry throng drew closer and closer; “Spose that’s what Parliament is for? To demonstrate leadership, and dick-jokes represent the progressive side of politics”! 

I had to admit, though the Coalition was allegedly conservative, they were leaders in ‘progressive  dick – jokes’. Once Again Ces was crystaline in his ability to assess a situation.

Michaela tried a dick- joke, but though she tried her very best it is acknowledged that sheilahs shoudn’t do dick Jokes. It’s ” Unbecoming” ( HRH Prince Andrew).

But there was something else, the live feed switched to another exigious corner of the  Parliamentary offices. Being a Friday arvo, we knew that this could only be a MEN- ONLY conversation, as no sheilah would dare stay back after hours after what had happened to Mrs Culthorpe.

Unfamiliar voices were talking about the Labor front bench, and then the women in their own party, all two of them. 

And then. We could hear this swishing sound, sort of like the sound a piston makes a ‘whoosh whoosh’ when it slides in and out of the cylinder block. We thought, this is odd, it just doesn’t sound like Senate Estimates. But this was errie, and the sheilahs, who were about to de- ball us just for being decent blokes in the wrong place at the wrong time were absorbed in what was crackling above their ears. For once, as in the kitchen, their nagging pre-disposition to emotional fury had been STILLED!

We could hear one bloke quite distinctively, (maybe a staffer?), saying; ‘I reckon I could hit her between the tits if I aim and shoot at the same time. And another;  go-orne i’ll betchya fifty ya cant’, an the other bloke saying, ‘I aint shot my load yet’!

What was this? We were staggered, 

Dazza does a great dick- joke and reckons quite rightly that ” people of colour” should have a laugh every now and then. No harm intended.

Were they playing quoits in the parliamentary offices, another clear sign of disrespect?

Der reader, is quoit playing allowed in Federal Parliament? Who’s quoit are they talking about? Find out in our next Parlaimentary session of high intrigue, “ A mis-timed Quoit and you’re’ Oit’?

Or…. “A plenary session obsession confession”

” You’ll never understand em mate, they don’t get dick- jokes for starters’, (Scomo seeks answers to the sheilah-problem with other blokes at the footy.)

Dear reader, we left off where we began before we most recently started, our heroes in a perilous situation, made worse by women who just couldn’t appreciate how serious the PM was about listening to them. How the PM couldn’t debase the status of his office by addressing them personally, and how the PM via a clever stratagem had promised to meet the leaders amongst them or single individuals in the sanctity of his office in parliament. And yet, in spite of all his efforts to calm the shrill-voiced throng, they refused lest the prptection offered to them was similar to that offered to Mrs Culthorpe, whom though abused, we righteously tossed from her wheelchair and slut-shamed, as is prescribed in Australian lore.

The attractive NDIS approved standard super refined white Hourglass.

However to our shock rather than satisfy the crowd that we too stood for principle, it made them seethe with revenge, to whit our heroes became the focus of their indignant and overly emotional, RAGE!  What happens next may beggar description. We suggest for those who are infirm or light headed skip this instalment and proceed to a less sensational review of the excellent decision to cut funding to NDIS recipients with foetal alcohol syndrome, which is a polite way of suggesting that those aboriginals who are still ungrateful for the help we’ve given them should demonstrate contrition, move in an orderly way to their pre- ordained destiny, (PRISON),  and behave themselves. 

WE return to the scene, the sand was running out of the rather attractive hourglass……

The angry Sheilahs rounded upon us. 

Things were looking distinctly grim. In a word; we were in deep shit!

We could see the blood lust. If they couldn’t have a go at the PM, and the penis weilding opressors seeking refuge in parliament, then, they might as well have a go at us. Closer the throng formed. By now we could see the individual faces of really really angry women, and some of em, I whispered to Ces, in spite of our predicament; “weren’t bad-looking either”. 

We were done for.

The face of a REALLY REALLY ANGRY WOMAN!

That’s when we heard the call ; ‘RIP THEIR FUCKING BALLS OFF’!!!

‘Yeahh’!!!, the crowd roared lustilly. 

And what sickened us, the sound of a flick-knife, 

In short we were fucked, or, at the very least would be singing treble for the rest of our lives, 

But all of a sudden the mood changed. They became distracted. Some agency had interrupted their manifest desire to wreak revenge upon MANKIND!

What was it? 

What could have snapped them out of their blood lust?

That maniacal mob hell- bent on REVENGE!

REALLY REALLY ANGRY WOMAN SEEKS AFFIRMATION FROM HER LEADER!

It was the tannoy, it crackled over the ether, someone must have left the live feed on from the obovoid office..

It sounded familiar, like blokes on a drinks night friday, 

They were laughing, 

And then. We knew, we could hear Scomo, and Dutto, laughing themselves hoarse, another dick Joke? 

Clever, we thought to remove the taint of sexism and muscular masculinity by reserving Friday arvo when the house was empty of Sheila’s for Dick jokes and drinks. What could be a better example of Mateship triumphing in the end over angry, nagging discontented Sheila’s. Sheila’s, who just like the Abo’s could never be grateful or happy for all the good, (the intervention, deaths in custody, fast access to prisons and mortality, the list goes on and on) we’d done for em.

Will this be a dick joke too far? Or will our heroes uncover more than they bargained for? Find out in our next slut-shaming episode; “ Is that a pretzel in your pocket or are you just here to entertain me”? 

Really really angry woman’s grandma showing respect for a a leader whom it is written, (Corinthians Ch9. V 2) ” Shalt be thine BLOKE”!

Or : “Who is the owner of the pearl necklace left on the backbenchers desk’?

Ces carries his Boyes Anti- tank Rifle to the front from Broadmeadows. This endurance feat alone (arriving in Singapore just before the fall) demonstrates the close affinity shared by the soldiery for their ” Boyes”. A practice resolutely carried by members of the priesthood to their younger charges to this day.

Dear reader, another fragment of humanity from Geoff Boyes.

It is with some disappointment that we learn that Geoff is not related in any shape, manner or form to the progenitor of the eponymously named ‘Anti-Tank Rifle’. If that were the case we would include an episode from Ces’s memoirs of how he stood alone with his Boyes anti-tank rifle at Singapore in early forty two and though promised protection and offensive punch spent the next three years augmenting the Japanese public transport system in Thailand. But like the aforementioned weapon, Geoff has once again, punched a whole through that shabby mask of persona and found the humanity within. This piece, clearly written for his friend who allegedly holds a forty percent shareholding in Crown, suggests that in the end all the money in the word could not save him from the friends he chose, (Andrew and Eddy) and the decisions he made whilst under the thrall of money as an end itself.

Imprisoned by the forces he unleashed. Faustian or Fustian, we’re all flawed in the end. Its just that some are more flawed than others….

Being Sunday, excuse the editors for a bit of sermonising. Take it away Geoff, and think of James imprisoned on his luxury yacht , fronting the casino enquiry , and without a friend in the world…

To James © Geoff Boyes

“PRISONER”, Photogravure offset process print by Kit (“the Cat”) Boyser, Boggo Road Jail, Brisbane 2020.

And no, I can’t say I’m at all surprised,

At a prison cell you now call home

You’ve run long enough,

From the wrongs you have done

Hidden, from the hatred you’ve shown.

I suppose you could say, that I wasn’t always there for you,

Yet I’ve given more than anyone could

Your eyes were but blinded,

Your mind shut off tight

“Hubris,-before the fall”. Mezzotint on Silver-Gelatinous Card. By Eustace, Hildegarde, Be Boyeth. Bloomsbury c. 1928. ( the estate of the late Whanfried Von Boyes, Bayreuth).

Do you now see, I helped where I could?

Too blind to see, with your anger filled eyes,

You let all the world take your blame

From all those who cared, 

You took more than gold

Any virtue, engulfed in the flame.

For many have tried, and many have failed

To help find a way to your heart

But destructive intent

Was the closest to you

Unlearnt lessons and unkindness, your start.

To James © Geoff Boyes

So now you’re face to face with reality,

The consequences, at last must be paid

For there’s no one to care,

In an eight by ten cell

No joy; just a bed to be made.

“The Unpaid Bill”, watercolour on hogs-hide. By St Godfrey De- Boyes c.1783 RWAI, R.A, R Soc.

Will you lie in your bed now; the one that’s all tattered and torn

Leave behind any love that you shared?

Or face up to your demons?

Walk out, head held high?

And realise, after all, that we cared.

Dear reader,

P.M shares one last Dick Joke before fronting an angry mob of Sheila’s outside parliament.

we begin, where we left off, the P.M doing his very best to reassure a wild, angry discontented mob of women.  And shockingly, in spite of his considered and measured approach, and from the safety of his very own office, his words had the opposite effect. If the PM couldn’t quell the crowd, who could? 

As is often said, events make the person, and for one reason or another, it was “US”, Quent and Ces who nobly stood up to the plate. 

Read on. 

WE turned to the angry throng! ‘Jeez, give the bloke a break, he’s being sincere. Youse, (we waved our arms to the throng of angry women) are all lucky.  You aint been stoned as proclaimed in the bible, nor shot, nor burnt nor righteously slain as required in Corinthians and Leviticus. The PM is a devout man, who wouldnt dis you even if he tried’. 

Dutto to Scotty; ” There’s this fat ugly sheilah, an Irishman, an Aussie and a Jew. They walk into a bar’…

‘Just like the ABOS!!’, I said to Ces, ‘we do every bloody thing for em and they’re still UNGRATEFUL’!

Just then, there was a parting of the crowd and the angry mob of bat-shit crazy sheilahs, were stilled, and to our surpsise we could sense movement. We pondered, perhaps this was our P.M performing a miracle? Our own P.M invested with this sense of the occasion, grabbing destiny in both hands and proclaiming his all inspiring LEADERSHIP ONCE and for ALL!

But to our horror. It wasnt’.  In a wheelchair, dribbling from the corner of her mouth, Mrs Culthorpe wobbled towards us. The crowd parted reverentially, there was silence again, and from her hand, she proffered a crumpled piece of paper.  We opened it, prising each finger one by one loose. 

We unfolded the paper, the women of Australia looked on. The worlds press hovered above us. THIS was a moment that will change history we thought. 

Mrs Culthorpe, a shadow of her former self, brave- faces it under the media spotlight.

Was this, was the man who had so viciously attacked her?

From the sanctity of parliament itself?

The penis wielding opressor?

The perfidious, priapic, pursuer of pulcheritudinous persons? 

Inside, the crumpled fissured countenance, of the leader of the National Party. 

‘It was him’ we asked? 

She nodded,

‘Are you sure’?

She nodded again. 

We’d found our man. 

Now, flourishing the image to the world media we knew what we had to do, 

To do as every institution and powerful agency in this country had done, 

Culthorpe’s condition could only be described as ‘Sub- Optimal”.

We turned to Mrs Culthorpe, crippled, malnourished, a shadow of her former self. She looked at us, and we could sense an expression of relief had dawned upon her. Her face, coursed and wizened by the painful burden of grief and abuse upon abuse pleaded to us. To us, the sacred task of lifting from her shoulders the mantle of pain, and proclaiming her accuser amongst all these fellow sisters. To the sisterhood she beckoned. 

Ces and I knew this was it. It was now or never. To make a stand for MEN and WOMEN across Australia. And stand by principle. 

Gesticulating in spasms of uncontrollable joy, and consumed by the stroke ridden ghibberish of slobbering anticipation her eyes pleaded SALVATION!. A smile coursed upon her lips, worn thin, and smeared with the patina of lipstick and saliva. 

WE paused, and felt the weight of the world.

“YOU’!, we sneered, “YOU SLUT!

YOU HUSSY!

YOU WANTON HARLOT’!!!

Ces giving Culthorpe, the HEAVE-HO! (re- enacted for ‘Australia’s Funniest Home Video Show’).

And then, to the mortification of the crowd, we grabbed both handles of the wheelchair, (‘perambulator’ in polite circles) and tipped her over. She sprawled spread-eagled upon the very attractively designed stone paving, and arms splayed just lay there like a crumpled heap of offal. 

The crowd hissed, we had performed a sacred duty and outed “A SQUEALER”, but to our surprise they looked angrier still. Something had gone terribly wrong. 

What will happen next? 

How could Ces and Quent be so crude? 

Was it right to punish a fallen woman? 

Find out in our next beguiling episode;

 “Dial 000 and ask for Christian”, or …….

“Happy clappers on the bells at Heavens-Gate”. 

..’A sea of women, angry and defiant’!

Dear reader,

As you recall our reporters had just been turfed outta parliament by Mr Potato Head. As they were flung out the rotating steel and glass doors they tumbled across the forecourt. 

Partially blinded, bruised and battered, nothing could prepare for them for the shock they were about to receive. Rubbing their eyes, they found themselves abandoned amongst a sea of women, and they were all angry and defiant. 

‘Jeez Ces, what are we up for now’? “ I dunno Quent, but this looks like Woodstock, or heaven, or hell? Can I be dreaming’? 

But just as they adjusted to the new reality the Tannoy crackled into life, it was SCOMO direct from his Obovate Office

What Australia needed now was a FIRM HAND!

Some members of the public just don’t get GOOD GOVERNANCE!

We listened, knowing that what Australia needed now was a ‘FIRM HAND’! The P.M was speaking to us from inside the sacred halls of Parliament. He knew that stepping outside and subjecting himself and the sacredness of the Prime Minister-ship to a haggle of angry sheilas would be both degrading to his role as leader of the people, and an affront to every clean-living hard-working Aussie bloke who expected food on the table when he came home from a hard day at work.

It was soothing to hear the P.M’s reassuring voice. We could sense the occasion, and his role as LEADER amongst “HIS PEOPLE”, (even women, who are considered legitimate as people in society also).

“It’s been called to my attention from my missus, there’s a problem with little ‘three wheelers in parliament’. And in not just talking about the ‘Tic-Toks’ and the ‘Monte Carlos’ that Mrs Gadolphus brings in  on the tea trolley’, (thunderous applause from the front bench) . We could tell his speech writer was way better than anything Don Watson ever wrote, The P.M had the common touch. And he had it in SPADES!

‘Nup me missus tapped me on the shoulder last night, and said ‘Scotty , you’ve gotta do something about these women trying to hog the limelight? And impugning the reputation of Ministers on your very own front bench who laugh as you do at the odd dick joke!  It has to cease. 

P.M is SAFE as HOUSES amongst decent blokes at the FOOTY!

That, people of Australia, put the wind up me!!

I had no idea there was a women problem, and I can assure you on this Mormon tabernacle bible I had no idea that some sheilah was raped in parliament.  I remember as a kiddy Junie Morosi having a go at Jim Cairns. But someone having their brains screwed out just down the corridor is just not on.. It won’t do, and then to complain, just another sign of Bad SPORTSMANSHIP!

So I’ve got some advice. 

Lets face it Sheilas  in THIS COUNTRY are bloody lucky

They’re not shot at, nor killed on the spot as they are in some countries. Nor are they whipped, mutilated, set on fire and shot or driven over by t 34 tanks. In some case I have heard of domestic violence way worse than here at home, where most of it, in respect for decency happens indoors.

Don Watson, the shifty little bloke on the right. No idea who the other dopey looking bastard is.

In Australia Sheilas, and that’s a term of endearment, are knifed, shot, burnt, raped, then burnt, burnt then again,  raped, guillotined, cut into pieces, fed to the dogs, crocs and insinkerator, imprisoned and enslaved, and made to work in knock shops cos they’re bloody lucky as Australians to have (via workplace agreements and enterprise bargaining) the freedom enshrined in our constitution,  ‘FREEDOM OF CHOICE’!

That just about sums it up. 

“The Lucky Country”. 

The crowd stood stunned, 

There was silence, 

You couldn’t hear a false eye-lash drop, 

Until someone said, “Scomo, he’s talking just like Eddy

And he’s headed in the same direction. 

He just doesn’t get it”.. 

We were pole- axed, what didn’t we get. Were these people deaf.? Didn’t the P.M just demonstrate leadership and sort the issue out. Didn’t he make it fucking CLEAR? 

The greatest leader we’ve had in this country since John Winston Howard the first,  and they’re dissing him. 

Call a spade, and you’re shouted down by AN ANGRY MOB!

Dear reader, our heroes are in a serious pickle. Is it a pickled onion ready for the former PM’s , (possibly our third best P.M EVER) Tony Abbott? 

Where will this melodrama end? 

Has the PM lost his skill for marketing? 

And why are these women all so angry? 

Shouldn’t they be at home, looking after the kiddies and the kitchen? 

An angry Sheilah doin a NAH NAH!

Find out in our next Lysistrat-ian episode, in “ Two balls in the air, and I aint juggling” or.. “ the kitchen knives are out, so step back from the urinal” .

Dear reader , another piece form our scribe the near-east who goes by the name of  “Geoff”.

Geoff is a keen photographer and Natural History enthusiast, but we think he goes much deeper,

on a journey to the soul.

Join us as we find the inner truth behind the banality of every day life. If you need a pointer, please, we humbly suggest you read this latest fictional masterpiece, ” The Banality of Weevils” By the Rt. Hon.Peter Dutton, M.P. (Gau-leiter of Brisbane). There is a thrilling introduction by none other than that mercurial diverter of state funds and taxpayer subsidies the Rt. Hon. Angus Taylor. His tome, ” Diverting Rivers of Gold” is also a worthwhile read as it is shortlisted for the NSW Premiers Award. We wish him well with his Cayman Island registered tax haven,

Geoff’s piece today is called ‘Today’s Friends‘ and if anyone can help me do the spacing on this program to make it look ‘slick and professional’ the editors would be eternally grateful.

Take it away Geoff…….

‘Solitary’, Self Portrait of the poet as a sub editor for Esquire Magazine”c.1928. by Geoffrey de-Boyes, (the third). H.M Prison Reading.

Today’s Friends © Geoff Boyes

With cigarettes and coffee,

He sits at his desk

Not a thought races through his empty head

Bits and pieces, are all that yesterday left behind

Scraps of dreams,

And half-baked schemes

Are all there is to find.

He sits, he waits,

But no words come

Inspiration, along with reality,

Packed up and left; along with any thoughts

And yet he cares not

No thoughts, no words and no rot.

Taking no notice, of the world all around

As it casually slips past his window

Beyond the intrusion of his private space

He doesn’t give a damn

Only does what he can

Empty head

Hollow words

Blank pages; his only friends today.

Dame Ira enjoys a Stinga with Aloo and Ranjit,

Dear reader, (all three of you),

Occassionally we feel obliged to publish letters to the editor. This proves that we are a learned and reputable paper. It also, (our share- holders are mindful of this) demonstrates our place in the diminshed cosmos of publishing. It is our firm belief that it is only a matter of time before we are snapped up by either the Murdoch Empire or the “Peoples Daily’. Both reputable publishing houses with a broad reach and popular appeal geared to that index favoured by university adminstrators,  ‘the lowest common denominator’. So laugh awhile as we publish these two edited extracts from our scribe from the near north; Dame Ira Maine, OBE. Kt Cinque Port, Tawny Ports, and associated  after dinner liquers, and the reverend Ernestine Pangebourne- Slutt.

She/He writes; 

Dear Hef Jnr.

Only yesterday  with the subs in the mess room of the 11th Rawalpindi Camel Corps there came a sudden flash :

Aloo was shortly dismissed after an attack of acquired punkah puller syndrome, (apps). He was deemed ineligible for the NDIS.

‘Covington-Smythe is at it again!’ the cry hilariously went up as the gent in question, exercising his penchant  for novelty exhibitionism, twirled and swirled amongst the tables clad only in  generously applied Turkish rouge and a daringly revealing  breech clout

Oh, what fun we had! such amusing gaiety! I have no doubt whatever but that the Raj is the better for it, don’t you agree? A morale boost of the finest kind, by Jove! Even the punkah wallahs, seized by the abandoned moment, briefly abandoned both  their posts and their undergarments to join in the fray. Covington-Smythe seems to conjure up that sort of reaction in the natives. Anyway, when his performance had finished, a horde of devilishly attractive, dusky young men appeared and  bore him off into the night. Next morning, on parade he looked decidedly jaded, doubtless worn out by his nocturnal  campfire storytelling and dance demonstrations.

But on, on, to more serious matters.

Ewer Amble Servant,

Ira Maine

Dear Razzle,

In desperation I write to you, anxious to be assured that you will continue to carry our tasteful ads for “Useful Inflatable Devices for the Home and Garden’. I refer particularly to our ‘Slip and Slide’ self lubricating model which, in times of difficulty, you can slip over your cucumber. This has proven to be a huge commercial success , particularly since we introduced the self-stiffening modification.This, as you know, ensures your cucumber will not shrink but will remain tautly fresh and rigid until eaten. 

Prototype ‘SAFE-SEX’ Inflatable

We here at ‘INFlATABLES” are truly astonished  (and pleased) to discover that your readers take such a keen interest in horticulture.

We are particularly interested in retaining our position in your advertising columns,  particularly now as we are presently working on a lifesize female robot to act as a thoroughly modern scarecrow. This device will be as authentically human in every respect as we can make it. After dark or in inclement weather the device will demonstrate its appreciation for being  indoors and will, I am sure, with its softness and warmth, prove a jolly companion in the winter months to those of us who are without a partner. The device may be safely taken in the bath where it will  not only benefit  from having its nooks and crannies soaped but will, unsurprisingly, obey your every command slavishly thereafter.

Feel free to call us at any time.

In the hope that our business arrangements may continue,

Yours, etc.,

Executive model (manufactured in choice of latex or polyvinyl finish)all models are “self- lubricating’!

Ernestine Pangebourne- Slutt.