Beyond the soft palate


Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on Andrew Bolt hath “written” a screed. Its title is “Worth Fighting For” and it will be produced by Wilkinson Publishing – “Great books from the people you can trust” – responsible for such “great books” as “Face Secrets”, “Fast, Fresh and Natural Smoothies and Juices”, three books about Justin Bieber, “Kochie’s Best Jokes – Volume 5”, six books about One Direction, and “Stain Busters”, to name but a few.

During the course of this month, Mr. Bolt has been tireless in his efforts to inform his “readers” of his forthcoming literary masterwork …

May 17, 2016

I have a new book coming out in July, just in time to console you over the election result. From the publisher’s blurb:

Andrew Bolt is Australia’s most prominent and controversial commentator. In this second book of columns and reflections, Bolt is again in the front lines of our most urgent political and social debates, from Islam and immigration to the green movement and the rise of the slacktivist. But he also reveals his more personal side – the experiences that have shaped his values and love for this country.

For some this book is ammunition. For others it’s fair warning. But for everyone it’s a test of their own values – and the reasons they hold them.

The book doesn’t just contain what I think are my best columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items and reflections written just for this edition.

May 18, 2016

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection (a reprint out soon), but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition – on what worked, what failed, my set-backs, my satisfactions and my hopes..

To pre-order your copy of Worth Fighting For with free delivery and a later special Bolt Bulletin update go here.

May 19, 2016

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection (a reprint out soon), but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition – on what worked, what failed, my set-backs, my satisfactions and my hopes..

To pre-order your copy of Worth Fighting For with free delivery and a later special Bolt Bulletin update go here.

May 20, 2016

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection (a reprint will also be out soon), but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition – on what worked, what failed, my set-backs, my satisfactions and my hopes.

To pre-order your copy of Worth Fighting For with free delivery and also – as a bonus – a Bolt Bulletin update of special material to be mailed out later go here.

May 21, 2016

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition.

To pre-order your copy of Worth Fighting For with free delivery and also – as a bonus – a Bolt Bulletin update of special material to be mailed out later go here.

May 24, 2016

Quadrant Online adds links to a column from my book, out next month. You may find them useful, but it is better I don’t comment. Sad, but our laws against free speech are dangerously and absurdly broad, as I know only too well.

To pre-order the book, plus a Bolt Bulletin update, go here.

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition.

May 24, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

To pre-order the book, plus a Bolt Bulletin update, go here.

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition.

May 25, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

To pre-order the book, plus a Bolt Bulletin update, go here.

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition.

May 27, 2016

My latest book will now be available from next month. It will be launched at events in Sydney and Melbourne in July (and possibly in other states, too).

Readers who pre-order will get Bolt Bulletin updates which will give them, among other things, priority booking for the launches. Details to follow.

But about the book:

To pre-order the book, plus a Bolt Bulletin update, go here.

The book contains not just my favorite columns since my last collection, but also diaries I wrote for Spectator Australia, blog items, an essay on my favourite books and many reflections written just for this edition.

I have nothing further to add but this …

Onanism – Hypochondriasis, hysteria, chorea, epilepsy, apoplexy, and palsy, constitute part of the list of dire maladies induced or immediately excited, by onanism and immoderate or ill-timed coition. The memory and intellectual faculties, in general, are enfeebled, and there are instances of complete idiocy, brought on by early and continued onanism, and of insanity from similar excesses later in life. — The Eclectic Journal of Medicine. Vol 3, No 4. Nov 1894.

Or, from Urban Dictionary

to wank,
to tame the one eyed monster,
to make the cyclops cry,
man’s favourite outlet,
a date with mrs palm and her five lovely daughters,
toss yourself off,
etc, etc.

For example – “now on the subject of onanism…we don’t want to find you hunched double on the sofa bed pumping your fist”

Please feel free to draw your own conclusions.


“The most brilliant propagandist technique will yield no success unless one fundamental principle is borne in mind constantly and with unflagging attention. It must confine itself to a few points and repeat them over and over. Here, as so often in this world, persistence is the first and most important requirement for success.”


Andrew Bolt is Australia’s most prominent and controversial commentator. In this second book of columns and reflections, Bolt is again in the front lines of our most urgent political and social debates, from Islam and immigration to the green movement and the rise of the slacktivist. But he also reveals his more personal side – the experiences that have shaped his values and love for this country.”

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

“Macbeth” (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28), William Shakespeare.


It is the mid-1980’s and I am working for a company in Sydney’s Pyrmont, a record company. There is the pressing plant, warehouse and recording studios downstairs, and two floors of offices above. On the ground floor is a canteen.

The canteen is managed by a young man named Gary, an affable, softly spoken and gentle man of good humour, and he is happy in his work, he is content. He is responsible for most of the food prep each day, the hot meals, and makes the sandwiches during lunch hours, along with two others who assist.

Gary is a gay man, which is no secret among the staff, and appears to be of no concern.

Then, suddenly. …

There is change.


The “gay cancer”, they began to call it. The wrath of a vengeful God. Punishment for our transgressions, our sins. It is predicted that cities will crumble and towers fall, Satan and his vile and corrupted clutch of sordid cacodemons shall stalk the earth, leaving naught in their wake but barren and fruitless wastelands, the flesh of babes in arms shall be ripped asunder, devoured, men and women raped in the streets, and we shall see darkness and we shall feel pain.

Gary’s in the canteen making sandwiches. He’s in the canteen handling foodstuffs.

A contingent of staff approach management to raise their concerns.

How they expressed them, I do not know, but I suspect it went a little something like this …

“What if he sneezes, or coughs? On our food? Food we are expected to eat?”

“What if he breathes on us?”

“What if he cuts himself and bleeds all over my devon and tomato sauce sandwich? How would I know?”

And so on.

The management acquiesce to these “concerns”.

Gary is transferred from the canteen to the warehouse.

One day, I return to work from lunch at the pub, and I see Gary sitting on a rafter in the warehouse, lost in a reverie, and from the expression on his face, faraway eyes, it is a sad reverie indeed.

I wave to him.

“How are you, Ross?”, he asks.

“Not bad. Yourself?”

“Oh. You know”, and he shrugs.

After a moment, I say to him, “I think it’s fucking shit what’s happened. It’s shit.”

He shrugs again, says nothing, nods, and I return to my desk seething with rage.

I am not a gay man.

None of my best friends are gay, nor have they ever been.

Yet. In the course of my life, the living of it in this world, I have met many gay men and women, through work, socialising, friends of friends, friends of flatmates, and the only thing I can or ever could say about these gay men and gay women is this …

They are men and women.

If there is a “gay agenda”, they’re either taking a bloody long time to implement it, or I’m too thick to have noticed.

During my adolescence, my emergent sexuality, a sexuality I didn’t, at age 13, know was even sexual in nature, was not and never has been the subject of debate. It was not a “lifestyle choice”. It was not a choice.

My eye turned, with no prompting, no lessons in “decency” or “morality” toward women.

There was Peggy Lipton from “The Mod Squad”. Susan Dey from “The Partridge Family” (the only reason I watched that ghastly show). A little later on, there was Suzi Quatro. In leather. Oh. My. GOD. And, when Countdown (in error) first played Blondie’s “In The Flesh”, and I clapped eyes on Deborah Harry, my jaw dropped so hard, I almost tipped off the couch.

I wanted to play with the girls, although at that age, if the opportunity had arisen, I doubt I would’ve known what the game was, let alone how to play it.

That all came a little later. So to speak.

Decades after the A.I.D.S. epidemic, a residue, a sticky, mucky, thick and filthy residue of the gay fear and loathing of that time still persists in the minds of many; small minds, tiny minds, minds uncomplicated and untroubled by fact, truth, reason or logic.

Here is one example, a one star review of the film “Spotlight” from

“Just too @&(%^ PC. They let their wish to sell homosexuality as normal get in the way of the truth. The truth is, first, that heterosexual rape and abuse of children is at least as common in public schools and non-Catholic religious institutions as it ever was in Catholic ones. Second, the rape and abuse going on in the Catholic Church was unusually homosexual and committed by homosexuals, period. The data is overwhelming that homosexual men are far more likely than heterosexual to be rapist or abusers. Even though homosexuals are at most 4% of the population, they commit at least of third of the sex offenses against children. And, the Catholic Church was one of those institutions targeted for exploitation by gays and by child rapists (or people who were both). Check out the data from the Family Research Council and in Michael Rose’s Goodbye Good Men. This weird, childish film tries to vilify all religion, tries to sell a “traumatized” gay victim as otherwise normal, tries to separate the rapists’ homosexuality from their crimes, and bascially is peddling dangerous myths and mind games.”

Peadophiles. Polygamy. Bestiality. Perversion. Diseased. Disgusting. Queer.

Filthy fucking faggots.

To be gay is to be less than human, they say. It’s abnormal. It’s sick. It is an affront to God, to civil society, a self-indulgent depravity, a disease of the mind and a corruption of the body and of the soul.

So some say.

I say this. To those “men”, those “women”, so fearful, so full of hatred, of ignorance, guided as they are by ancient superstitions in a nonsensical fiction written by men in frocks, “Go fuck yourselves with forty sticks and die of fucking cancer”.

These men in frocks.

They’re at it again

“Australia’s most senior Catholic bishops have intervened in the federal election, warning Malcolm Turnbull and Bill Shorten not to undermine traditional marriage.

Marriage and family are at the heart of a healthy social environment, the ACBC states, but “political decisions can end up undermining marriage and providing less and less support for families despite a rhetoric that claims otherwise”

“The fact is that economic decisions have been less and less favourable to families in recent years; and it may be that political decisions in the future will undermine further the dignity and uniqueness of marriage as a lifelong union of man and woman,” the bishops say.”

“A lifelong union of man and woman”, it has never been and never will.

I wonder what they think of Rupert Murdoch or James Packer, these bishops?

These defenders of truth, these moral bastions, so pure, so righteous, so convinced of their own infallible judgements, their Holy institution so transparent, so accountable, so just, devoted as they are to peace among men (not so much the women, especially women, or – gaspgirls in trousers).

I have no quarrel with religion or those of faith who find comfort and solace in their beliefs in times of trouble or turmoil, those whose faith is a bedrock, a foundation upon which they build their lives.

I have quarrel only with those who use their faith as a hammer with which to beat those of no faith, or those whose lives they deem to be … “wrong”, especially when it comes to matters of sexuality, consensual acts between adults, gay, straight or transgender, or the issue of women’s reproductive rights, of choice.

How dare these bishops lecture government, lecture us on how we should live, how and who we should love.

These bishops.

Are these the very same men, who for decade upon decade, cloaked the sins of their own ilk in silence and obfuscation? Are these bishops the very same men who protected the fiddlers on the altar within their ranks, the ones with children always on their minds, the ones who leave stains upon their garments and stains upon the souls and bodies and in the mouths of innocents, and who remain unrepentant, without conscience, empty, soiled, damned?

Would they had but one neck, I would HACK. IT. THROUGH.

I ask these bishops.

Your God. Why did It give us desire, just so you may use it to prove we are the ones depraved?

Go to Hell.

You bishops.

Go to Hell.



Here is a letter from today’s Sydney Morning Herald

“It’s sad that Anne Summers (MPs should follow public opinion SMH 14-15 May) sees MPs who don’t support the 87 per cent of the population wanting abortion decriminalised, as self-righteous. Some MPs, along with the remaining 13 per cent of the population, see the foetus as having a separate and unique personhood to its mother, as reflected by Zoe’s Law. It’s equally sad that, unlike the balanced discussion about voluntary euthanasia taking place in many circles these days, we can’t have the same calm conversation about this most contentious issue.” – Jo-Ann Brown, Eastwood

What Ms. 13% fails to understand, fails to grasp, is that the “conversation” she yearns for has been had. Over decades.

The conversation is over.

What Ms. 13% fails to understand, fails to grasp, is that no body, whether it be that of a man or that of a woman, is property. It is not property of the state, it is not property of any government, it is not property of the church, nor is it property of any other individual on this earth, no male, nor female, and the decision to abort or not to, rests solely and wholly with the woman, and whomever else she wishes to discuss that decision with, whether it be a qualified doctor, a partner, friends or relatives, or no one else at all.

It is, quite frankly, nobody else’s business, not hers, not mine, not yours. NOBODY.

Our bodies, our biology, the decision to reproduce or not, our choices, rest solely with ourselves, and we are free to do as we wish with, or to them.

Ms. 13% should suck it up, shut up, and shove the fuck off.



Once upon a time …

It is 1983 and I am 24 years old, employed and on a wage of about $20,000 gross per annum.

After a few brief and bootless assays at sharing flats with girlfriends (break up, move back to the parents, break up, move back to parents, repeat chorus), I decide I shall find my own place, me, myself and I, for I am a solitary man by nature, a misanthrope some would (justifiably) say, and yearn for a modest Fortress of Solitude that I may call my very own.

Eventually I do. A one-bedroom older-style flat in a small block of six.

In Sydney’s Kirribilli.

For $65.00 a week.

Yes. You have read that correctly.

After a couple years, one night there is rap upon the door, and it is the owner who regretfully (for I have been a good tenant) informs me he has decided to sell.

“Oh”, I say, and then, out of curiosity, I ask him, “How much are you selling it for?” and he responds, “The agent thinks I could probably get 65 or $70,000 for it. Why do ask? Are you interested?”

It is an amount of money I can grasp, I can understand, about four year’s annual salary, and yet, because I am a single man, with no desire to marry or have children any time soon, and barely a half dozen years out of school, the thought of being beholden to a debt for the next twenty or twenty- five years holds no allure.

At this point, you must understand, the national obsession with “property” had yet to evolve into what it has become today, an almost psychosomatic illness of avarice, of base greed. There was no stigma about renting back then, and a young man or woman could happily rent (at a reasonable cost) for as long as they liked, sow their seeds as they saw fit, party ‘til they dropped, before the thought of “settling down” with a partner, having children, whatever, became an attractive and desirable option to them.

However, we now find ourselves in a world where, as soon as you finish high-school and venture into the domain of adulthood, you can expect to be immediately assailed and assaulted by some dreary, sallow-skinned, dead-eyed, beef-necked knobhead from the world of finance, investment and real estate insisting you must immediately start planning for retirement and “buy, buy, buy!”, “now is the time to get into the property market, now, now, now!”, every day these shills, shysters, hucksters shriek, every day is the time, every week, every year, and “DON’T MISS OUT!”

Why wait until tomorrow when you can panic now and avoid the rush?

I digress.

I begin to look for alternative lodgings, and find myself in a suburb which shall remain nameless (think of skeletal blue-rinse ladies and small, yapping, snapping, fluffy white dogs; think of a zoo) in a concrete, sunless shithole for $90.00 a week, and then, after a year, $110.00, yet my wage has barely changed from what it was two years prior. To relieve this increasing burden upon my purse, I make the decision to seek out share accommodation, and spend the late 1980’s and all of the ‘90’s in same.

After seven years sharing a flat in Sydney’s inner west with three other people (and, frankly, having a ball most every night), the flatmates have found partners, they have paired off, and moved out to begin their lives together.

I have not.

I begin looking around for a new place to live, preferably by myself, (for I am now 40 years old), the same general area, as I work in the CBD, and somewhere close would be preferable, however, as I peruse the “To Let” advertisements, I realise this will not be possible, as the rents being asked now amount to over one-third of my monthly wage.

“I can’t afford that” I think, for my wage (still), has not kept apace with the rising cost of living.

I move to the N.S.W. Central Coast where the rent is affordable, and resign myself to a two hour commute each day, not exactly a gruelling hardship, but by the working week’s end, the only way anyone could get me on a fucking train over the weekend would be at gunpoint.

I stay there for almost five years, yet I have tired of the job I had at the time and seek out another.

I find one. In Brisbane, Queensland. I move.

There is a flat, a 30-minute walk to work, a 10-minute walk to the train station and shops.

$360.00 a week.

It is affordable to me, for, by this time, after 30 years of continuous employment, I have finally attained that magical, mythical status of “average wage earner”.

Can I have a “Hallelujah!”? Can I have an “Amen!”?

I am there for 10 years and 7 months, after which time, I return to Sydney, having been made redundant in February of this year. It was a job worth losing, and I was fine with that, as the last several years my mental health had rapidly deteriorated (Queensland will do that to a person, being Queensland), panic attacks, anxiety, depression and such; however, as the bartender in Billy Wilder’s “Irma La Douce” would say, “That’s another story”, and for another time.

4 or 5 years before this, the flat across the hall from mine, identical in size and layout, is sold.

For $500,000.

Yes. You have read that correctly.

I think to myself ,“Who in their right fucking mind would pay half a million bucks for a 2 bedroom flat?”

It has a view of the flats across the road, and the flats either side of it, its only difference from mine being wooden floorboards, and Miele appliances in the kitchen, the kitchen being the size of an en-suite toilet.

For a half-million.

Equal to over 8 times my then gross annual wage.

A half-million. Plus interest.


Piss off.

And now, in this time, not that one …

On Channel 7’s “Weekend Sunrise” on Sunday, mortgage mogul John Symond, of Aussie Home Loans fame and fortune, was bemoaning, wailing, most shrilly, changes to the current negative gearing rort being proposed by the Australian Labor Party.

He warned of an “economic Armageddon” should these changes be implemented. He warned of the loss of 10’s of thousands, hundreds of thousands jobs lost. He spoke of “mums and dads”, and he spoke of them again. And again. And again. Ordinary, humble investors of modest means (mums and dads), they’re fucked, they’re done for, they’re in the toilet, losses of thousands upon thousands and thousands of dollars on their investment, mums and dads and dads and moms, the whole country, ruined.

This “negative gearing” thing, when I hear it spoken of, my eyes glaze over, my head aches, it gives me facial tics and Tourette’s, and it doth cause me to pirouette in dizzy circles, bark at shadows, and bite the heads off chickens, it maketh me squirt, it leaveth stains on my trousers, and sweat upon my furrowed brow.

Why, it was not that long ago, not long ago at all, that John Symond, owner of a 50 million buck mansion on the harbour with 5 toilets (I pass no judgement, I merely assume he has an extremely weak bladder) said this

“Negative gearing wasn’t designed for people who can afford to go and buy $1 million, $2 million, $3 million houses or apartments for negative gearing to offset the bulk of their interest payment off their tax. So negative gearing does need to be looked at in the tax system because I don’t think it is fair at the moment. I think it leans very heavily to the high income earners and that needs to be brought into line, as is hundreds of other aspects of the tax system.”

And this

“Two years ago when I went out and said listen, I believe property prices are going to drop five or 10 per cent, well, did I cop it from the industry players, from the real estate players. That doesn’t worry me. And if it means we cop a flat patch in our business, I’d rather long-term health that short-term pain.”

And …

“How can young people get into housing? I looked at statistics a couple of weeks ago and I was appalled. In Sydney alone there’s more than 100 suburbs where the average home price is $1-million. In Melbourne, 40 suburbs. Come on! You know, that is crazy. And what’s worrying me about the social impact, this is opening up the great divide of the haves and the have-nots.”

Which brings me to this …

If you are the type of man or woman, or young couple on an “average” wage and you are prepared to shell out upward of four or five hundred thousand bucks for a characterless, hastily built ratbox in a block whose foundations are most probably made with dodgy Chinese steel and electricals simply to get into the “market”, then you are a bloody idiot and you should be beaten about the head with a golf club repeatedly until you wake up to your stupid fucking self.


If you are the type of person who is prepared to fall for The Big Cons peddled by the vested interests of the real estate, investment and banking industries, the scare campaigns, the bullshit, the lies which, if told often enough, you begin to take as truths, then you are a bloody idiot.

Lest we forget, the Global Financial Crisis was not sponsored by any union movement or members.


It was sponsored by those aforesaid industries, no member of whom has, or ever will be, held accountable for it.

And so, I beseech you …


Pay no heed to this screed of greed, for all possessions, in the fullness of time, are lost.

If these grasping bastards are looking to you for a blood sacrifice, tell them to slit their own wrists.

As John Waters, of Hairspray fame said during the 2015 graduation speech at the Rhode Island School of Design

“Go out in the world and fuck it up beautifully. Design clothes so hideous that they can’t be worn ironically. Horrify us with new ideas. Outrage outdated critics. Use technology for transgression, not lazy social living. Make me nervous…. It’s time to get busy. It’s your turn to cause trouble.”

Can I have a “Hallelujah!”? Can I have an “Amen!”?

John Symond

IF …

… I were in the audience of ABC’s “Q&A” program, and there was one federal Liberal MP and one Labor on the panel, this is the question I would ask …

“The last company I worked for a decade and a half until February this year, embarked upon a “restructure” about four or five years ago, “restructure” essentially meaning sacking a few busloads of people and outsourcing and offshoring the work to India. These were men and women who had given that company ten to thirty years of their life, men and women in their late fifties and early sixties, suddenly sent packing, none of whom could afford to retire as they did not have enough in savings or superannuation, none of whom were yet eligible for the aged pension.

We know, from evidence, from fact, that men and women of this age often struggle to find employment, and so, may be compelled to apply for unemployment benefits, and we know, from evidence, from fact, that if they do, they shall no doubt be referred to by the maggots of the Murdoch tabloid media mafia, “bludgers” or “rorters”, a stain upon the face of our society and an embarrassment to our kind.

My question is this … When one of your mob decide to call it quits so you may “spend more time with the family” or you were kicked from your electorate because you were crap at your job, and other such rubbish, and then proceed to write another dreary bloody memoir in dead, dull, self-serving prose that makes the average reader want to stab themselves in the eyeballs with a pencil, why do you feel you are entitled to receive one or two hundred thousand bucks a year for the rest of your miserable, useless lives, and why do you believe we, us “little people” out here have to damn well pay for it?

Could you kindly justify that entitlement for me please, and why you feel you deserve it?

Can you defend that?

Can you? Do you dare?

It’s certainly got me buggered, that’s for sure. So, here’s a suggestion …

When you call it quits, when you are thrown from your electoral train a failure, why don’t you all just piss off out of it, and GET ANOTHER GODDAMN FUCKING JOB LIKE THE REST OF US ARE EXPECTED TO, YOU SACK OF BLUDGING FUCKING SUCKHOLES?!”

Question posed, I would no doubt be frog-marched post-haste from the studio, and, in the aftermath, the wash-up from it all, the trash, the bottom-feeding filth, the commentators, the shock-jocks, stuffed to the gills with their own sense of self-righteous, self-importance would do doubt begin to dig into my life, my private life, my past.

They would contact former employers, partners, they would hack my phone and my Facebook page, they would trawl through every comment posted, every blog I had written, and there would be painted a picture most unflattering, a portrait, no doubt, of emergent evil and psychopathy.

Headlines would read “Not So Sharp”, or perhaps, “Foul-Mouthed Pot Smoker Too Blunt In The Head To Make Sense”, Miranda Devine, Andrew Bolt, or the Herald-Sun’s most odious Damon Johnston who would no doubt tweet with impish glee “FRONT PAGE TONIGHT!”.

Satirised. Demonised. Crucified.

Yet, the question would remain unanswered.

It has no defence. It cannot be justified.

And nothing, nothing at all would be done, or would ever be done to correct this most foul of inequities.

Class War?

Count me in, and BRING IT ON.

Together, we will break us free.

Together, let us storm the gates of Vaucluse. With pitchforks and flaming torches shall we march, to throw the demons and monsters from their gaudy towers of conspicuous consumption, of wankery and greed, eviscerate their corpses, their entrails to crows to feed upon, and we, Night’s Black Angels of Righteous Vengeance shall scatter their remains, beaten and abused, into the seas.

Viva la revolución!


Tony Jones Q&A


When I was made redundant last month after ten and a half years with the company, I did not spend the ensuing few weeks lurking and loitering outside the entrance to the office, scowling, sulking and skulking, singing my own praises to anyone entering on the off chance someone may take pity upon me and offer me my job back.

No. I did not.

To whom do you think I may be drawing a parallel?

/////// ?

SMELLY TONGUES will return in mid-April.

There will be blood.

And a t-shirt and a coffee mug.


Thank you for your comments and for reading.

In the meantime, some of my most recent posts have been re-published on Australian Independent Media Network and for continued, informed and intelligent commentary on the rancid state of #AusPol, there’s always the Something Wonky podcast.

Until then …

Leben ist leben.





3.45pm, Tuesday, February 16, 2016.

I am called to a meeting with my manager who informs me that my position with the company has been made redundant. Some aspects of my work shall be outsourced, others taken on by remaining employees (of which there aren’t really that many left).

“Oh. Okay”. I reply, flatly.

I am provided with a “Deed of Release” which sets out the terms of my redundancy. I sign it.

By 4.30pm, I have left the office, walked home, and sit at the local pub, reading the days’ papers and drinking a Peroni.

Ten years and seven months. It’s over.

“Fucking brilliant!”, I text a few friends.

Then I think, “Shit, I have to move. Pack, clean, move. Organise things.

“Shit”, I think, “I’ll have to buy a computer”.

I’m still getting around to that.

Having never been unemployed before over 40 years of work, getting out of the habit is strange. There has always been somewhere to go, and things to be done, even if they were loathsome.


That’s where I’ve been these past several weeks.

Sitting on the couch mostly. Thinking. Or, to put it more aptly, procrastinating.

Procrastinating about thinking. And so on.

In other news, it seems the country has come to realise that our “new” Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull has turned out a rather gammy little squib.

Aw, shucks.



My name’s Lyle Shelton*.

I’m the Managing Director of The Australian Christian Lobby.**

We are urgently calling on the Australian Federal Government to temporarily over-ride anti-discrimination laws during the upcoming plebiscite campaign on whether same-sex marriage should or should not be legalised.

As you know, we are strong advocates for a “no” vote, but I would like to stress and reassure you all that we are not urging this action to say anything even remotely bigoted, nor would we consider doing so under any circumstances, but simply be allowed to put forward our argument, which is millennia-old, that marriage should only exist between a man and a woman, and that we be permitted to speak fairly and freely on this during the campaign without vilification or being subjected to the extremely low threshold strictures of our current anti-discrimination laws.

We are not going to be bullied by the gay lobby’s hate language into meekly surrendering our position against this proposed legislation which seeks only to normalise risky and unnatural behaviours as a so-called lifestyle “choice”. We know, and studies have shown time and time again, that health statistics among the gay community are worse than those for smokers, that choosing a homosexual lifestyle is more likely to place you in peril of excessive drug-taking, careless promiscuity, mental health disorders and suicide. That is the very nature of the homosexual lifestyle, and that is what it mostly entails.

Our children are forever being bombarded with and exposed to the hotly contested social and political agendas of the gay community, where “rainbow politics” are time and time again relentlessly imposed upon them and expected to be recognised as “normal”, regardless of the views of the parents. We have schools now openly encouraging children to cross-dress, to study gay and lesbian sexual techniques, anal sex and so on, and to view these behaviours in the context of innocent “experimentation”, rather than what it is, potentially damaging in the extreme if not life-threateningly catastrophic.

These children will become our new “Stolen Generation”, robbed of their very biological identity, and denied the stability and certainty that only marriage between a man and woman can provide.

This whole campaign, has, from the start, been nothing more than a remorseless, insidious and febrile assault on Christian family values, Australian values, the rights of a child to grow up in a loving, protected environment, an assault that Joseph Goebbels would be have been proud of, on long-held, long-respected sacred traditions and institutions.

It is an assault, orchestrated by the gay lobby, the Left and the liberal mainstream media, on the freedom of religious liberty in Australia, an aggressive secularism dressed in the fashionable moral cause of anti-discrimination which seeks not just to transform our values, but drive religion from our lives, from our very culture, and into the shadows, if not destroy it altogether.

It is a form of sexual Stalinism that is being proposed here, elevating unnatural habits and lifestyles of self-indulgent depravity and excess to a form of religion in itself, and doing so in the name of so-called “equality”, simply to satiate the desires and expectations of a noisily insistent few.

In other words, we are on the brink of institutionalising a form of sexual behaviour, often destructively compulsive, that is, by its very nature, medically and morally problematic, and we are on the brink of institutionalising it by trashing one of the most essential foundations of our society, trashing a child’s intrinsic right to both a mother and a father, and crushing a parent’s right to teach their child right and wrong as they know it, and we are on the brink of doing this simply as an act of psychotherapy for depressed and frustrated homosexuals.

As I said in the beginning, we are not urging the Federal Government to suspend the current anti-discrimination laws so that we may indulge in bigotry and cant, cheap shots or name-calling.

We simply request the right for our argument to be heard and to be put to the Australian people in a rational, reasoned and well thought out manner for the benefit of all concerned, most crucially our children and future generations of Australian men and women, fathers and mothers, husbands and wives.


*No, it’s not.
**No, I’m not.


All I want is a coffee.

I pay you. You make it. Give me change if change is due.

Don’t ask me how my day is going. It’s not “going” anywhere. It’s a day. There’s another one tomorrow.

Don’t make lame jokes like, “Do we look like a coffee shop to you?”, and then laugh at your own joke. Did you see me smiling just then? No, you did not. No fucking ho.

Yes, it is a “hot one” today.

I’m fucking standing in it, you stupid bastard.


There are occasions, mostly moments of boredom or lethargy, when a perverse impulse takes me to Andrew Bolt’s Blog With No Name, where I quickly scroll down the numerous items he posts on any given day just to reassure myself that, in this ever-changing world in which we live, some things remain soothingly constant and shall be so forevermore.

In Andrew’s world, the song always remains the same, scratched-up old-timey tunes blaring from out his battered bakelite and neon conservative cliché jukebox, songs of woe, calamity and fear, Old Shep has died and someone’s stolen the truck again. Barbarians from the wilds. Dark savages at the door. Murther most foul. They wantonly defile our most sacred, revered institutions and traditions, they spit in the face of decency, they that are “they”. These people …

The Islamists. The blacks. The ABC. Women.

A race war cometh. A clash of cultures and civilisations. The white race satirised, vilified, shamed, abused, and by whom? …

You shall see the Lord of Life and Death,
You shall see Heaven in Hell,
You shall be blinded by light,
You shall see darkness.

In Andrew’s world.

Not so long ago, just last year in fact, and for almost two years, Andrew was on top of his world, he was in, he was connected, he had the ear of a Prime Minister no less, a true insider with a seat at the table, the table of power, true power.

Do you remember?

Then it all fell apart.

Tragedy struck, and it struck Andrew hard. As it did Piers Akerman and Janet Albrechtson and Miranda Devine and Gerard Henderson and Greg Sheridan and Paul Sheehan and Alan Jones and their pain, their loss, their rage reverberated throughout the land, column after aggrieved column, anguished comment upon anguished comment, they spat their displeasure and disappointment, their hurt, upon every stage whose boards they took to treading.

“Rupert? Wherefore art thou, Rupert?”, whimpered their Great Leader, their Chosen One to His Master’s Voice.

Nothing could be done. Nothing.

Rollover Red Rover.

A vile conspiracy of smears and black innuendo, of monstrous abuse and ridicule, a remorseless conspiracy of Brobdingnagian proportions had been orchestrated by the collective brute forces of Stalinist savagery to fell their Most Beloved Man.

O most heinous villainy, the very oceans and seas themselves did swell with the outpouring of so many bitter tears!

Blood did fall upon the wattle. The blood of Tony Abbott. Former Prime Minister …

What are they going to say about him? What? Are they going to say he was a kind man? He was a wise man? He had plans? He had wisdom? … The man’s enlarged my mind. He’s a poet warrior in the classic sense. I mean sometimes he’ll… uh… well, you’ll say “hello” to him, right? And he’ll just walk right by you. He won’t even notice you. And suddenly he’ll grab you, and he’ll throw you in a corner, and he’ll say, “Do you know that ‘if’ is the middle word in life? If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you”

For one brief moment in time, one fleeting moment, they were no longer mere observers, they were Players in The Game, with a tumefied swag of Glittering Prizes within their grasp, they were Kings and they were Queens, and they could’ve been Heroes, forever and ever.


Just for one day.

Where are they now?

Greg Sheridan lays a damp, cool cloth across the furrowed brow of his friend, a soft kiss upon the cheek to soothe his troublesome fevres, “It’s all right Tony, it’s all right, my friend”, and returns to his lowly position as foreign editor in a broadsheet nobody reads much anymore.

Gerard Henderson continues as Executive Director of a “tatty living room of a terrace house” called The Sydney Institute to regularly host “about 20-30 superannuated types who have driven their Daimlers over from Mosman for a nice talk and a few ports”.

Miranda Devine has taken a sabbatical from a Sunday night radio show nobody much knew she ever had, to “spend more time with her family”, and no doubt reflect upon the fate of her luminary paladin, her knight in tight red armour. Where once she did squelch, now there is only chafing.

And Andrew. Poor Andrew.

Andrew Bolt’s column continues to be syndicated in Rupert’s tabloids, and is still to be found just a few pages before the classified ads where you can find listings for young, busty Asian girls to satisfy your every desire, couples welcome. His show, “The Bolt Report”, television’s finest vaudevillian political comedy of our time awaits news of its fate and placement, possibly Sky News, because, well, everybody subscribes to Foxtel.

Don’t they?

Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled forever, let me mourn;
Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.

Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their last fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.

Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days, my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.

John Dowland, 1596


You need these …

“Four Women” Meshell Ndegeocello

“Strange Fruit” Cassandra Wilson

“Pushin’ Against A Stone” Valerie June

And this …

“America” Laibach


Jacked up on marijuana, she drops acid and is screamed at by a hot dog.

This is a 1969 educational film from Lockheed Aircraft. The horror. The horror …


Malcolm seems a pleasant man, happy in his work.

We only want what’s best for Malcolm.

Malcolm has a nice smile. A nice smile in a symmetrical face.


Malcolm likes to speak.
And he loves to be spoken to.

Malcolm is the Prime Minister of Australia.

Turnbull. Malcolm Turnbull.

On February 8, 2016, Malcolm announced …

“$4 million each for the Little Scientists and Let’s Count programs as part of the National Innovation and Science Agenda. 350,000 more pre-schoolers will now have access to these programs which will help to inspire Australia’s next generation of innovators and entrepreneurs.”

On February 4, 2016, it was reported

“Up to 350 positions at Australia’s Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO) will be made redundant, with its climate research divisions to bear the brunt of the job losses.”

Because … “Successive federal funding cuts, including a $115m reduction in the 2014 federal budget, have seen the agency’s staffing levels shrink by 20% in the past years, equal to around 1,400 jobs.” and … “that science and research roles were hit hardest by the cuts.”

On October 21, 2015, at the Prime Minister’s Prize for Science ceremony, Malcolm said this

“We have to recognise the central role of science and the work of scientists and people who follow the scientific method.”

Scientists, he insisted, were key to Australia’s goal to remain a “high-wage, generous social welfare net, first-world economy”. Science literacy was vitally needed not only in universities, but in primary and secondary schools.

Is Malcolm confused?

Once upon a time Malcolm “was a staunch supporter of marriage Equality, even publicly expressing his support for a free vote (conscience vote) in Parliament on the issue”, and on May 26th, 2015 Malcolm said this

“If you think about, say, the British Commonwealth, if you think of the old Commonwealth, the Dominions, they are all now supporting same-sex marriage.

“Australia I suppose is the odd one out or is the one that has not yet turned its mind in a parliamentary sense to reviewing the law.

“The point is the context has dramatically changed and we can’t be blind to that.”

However, “in his first speech to Parliament as Prime Minister, Turnbull wasted no time in casting a cloud over the prospect of marriage equality anytime soon. His decision to opt in to a plebiscite (national vote) instead of a conscience vote in Parliament highlights how politics can overshadow beliefs.”

Malcolm wants to spend $160 million to ask Australian folks all over a question, the answer to which is already known.

I’ve had pisses that have lasted longer than Malcolm Turnbull’s convictions.

In the five months since ousting Testicles Tony from the top job to the relief of a most happye nation, Malcolm has spoken long, and at large, on and about many things. He has spoken coherently and intelligently, on domestic violence, climate change and homelessness, science, research, medicine, all manner of things

“In October last year, he told the New South Wales state council of the Liberal Party: “We are not run by factions.”

The line elicited more than giggles, in fact. It got great guffaws. And groans. And interjections – among them “Come off it!” and “Should have worn gumboots!”

Smiling uneasily, Turnbull took on the interjectors.

“Well, you may dispute that,” he said, “but I have to tell you, from experience, we are not run by factions, nor are we run by big business, or by deals in back rooms.””

Behold, Our Malcolm of The Immaculate Moral Equivalency.

A Proud Man, A Vain Man, and now a Man Captive to the antipathetic obsessions of those comically narcissistic conceits of pure political ideology and the men and women who BELIEVE them, the dog-eat-dog, fuck-your mother and I Spit On Your Father’s Grave No Frills trademark so historically beloved and embraced by his Firm, the Big Business and Billionaire Corporate Conglomerate otherwise known as The Liberal Party of Australia.

Malcolm ain’t nothin’ but the mongrel breeding bitch of the puppy farm now.

An Empty Man.

A Nowhere Man.

Doing NOTHING the best he can.

Malcolm speaks of “reform”, but there is and can be no “reform” from Malcolm for Malcolm is not in charge as much as he would like us to think, instead there continues, in the tradition of his predecessor, a cruel Calvinist covenant of neither works nor grace, but of banishment and desolation.

No law, no love, just a bleak oppression of body and soul, not entered into willingly, but thrust upon our heads and shoulders with a savage and relentless force under the guise of a new austerity, difficult “challenges”, unending “crises”, and a cycle of perpetual threats and constant dangers which are forever menacing our great state, may Advance Australia Fear.

Everything old is new again.

What does Malcolm stand for?


He must be happy in his work.

His whole future is as good as sealed.

They’re making plans for Malcolm.

They only want what’s best for him.

He just needs a helping hand.



Amanda Chantal Bacon, owner of American cult juice bar Moon Juice

“At 8am, I had a warm, morning chi drink on my way to the school drop off, drunk in the car! It contains more than 25 grams of plant protein, thanks to vanilla mushroom protein and stone ground almond butter, and also has the super endocrine, brain, immunity, and libido- boosting powers of Brain Dust, cordyceps, reishi, maca, and Shilajit resin. I throw ho shou wu and pearl in as part of my beauty regime. I chase it with three quinton shots for mineralisation and two lipospheric vitamin B-complex packets for energy.”

Wake in Fright Pleasance


In the light of current events, I decided I would rewrite our national anthem “Advance Australia Fair” as if it were a track from Laibach’s 2007 album, “Volk”

“We kill your men.
We rape your women.
We pulverize the minds of your children to dust with this,
!!!!!The Glorious Confusion of our Warsong.
Our Land is closed to you.
We defend it. Against you.
Your criminal hordes.
Traitors to your motherlands.
You from across these seas.
Our boundless plains are desert.
Our soils arid.

We fight. We live. We die.
For Freedom. No Tyranny.
Culture. Civilisation.
As One we Rise to guard our Native Strand.
Our Homeland.
In every stage of History’s page,
Our Victory is clear,
As One combined of Heart and Hand,
Advance Australia Fair!
Advance Australia Fair!

Much better.

*Edited several times since first posted. I’ll get it right eventually.


From the “Consumer Medicine Information” pamphlet for a medication I have been prescribed, but have not yet taken …

  • Do not use if you have ever had an allergic reaction to indacaterol maleate (the active ingredient).
  • Do not breast-feed while using this medicine.
  • This medication may interfere with other medications, including:
    Medications for lung disease.
    For high blood pressure or heart problems.
    Medicines used to treat depression and other mental disorders.
    Medicine for glaucoma, including eye drops.
    Medicines for hay fever, coughs, colds, runny nose.
  • Tell your doctor if you notice any of the following side-effects:
    Combination of sore throat, blocked nose, coughing, headache.
    Muscle pain.
    Muscle spasm.
    Swollen hands, ankles and feet.
    Crushing chest pain.
    Neck pain.
    Sore throat.
    Runny nose.
    Blocked nose.
    Dry Mouth.
    Pressure/pain in cheeks and forehead.
    Chest pain/discomfort.
    Pain in muscles, bones or joints.
    Excessive thirst, high urine output.
    Increased appetite with weight loss, tiredness.
    Tingling and numbing.
  • If you use too much (Overdose):
    Immediately telephone your doctor or;
    Poisons Information Centre (13 11 26)
    Go to the Accident/Emergency ward at your nearest hospital.
  • Symptoms of overdose may include:
    Fast, irregular heartbeat.

I feel so reassured.



Liberal Senator Eric Abetz, former Minister for Employment in the Abbott Government, wee nyaff, nudnik and vainglorious shtunk, has a degree in law and a curious habit of speaking factitious nonsense on matters he knows nothing about.

Starkly bereft and deficient in experience on anything resembling tangible matters of substance, oblivious to the realities of life in this, our real world, and who has, during his political “career” achieved nothing of benefit for anyone other than himself, this daft, dopey and nescient bed bug on the encrusted, befouled sheets of our nation has lately taken to the habit of inserting his splenetic and choleric self into conversations and issues of national import to hate-vomit his peculiar brand of dead-from-the-neck-up fatuous and asinine fuckwittery almost every day now since he was unceremoniously jettisoned from his ministerial position in September last year.

Herr Abetz is rapidly becoming the political equivalent of Mitchell Pearce, turning up to every party unannounced and uninvited to piss on the furniture, vomit on the rug, root the dog, call the Asian and black guests chinks and niggers and then, when asked to leave, loudly complains that he was just havin’ a laugh and that the world has been hijacked by “atheists, feminazis, homos” and political correctness gone mad.

There is nothing in his life, nothing in his so-called career which will ever be classified achievement enough to rate so much as a footnote to a footnote to a footnote’s footnote to any political history of this nation or time, and if, when the most blessed and hoped for day comes when he pops his clogs and shuffles from this mortal coil, the news of his demise shall probably be met with total silence or something like …

“Who the fuck was he?”

“Dunno. Politician. His uncle was a Nazi.”

Turn page.

Abetz is like a third nipple on a man. We already know that two of them serve no function, but are somewhat mandatory features, so what the fuck and why is this third one here for?

Like a eunuch turning up to a flophouse, prompting all the working girls to exclaim with wide eyes and dropped jaws, “Are you serious?

He has claimed there is “a link between abortion and breast cancer”. There is not. In 2014, he proposed a plan that would have required the unemployed to apply for 40 jobs every month, and strip them of any benefits for six months, in other words, no income whatsoever, perhaps in the belief that poverty and starvation are character-building, a trait, possibly genetic, inherited from his Jew murdering Nazi uncle Otto.

He continues to rail, wail and whine against and about marriage equality, no doubt labouring under the delusion that if introduced, it will bring about the complete collapse of civilisation as he knows it, city walls will crumble, and towers fall, the sun shall plunge into the ocean, and the earth erupt in flame.

He has written “study after study, time and time again, shows that children benefit from having a father and mother”, and cites no such study because none exist.

He has also said this …

“Most people in a democracy believe social policy should be determined by the people, not by dubious interpretation by an activist judiciary”.

He has recently, however, altered his opinion about the “power of the people”, stating if a plebiscite on the matter is put to the Australian people, and they say “yes” to marriage equality, he will ignore it

“There will be people in the parliament who could not support the outcome of a plebiscite whichever way it went.”

Eric does not like democracy when democracy does not suit Eric.

Eric is a schmuck.

A yokel.

Science has proven a link between Eric Abetz and total stupidity, and it did not take long.

Zolst zein vi a lomp-am tug sollst di hangen, in der nacht sollst di brenne.*

Don’t be an Eric.

Another Christian Dickhead

*Yiddish: “He should be like a lamp, hang during the day and burn during the night”.


Richard Cooke from The Monthly ….

“The federal government says it will consider backing Kevin Rudd for a top United Nations job if the former prime minister puts his hat in the ring.”

That’s not just a top job, but the top job, the full Kofi Annan. And you can feverishly check the date all you like, but that news item is from the Year of Our Lord 2016. It is Julie Bishop offering that support; Labor are on board already. Kevin Rudd has bipartisan backing to become head of the United Nations. The United Nations of Earth.

If you haven’t seen Kevin Rudd, let’s recap. The two-time former prime minster isn’t just an arsehole, he’s the Dalai Lama of arseholes: the kind of arsehole that comes just once in a generation, mystically identified from childhood, then goes on to fulfil the ancient predictions of a sooth-sayer by how showing much of an arsehole he is. One of the difficulties Julia Gillard suffered as prime minister is that she was never allowed to disclose just what a titanic, unworkable arsehole her predecessor was.



“Where is Tony Abbott?” “What is Tony doing?” “What has Tony done?” “What will Tony do?” “What has Tony said?” “Tony said what?”

“What does Eric Abetz think?” “What does Kevin Andrews think?” “What about Cory Bernardi?”

“Let’s write a column about it. Let’s write two. How about a couple hundred?”

“And two dozen editorials. And three hard-boiled eggs”.

The Guardian Australia runs a hagiographic fiction on Abbott by Tom Switzer who writes

“As unfashionable as it is to say so, there are very few people in public life with finer personal qualities than Abbott.”

And this…

“Sneered at, patronised, condemned, he has battled on. Abbott, at 58, is relatively young and exceedingly fit, he is highly experienced, a man of enormous talent and a magnificent parliamentary performer and an adept and compelling politician.”

Greg Sheridan, Foreign editor at “The Australian” Rupert’s broadsheet comic book observes of Abbott

“No politician in modern ­Australia, at least since Malcolm Fraser in 1975, has been subjected to such sustained, vitriolic and personalised abuse as Abbott.”

Think on that for a moment. There is something very wrong about it.

Sheridan continues …

“If he left politics, this would subside. The former prime minister is a strong and resilient person, but this kind of abuse takes its toll not only on the person ­directly affected but also on their family. It is also the case that the sooner he left, the sooner it was likely his record of substantial, perhaps historic, achievement would be reassessed.

No other prime minister could have stopped the boats.”

It is reported “that Tony Abbott has been “in mourning” after losing the top job and has been urged to remain in politics by his former chief of staff Peta Credlin.

“He appears from what people are saying to be quite bitter, quite resentful, in fact I think it’s got worse,” a Liberal source is quoted as saying.”

Abbott denies this. Of course.

Former Minister for Employment in the Abbott Government, Eric Abetz states “Tony Abbott has always been about one thing – namely the Australian people” and resident parliamentary whackjob Cory Bernardi “says it has been the custom of the party to allow former leaders to choose their next role” and warns “against efforts to “muffle” Tony Abbott’s future contribution in party debates.””

Abbott announced last week that he intends to re-contest his seat in the next federal election, and appears to under the impression this may pave the way for his return to the Prime Ministership.

And this week, Abbott will be jetting off to the United States of Murder to address a group known as The Alliance Defending Freedom, a gay-hate group which describes itself as “an alliance-building legal organisation that advocates for the right of people to freely live out their faith. Along with our work to defend human rights such as free speech and religious freedom, ADF affirms the good of marriage and the value of strong families around the world, particularly on behalf children, who flourish when society honours and promotes the roles of both mothers and fathers in children’s lives,” and “seeks to recover the robust Christendomic theology of the 3rd, 4th, and 5th centuries“.

Read, “defending human rights such as free speech and religious freedom”, as imposing their sexual and religious bigotry on others, abolishing abortion, burning witches at the stake and stoning gays to death in the public square. They probably believe Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible” to be a guide on how to go about it.

Since Abbott was thrown from his job last September, and replaced by Malcolm Turnbull, the political “news” in our mainstream media (including the ABC) has concerned itself with little else but gasbagging speculation, gossip and rumours about what Tony is going to do with his life, will he stay or will he go, how he feels, how others feel about how he feels, and how we should feel about it all as well. In a country of over 24 million people, this is the political issue that should consume our attention and be of primary concern to us, according to our media and its commentators.

I could not give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut or a wrinkled rat’s arse if the idiot threw himself off a fucking cliff, and I suspect I may not be alone in that.

However, within the closed minds of the ageing anal polyps on the arse of journalism that comprise the Canberra press gallery, this is the best they can come up.

We don’t do policy. We don’t do analysis. We don’t report on the de-funding of TAFE’s across the country, the shrinking pool of teachers and students, the discontinued courses, the ones which remain priced so far out of reach denying a generation of youth who have no wish to attend university to learn a trade. No. We don’t do that. We don’t report on the slow and inexorable dismantling of Medicare. No. We do not report on the cuts to community legal services, family violence prevention centres, charitable organisations and mental health services. No. We don’t do that.

Not on our front pages. Not in our headlines. No.

NSW Premier Mike Baird removes over 40 century old fig trees in Sydney’s Moore Park to make way for a light rail system as a sup to the gambling and racing industry so they may have quick and easy access to their club in order to watch horses run around in fucking circles, and there’s barely any scrutiny of the decision in our media. A couple reports, a column, a few letters to the editor, and it’s over and done with.

Nice work if you can get it. Why not concentrate on Mr. Baird’s chummy tweets instead? Too easy.

Demonise the poor. Stigmatise the single mother. Disenfranchise the young. Reduce penalty rates. Reduce the minimum wage. Axe the aged pension.

We are being hugger-muggered and carom-shotted into a world of black darkness and confusion. The rising of this century will not bring catharsis. The rising of this century shall not bring salvation. The crack is getting deeper, the flames are rising higher, and the political predators of this great divide shall cut our throats, slice our flesh, and drink our blood.*

Existence as we know it is over.

The End of Democracy. Only the illusion remains.

The Ascent of the Idiocratic Oligarchy is here.

Gore Vidal once remarked that the greatest, most grievous error the Ruling Classes ever made was teaching the Underclasses how to read during the Industrial Revolution, essentially so as the Underclasses could comprehend the instructions for operating the machinery of the time, and it is an error the Ruling Classes have been attempting to correct ever since.

He was right.

And they’re winning.


*Apologies to Laibach


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