As a white person I have benefitted mightily from institutionalised racism.  As a white male I have benefitted from the institutionalised sexist prejudices.  I owe my relative wealth, income personal safety and comfortable position to these institutionalised prejudices.   I am complicit, passively complicit is allowing this to continue.

Mark Sawyer writing in the Sydney Morning Herald asked “how racist are you” and tried to excuse racist behaviour suggesting racist comments were, at worst, just a bit stupid, but in reality the targets of these comments were at fault for taking them seriously.  This argument was countered by Ruby Hamad, speaking  from her own experience saying “You’re probably more racist than you think.”  She presented 6 well known excuses for racism and demonstrated how seriously racist they each were.  The sixth is a wonderful uTube sketch and it is to that that PC directs you now – in just three minutes comedian Aamer Rahman demolishes the “Reverse Racism” excuse.  Here it is:
Aamer Rahman (Fear of a Brown Planet) – Reverse Racism

Post Script: Commedian Seve Coogan echoes Hamad’s comments in a piece about Top Gear presenters racist slur on Mexicans.

“Comedy can’t always be safe, and sometimes entertainers need to challenge social orthodoxies. But ‘saying the unsayable’ is different from simply recycling offensive cliches about Mexicans”
and
“There is a strong ethical dimension to the best comedy. Not only does it avoid reinforcing prejudices, it actively challenges them. Put simply, in comedy, as in life, we ought to think before we speak.”
Well worth a read.

In the second part of “The Road to Serfdom” Quentin reports on attempts by electricity providers to improve service.  Here is “Granny Baiting”

By Quentin Cockburn
So, the trickle became a tide, and in no time at all, the general public, who resent having to take it up the choof, began, (for those who could afford it) to install solar energy.  Solar went mental, and all of a sudden, those electricity companies, who bought power from the electricity generating companies, started getting worried.  Demand was falling.  And without a bit of direct lobbying to the man of action, our PM Tony Abbot, the entire system would be in a mess.  Not for you the public but the shareholders!  Get It!

So Tone knocks all the renewables for six!  As an industry, they’ve gone the way of slavery. But get this?  The public are still switching to solar, and why?  Because the public have a sneaking suspicion, that although current electricity prices are usurious, before long they will be injurious.  Only those wealthy enough to not pay tax, or the hopelessly overambitious will be able to afford electricity.  And so the electricity providers developed another strategy.. Granny Baiting..

It’s very simple…

You see all these electricity providers, who buy the stuff off the power companies, also pay rent to the pole and wire providers.  (You can see this all leads to greater efficiency.  We now have three tiers when once there were one, and just think of all the middle managers, office parties, bonuses etc.. But I stray.)  They began to discover that the public were getting narky about paying for all the glossy advertising, and offers, special offers and discounts when they only wanted electricity.  You see electricity aint that sexy, no matter how you dress it up, (but I do know that modern vibrators come with standard DC and AC power adaptors, are re-chargeable, and sell the ’tickler’ and ‘womb broom’ in the one discrete package,) but, again, I digress.  They discovered that the public were always switching from one provider to the another in search of the best deals, and the phones were running hot.  Not to mention the door the door sales teams, invariably Indians, (well spoken) thrashing the streets of Melbourne desparate to sign up new customers..

Now ‘grannying’ is akin to Gogol’s Lost Souls, or Christopher Pyne’s death tax on dead students.  Grannies are pliant, subservient, and they want to be nice.  Grannies find it very difficult, (unless it’s Rolf Harris or Christopher Pyne) to say NO!.  In no time flat one granny I know had four service providers all charging the same, (with quality discounts and competitive charges) and it took an awful lot of getting it sorted.  That was six months ago..

I Thought the problem had gone, despatched, a commercial misunderstanding.  No!  They were back again.  last week I had to inform People Energy, Simply Energy, Lumo and Clix, that only one of them could provide electricity to my mum.  I asked them; ‘so did she agree to all of this’? They all replied coyly, words to the effect of ‘we pointed to the substantial benefits’, etc,etc. ‘Uh Huh’, I yawned, and ‘did she sign you up’?.. ‘Yesir’, the robotic reply, ‘Well then did any of you check with the other service provider?’  ‘No’..

Well then we’ve just paid the last installment of four electricity bills. Got it down to one now, and think I’d better keep a lookout, this privatisation stuff is heady.  Great for the shareholders, pure shit for the public!

Though I would add the very nice call centre operative from India spoke excellent english, but sadly each time I offered the phone to my mum to validate certain privacy provisions, the conversation  ended abruptly, with, “I cannot understand a word this fellow is saying” shades of Little Britain, we should all be beside ourselves!!

I provide copies of the invoices, it’s remarkable reading.

The ABC in a recent Background Briefing showed that the conventional electricity power generating and distribution industry has the Australian Government in its pocket to the extent that prices in this country are among the highest in resource rich countries.  Quentin here presents his own two part ‘Background Briefing’ shedding light on the privatisation of Power Generation in Victoria’s LaTrobe Valley.  Read on in “The Road to Serfdom”.

By Quentin Cockburn
I have a most harrowing first hand account  of the cost benefits of privatised electricity and I would love to share it with you.

You see, I was there at the coalface, literally, working in the Latrobe Valley, (variously described as “Latrine”, and “Le nose”) in the early nineties when the supremo for the State Electricity Commission (SEC), George Bates, came along and had a meeting with me.  He was one of a few in a direct line of succession from Sir John Monash, who as custodian of our electricity company, (owned and operated by us, the general public), was entrusted with the grand post WW1 vision for Victoria.  Cheap and reliable energy self-sufficiency!

George wanted to do something to ensure that the people of the Latrobe Valley, were looked after post privatisation.  He wanted to ensure that all of us – the commonwealth – were beneficiaries in the muted sale of the SEC.  The SEC was set up to provide power to Melbourne after the miasma of World War One.  The families who put it together were offered a lifetime of work, good pay and the bounty of subsidised housing with hot water, (Briquette or electrical) a bath, free health care, education and training.  The rub being untiring life-long service to the SEC.

This all worked very well for a long time, whole generations became SEC-ised and the subsidized housing kept those in the ‘Valley safe, sinecured and comfortable.  But, you see, the garden city theme adopted at the workers town, Yallourn, was irksome.  In the 70’s they demolished the town, (which boasted picture theatre, library and Performance theatre), and moved the residue into the new town, (a much more suburban and grimmer reality) Churchill.  Named in honour of our famous leader, and (sans theatre or library,) to celebrate his presence eternal with a large steel, (25 metres) cigar which glowed fittingly at night.  These new folks were there to look after Hazelwood, the big new power plant, bought over from Britain.  It possessed eight stacks, which is blue riband speak for very impressive indeed!

Things all went swimmingly until the nineties when it was decided, by then Premier Jeff Kennett, that the place and all the equipment would be best sold off, “as private enterprise is much more efficient”, and would provide greater ‘Value’ to the public.  Which he did.  In no time flat all the generators were sold off, and the vast majority of the employees welded to it, were given substantial and generous packages. Which I’m happy to say they all spent.

Now, without the memory of George Bates and his good natured paternalism, there’s no one left to look after those who stayed behind, there were no jobs in the big city either, and after closing down the local TAFE it became surprisingly clear that training and re-training was unnecessary as you could just as easily employ 457 visa holders.  So the sump was left behind, human detritus,and recently, (last summer) it blew up with fire in the pit.  No one really cared, they were untermensch anyway, and certainly not shareholders.  They, being residue were virtually ignored, and like all those who live on the margins, their impotence will keep them angry for generations to come.  Part of the beauty of the privatisation meant that the very powerful Engine Drivers Union, as a local power and political voice could be sidelined and replaced by a very non local provider Suez Energy.  Suez has bought a bit of the Egyptian government with it, to treat its constituents with contempt, (death penalties pending).

And that’s what the post privatisation public have come to expect. Serfdom of sorts.

by Christopher Morley (With a followup by Tarquin O’Flaherty Tomorrow!)

To-day we rather intended to write an essay on Laziness, but were too indolent to do so.

The sort of thing we had in mind to write would have been exceedingly persuasive. We intended to discourse a little in favour of a greater appreciation of Indolence as a benign factor in human affairs.

It is our observation that every time we get into trouble it is due to not having been lazy enough. Unhappily, we were born with a certain fund of energy. We have been hustling about for a number of years now, and it doesn’t seem to get us anything but tribulation. Henceforward we are going to make a determined effort to be more languid and demure. It is the bustling man who always gets put on committees, who is asked to solve the problems of other people and neglect his own.

The man who is really, thoroughly, and philosophically slothful is the only thoroughly happy man. It is the happy man who benefits the world. The conclusion is inescapable.

We remember a saying about the meek inheriting the earth. The truly meek man is the lazy man. He is too modest to believe that any ferment and hubbub of his can ameliorate the earth or assuage the perplexities of humanity.

O. Henry said once that one should be careful to distinguish laziness from dignified repose. Alas, that was a mere quibble. Laziness is always dignified, it is always reposeful. Philosophical laziness, we mean. The kind of laziness that is based upon a carefully reasoned analysis of experience. Acquired laziness. We have no respect for those who were born lazy; it is like being born a millionaire: they cannot appreciate their bliss. It is the man who has hammered his laziness out of the stubborn material of life for whom we chant praise and allelulia.

The laziest man we know—we do not like to mention his name, as the brutal world does not yet recognize sloth at its community value—is one of the greatest poets in this country; one of the keenest satirists; one of the most rectilinear thinkers. He began life in the customary hustling way. He was always too busy to enjoy himself. He became surrounded by eager people who came to him to solve their problems. “It’s a queer thing,” he said sadly; “no one ever comes to me asking for help in solving my problems.” Finally the light broke upon him. He stopped answering letters, buying lunches for casual friends and visitors from out of town, he stopped lending money to old college pals and frittering his time away on all the useless minor matters that pester the good-natured. He sat down in a secluded café with his cheek against a seidel of dark beer and began to caress the universe with his intellect.

The most damning argument against the Germans is that they were not lazy enough. In the middle of Europe, a thoroughly disillusioned, indolent and delightful old continent, the Germans were a dangerous mass of energy and bumptious push. If the Germans had been as lazy, as indifferent, and as righteously laissez-fairish as their neighbours, the world would have been spared a great deal.

People respect laziness. If you once get a reputation for complete, immovable, and reckless indolence the world will leave you to your own thoughts, which are generally rather interesting.

Doctor Johnson, who was one of the world’s great philosophers, was lazy. Only yesterday our friend the Caliph showed us an extraordinarily interesting thing. It was a little leather-bound notebook in which Boswell jotted down memoranda of his talks with the old doctor. These notes he afterward worked up into the immortal Biography. And lo and behold, what was the very first entry in this treasured little relic?

Doctor Johnson told me in going to Ilam from Ashbourne, 22 September, 1777, that the way the plan of his Dictionary came to be addressed to Lord Chesterfield was this: He had neglected to write it by the time appointed. Dodsley suggested a desire to have it addressed to Lord C. Mr. J. laid hold of this as an excuse for delay, that it might be better done perhaps, and let Dodsley have his desire. Mr. Johnson said to his friend, Doctor Bathurst: “Now if any good comes of my addressing to Lord Chesterfield it will be ascribed to deep policy and address, when, in fact, it was only a casual excuse for laziness.”

Thus we see that it was sheer laziness that led to the greatest triumph of Doctor Johnson’s life, the noble and memorable letter to Chesterfield in 1775.

Mind your business is a good counsel; but mind your idleness also. It’s a tragic thing to make a business of your mind. Save your mind to amuse yourself with.

The lazy man does not stand in the way of progress. When he sees progress roaring down upon him he steps nimbly out of the way. The lazy man doesn’t (in the vulgar phrase) pass the buck. He lets the buck pass him. We have always secretly envied our lazy friends. Now we are going to join them. We have burned our boats or our bridges or whatever it is that one burns on the eve of a momentous decision.

Writing on this congenial topic has roused us up to quite a pitch of enthusiasm and energy.

Christopher Morley (1920)

Poetry Editor Ira Maine has supplied this gem.  I am in awe.

When I was at school, and under constant threat from Christian Brothers, one of the blessed reliefs from the horrors of algebra and the like was an hour of English. During one of these sessions we were asked to learn (by heart) a short, rather sentimental poem about a now deserted school which went thus:

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day’s disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circled round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew;
Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, time and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For e’en tho’ vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length,and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

 Perhaps I had been told at the time and had forgotten, but the lines quoted here are from a much longer poem written by Oliver Goldsmith called ‘The Deserted Village’.  Goldsmith was born in either Roscommon or Longford in Ireland in 1730, the son of a Church of Ireland (Anglican) minister, and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin.  Goldsmith was expected to enter the Church, but failure to apply himself to his studies saw him instead move to London where he was quickly accepted into the intellectual establishment of the day.  He remained a lifelong friend of both Dr Samuel Johnson and Sir Joshua Reynolds, with whom he formed ‘The Club’, a famous and regular dining engagement.

It is my intention, over one or two Sundays to attempt to explore this poem and relate it to the social history of the period.

Suffice it to say that I feel Goldsmith has easily in the above lines, seduced us into his 18^th century country village life.  I myself was once a “boding trembler” and I feel, even now, there is no better way to describe the apprehension felt by a child who in the morning, scans the teacher’s face for even a hint of warmth.  I laughed enthusiastically too, (and hypocritically) at many an oft repeated joke; is there a student on earth who hasn’t?

And then too, how cleverly Goldsmith demonstrates in a few lines how important an educated man can become in a small, relatively illiterate community;

‘The village all declared how much he knew;
Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure,terms and tides presage, [predict]
And even the story ran that he could gauge. [displacement of water,etc etc.]

His task then was not simply teaching; in an illiterate community there was the writing of letters, dealing with bureaucracies, reading letters from soldiers, or about the deaths of soldiers, settling disputes, checking boundaries and the million and one other difficulties an uneducated village had with a growing bureaucracy. The man was indispensable.

Having pointed this out, Goldsmith then sets about making us care about this schoolmaster;

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;

How can we not care about such a man?  Especially when we discover that he had faults, not the least of which was his attempt, when all else fails, when his various arguments, conducted in the most high faluting manner turn out to be nonsense, he would then proceed, (according to the parson) with ‘words of learned length and thundering sound’ to amaze the rustics with endless high flown bullshit! (just like the rest of us!)

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
And e’en tho’ vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around.

Goldsmith here conjures up an image of all the ‘wits’ of the village, gathered of an evening in the local hostelry to listen to the parson, the teacher and perhaps a local magistrate or lawyer, get drunk and enter into somewhat heated (and invariably entertaining) discussion.

Perhaps next time we’ll have a look at some of the other characters in this work

This post was first published on 17 November 2010

Buenos dias amigos,
In another century on another continent (Alla lejos y hace tiempo- Far and long ago),
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mr822-ap-Mg
my father on occasions hired Toledo’s taxi to travel to the city and buy materials for his engineering workshop. On one occasion Toledo pulled up to ask a traffic policemen for directions. The policeman duly pulled out his directory and studiously leafed through it and then started telling Toledo what he wanted to know. Suddenly without warning Toledo threw the car into gear and sped off. Rather impolite, thought my dad “¿Porque hiciste eso?” (Why did you do that?), “¿No te diste cuenta?” (didn’t you notice?) … “the guy was holding his directory upside down”

On another occasion, a Saturday, dad took me with them. I remember us sneaking in the back door of the warehouse. It was the metal merchant’s Sabbath.

A few years later, dad was weeding his small garden in the Netherlands. A neighbour walked past with his nose up in the air and refused to greet dad. The neighbour was a Christian fundamentalist. It was a Sunday.

Pondering this, I realise that all my life I have witnessed and/or taken part in acts of cross cultural compromise, tolerance and intolerance. What I’m witnessing now in Yuendumu is the most uncompromising intolerant assault on Warlpiri identity in the half a lifetime I’ve lived here.

When I was 12 years old, our school (San Miguél High School) went to a piano concert given by a 13 year old “child prodigy”. I now believe that it was Daniel Barenboim. In a documentary film, Daniel celebrates his “Multiple Identities”.    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DdPng_HGoo

In my opinion to deliberately deny multiple identities (and its interlinked multilingualism) to anyone is nothing less than a crime.

Like the Buenos Aires policeman, Warlpiri people often tell you what they think you’d like to hear. Many a public servant has left Yuendumu thinking they convinced a group of Warlpiri people to agree to whatever they were sent to Yuendumu to “negotiate” or “consult”, only to find that they were made “non-core” promises, or that the “agreement” they reached has got very little community support, or that the people that “agreed” had no authority to do so. Anyone that speaks up against such proposals is dismissed as a “troublemaker” and subsequently avoided or ignored. Alternative suggestions are given token recognition “that is a very good suggestion” in a patronising tone of voice (and then unspoken “did you think of this all by yourself?” and with surprise “my oh my but you are intelligent”), and then never mentioned again. “Committees” are continuously being set up whose main raison d’être appears to be to rubber-stamp pre-made decisions.

If you read the Australian press, you will know that a group of Yuendumu people went to Adelaide following a serious “family dispute” the result of a stabbing death in Alice Springs. Several cars were burnt and several houses were trashed at the height of the disturbances. My understanding is that the group originally left for Adelaide to give the grieving family some “space”. The media have since relabelled the dispute a “riot” and have portrayed the group as “fearing for their lives”. The media hype and actions by the authorities have exacerbated the tensions. The outside world has successfully driven a wedge into Yuendumu society, whose social fabric was already unravelling under the relentless assimilationist attack.

I have spoken to a few people that attended a “housing” meeting held in Yuendumu yesterday. To what extent I was told what these people thought I would like to hear, I have no way of assessing.

Five public servants descended on Yuendumu to hold the meeting. Yes, five of them. The houses that were damaged are in the process of being repaired. Territory Housing are paying for the repairs which are (as has become the norm) being carried out by outside contractors. At the meeting it was pointed out that these houses had originally belonged to the Yuendumu Community Council (since “amalgamated” out of existence into the Alice Springs run Central Desert Shire) but had been appropriated by Territory Housing. Ever since these houses were built, people have had rent taken out from their pay or Centrelink payments. Rents have been charged (admittedly at low rates) regardless of how many people were living in any particular house, and there have been quite a few cases of people absent for long periods or living at an “outstation” (which receive no Shire “services”) that have had rent deducted automatically. The Shire gets paid by Territory Housing to carry out certain tasks and functions. It is unclear to me who receives the rent payments.

I’m told that at this meeting the head Government “negotiator” mentioned the word “leases” at least five times. Rental agreements were also mentioned several times. The meeting was purported to be about “what should happen to the houses that we repaired”. Quite a while ago I heard some authority figure (I forgot who) say that “yes we will repair the houses at Yuendumu, but residents will have to sign tenancy agreements”. It was then that I first smelt a rat in relation to this matter. Political opportunism had raised its ugly head.

The meeting in Yuendumu came to naught in as far as it was decided that “before we tackle the housing problem, we should deal with the social problem first”. In other words: “piss off we have bigger fish to fry”. But they won’t, they’ll be back, like an incurable rash.

Yuendumu to date has not agreed to the Federal “offer” of houses (under the SIHIP programme- The Northern Territory’s own “Pink Bats” fiasco.) in exchange for 40 year leases. We are “last man standing”.

“…Not backing down, not giving in

I wouldn’t lose, I couldn’t…..”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IOmMZBZGBps

I’ve said it before “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean no one’s out to get you”. When I told my sister this, she retorted “Just because you’re misunderstood, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re an artist”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aIhh9nFYv4

Even better, she told me that:

“He who seeks for applause only from without, has his happiness in another’s keeping”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPMYkITzxn0

Adiós
Franklin

PS. el tipo que toca el tambór es geniál, tiene lo que los franceses llaman “joie de vivre” (de-code Google Translate: Spanish to whatever you like)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9wVcuwG-Xw

I am privy to the following correspondence.  Can anyone tell me what it all means? Or at least where I can fit myself out with a good Beret, Bow Tie and Cravat

from Quentin Cockburn:
… things like the turkish baths, the corridors, the gymnasium and the theatre all come to mind.. at first i thought it may be victorian, and then i thoughtm, ( after detailed descriptions from Ira, “what the heck” may as well be part palladiian, rococo, elizabethan, and perhaps a hideous 20th cent admin block to stuff it all up and keep it off the historic buildings register.. Sort of like Christopher Wren meets modern Birmingham, without the muslim fndamentalism thrown in…cos we all know that christian teaching aint bigoted.

To which Ira Maine added:
Regarding  ghastly1960’s  and 70’s architectural creations, noticeable for their  either flat or sloping roofs and their astonishing resemblance to petrol stations, Prince Charles back in the 80’s suggested that a projected extension to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square;
 ‘… looked like a carbuncle on the face of a….friend.’

Thence Quentin again:
You is spot on on this one…( is that a split infinitive or just a redundant use of the pronoun on)  Is it a pronoun?
You see that’s what i like about a constitutional monarchy, perhaps ive got a riposte to (Monday’s pcbycp Defence of the Monarchy) coming on?..
You see when Charles gets to be king it’ll be a bit like Ted Bailleau on steroids, the bloke’s not born to the purple, he’s literally soaking in it and there’s a touch of Shane Warne also, he’s a genius at being the prince regent, and when he finally gets there, and he sadly abdicates in favour of Ken and Barbie, we’ll all be the Poorer, cos Rupert wil have won again, and the eccentric, thoughtful socially minded titular, (is there any better) head will be done in!!  It’s like richard the turd and the little turdettes in the tower, cept no one will be calmouring for Dick!!My suggestion, (this is scary) is that I physically stay at your joint overnight next week, an we let the architectue flourish, cos i reckon, ( i have this on good authority) , that post war modernism was worse than George Bush’s invasion if Iraq!!  And , (i also have this on good authority) that most architects are would be artists, but they’re terrified of leaving the safety net of professional, which makes them go Heinrich Himmler as far as self delusion is concerned…  

It’s that thing you know, Successful surgeons wear bow ties.. shiteful artists wear berets, and the very worst architects, for whom original thought is a complete stranger, will wear bow ties, berets, and cravats.. 

I rest my rigorous and well founded research upon this basis of observed fact!