” 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.

No Sheilah problem in parliament, No WUCKEN FURRIES!

Dear reader, as you may recall, this episode leaves us where we left off, with our intrepid journalists getting no closer to the nemesis, the penis wielding oppressor, lurking within our parliamentary corridors.  For the integrity of democracy itself and the the right for good wholesome clean-living women to work in government we had to get to the bottom of this .

And so we arrived in Canberra, as usual the streets were eerily empty. It was another RDO, a TIL and AL kind of day. (for the uninitiated, Rostered Day off, Time in Lieu, and Annual Leave)

Hey Chris, I’ve gotta new Dick Joke for ya!

It was virtually impossible to get into parliament itself. After the security checks, the body cavity searches, the scanners, the police checks, the working with children checks and the dna testing we were five kilos lighter and malnourished.  The bloke at the front desk just looked at us, when we answered “reason for visit?”, we said; ‘as concerned citizens’. That’s when he pressed a button and fifteen paramilitary federal police with Sten guns, a Gatling, an old School twenty-five pounder and a Bren gun surrounded us. 

Cos it was getting close to Anzac Day they were experimenting with ‘heritage weaponry” we felt honoured. It was gonna a be part of “Brave Anzacs and Paramilitary” in the new AWM Complex. The purpose being to demonstrate how the armed forces are sworn by the name of Her Majesty the Queen to defend politicians against the Citizenry, with interactive exhibits and exciting displays detailing how dangerous it would be to Australia if the two party monopoly was ever challenged.

We explained, as they held bayonets to our throats, ‘we just wanted, as citizens to ask a few questions’?

Before you could say ‘Witness K’ we were standing before Mr Potato-Head himself, 

“WHADDAYOUWANT’?, he bawled. ‘We’re just here to ask a few questions about Mrs Culthorpe, who did a stint as a parliamentary intern. ……We were wondering’?

‘I’LL DO THE TALKING,’! ‘Which Minister’?, 

Couldn’t hack the pace, if the pace is too hot don’t get into the kitchen!

‘We think it was Minister Reynolds,’?
 

‘YOU CAN’T SEE HER!” 

Why?, 

“SHE’S ON LEAVE’!

‘Well,  perhaps the Nations lawman, Mr Porter’? 

“YOU CAN’T SEE HIM’!

Why?

“HE’S ON LEAVE ALSO”!

“Well then’, we searched for answers, “howsabout the lawyer, representing Mr Porter, Cant we see her either’? 

He promised to marry her, and she BELIEVED HIM! We ARKS YA!

‘SHE’S BEEN SACKED”!

‘Why’?

‘THAT’S A FUCKEN STUPID QUESTION, THE USUAL REASON’!

What reason?

‘NOT WEARING TROUSERS’!

“What about the lady who is charge of communications or the lady who ran Aussie Post”?

“SACKED’!, 

DUMB-ARSE! Should’ve got Tag Heuer watches, Cartier is GAY!

‘The Minister for Womens Affairs”?

“ON LEAVE’!

“The leader in the senate enquiry into the status of women”?

“DIED TRAGICALLY’! 

“How’? we asked timidly, 

“She fell on a poly-vinyl poof whilst rehearsing sexual assault defensive Ju-Jitsu on the floor of the senate and fractured her sternum and died of radiation sickness as a consequence of being allergic to antibiotics and a new therapy’!

‘What therapy’?

SORE LOSERS! Couldn’t HACK IT!

“ Gender conversion therapy, to fnd her inner MANLINESS’!!!. 

He paused; ’on that count SHE FAILED SPECTACULARLY’!

“Well then, what about the Shadow Ministry’? 

“There IS no Shadow Ministry! There’s only the government, WHICH I RUN”!

“The National Party lady who did the sports rorts”? 

“SACKED’!

“The lady who works the tea room”?

“On leave’!.. “what for’? 

“STRESS’!

“Have you got any women in parliament or ministers not on leave’?

‘YES’

“MYSELF, I answer for any woman who is on stress leave, sacked or not in the building”! 

A Green Scarf won’t save ya LUV!

‘Well then,  Mrs Culthorpe”, we tried to explain, and we were cut off mid sentence, 

“WE HAVE NO WOMEN PROBLEM IN PARLIAMENT’!

Just then, the rifle bolts clicked, and we could hear the clickety clack of the Bren gun safety catch being released. 

WE realised, our time was up, 

Potato head leered at us.. 

“Go on then Boys”, 

“MAKE MY DAY’!

We got the hint, there was NO WOMAN PROBLEM in Parliament, 

WE realised something was iffy as we were frog-marched out. We couldn’t see a woman anywhere. “It’s like those American films of the forties and fifties where you never see a person of colour” I murmured to Ces, “what you’re talking about  is contemporary Australian telly. I spose that’s what parliament is for, like our telly to present to he world how we view ourselves. All  that’s white, insular and insecure, and ruled by dicks’. 

Historic parliamentary intern was imprisoned just for being a sheilah!

“Maybe’, Ces demurred, “Parliament aint a safe place for Sheila’s’?, 

‘Precisely, but who dunnit’? 

We looked around all of men in uniform were laughing and scratching their balls, and we could tell guffawing about a scrawl potato-head had made on the white board? It was a dick joke. In a second these stern faced men armed to the teeth were in stitches. Dutton had them in his thrall. He was a magician, a conjurer, a leader among MEN who understood motivation and duty. And somehow it was all encapsulated in a dick joke. If Canberra was ruled by a dick joke diaspora  finding Mrs Culthorpe’s oppressor was gonna be like like trying to find the proverbial needle in the hay-stack. 

Other Historic Sheilah, caused a HELLUVA LOTTA TROUBLE!

And there were just too many needles. And not a lot of hay stack either. 

MAKE MY DAY!

Will our heroes get through in the end? Is Canberra a closed door to he public? Find out in our next stimulating episode, “Canberra or Cant- berra”, or “our  lady in waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting, and waiting, etc.etc…(op cit) 

Dear ardent and passionate readership, today ‘Poetry Sunday’ is re- released. 

It’s a NEW LOOK Poetry Sunday!

Gone are all the cobwebs, the weight of tradition and the sad flip flop of poets crushed by the human conditioner, Harpic Flush-matic and Hospital grade Domestos.

This new look, bold, brave, audacious Poetry Sunday comes supercharged, at WARP SPEED!

With approvals from our Home Affairs Minister, (the Gau-leiter of Brisbane Peter Dutton), the Peoples’ Daily and Lord Rupert of Murdoch. This new epoch,  the new shiny-new, anodyne, aerodyne Poetry Sunday arrives on your breakfast plate, boiled, fried, poached or scrambled, as pre- prepared  food for the Soul! It’s lightness of touch will go down easy with your sizzling bacon or chips, and (taken in responsible doses) do wonders for your love life, your self esteem and make you walk with the lightness of step that comes with an inner glow that self knowledge is its own reward. 

So settle back for the poerty of Geoff Boyes. 

Next weeks edition will include a brief bio of Geoff. But in the great tradition of Aussie literature we present him just as he is,   enigmatic, impassive, impenetrable and unfathomable and deeply antipodean.

And for those suffering Sunday morning hangovers, a talisman of “Things to Come”!

So take it away Geoff…

TEN DOLLAR BOTTLE

“Pub Scene’, Lithograph. Sir Geoffrey Boyes the Elder,(1872-1935) R.A, RWEA, OBE.

Ten Dollar Bottle of Forget © Geoff Boyes

Think I’ll buy a bottle,

As cheap as I can get

Thoughts of you drift in and out

Of ten dollars’ worth of forget.

Drown out the memories,

Cast aside my old doubts

Lose it all in a bottle

Ten dollars’ worth of wiped out.

Then tomorrow, you’ll be forgotten,

Lost in hangovers sweet remorse

But when your face I see again,

Another ten dollar bottle, of course.

Mrs Culthorpe before the fall. Outside Parliament.

Dear reader, we continue where we left off, trying to get the bottom of who was responsible for Mrs Culthorpe’s condition post her stint as a parliamentary intern.   Read on for another penetrating insight ….

We were getting nowhere with our enquiries, the entire front bench of both parties had gone silent. It was a code of silence. Almost as if everyone knew something, but no one wanted to let the cat out of the bag. 

We had to bell the cat… 

But with Mrs Culthorpe’s deteriorating condition, we knew we were running out of time, 

But what could we do?

In desperation, we decided to set up an identikit and get her to nod.  A nod at the very least would give us an indication of who the culprit was. 

The identikit proved to be enthralling. 

As an intern Mrs Culthorpe soon became victim to an historically nuanced penis wielding oppressor and the toxic culture of parliament.

Good ol fashioned detective work. As we matched profiles, faces and types, bald, moustached and tattooed, Mrs Culthorpe looked passive, no reaction we glumly thought. It was only a matter of time she’d be dead and the culprit, that penis wielding oppressor taking refuge in the corridors of our finest institution would get away scot free. 

It was getting harder still, cos as senior detective Losenge-Botham termed it. ‘THIS was an historical crime. And because of that it reeked of Rolf Harris’. 

We weren’t quite sure what he meant, but ‘Rolf Harris’ sounded pretty scary, and we knew how long that took to bring the colourful performative picaresque painter to brook. 

Still Ces persisted with short faces, long faces, fat faces, happy, evil, friendly till he almost gave up. I was preparing mashed potato and snags all awhile. Poor Mrs Culthorpe just sat impervious in her chair and dribbled. I gathered the potatoes and a big round potato fell outta the bag….. all of a sudden Mrs Culthorpe twitched…. 

It was a sign. I picked up the potato , she twitched again. 

The P.M’s right hand man. Mr Potato Head.

Was it the potato? I pleaded, 

Just then the tannoy crackled, it was the midday news we heard just a fragment, but that fragment hit us like a thunderbolt!

‘Home Affairs Minister Peter Dutton has praised his colleague Christian Porter’s public defence against rape allegations on Wednesday and claimed the attacks against him were driven by politics.

Mr Dutton said he had watched the press conference and described Mr Porter’s performance in front of probing questions from the press, in which he denied all allegations him, as “gutsy”.

High Noon. A lawmaker and a “Gutsy Performance’!

‘Gutsy’ we liked the description, Mr Porter of whom we all respected was the highest law-maker in the land and ‘gutsy’ re-affirmed that in our view he was not a pillow biter, a pansy or a pinko. It was reassuring, almost as if our senior law-man was Gary Cooper in ‘High Noon’ The baddies were out to get him and he was pleading with us, “ Do not forsake me oh my darling’

‘Dutto’ continued his soliloquy, we became transfixed by the courage evinced by out top law-man.

“To watch him stand up there and go through that vilification even with some of those journalists in the room who were just baying for blood, I thought his performance was quite remarkable and he held up the best he could,” Mr Dutton said on 2GB radio’.

So that’s it, we tossed the potato triumphantly in the air, so it was Potato Head we ejaculated….

To our surprise Mrs Culthorpe just looked blank. No potato. 

Was it Porter? we asked …

There was a brief flicker of recognition, and though the mouth was fixed with dribble and dementia, she almost smiled, and then, nodded furiously in the negative, 

Not Potato Head? Not Porter? Who the hell in damnation has caused this catastrophe?. 

Just then, she stopped nodding. 

This is what a ‘Gutsy Performance’ looks like

There was an ad break on the  telly, 

It was an advert for a new time share resort in a place they call ‘Avalon – land’. It boasted credentials of 100 % hygienic, and fully flushable clear glass toilets. 

Could this be the link? The airport, the corridors of power? The big man they call ‘Lindsay’ and the inscrutable Mr Whu?

We were no closer but could tell, for women in parliament the situation was dire. And it was a situation that went ‘ right to the top”. And was the abuse suffered by Mrs Culthorpe historical? Just one look ,we could tell that she was history personified.

The ever inscrutable Mr Whu in the High-roller room at Federal Parliament. Could he be the culprit?

The optics weren’t good and she was fading fast. Perhaps Mr Potato Head knew something. In a flash, Ces and I jumped into the Kingswood . ONLY one man could help us out, and it was a man who could see a “Gutsy performance” I ever there was one, Mr Potato head himself. Peter “dutto” Dutton. 

Will our intrepid reporters get to the pointy end?  And save Mrs Culthorpe’s honour? Find out in our next solenacious episode, ‘three potatoes short of the mash’, or ‘Gutsy performances prevail penultimately’.

Mrs Culthorpe, a victim of parliamentarysub-culture

Dear reader, as you will be aware, ever since Mrs Culthorpe returned from her stint as an intern in Federal Parliament, things have not been the same. 

Indeed, though we recognise the “Paths to nowhere training scheme” gave Mrs Culthorpe a heads up in the competitive jobs market, we agreed with the job futures network agency, (a fully funded private employment training scheme),” that employment criteria which favoured young energetic employees who could be allied to enterprise bargaining agreements and a lower wages were more likely to gain full employment over the likes of  Mrs Culthorpe’, whom after her recent stint in a private aged care facility has lost, (inadvertently the owners say) the gift of speech, continence, and betrayed traces of Berri Berri, Scrub Typhus, Dysentry and Cholera as a consequence of her being interned in the Happy Meadow Retirement Villa, (ABN 25 215 32 499). 

Still we had a problem, On a Stephen Hawking type computer tablet, with the styli gripped determinedly between her teeth, she tried to scrawl the name of the parliamentarian who had so cruelly abused her. 

Our P.M, standing by principle

To our shock, and after due analysis, she had scrawled the names and tell-tale vital-statistics of most of the front bench of cabinet. How could this be? Until after another agonising wait, she made it clear that those arrangements were consensual. Clearly there was something funny going on in parliament.  So as we pressed for further information Mrs Culthorpe, already frail, suffered a seizure, and is unable to do much other than stare and nod occasionally. 

So it’s up to us to determine who did it, and find the culprit, 

But where to start, that was the question? 

Not much point going to the P.M we said, he knows nothing about any form of sexual impropriety. And if he did, he’d expunge it from his soul through happy clapping and talking in tongues. 

Gauleiter of Brisbane

We asked the most powerful law man in the country, the Gauleiter of Brisbane, Herr Dutton. He directed us to an offshore detention facility which we politely declined. The normally ebullient Michaela Cash couldn’t help us either. 

Bugger, we’d been left with more clues than the Metropolitan Police encountered during the reign of the ripper, with nothing to show for it.

We tried asking all the pollies, and they just smirked, 

It seems they all knew who’d done it, and yet were unwilling to break the code. 

‘A code of honour’? said Ces, 

‘Nup, the code of doing anything that might get in the way of the perks, the super, and the lifetime of sitting on well paid boards, as lobbyists and rivers of cash for doing precisely what they’re doing now’.

Michaela salutes the Gauleiter.

“Representing the people”? I naively said. 

Pshaw! Ces sputtered, “for doing nothing, and looking after mates, 

Perhaps one of their mates could help us”?

But, who was man enough to speak out? Clearly a sheilah in distress was of interest to no one, 

Ces chuckled, ‘it’s almost as if she was a fucking refugee’… 

We had to have a laugh, well I spose, at least they’re not just racist, 

That was a thought, there was depth in parliament after all. 

Michaela learnt the salute from H.M

Will our duo unlock the code of silence? 

What will they find?

And does anyone on the front bench care enough to squeal? 

Find out in our next episode, “Draw ranks and you’re FIRED” or…. “ Don’t look now, its principle’!