Dear reader once again our heroes are in the thick of it. 

Could the mystery voice belong to another powerful woman? Arguably just as powerful as ‘the Big G’!

About to meet Australia’s most powerful woman, they’re disturbed by the change in her voice. Disturbed enough to realise there’s something uncannily familiar in the air, and yet threatening. 

They had been hijacked by ‘Operation Grand Slam’. Was it the mission, to monetise the hand-back of the Darwin port? Or just another hand-over of publicly funded state and federal assets to Transurban and Exxon so that they could be free of the irritating requirement to pay tax? Or just a facade to hide the goodwill of Lord Rupert of Murdoch? 

A woman who knows how to wield power and influence with deft skill on the sporting field and in choosing other worthy causes?

Whatever Macabre Machiavellian Machination was afoot, they, like the Coalition’s Carbon Policy were clue-less, cept for the stern reminder that with ‘Benny-Boy’ at their side one false mood change by Gina could mean certain death. The irony, was excruciating. Here they were being admitted to the secret inner sanctum of arguably Australia’s most powerful woman, by Australia’s most decorated soldier, EVER, and all for the sake of Mrs Culthorpe the tea-lady who’d done it hard after her stint as a parliamentary intern. Was it worth it? What value humanity? Can humanity be dug up? Is it viable like franking credits and a Gas-Led recovery in restoring the national character? 

Is ‘Grand-slam’, as the characters translated from the Mandarin just an acronym for ; “Reap profit for General Commander Oceanic region”, or was it much more sinister? The etags piled up in the corner indicated just one thing, if it came to rent-seeking on a monumental scale Transurban was bound to be in on it.  Other brochures told a similar worrying story, the evidence stacked up. Crown Casino betting slips. A users guide to the laundry facilities at Barangaroo. Ticket butts from the high roller gaming lounge at Crown Casino Melbourne, and travel brochures signed ‘Angus’ bestowed the delights of the Cayman Islands, Monaco and the Virgin Islands.  If international travel was code for  ‘tax dodge’, Angus was a Peter Stuyvesant advert, all class and a lotta smoke. 

A woman of character, both inflexible and indomitable!

Other brochures spoke of his intent to develop in a private partnership with Transurban and the Happy Eight Golden Dragon Corp Australia’s most successful Concentration camp re-badged as the prospectus showed, ‘the Happy Eight Centre for Higher Education’. On the cover in partnership with the University of Melbourne and Exxon it proclaimed “BELIEVE”, a true sign of the illuminating bond between university and the marketing punch of big money. On another, vocational colleges for convicted felons, whose crimes included jay-walking, fine defaults and the crime of offending public decency. A colour code within each brochure identifying the skin colour and tone of those most likely according to Australian tradition of being incarcerated with terms and income derivatives indexed in a glossary. Another brochure pleaded: ‘had enough of deaths in custody? Try the Re-branded “ Conniston Corrective Centre”! The prospectus promised high returns for processing and a cash back job – keeper type payment for sponsored inmates who inadvertently topped themselves. 

Ces Whispered; ‘this is gold, Tales is making money outta Abo’s both dead or alive, and reaping government kickbacks just for finding em. This really is a Nation-Building scheme to make us all proud’.

 ‘Yep, I whispered, you’ve gotta hand it to China for getting the system right. The sheer grandeur of the scheme, though corrupted by base greed and evil was inspiring, demonstration enough of what human-kind can do to create TRUE WEALTH!

But was this enough to guide the future direction of foreign policy, domestic policy and every-fink? 

Behind POWERFUL WOMEN are POWERFUL MEN!

All of it with Angus as the main beneficiary? Or was it just another twist in the defilement of Mrs Culthorpe after she returned a rusk of her former self after her stint as a parliamentary intern? 

MEN who have a way with INFLUENCE and Unquestionable INTEGRITY!

On another wall a chart indicated the entire north west of Western Australia cleansed of native title, and a ‘Special Enterprise Development Zone marked in nine dashes. It was heartening to see  the same cryptography used in the nine dash line of territorial sovereignty over the South China Sea and all the other bits of New Guinea not  yet converted to naval bases.  On the top of each maps, options to be shared jointly between Jam-land and Andrew Robb investment Corp. The stellar performer in the coalition who gave us the Australia-China free trade policy. ‘Good ol Andy’, Ces muttered,’ at least he’s coping with his bi-polar and depressive tendencies by being busy’. 

Indeed we could see minions delivering trolleys full of papers into huge hoppers and being carted off to who knows where? The activity was fierce and relentless. 

In a instant the activity stopped, a bell rang clamorously and the thousands looked up, standing to attention and with an eerie silence the whirr, the clatter, the maelstrom was stilled, 

Or are these men just an over-ripe tomato short of the full fruit salad?

What will happen next? Will they be grist to the industrial mill? Or will they be oblivious to  oblivion? Find out in the next indexed and itemised chapter, ‘For Whomever the bell tolls’, or ‘Five minutes to Midnight’s sunken garden’. 

Dear reader,

Once again our heroes are in the thick of it.

To cut a long story short, after failing in their quest to find out who defiled their tea-lady Mrs Culthorpe as a parliamentary intern, they have been ensnared in global intrigue and the machinations of the most powerful man in Australia, Angus Taylor and his monetising minder Gina.

Is this the end? Or the beginning of the end of the beginning? Find out in the next palpitating episode.  For as the SAS say, ‘Who dares WINS’!………read on…….

Bentham, a flamin GENIUS of the ‘Old Country”

Beyond the din, corridor upon corridor branched out as in a Benthamite prison. If you don’t know what a Benthamite prison, think an Immigration Detention Centre, but much more enriching for the staff  who nourish the wicked and wretched. 

As far as the eye could see, row upon row of flickering  computer screens and on either side of the cavernous concrete and steel antechamber, (if you could call it that), rows and rows of operatives, all wearing Border Force uniforms. Their gaze fixed upon screens which flickered with the activity of global movements.  Movements across state borders. Telecommunications over the entire Pacific region and the attendant pulse of human activity. No movement. No matter how loose could escape undetected! Such was the reach of Gina’s telecommunication tentacles.

‘Genius’ is easily identified by VISION eccentric gait and a BIG HAT!

They, (Borderforce)  had their collective fingers pressed on the buttons, which controlled the levers, which in turn controlled the ribbons of commerce and industry. Every movement, every vehicle, truck, car, motorcycle, tram, railway engine, (be it electric, steam or diesel) articulated vehicle, motor omnibus, cable car, mono-rail, perambulator,  or skateboard was monitored.

If you think China’s facial recognition was over the top, this made it look like the entire national dna, had been reduced to binary code. And it was cross-referenced and  ‘on tap’, for GINA! (inclusive of water rights and the niggardly nuisance value of native title). Every telecommunication system that criss-crossed the country and the position of every unit of the Royal Australian Navy were monitored. It’s one functioning submarine and the other helicopter expensively purchased from our great ally and protector the United States not yet grounded bespoke of heightened alert. 

The atmosphere was intense with the business of preparation. Perhaps “the Drums of war were BEATING”!!

IN AUSTRALIA we have men of VISION!

With all the activity, the air thick with the rank residue of sweat, energy drinks and coffee we felt insignificant. Pathetically insignificant. Like an electorate against the RIGHT and MIGHT of the lobbyist.  Fly specks upon the machinations of Global PAN GLOBAL NATIONAL STRATEGY!

In the distance, a distance that seemed to recede into infinity, came  the shocking realisation that the scale of this enterprise was beyond comprehension. The Pentagon was big, but this was BIGGER!!

And being Australia, where we don’t like to blow the proverbial trumpet,   it was ‘underground’.  

Another dimly lit cathedral sized portrait of the most powerful man in Australia, Angus Taylor resplendent in his ‘Chinese People’s Army General’s Uniform’. On the other side of the dark corridor even more resplendent in a Supreme Commander the Oceanic region and bits of the Moon and Mars not yet colonised the Chinese President Xi. It was as if Xi and Angus were facing off across the room. It symbolised everything, Angus’s genius for backing the winner, and Xi’s reliability in making the trains run on time. 

‘Xi Whizz ‘! Ces whispered, ‘looks like they’ve got the whole shebang stitched up. It’s written in plain English; ‘the new 100 year lease on the new Naval base’. And there sure enough on the bottom corner a map of Port Phillip Bay and at the very bottom end, the name of Point Nepean and its surrounds re- labelled, ‘Port Xi’!

GENIUS, VISION, BIG HAT!

But before we had time of our own to to let it all  sink in, from behind a curtain came a voice. 

A voice so repugnant with evil and the corrupted froth of power, that it sent a chill through the creased inner sleeves of our Safari jackets. And yet, sinister and reeking of corrupted filth it sounded eerily familiar. So this was Gina? 

Gina was soft spoken, yet this was harsh. 

Perhaps the desert air had afflicted her tonsils?

Perhaps the iron ore which she owned for the benefit and well-being of all Australians had corrupted her larynx. We stood stock still, and could only hear Benny’s deep breathing, till standing bolt upright, he made the short statement; ‘I brung em here like ya told us’!

TWO for the price of one! GENIUS at work for ‘TEAM STRAYLA’!

And from behind the curtain; ‘Good Benny Boy, I’ve just been speaking to Brendan and they’re gonna call the next 500 million extension to the AWM the ‘Roberts Smith Wing”.  There’ll be interactive displays, kiddies will be able to utilise virtual reality and 3D monitoring to capture their own Afghan village, and decide who’s a jihadi and who’s just a jihadi. It’ll be a hit with the public, and should be open for the sesquicentenary of the Maori Wars’. 

Benny sniffed, ‘Jeez I wish I’d been involved in them too, they say there were V.C’s on offer and they were falling from the sky just like pennies from heaven’. 

Sir JOH, GENIUS, VISIONARY, BIG HAT!

You look after the Penny’s Benny and I’ll look after the big bucks’, She laughed, and the laughter became maniacal, enthused with a demonic delight in the wunderlust of infinite power and greed. We felt the power seething from underneath the curtain, and fidgeting nervously we were tempted to ask for a reprieve to be just let go as ordinary citizens, whilst at the same time realising such a quest would be USELESS!!

Are vegetables intelligent? CASE CLOSED!

Will this be the last hurrah? Will there be three coins left in the fountain and no medals to toss? Find out in our next decoration bestowed episode? ‘Two coins between three tossers don’t mix’, or ‘Gina’s G-Spot”!

Our Pfizer man of the year, wanted so much to be head of something else other than ‘Crown Casino’, (our Parliament)

Our man in Paris, (the Paris end) got his mate SCOMO to lobby so hard till it hurt!!……the rest of Australia.

Dear reader, occasionally we like to give an insight into the working of this newsletter, and the very important, ( some may say trenchant) goings on we deal with on a daily basis. If you’re not quite sure why the PM never rang the CEO of Pfizer and would like to know why he made over 90 calls lobbying for Mathias Cormann, this letter may give a telling insight. And if you’re worried about the glacial vaccine rollout, our advice is to make a cup of tea, ponder the futility of it all and PANIC!

He writes;

Mathias has done a lot for COAL and his mates in a GAS LED RECOVERY!!! That’s why he head the OECD. (Organisation for the Economic Coercion of Democracies)

I shared a cup of tea with …..(name redacted courtesy of ASIO)  this morning at his super-cool sawdust kitchen. This proved difficult as it led to prolonged discussion as to who should make the tea. Then followed the question as to who got to put the tea bag in the cup and whether it was  actually safe to do so, the cup having a noticeable hairline crack which seemed to circumnavigate the entire body of the cup.

SCOMO on the phone to his mates at the OECD! Whenever there’s a crisis he’s busy…….. doin something else.

Then of course, being possessed of only one cup, using a glass jam jar was seriously considered. There are difficulties here. In order to sup from this potential utensil one must first introduce the hot tea into the jam jar without the jar exploding enthusiastically and decapitating next door’s hydrangeas. The better part of valour prevailed.  It was unanimously decided, despite the risk of the hairline crack, (now mightily bound round with a bit of insulating tape) to share this only cup. Oh I know, right away, one can see the difficulties attendant on this.The immediate question is; Who gets the first sip? Whose lips will first sample the Twining’s delight? And the Black Death, what of that? The potential for buboes is  as we all know, omnipresent and as you remarked in your book “Cycling through Burma; The Curry Trail’ the Black Death has drained the country of punkah wallahs and houris (or was that in your Indian Trilogy ‘Nabobs I Have Known?’) One way or the other, your advice was always to carry a sturdy pair of straws about your person in order to both negate the ‘Single Cracked Cup Syndrome’ and to be at least useful should an emergency tracheotomy be required.

My only advice in this case is for you to avail yourself of her facilities.

Scomo and his mate ‘DUTTO’ texting Mathias’s new mates anywhere else other than those stupid bastards afflicted with COVID at home.

Blondin the Wire Walker

Another great world leader working the phones for Mathias.

Poor Mrs Culthorpe, since she took on the internship she’s never been the same!

Dear reader, we head off where we left up, as our heroes are escorted by arguably Australia’s “greatest ever” soldier to Maralinga and  find themselves creeping into an underground bunker to meet the ‘BIG G’. 

Will they ever get to the bottom of who defiled Mrs Culthorpe our Parliamentary intern? Is there hope that the Minster setting up the high-level enquiry into sexual harassment and misconduct of a puerile and prurient nature of anything on two legs not physically bolted down to the floor of Parliament is none other than the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Trump? Upholder of Christian virtue and family values the length and breadth of his former Brisbane accountancy office? 

Will this meeting with Australia’s richest woman be their last? How can they possibly escape this time?  Find out in this compelling episode. Read on…..

Heading the new parliamentary enquiry into ‘Secret Sheilas business’ the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Trump

Down the steps they shuffled, the steps covered in decades of desert sand and dust. Pieces of broken glass underfoot and brushing past dry leathery electrical cable which hung out from the sides of walls. All of it begrimed and  pitted with sand and the residue of generations of radio-active bush- flies.  Rusted tendrils of reinforcing fingered the dry dusty air with a maniacal intensity. It was all dust and sand, and for our heroes came the inescapable feeling that if this were a tomb, they were bound to be the poor bastards destined for the after-life. And not a pyramid to be seen. Nor a Sphinx either. As any egyptologist will tell you; ‘Theyse was Sphinx-tered’!

A rusty door lazily creaked as we shuffled past.  An enamel sign, a patina of pock marks and flaking pronounced, ‘Storage Lab’ and , frosted and decorated with stalactites of salt it drooped listlessly.  We shuffled past panels corrupted and desiccated like a Coalition’s Climate Policy. On the wall, a calendar proclaimed the year 1952, ‘A Great Year for Australia’ the year we entered the “NUCLEAR AGE”. Just as 2021 will be forever known for the sacred return of Barnaby Trump. 

Faded notepaper, broken spandex files and the contents of manilla folders inches deep crunched and crackled underfoot. A frill necked lizard scurried acrosss the debris and found refuge in an inspection pit. We arrived at a other sub level, another sign, “Infection Room”. It instilled a sense of foreboding.  Down, down down we went, a pale globe, covered in fly spots the only illumination, and in the distance, down down further still we could hear the static of  short wave radio and the buzz of an electric fan. Clearly whatever was going on down here was hot work, and deep within the desert, probably top secret. 

At last we came to a steel door, Benny-Boy knocked, and from within, “Bring em in Benny Boy’, a woman’s voice, authoritarian and efficient. Bennie clicked the latch and we were pushed in.

Ben proves no matter what you do as a BIG MAN it’s not the size that counts!

At first we couldn’t see, but as we breathed the sweaty fug of this deeper antechamber our eyes, bleary and encrusted with the early onset of sandy blight blinked incredulously at what lay before us.  On one wall, a huge screen detailing global water resources, mineral resources, and areas labelled ‘untapped wealth’. Over each sub-section a table indicated Angus’s stake either as a private citizen, a member of Parliament or in his latest incarnation, as Supreme Commander the Peoples Liberation Army Oceanic Region. Or for those attuned to bureau-speak, “ SCPLAOC”

Wall sized screens of satellite feeds filled the room. Overhead ceiling fans whirred, and row upon row of neon lights flickered whilst insects buzzed between screens and the partitions erected between booths in which specialists studied maps satellite imagery and charts.  It was both ‘old school’ and ‘new school’ and something in between. On the far wall a poster of Angus, Australia’s most powerful Minister and ‘Dutto’. Over in the corner, a dusty portrait of the Queen and arguably Australia’s greatest PM “Ever” John Howard. It made one tremble just to see the history, and the reach of little people involved in BIG THINGS. This was the heartbeat of Australia. More-so even than the AWM as the sepulchral centre of Anzackery and EVERYTHING!

And towering above it all the omnipresent spectre of ‘BIG BEN’!

Upholder of family values, the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Trump

Ben our nemesis, and yet fitting the paradox neatly within the grenade sized enigma, our protector. ‘Over here where I can see the bastards’! The voice boomed in command, a voice redolent with the tinge of Pimm’s no 5, Chanel, and a copy of the Winning Post. We shivered in anticipation, the Big G was clearly in charge of everything, including, we turned and saw the shadow looming over us, ‘the Terminator’ himself ‘Big-Ben’. 

Upholder of two-tier family values, the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Trump

What will happen to our heroes in the bowels of the earth beneath Maralinga? What frightful fate awaits them?  Find out in our next catacombic episode, ‘The bowels of the earth need evacuating’, or…..’Dig ten feet to oblivion and beyond’!

Dear reader,

It is an absolute pleasure to present to you another pearl from our scribe of the near north Dame Ira Maine, (kt cinq ports and other fortified wines).

Dame Ira before his/her Gender re-assignment receives a kiss from Boris.

Dame Ira, as you may not know has been transformed by her recent life-altering gender re-assignment. We have it on good authority that “Sir Ira” has been given the nod to be Her Majesty’s next poet laureate. The vetting was intense and scrutineers were called in from all corners of her far-flung empire to compile and consider a vast array of entries. After extensive research and further submissions from cash-strapped Australian universities offering a laureature, free parking and a years supply of funding submissions, the circle tightened until it became clear that Ira was the clear winner.

In these covid compromised times, the flypast of RAAF Roulette fighters, and a free night at the high-rollers lounge at Crown has been cancelled.  In accordance with Sir Ira’s expressed wishes to conduct a low-key event, the ceremony has been rescheduled to a shrine befitting Australia’s cultural ascendancy.

Out tea- lady Mrs Culthorpe was to have attended the ceremony but whilst her assault is still being investigated by the Deputy P.M The Rt Hon, Barnaby Trump (adjunct Minister for Women) she is undsrtakin a prescribed course of sick leave.

James Packer and all the Crown board will be presenting the ‘laureate thingy’, (Packers description) in the now empty Barangaroo complex. Brendan Nelson will be in attendance to cut the ribbon and announce the AWM, (Australian War Memorial) Annexe, “poetry in wartime’. A special interactive exhibition commemorating the role gambling has played in the Australian wartime. Ben Roberts-Smith out greatest soldier “ever” will be calling the toss. Afghan Kicks-off at half time.

Ira, asked to comment gave us this pithy observation;

Mick: ‘I hear they are going to phase out Roman numerals on all timepieces..’

Mrs Culthorpe was a picture of happiness on her first day at work in the ” BIG HOUSE” that ran the country!

She is now a BROKEN and FALLEN WOMAN!

Dear reader, another perilously implausible episode from our heroes, as they battle death by extermination, by neglect, by obfuscation and bloody mindedness. All for the sake of Mrs Culthorpe, our tea- lady who was cruelly defiled by an anonymous onanistic overlord within the quarantined corridors of our Federal Parliament. Is this the latest twist in the Federal Government’s unnoficial deaths in custody policy? Or just another facet of the Coalitions Climate policy? 

Where black is COAL and Coal is LILY-WHITE! 

We find ourselves poised at the edge of oblivion outside the abandoned airfield at what used to be MARALINGA. Set your Geiger counter to TEN, and count backwards. 

Read on…

Benny laughed again, “Don’t want you getting radio active! Ha ha ha’!! (He convulsed with laugher): ‘or otherwise Gina’ll have to let youse go’!!  With that he  doubled up with laughter (again) and all we could do was nervously watch as the AK  levelled at us  still smoked and the grenades looked greasy with sweat and rifle grease. 

Her features fissured by abuse and being part of the great tradition of throwing sheilahs and board members under the bus.

‘Steady on Benny’! Ces quipped, ‘lets not get ahead of ourselves’… 

‘Like the bastard whose’ block I knocked of in Tarren Kwot’*? 

At this he doubled up , and with some exertion contained himself. He then stood upright, as if by some strange impulse he was obeying a hidden signal, or an impulse within his military and precise mind.  

AWM survey to seek 500 million funding for ATOMIC AGE Exhibition and Interactive light show at Maralinga

‘You boys allright, then, well then’, he  waved to us, motioning with another AK47 that looked unerringly the same as the last one. Its was as if his demeanour had changed via a switch, he was suddenly a compassionate, caring individual, clearly a sign of his superior SAS training. He handed us a prosthetic leg filled with beer; ‘Cmon fellas, it aint that bad, have a swig and learn to fucken LARF’! We took a few sips, the beer tasted awful, and we felt obliged to take another swig. It tasted like plastic with traces of Afghan and Denco-Rub. But to Ben it was an elixir, he had regained new energy. He turned to us beaming, his chest expanded, the buttons popped off like rivets, and there before us, his gleaming ‘Leonidas-type’ torso, the VC proudly tattooed. He gleamed in the desert air. We were in the presence of a SUPERMAN!

‘Got someone who wants to see youse. RIGHT NOW’!

Who could it be in this desolate radiated wasteland? We both gulped. Could it be the “Big G” or did Angus have another trick for us to play?  Perhaps it was Dutto as an ex Qld copper?  We knew he had a wicked Terry Lewis kinda humour. 

But we had no time to think.  Benny pushed us forward. And half stumbling and incoherent with exhaustion, we trudged into the wasteland, the wilderness, the emptiness. 

Maralinga in the good ol days when Strayla was a world leader in Atomic Power!

Can’t tell how long we trudged. Afternoon shadows lengthened. And the light began to dim from deep blue to soft yellow and then deep blue again. We could see the first stars etched in the twilight sky, like beer coasters on a dance floor. Just when we were about to drop from exhaustion we halted. Benny pointed to a bunker in the middle of a gibber plain. Around and  about the odd truck, busted and rusted, and the remains of an old cyclone fence. A Sign, rusty and shot through with small arms fire, proclaimed ’Area B’. 

And as we walked to the other side a gleaming white helicopter was revealed, parked just as it had landed, and from within a portal etched glowingly from the side of the bunker a dim light, 

‘Grouse she’s in’, Benny harrumphed in excitement!

Afghan Govt, (not yet run by Taliban) seeks 500 million in funding from AWM to do their own iteractive display, ’20 years of nothing’

Tremblingly we looked at each other, so this was it? 

A bunker in the middle of nowhere?

To confront Gina?

For if it was Gina we knew it would be like the resource rent tax? A life made short and sweet and then, barely born, we’d be knocked off. Like a Kangaroo in ‘Wake in Fright’, and it’d be all over.

We paused, Benny smiled;  ‘Come-on fellas!  It aint that bad! You know, suprises come in small, and sometimes large packages’. Large and Small was he talking Gina? We daren’t think, and falteringly we stumbled into the dusty portal, which like the Coalitions deliberations to stall a Climate Policy, went on for ever and ever and ever, (again) .

‘We of the never never’; quipped Ces. Yeah, the fucken outback and beyond!

What will happen to our heroes? Is this their last stand?  Find out in the next Billy Bunker-esque episode? ‘A bunker and beyond’ or ‘The only way UP is down” 

The Little and Big men who run ANZACKERY INC.

* Dear reader we ‘d like to apologise for this anglicised spelling of a famous Afghani place name recognised Australia over as another place where Australians upheld the banner of freedom and liberty over ‘less fortunates’ to shine the light of CIVILISATION! As we’ve had to rely on colloquial rather than correct usage. We had relied upon our interpreter Ali Mustapha al Ali who served gloriously with the Third Company Royal Australian Regiment but due to a clerical oversight he was left behind to liaise with the Taliban.  He has not been seen since. 

Dear reader,

Mrs Culthorpe, (our tea- lady) cruelly defiled as a parliamentary intern cannot recall her ordeal nor identify the penis-wielding oppressor. A true sign of PTSD. We were determined to find out!

we return to our intestinally charged series with a further twist as our heroes captured by Angus, Dutto and ‘Benny Boy’ find themselves in an international intrigue of world domination at the behest of an ‘undisclosed evil power’ intent upon Global, (with naming rights to Uranus and Mars) Mastery. All of it under the insidious and creeping cloak of COMMUNISM!  All because Ces wanted to get to the bottom of who defiled our tea-lady Mrs Culthorpe when she was working as an intern in our Federal Parliament. Will we ever get to the bottom of this? Find out whether our bottom is up and pointed down, and inside is well and truly OUT! We return to our plausible Gas-Led recovery type narrative

…….And that way we found ourselves with a Special SAS squad en route via Hercules to Darwin. 

Arguably, Australia’s greatest!

Possibly and arguably the “Greatest” also

But we didn’t get to Darwin, just like the Bill and Boyd song ‘ Santa never made it to Darwin” Ces sang a few bars to get the juices flowing. “Shut up”! I shouted; ‘we’re in free-fall in the middle of nowhere, after being chucked out of the Herc, and all you can do is whistle perhaps one of the all time WORST TUNES penned since Rolf’s ‘Tie me Kangaroo Down’!

‘Yeah’, Ces shouted above the Din, “but at least we’ve got parachutes and there’s no sign of Benny, ( arguably Australia’s highest and most famous decorated soldier) so in a way we might survive our current catastrophe’!

But, (dear reader)  we were in the dry heart of the driest continent on the planet, and only Angus had water rights that could make a difference, but as we well knew, he wasn’t gonna share it with anyone!

Rolf, another noble recipient of Her Majesty’s Highest award.

We were under a parachute being hurled to the desert below.

Ces Shouted above the slipstream again;’ ‘Well it seems Santa, or Benny won’t make it to Maralinga either’!

Cos there below us, we could see an abandoned airstrip. A few rusty truck carcasses, some burnt out wrecks and the old airfield, indistinguishable from the burnt ochre desert. On the roof of what looked like an  old terminal we saw the rusted blue and silver ‘Maralinga’ with an RAAF Roundel.  To proclaim in all its decrepitude that GLORIOUS MOMENT when Australia, via the agency of His or Her Majesty and the Imperial might of the Empire was briefly a WORLD LEADER!

And we soon discovered we were NOT ALONE!

Australian troops nobly defending “Australian Values” at home and abroad!

‘Don’t linger in Maralinga’! we heard above us. Benny soared past us laughing uproariously waving another AK 47 with a bit of coloured tape on the butt and another prosthetic leg. We could just hear as he raced passed, tossing the odd grenade to clear the ground;  ‘See youse on the deck you silly buggers’! And with a Banshee like scream of delight his parachute adorned with an Australia’s coat of arms and the VC opened to break his fall.  A roseate explosion of brilliant red, white and blue amidst the dull desert ochre.  It was reassuring, that at least some small measure of taxpayers funds destined for the New Australian War Memorial annexe was being used to create such colourful and patriotic parachute designs for our very own branch of the Special Air Service.  And a reminder to us all that after twenty years in Afghanistan real progress, (though of a decorative kind), had been demonstrated apart from the noble task, (at home, as in Afghanistan) of  civilising ungrateful savages.

Clearly Benny loved his job, jumping outta planes, walloping Afghanis, and being at the forefront. ‘Whatever scrape we’re in these days’,  Ces wearily shouted against the slipstream, ‘there’s no Punch without Benny’! We laughed, and reflected upon the old adage, “even if it were rainin virgins, we’d be stuck in a dunny with pooftas’. An old,  but inalienably true idiom. 

The airfield loomed closer, and closer, and through the wind and the slipstream we could hear the sharp crack crack of a semi automatic. With reflexes attuned to “ACTION STATIONS”!  Benny was already down on the mat, just spraying bullets in case of enemy incoming.  A percussive bang and then a whoosh of material flew past as the old hangar was blown to smithereens.  And just to make sure the regimental barby was attacked with a brace of rifle propelled Grenades, Evidentially upon  landing,  Benny meant business. 

Afghani Villagers being taught, (entirely for free) the rudimentary rules of cricket by noble SAS operatives.

Then it came, ‘THUD’! We were on the deck. 

And blinded, by dust, dirt and choking smoke we could hear a  faint tick ticking sound.

‘Jeez Quent’ I murmured ,’have you left your fob watch out of its case?  ‘Nup’

‘And’? Quent then, politely asked me:  ‘Is your pacemaker faulty’? It was deeply disturbing, until, we realised what it was. For through the dust Benny emerged with a Geiger Counter, smiling as only an idiot can; “Just to make sure”!, 

Freedom’s flag flies in Afghanistan! A job well and truly WELL DONE!

Will it make sure? Will it be like the government’s stunning initiative of Clean Coal and a GAS LED RECOVERY? Find out in our next compelling episode, ‘Nation building for a Carbon-led economy’ or “Benny’s buried usb’s stuck stick”

Bendigo. CITY OF GOLD!

Dear reader,

another scintillating fragment from the upper reaches of the North West Frontier. This one giving an indication via the wonders of cadastral certainty the origins of the enigmatic  author who goes by the name of “Frank”. And for those of you who can’t be bothered reading there is mention of GOLD! In a pre-election time-frame this is as valuable as ‘FRANKING CREDITS’, a ‘GAS LED RECOVERY’ and ‘CLEAN COAL’ in setting the future direction of this nation. So read on, and perhaps hidden in these lines is the illusive code that will lead you to Lasseters Reef and beyond.  read on….

Hi friends and Romans,

At the top of the shelves housing my rock collection the following quote of unknown source is stuck:

Lasseter, in the noble tradition of Laurie Connell.

Rocks. They is a beautiful part of God’s creation- not to be taken for granite.

Frank, out and about on the North West Frontier

Some of you have been following the Musical Dispatches from the Front for more than a decade. I started these in 2007, when the Intervention was foisted on remote Aboriginal Australia, as a form of counter-propaganda and to let off steam and share a laugh.

Yuendumu is halfway between The Granites and Alice Springs where I find myself in lockdown. A FIFO (fly in fly out) worker who lives in Bendigo Victoria flew to Brisbane where he caught the virus in a quarantine hotel before flying to the Granites Gold Mine where, although he was showing no symptoms, he infected several fellow mine workers.

Lasseters Cave, not yet blown to bits by Rio Tinto.

The Granites gold field rates much mention in the book many of you are about to receive. Every dark cloud has a silver lining, not a single Yuendumu resident works at the mine!
Spoiler alert! To me the most relevant paragraph to the Newmont (the largest gold mining company in the world) Tanami operations in ‘My Yuendumu Story’ is:

Why, “We’ll let you work for us and help us make an obscene amount of money by removing non-renewable resources from your land”, should be expected to induce paroxysms of gratitude in Yapa, I fail to understand.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u925g6CgKuw  Neil Young- Heart of Gold

See y’all

The Intervention. GOLD!!! For Bureaucrats and the Incarcertation Sausage machine…

Frank

Dear reader,

for those of you who haven’t been following this saga, our heroes Ces and Quent have been almost killed more often than you can say “ Deaths in Custody”, to survive on the whim of (arguably) Australia’s most powerful leader Angus Taylor, a General in the Chinese People’s Army and his loyal henchmen Dutto and ‘Benny-Boy’ Roberts Smith.

Leadership! A Briquette Led Recovery!

Cec’s knowledge of ‘Operation Grand Slam’ struck a chord, a chord which saved then in line with the stunning and penetrating initiatives crafted by the Federal Government’s ‘Operation Sovereign Borders’, ‘Operation Ironside’, ‘Operation Resolute’, ‘Operation Catalyst’, ‘Operation National Resilience’, to give ex-military big jobs in gouging taxpayer funds so that private entities could drain government coffers as they please for shareholders without checks balances or the irritant  fear of troublemakers or kill-joys.  Of all the operations, ‘GRAND SLAM’ was set to be the biggest. But how could it be? With Angus already in line to seize global water resources, a rampaging Barnaby Trump back as deputy PM and the Federal Government’s race to do nothing about Covid, the environment or anything that required imagination?

We were leading the world on ‘Clean Coal’ and a ‘Gas led Recovery’ but going backwards on thinking ‘beyond the square’, except in the off-chance the square was a briquette!

As Ces Whispered to Quent, ‘Is there no realm of public funding that Angus hasn’t got his hands into’? When they were interrupted by Benny Boy,  ‘Jeez ol Angus is on the money again, looks like youse blokes need to have a talk to the Big G, whaddayourackon boys’? He fingered the ring of his grenade, and his grip tightened on the handle of the Webley service revolver, carried by al V.C winners in recognition of the heroic sacrifices made to bleed the taxpayer of another billion for a a new war memorial extension. 

Mateship! A Gas Led Recovery!

‘Yesssir’. we stammered, whatever you say, the ‘BIG G’ was Australia’s richest and most powerful woman, even more powerful than the colossus for Queensland, the one they called ‘Clive’, either way were were still alive and kicking.. just. 

‘Tellya what, we’re gonna put youse on the next Herc to Darwin and just chuck youse out, knowing wth your luck you’ll still hit the ground on a golden fucken parachute..  I can chuck youse out, just like I done to the Afghanis, and no one ‘ll be the wiser, might get a bar with my VC’. 

Statesmanship! Demonstrating Integrity in politics!

It was positive to see that Benny always had an eye to promotion and monetising his position.  He’d clearly learnt a lot from Angus. All of this happened as we travelled seamlessly beneath the bowels of Canberra on a carriage of sorts filled with rejected federal funding applications. We didn’t have time to leaf through all of them but they made fascinating reading. Through a clerical error the dialysis machine requests were mixed up with some deaths in custody requests.  Clearly there were still problems with Aboriginal Australia, and you could feel the pressure the pollies were under just in pretending the submissions were actually read. 

Imagination, Demonstrating a clear path backwards, and loyalty to the higher paying lobbyists.

We were then conveyed on the light train past several checkpoints, at one, the familiar visage of the excellent Labor member for Newcastle, Meryl Swanson. She was busy processing Job-Keeper payments though her husbands Harvey Norman franchise. She was too busy processing job keeper receipts to acknowledge out passing,  and at the next, none other than Alan Tudge, up to his neck in private school gifts, allowances, grants, finding applications. This was the real driver of the Australian economy at work, real estate, mining and private schools the three pillar policy that had kept this country Safe, Free, and Secure in the petit bourgeois cast of snobbish mediocrity. Ben waved at all of them, at the very last checkpoint before emerging into the blinding sunshine the familiar countenance of Christian Porter locked in heated  conversation with Cardinal Pell, as we sped past they gave us no heed, cept to wave to Benny Boy. Clearly Benny had mates in high places. 

And almost as if it were choreographed  we crashed through one last steel door and emerged into blinding sunlight. And there, right before us,  a Hercules, we’d been there before. But this was not Afghanistan, this was in Australia and the Nations Capital. ‘Allright youse’, and waving a bayonet, an AK47 with tape around the butt, and a fistful of grenades which he dextrously twirled we were up and into the giant belly of the Hercules. 

What fate awaited us was too dismal to contemplate, a rendezvous with Big Gina, was scary enough, but to be parachuted with Big Benny on top of us a terrible anticipation overshadowed us. 

Reliability! Doing the same , over and over again

Will our heroes be over-shadowed by a spectre bigger than Leonidas, or will Gina’s power and influence crush them to atoms?

Find out in our next militaristically termed episode. ‘Three Gina’s to the G’, or ‘Yabba Dabba Don’t”