Beyond the soft palate


First day at school, David, new kid, sits up the back of the classroom.

David. Dave.


Ten minutes in, he slips his hand under his armpit, makes a farting noise, rest of the class laugh, giggle, titter and guffaw, and David – Dave, Davo – thinks, “I’m in. A-hur. A-hur.”

Next day, he slips his hand under his armpit once more, makes a fart noise, the class laugh, giggle, titter and guffaw same as yesterday, and some of them think, “What a character is Davo. What a card”.

He does it again the next day, and the next, and the one after that, same trick, same sound, again the next day, and every day the week after, and the week after that, and the week after that, the month after, every day, and the month after that, and the one after that, every single day, same trick, same sound, only the other kids aren’t really laughing much anymore, not much anyway, so he goes louder, then louder still, every single day, every week, every month, but the attention he craves, it’s not there anymore, he’s not pulling the giggles like he used to is David, Dave, Davo, so he tries some new tricks, he teases the kid with Down’s Syndrome, calls him a “retard”, makes him cry, he calls the black kid a nigger and tells him to fuck off back to the gorillas, he pulls the hair of a girl, hard, kicks the back of her chair in class every day, he calls the two kids who always hang out together faggots, and makes wanking gestures, and he only ever does this, all of it, when he can be seen and heard doing it, and he laughs when he’s done and he expects others to laugh too, but they don’t ‘cause that joke ain’t funny anymore and he’s still pulling the fart prank, everybody else is trying to study, to get on with their business and, frankly, everyone has come to think David, Dave, Davo, Dave The Dickhead, is a right cunt, every time he shows his face, a face which, in time, will come to resemble a condom full of foreskins, all they feel like doing is throwing rocks at it, and telling him to fuck right off.

Which they do.

He don’t pay that no attention, not he, no.

Time goes by, school ends. Some students keep in touch with each other, some of them for years, but no one wants a bar of Dave The Dickhead anymore, not in the adult world, no, not in a world of grown-ups, ‘cause calling people “retards” and “niggers” and “faggots” and pulling the hair of girls, that’s kids stuff, that’s for kids, mutts and punks, Dave The Dickhead can fuck right off, and no one accepts his friend requests on Facebook, and if there’s a reunion of sorts, nobody thinks to invite Dave The Dickhead, no, fuck that, he turns up, I ain’t going, we’ll catch up over a few beers down the pub instead next weekend.

Years pass.

Many years.

You’re having a beer with an old school mate, talking about work and life, whatever comes to mind, and he says, “Did you hear about David? Dave? Davo?”

“Dave The Dickhead?”

“Yeah. That cunt.”

“You know he only passed the HSC ‘cause he cheated?”

“Yeah. We all knew that. Anyway … ”

“Go on.”

“He’s dead.”


“Had a massive fucking heart attack.”

“Shit, eh?”

“Yeah, he’d been dead a week. They found him slumped over a desk in his flat, pants ‘round his ankles, his cock out. Or what was left of it. ‘parrently, he’d been looking at a website, “Barely Legal Teen L*sbian P*rn” and pulled himself into a stroke … So to speak.”

“Shit, eh?”

“He had two cats?”


“They ate his dick.”

Beer spits out your mouths, out your noses, and you both laugh and giggle, titter and guffaw, and then you laugh and giggle and titter some more, and one says, “What a cunt”, and the other says, “No great loss”, and you both laugh and giggle and giggle and laugh, and the night draws to a close, you say your goodbyes and make plans for another, but neither of you, nor anyone else for that matter, will ever, at any time further in life, so much as think a thought, or utter a single word about the life and death of Dave The Dickhead, the Farting Armpit from Ye Olde Schooldays, ever again.




You may very well think this is a post about Senator David Leyonhjelm in response to his remarks about yesterday’s multiple homicides in Melbourne, but I could not possibly comment.


I wandered into Sydney’s CBD today, for no reason other than to wander, to distract myself from the thought of applying to Centrelink for unemployment benefits for the first time in forty years of working life, an experience some I know have likened to a waking nightmare, and in my wandering I did find myself at one point late in the afternoon in a bookstore, a well-known and long-established bookstore.

I browsed, briefly, then ambled to the “Crime” section, the new releases, whereupon I spied about a half dozen copies of Paddy Manning’s biography of our Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbull, titled “Born To Rule”, nestled amidst the fictions and non-fictions about murderers, serial killers, rapists, thieves, thugs and villains in general, and I did laugh.

I laughed out loud, a satisfying laugh. A long laugh, from the gut.


I realised then that, where Turnbull’s predecessor Tony Abbott, an oafish, simian-gaited sot who wore his testicles upon his shoulders, was regarded by most as a thoroughly stupid and ridiculous figure, an idiot’s idiot who could be relied upon to produce at least one or two “What the fuck?” head-scratch moments on a daily basis, Turnbull, it seems, has come to be regarded, in a shockingly brief span of time, with open contempt. By his own party, the media, and the public at large.

He seems a mite haggard these days, a little sallow of skin and drawn of the gills, sunken and shrunken and much diminished in stature, and his eyes have taken on a faraway glaze of frustration and disappointment that the glittering prize of “leadership” he did covet for so very, very long, has turned out to be nothing but an empty creamed-corn can, a tin can perched atop a pale and shabby pedestal of ossified excrement scattered with lurid glitter, discarded condoms and the fly-blown mucus and puke from the voided stomachs of millions, gutfuls had.

This tin can is a bauble he has well earned, and it is all he is, and ever will be due.

What a foolish man.

A useless man.

Intelligence is wasted on such as he, and how, how, how, how, can one man do nothing with nothing and still manage to fuck it up in such a spectacularly arresting yet banal fashion?

All show, no boat is our Malcolm, and the show you can’t give tickets away anymore unless your idea of entertainment is watching a middle-aged fully-clothed male hooker with nice teeth try to hump a brick wall, music by the organ-grinders monkey, the organ grinder fucked off up the pub weeks ago and won’t be coming back, and monkey’s now in the mood for murder.

Malcolm always had an eye for history, his place in it, he thought it was all but guaranteed, his birthright, but history has no eye for him, no more, no more, no more, no more, maybe a footnote here and there, a footnote to a footnote, an addendum on occasions, an obscure joke, a giggle, a snort, a “for fuck’s sake” memory, a “special presentation”, the “Fabulous Nobodies of Yesteryear” episode, 30 minutes maybe, at best, and an old yellowing copy of a long out-of-print biography gathering dust at the back of the “crime” shelf in an op-shop somewhere in Bumfuck City, Back-O-Nowhere.

Turnbull 1



A loser wrote some words today,
Had them published in a paper.
He wrote them ’bout a woman he hates,
And boy, this loser hates her.

This woman he hates, she too writes words,
But in another paper,
She writes words ’bout losing losers,
That make losers say they’ll rape her.

No, she says, I’ll not lie down,
I’ll not suck this shit or swallow,
I’d rather a hedgehog with a bomb on its back
Nestle within my hollows.

Our loser once had cancer,
And what a shame it did not kill him,
So he shoved himself into his wife,
And his wife did bear him children.

“What does your daddy do?”, oft they’re asked,
When they are at their school,
“I’m fucked if I know”, they might reply,
“I’m told he’s a bit of a tool”.

I did not read his words today,
I’d better things to do,
I scanned the page, then flipped it,
Thinking, “What a fucking tool”.

I will not say this losers name.
You can find it at the link,
But if you read his words this day,
You may think, “What a fucking prick”.


A gentler, less foamy and somewhat different version of my last post “Dutch Courage” is now available at The Australian Independent Media Network (AIMN)

You may read it there if you choose.

Meanwhile, here is some music. Listen to it.

There is no truth in the rumour that the Northern Territory government will be adopting this as their new official state song.


Stormfront Comment screenshot

Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on Andrew Bolt and gerbalism germalism burbleism writing shit, has decided to turn his attention to the matter of the firm but gentle mollycoddling and indulgences meted out to those naughty lads incarcerated within the soft machine of the Northern Territory’s Don Dale Juvenile Detention Centre, treatment which was highlighted on the ABC’s “Four Corners” program on Monday 25th July, 2016.

This “treatment” involved footage of one 17-year-old boy being thrown across his cell, kneed and knocked to the ground, repeatedly stripped naked, kept in solitary confinement and strapped into a restraining chair with a bag over his head. Other footage showed six boys being tear-gassed because one boy had escaped his isolation cell, apparently constituting a “riot” of sorts, if you think “riot” means two other boys quietly playing cards in their cells, and the rest just farting about in theirs doing fuck-all, but perhaps gassing them all was a “scale of economy” thing, just in case these other “idiots” and “little fuckers” got some bright ideas.

The report, an exercise in actual “investigative journalism”, resulted in Human Rights lawyers insisting this treatment constituted a gross violation of the United Nations’ Convention against Torture and the 1924 Geneva Declaration of the Rights of the Child (although to be fair, according to former Prime Minister Tony Abbott, Australians are a little “sick of being lectured to” by the UN on such trivial matters like torture) and generally had most people who saw it muttering “What the fucking fuck?” in shock, horror and general disgust.

Almost immediately after the “Four Corners” program went to air, journalists, reporters, commentators and numerous members of the general public did voice their revulsion, rage and sickened astonishment at what had been reported, and a bunch of Northern Territory politicians who’d always been in the know about such carryings-on shuffled their feet, ummed and ahh-ed and went wee-wee-wee-wee-wee all the way home, muttering what a bad fucking “look” it was that this “look” had made it to the telly, revealing the whole lot of them to be a right gammy bunch of nasty hoofwanking thundercunts.

Bolt, on the other hand, maintained a curious silence on the matter from 9.45pm Monday evening (“Four Corners” concluded at 8.30pm) until 10.20am Tuesday 26th, initially proclaiming the behaviour shown by the prison authorities as “totally unacceptable”, then moving on to suggesting the program’s transcript “suggested another side to the story” and then stating he was “unconvinced” by calls for a Royal Commission and that the guard’s behaviour may have been somehow justified in light of the 17-year-old’s history of delinquency and incarceration, a history dating back to when he was 11-years-old.

A “curious” silence simply because, if “Four Corners” had chosen for its topic, black-on-white violence, or Islamic violence, Bolt would’ve been smearing his Outraged White-Trash-Cunt scent all over it in the manner of a cat marking out its territory, yet this story involved grotesque acts of violence and abuse by “legitimate” authority figures against troublemaking uppity niggers, so Bolt needed a little oxygen, a little time, to figure his angle so he could not be seen as giving credence to any story, any, by the ABC he loathes so obsessively.

Bolt, a convicted racist whose monosyllabic prose stylings are often highly commended and endorsed by random misfits from the white supremacist, neo-Nazi “organisation” Stormfront (refer screenshot at top) a man with so many chips upon his shoulders you could open a fucking quarry, and with a persecution complex so monstrously Herculean it would leave Jesus Christ himself gape-mouthed with awe, then went on to insist we “add perspective to better see our way forward” and put the matter into “context”, very possibly the same type of “contextualising” David Irving might apply to the gassing of the Jews during WWII, or the type of “contextualising” a Catholic priest might apply after blowing his load in the mouth of a boy and then arguing it was nothing more than a practical exercise in sex education.

“But”, went the White-Trash-Cunt.

Bolt then went full howler-monkey, turning his attention to the United Nations, and an apparent “plea” from ABC Radio National’s Ellen Fanning to have this type of treatment defined by the UN as “torture”, with Bolt insisting “this appeal to foreigners to police us shows a contempt for Australia’s capacity to manage its own affairs”.

Manage them, perhaps, in the manner suggested by NT Chief Minister Adam Giles back in 2010 …

“I would love to be the Corrections Minister. It is not the portfolio I really aspire to but, if I was the prisons Minister, I would build a big concrete hole and put all the bad criminals in there. ‘Right you are in the hole, you are not coming out, start learning about it’. I might break every United Nations convention on the right of the prisoner, but ‘get in the hole’.”

Giles, the type of cunt only a cunt like Bolt could approve of, went all yammer-stammer, aw-gee-shucks ain’t that a shame, the day after the “Four Corners” report went to air, confessing to an uncomfortable feeling (a little “tight” in his pants?) at the sight of a juvenile in a mechanical restraint chair, even though he and his Cabinet had approved its use for just that purpose four months earlier, and as some wag in the NT News so pointedly asked, “What did he think it was going to be used for? Wheelchair basketball?”

Meanwhile, our White-Trash-Cunt, convicted racist and Stormfront poster boy, has subsequently returned to posting “selected” reports of crimes – a “crimewave” no less, where the fuck is J. Edgar Hoover and Elliot Ness when a white man needs them – committed by blacks, immigrants, refugees, the “usual suspects”, and turning his attention to the ABC’s bukkake-style “sliming” of God’s Banker, Cardinal George Pell, of whom it has been alleged, once used to enjoy hanging out with boys in shower blocks with his cock out.

There may be, perhaps, a case to be argued that the White-Trash-Cunt Bolt is the very model of genteel, rational and considered, fact and logic based reportage and commentary, a civilised man given to deep and complex, carefully thought-out opinions and fine taste, but I suspect it would be an argument only Andrew Bolt would make, perhaps with a little help from his friends Gerard Henderson, who executive-directs a living room in a terrace house and calls it an Institute, or the fluffy-haired twat who edits The Spectator Australia, a newspaper that does not appear to contain any actual “news” in it.

Meanwhile, and in news just to hand, and by sure and begorrah to warm the cockles within the “heart” of the White-Trash-Cunt, the Royal Commission into the abuse of children in detention within the NT justice system that was announced in the wake of the “Four Corners” program, and that Bolt felt was not “necessary”, will be led by “Brian Martin, the former NT Supreme Court Chief Justice, [who] achieved infamy among Aboriginal communities in April 2010 when he described five white youths who bashed an Aboriginal man to death in a racially charged drunken rampage as “of otherwise good character”.

There’s never been a more exciting time in Australia to throw up in your mouth a little.


Laibach “Smrt za smrt (Death for Death)” Live at Henry Le Boeuf Hall, Bozar, Brussels, February 9 2016.

In collaboration with RTV Slovenia Symphony Orchestra, mixed choir, Slovenian composer Anže Rozman (orchestrated arrangements), and conductor Simon Dvoršak.

If you only listen to one piece of music today, make it this one. You will have no need of anything further. Staggering.


Suzi Quatro with “Warm Leatherette”

You may find yourself wanting to listen to this several times …


Selected posts from this blog can also be found on odd occasions at The Australian Independent Media Network (AIMN). Here are links to a few of the more recent…





Now, for a few words about beer

Beer giant Carlton and United Breweries has sacked the entire maintenance workforce at Melbourne’s biggest brewery, prompting threats of a boycott of the popular VB.

Dozens of electricians and fitters lost their jobs after CUB axed a long-standing maintenance contract and have been protesting outside the gates of the Abbotsford brewery for 12 hours a day for the past four weeks.

The 54 workers were laid off last month before being invited to reapply for their old jobs on individual contracts, for what they say would be a 65 per cent wage cut once penalty rates and other entitlements were factored in.

The brewery is having non-union replacement labour bussed in and out of the site every day past picketing workers.

I do not drink any of the beers shown below, my preference being Resch’s, however, if you do, I would urge you to reconsider and find a more palatable alternative …


… Otherwise, we cannot be friends.


UPDATE – In comments, Flogga has just pointed out that Resch’s is also a CUB brand (despite not being on the list shown), so I cannot be friends with myself.

“Choose another beer, Ross”. “Yes, yes, I shall”. Damn. Damn it all to hell.



July 13, 2016, ABC’s “7.30 Report” begins.

An interview with Wyatt Roy, the youngest person ever to be elected to Federal Parliament, and the youngest ever to leave it, having served a brief and undistinguished term doing fuck-only-knows-what, and Roy is asked about the July 2nd Federal election that saw him pissed into political oblivion, and the Coalition of Reactionary Righteousness scrape back into power by a margin thinner than the wispy wisps on his chinny-chin-chin.

Roy responds with a squeak about the other side of politics, the Labor Party, and how its primary vote was the lowest recorded since the cessation of World War II, and how it’s not about him, it’s about them, what about them, not what about me, it isn’t fair, I’ve done my share, what about them? Leigh Sales, the host, has a giggly giggle at this, and it is at this point my mind wanders, my attention is lost, and I begin to muse on whether I should buy the 100cm Laibach belt, or the 110cm just in case I need a little extra breathing room and begin to fatten up some from all the cheap white cask wine I’ve been drinking of late.

Once upon a time, back in the day, there was a news and current affairs program on a Sunday morn where Laurie Oakes, a long-serving veteran of the Parliamentary press gallery and one of the very few, the miniscule few, deserving of a modicum of respect, would interview a political figure of the day, and do so for (wait for it) A WHOLE THIRTY MINUTES.

Oakes, an intelligent man and always well across his brief, was not inclined to suffer glib, facile answers from fools to questions of substance and, if he found himself in receipt of such answers, would oft maintain a bemused and quizzical silence whilst his subject would vainly attempt to fill the silence with all manner of limp verbal fappery and wind up looking a right horse’s arse.

Those were the days.

Now, in this, The Modern World, such programs and interview stylings have been replaced by infotainments hosted by fluffy people with fluffy smiles and fluffy hair who ask fluffy questions of political fluffballs who have no hesitation in revealing themselves to be horses arses, who’ve learned to live by hate and pain and whose lives have always been the same, and who happily don the mantle of horses arse as a badge of their individualism, their maverick spirit, their refusal to kowtow to “political correctness”, their outsider status, just saying what ordinary folk are a-thinkin’, doing what ordinary folk want a-doin’, freedom of speech and the right to have their opinion and force it down your throat until you gag and scream, “No! Stop! Please! Okay! Enough! I’ll suck! I’ll swallow! I’ll give your opinions credence and gravitas in the blessed name of all that is balance!”, and so we do come to a point where the ranks of our body politic and within our media play host to some of the dumbest, most ignorant, arrogant, loud-mouthed fencepost humping fuckwits that have ever been untimely spat from the womb of woman to walk upright on the face of this, our increasingly benighted earth.

That sentence has 203 words in it.

Count them.

No, not the words in the sentence silly bugger, the fuckwits.

There’s Eric Abetz, Stormfront’s favourite Nazi nephew, who, having maintained a strange and curious silence the eight-week election campaign (what is he doing in there, the neighbours wonder), has goose-stepped his way back into public view to talk about himself and Tony Abbott again and Tony Abbott and himself and will no doubt shortly progress to his favourite topics on how uppity niggers and faggots and women who fuck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby are screwing up the planet for all the normal people, which is to say, the ones who hate uppity niggers and faggots and women who fuck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby and have multiple accounts on Facebook under a variety of aliases so they can say as much all incognito like, a-hur-hur-hur.


Words, not fuckwits. Silly buggers.

There’s Peter Dutton who scraped back into his position as Federal Minister for the Institutionalisation of Child Abuse by about a thousand something votes and subsequently blamed his close-call on “union thugs” and bikies ringin’ grandmas in the dead of night to scare the shit out of them about possible changes to Medicare, because bikies don’t bike no more, they just want to scare the shit out of yo’ granmama and pa and threaten to break their dentures and stab their pets if they don’t vote right.

There’s Kevin Andrews.

I don’t even want to go there, I’m tired.

Cory Bernardi.

The cream of the crop though, the pick of the box, and, like Peter Dutton, Barnaby Joyce and some silly cunt whose name I couldn’t be bothered reminding myself of, all of them hailing from Queensland, Australia’s baby-rape-and-torture-p0rn white-trash-dick-pulling-pervert capital of the nation comes Pauline Hanson (again), a-screechin’ and a-screamin and a-hollerin’ ‘bout Muslims in her Vegemite, scientists who make shit up about the weather, uppity niggers and chinks, immigrants and refugees and fucking faggots with their gay marriage thing that will send us all hurtling into Hell, and any other topic that may suddenly pop into her addled, empty head whenever a microphone or television camera is poked at her so she can wallow in the sound of her own strangulated voice for a bit. Again.

All of these individuals, these political outliers on the ragged edges of reality, are aided and abetted almost daily by their shouty-sulky-sooky-squealy counterparts in contemporary news media, print (what’s left of it) and electronic, who insist we engage, talk with, and not at, rather than immediately dismiss their rabidly unhinged, ignorant and uninformed fantasies and conspiracy theories with slurs, sneers, or, Heaven forfend, actual facts, reason, logic and other so-called “elitist”, “over-educated” intelligence-based nonsense.


In the scant couple weeks following the Australian federal election on July 2nd, Australian media and current affairs, and the mealy-mouthed clacking trash who inhabit same, have largely ignored issues of policy in favour of getting down and jiggy with alleged O!U!T!R!A!G!E!O!U!S offences against their own poor, oh-so-soft-and delicate souls, column after column after column and commentary expressing shock-horror at the crimes committed against their gentle good names whenever they invoke the “right” to an “opinion” or their right to “freedom of speech” to talk shit about uppity niggers, bitches, faggots and rag-heads and get called on it.

Starting with Steve Price, a walking, talking shrunken ball-sack with eyes like two pissholes in the snow, who makes his living sitting on a high-chair in a studio barking at people down a microphone, got his spoilt brat baby-elf self all wetly weepin’ when Guardian columnist Van Badham proffered the controversial suggestion to him on ABC’s “Q&A” that perhaps men, grown men, should not make “jokes” on air about drowning women they don’t like, women who have the audacity to speak, resulting in Price thundering that he would not have his diminutive person be “bullied” and pushed around by some “hysterical” cunting bitch-whore like Badham while he was trying to interrupt her every second word on a subject and she most unreasonably refused to let him. The bitch.

Price, who has no talent or qualifications in life for anything other than barking at people down microphones on the radio, saw all this as most terribly, terribly unfair, and squealed like a miniature stuck-pig about it for the best part of a week after.

Van Badham, for her sins against middle-aged patriarchy, was subsequently inundated with all manner of abuse suggesting she be bashed, smashed, fucked in the arse and carried about like a bowling ball, apparently perfectly reasonable suggestions according to those men, bastions of civility all, who comprise Price’s audience.

Almost immediately after this not-so-private tête-à-tête, like Musketeers to the rescue, and to defend the unassailable integrity of their poor little bruised and bullied pocket monkey, came a few other middle-aged white males (mostly) from Rupert’s Media Comic Kingdom, men who no doubt also pine fondly for the days when a man could slap a woman and tell her to stay slapped and like it, and you could have a schoolboy snigger about “grubby poofters” without the sky falling in, M*A*N*L*Y-M*E*N-O*F-T*H*E-W*O*R*L*D like Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt and Fluffy Rowan of Dean, the latter being someone who’s never let a fact go by without making it a fiction and vice-versa, and this shit did continue to constitute  “news” for a further few days, until some other shit took its place.

This other shit came in the shape and form of the aforementioned Pauline Hanson, triumphant, resurgent, and back in Federal politics for God-only-knows how many years to scowl at us all again with that horribly familiar demented demeanour of a constipated lizard with a rusty pot-scourer on top.

Hanson’s shit did also fly on ABC’s “Q&A” on Monday, in all its trembly, tremulous, pent-up and pig-ignorant glory, and it’s been flying ever since, and shall no doubt keep flying for quite some time, column after column after column and commentary yet to come, all of it focused on (a) should the media engage with and consider Hanson’s views as “legitimate” concerns, or (b) should the media take pains to refute, argue with, and dismiss her concerns using reason, fact and logic, where (b) automatically defaults to (a) anyway, and everyone still winds up talking about the silly cunt regardless.

Hanson, who proved on “Q&A” she wouldn’t know a Muslim if one was seated next to her, was joined and supported in denseness a day or two later by Sonia Kruger, another ageing Caucasian who co-hosts a “morning” program on a commercial television station which serves primarily as a vehicle for “infotainment” advertisements for weight-loss belts and Made-In-China plastic gadgets that will help you cook an egg and, quite frankly, if you need a fucking gadget beyond a saucepan or frypan to help you cook a fucking egg, could you kindly do the world and everyone in it a huge favour and throw yourself off the nearest fucking cliff.

Kruger admitted she had a problem with Muslims too because mother children scary shit trucks planes trains and automobiles boom everybody dies close borders please whites only.

The Project’s Waleed Aly then hopped into the so-called “debate” saying Kruger wasn’t evil, she was just scared, scared of scary people with trucks and plains and trains and automobiles and scared for the future of “her” country, as opposed to my country or your country or the country of that bloke up the shops, and we should all show restraint and exercise forgiveness and be patient and strong and start engaging with all these prominent, white and wealthy outspoken racists who have multiple opportunities across all form of media to espouse their intolerant and dishonest views and invite them in for a cup of tea and some lamingtons, maybe even friandes, because some racists can be really nice people when you get to know them, and how we should start nodding our heads politely when they start bunging on about fucking ragheads and uppity niggers and chinks and migrants and fucking faggots rather than telling them to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of the fucking house before justifiable homicide becomes a really attractive option.

178 words.

Kruger’s comments (said she) were motivated by some creative typing from Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt she’d read, or glanced at, or had read to her, and if ever one needed proof that contemporary mainstream Australian media is an infinitely self-referential zombie-snake chewing on its own bleached and distended rectum, that’s it right there.

These people and their Vaudevillian Theatres of Cruelty, fuck them, they are cunts and they are shit.

The likes of Price, Hanson and Bolt have now come to regard themselves as their own religious faiths, and to dare criticise, challenge, or confront their myopic stupidity is, in their minds, somewhat akin to fisting the Christ child, pissing in the holy water, throwing pigs’ heads at mosques, or insisting Auschwitz was nothing more than a holiday camp for wayward Jewish delinquents.

So enamoured are they of their own selves that, when the shit they dish out is dished back at them in any form, no matter how vicious, no matter how mild, they’re off like a bag of ha’penny bungers, like a fourteen year old boy fumbling its first sexual experience only to end up with nothing other than an embarrassing stain on his pants, and then saying, “Gee, maybe next time, eh?”, to which the girl (or boy) responds “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m out of here, you should stick to masturbation, I think it’s more your style”, and they do stick to masturbation because it is their style, one hand fits all sizes, fapping, fapping, fapping …


Bolt, who now seems to consider himself Australia’s leading expert on race relations has even begun to lend his expertise to analysing the roots and causes of the current racial unrest and violence within the United States of Murder and what better person to clarify that for us all than a middle-aged White Australian Dutch immigrant who lives in Melbourne, works for a tabloid, writes books that few people want to buy, and whose idea of “research” is sitting on his arse doing internet, and who has now disappeared so far up himself he’s taken to posting photographs his “readers” send him of his book on deckchairs by the sea.

What. A. Fucking. Tosser.

A curious thing about the so-called “silent majority” on whose behalf Bolt and Hanson et al have so graciously anointed themselves spokespeople, is they are rarely silent as can be seen by the reaction Sydney’s Lord Gladstone hotel received when it announced its plans to host a “Fuck Pauline Hanson Day” on July 17th whose aim, shockingly, subversively, and in a let’s fly planes into buildings terrorist kind of fashion,  was to “share some laughs in an all-inclusive, friendly environment for like-minded people who openly can’t stand the ridiculousness that is Pauline Hanson and her agenda”, eat chips and drink cocktails …


Freedom of Speech is all very well and good when it comes to illiterate and inarticulate backwoods white trash bumpkins from BumFuck out Back of Nowhere, as long as the “speech” you wish to be “free” with accords with their own, otherwise they start in with the rape-you-with-a-stick and kill-your-children death threats.

The “restraint” and “patience” we are urged to display toward these squawking racist shit-stains would appear to be, not just a one-way-street, but a dead-end, and you are most likely to be the one who winds up dead at the end of it if you so much as dare take the piss, confront or legitimately criticise their inviolable Idols of Truth, Justice and Popular Fascism.

Speaking for myself, as I can speak for no other and have no desire to, I would rather engage my head with a brick wall than give these purling, tatchy, gurt chonnting, zower-sapped yerring trash the time of day, and if I were inclined to give them the time of day, I’d make damn sure it was the wrong time, just for the fucking fun of it.

The type of ur-Fascism espoused by these racist numpties and the glumping thundercunts of mainstream tabloid media does not, to paraphrase Michael Rosen, drape itself in fancy dress, it does not speak of militias, mass imprisonments, torture, persecution, it wants to be your friend and give you a house and a job and clean up the neighbourhood, it wants to Make Australia Great Again and shake your hand, and talk about the necessity of “tough measures” and “difficult” but necessary decisions in the name of stability, peace, prosperity, and protection from the blue-skinned, lizard-scaled, parrot-beaked half-breed mutants from beyond, the dark forces deviously plotting to soil the pure bloodline and seed of the Great Australian Aryan, so exemplified and amplified by the flunting jawbations of yawping hoofwankers like Price and Bolt and Hanson and other over-baked media cum-muffins for whom too much hysteria is never enough.

147 words.

As one former editor of a major daily recently remarked, “Ten years ago, even five years ago, no-one would have reported the Sonia Kruger story. Not because we’d be trying to silence her; just because no-one thought that the random thoughts of TV celebrities could be considered news. It would be like making a headline from something an opinion columnist had written in your own, or another, newspaper “Opinion columnist has opinion””.

There are very few voices of considered sanity and opinion remaining within the ranks of our current body politic, within the fourth estate, their ranks thinning even as we speak, their replacements a tawdry gaggle of buzznacking grunts who, in lieu of reporting items of fact, now simply make shit up to fill the minds of fools whose morbid fear of intelligence, of the other, has now become a monster of appetites insatiable.

There’s Laura Tingle from the Australian Financial Review. Ross Gittins from Fairfax. Greg Jericho from The Guardian Australia. The occasional rare-as-hens-teeth appearance from George Megalogenis.

There’s Laurie Oakes, still going, still plugging away, and sometimes I do imagine him flipping through the “news” of the day, of the moment, and wondering to himself, gently pondering in quiet contemplation, perhaps even a manner of stupefied awe …

“What the fuck ever happened to actual journalism?”

Certain words in this post which may be unfamiliar to you are in fact words, and are taken from David Crystal‘s “The Disappearing Dictionary – A Treasury of Lost English Dialect Words”, a book I would encourage you to purchase.


Patrick Stewart sings cowboy classics, and wins the internet for 2016  …

You can purchase “P. Stew’s Cowboy Classics” here

All proceeds to International Rescue Committee to assist crisis-affected families in Europe, the Middle East, and elsewhere around the world.




Andy Angry Pants Bolt is Angry.

Angry Andy, The Angryman, who can take any sunrise and sprinkle it with spew, is well and truly Angry today, Angry that his political party and government of choice, under the stewardship of Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, went to an election, and sorta-kinda-maybe-maybe not fucked it up royally, leaving the country “damned”, “ungovernable”, and in a “catastrophic” state, Turnbull “destroyed” and “devastated”, “humiliated, “temperamentally unsuited” to leadership, a “disaster”, who had the temerity, the vicious temerity to treat people such as Angry Pants like “dirt”, “pathetic”, Malcolm don’t know how to play the game, he cheats, he lies, he makes Andy wanna cry, and if you wanna know what that sound is, darlin’, it’s the sound of his tears fallin’.

Who can take a rainbow, colour it with bile, soak it in a sewer and call it something vile, The Angryman can.

Veins popping, throbbing, and apoplectic with incandescent fury, Andy Angry Pants, Queen Bitch of Thundering Bluster and Bombast, imperious, delirious, and, forever true to his deform’d form, did rail and rage against the dying of the Right, and did issue a most stern ultimatum to its nemesis …


God’s blood, this bumptious kvetch has been pissing and moaning, whining and whingeing, screaming at mirrors and screeching at clouds, night and day, day and night, ever since Tony Abbott, Captain Clownshoes, was unceremoniously pissed off from his brief stint as Prime Minister for being an embarrassing fucking idiot, yet Andy’s longing for Tony has yet to quit, oh no, oh no, it follows wherever he goes, like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom, there’s oh such a hungry yearnin’ burnin’, and its torment won’t be through, there’s a voice within him keeps repeatin’, you, you, you.

“I’s tired of not havin’ me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we’s comin’ from or goin’ to, or why”, bewails Andy Angry Pants, in bitter lamentations of woe, dire prophecies of downfall and moral decay, but fear not Andy, the ranks of The Sore Losers Club hath swollen today …

Miranda Devine’s face don’t move no more, Piers Akerman’s lost his drool-bucket, Gerard Henderson has phoned Philip Nitschke on account Lifeline’s too busy to take his calls, Paul Sheehan’s back on the magic water, slumped in a gutter somewhere singing “Sweet Adeline”, wishing someone would give him a job so he could tell people what to think again, Alan Jones is retiring to write a Lonely Planet guide to the public toilets of London, Eric Abetz wishes his ol’ Uncle Otto were here to sort this shit out, Cory Bernardi’s locked himself in the bathroom again and you don’t wanna go there, and Lyle Shelton’s reading Ambrose Bierce and watching “Cruising”, thinkin’ ‘bout leather.

And Malcolm?

Malcolm Turnbull’s been musing (again) on why his mother left him when he was just a wee lad, and he’s only just now figured out the answer.


Today, Saturday, July 2nd, 2016 your presence is requested, nay, demanded at your local school, church or community hall, so that you may cast your vote to decide which Claw of Shitgibbons or Clutch of Thundercunts shall be “governing” this country for the next three years.

The winner, regardless of brand-name, shall be FEAR, the go-to squeeze-toy whoopee-cushion weapon of choice in Australian politics ever since John Howard told us of dark, foreign ghastlies throwing their children off boats, and Tim Fischer spun scary stories of blacks in the night claiming our backyards as sacred sites for ancient rituals and corroborees, the oppression/destruction of all manner of whitefella shit, barbecues and pool parties mostly.

Amongst the “winners”, but in a strictly Charlie Sheen sense, will be a minor straggling gaggle of so-called “True Blue” wrinkly dinkum Aussie cunts desperate to “reclaim” for themselves an Australia that never existed, and who have a tendency to squirt their pants, knock their knees, and suffer from strange ataxic paroxysms upon sighting any woman up the shops or down mill wearing a scarf. They may claim a Senate seat, make some ugly noises when and if they do, but once that’s all over and done with, they’ll be forgotten quicker than you can say Steve Fielding.

Another winner, unfortunately, and by virtue of nothing but the Donkey Vote, may be The Health Australia Party, which has nought to do with “health” and everything to do with providing a meeting place for whacked-out, crackpot conspiracy theorists who would like the right to refuse their children and yours vaccinations against diseases which may kill or disfigure them, want to remove fluoride from drinking water, and other crystal-rubbing, “djembe-banging in the forest” shit too tedious to type out here.

On a far more positive note, The Greens will do well, simply because the more the major parties and Murdoch’s media maggots rail against them, the more votes they attract, especially from men and women over the age of 18 and under 30 who, far more well-informed and media-savvy than political careerists and commentators give them credit for, prefer evidence-based facts to ideologically driven fictions.

This is the demographic oft forgot by the shitgibbons and thundercunts of mainstream political fuckwittery, the demographic who can’t be push-polled by pollsters because they don’t have landlines to answer. It’s the demographic who may very well be fed up to the fucking back teeth being bleated at by irrelevant numpties like Peta Credlin, told to work for four bucks an hour by Michaelia Cash and little inclined to cast their vote in accordance with the exhortations of print media editorials and commentary, if inclined to consume this form of media at all.

“Piss off Rupert, doddery old fuckmuppet, fuck off”, one might expect them to say, and justifiably so.

Young people do not vote Liberal and will not do so, unless of course they rich, privileged cunts, or are members of the Young Liberals, in which case their calendar of “things to do” would be full to brimming with items such as “Send dick pick to Sarah Hanson-Young”, “Call a gay candidate a faggot”, “Call a black candidate a nigger”, “Get a girl blind drunk and rape her in a toilet”, and then “Don’t forget to vote”.

Young Liberals invariably become Old Liberals, then sometimes they’re elected, and then they go well out of their way to prove how much better off we’d all be if their mothers had scraped, bagged and flushed them into the fucking toilet the moment they were conceived. For example, Liberal Party Senator Zed Seselja whose scummy activities (which he has apologised for, on behalf of his “volunteers”) have only just been bought to public attention by the Greens candidate for the ACT, Christina Hobbs

“Last night I was tweeted at by a young woman who was walking home past Senator Seselja’s office when she spotted his campaign mini van parked out the front with disturbing images of me and the Greens’ candidate for Fenner taped to the front dashboard with vile and sexist comments.

The comment attached to my image included the phrase that “I want a railing”, the word ‘railing’ being a term for violent sex, often associated with rape.

There is no way that the Senator can deny seeing these images, this is his campaign bus, parked outside his campaign office. Many of us have seen him getting in and out of this van over the past week and whether he was in the front seat or the back seat, these pictures stuck to the dashboard would have been hard to miss.

Throughout this campaign both me and my campaign team have put up with aggressive behaviour by a group of young men dressed in ‘Team Zed’ jackets being bused around who I understand are largely from interstate.

At a prepolling booth in Tuggeranong, two young women from another political party told me they felt ‘intimidated’ by around ten of these young men. I identified at least one of them as being a man who had heckled me about being pro-abortion at a community forum only a week earlier.”

Perhaps Zed will win. Perhaps he will lose. Either way, let us hope he gets hit by a fucking bus on his way to or from the polling booth tomorrow.

Other losers?

Barnaby Joyce. Please.

Malcolm Turnbull.


Labor. Minority government.

The Greens. The Arts Party. Nick XenophonThe Australian Sex Party. Tony Windsor.

Release your hounds.



Your Manager has asked you a question.

You only have one thing to do.

Answer it.

If you do not know the answer to the question, you will say, “I do not know the answer, but I will ask someone who may, and get back to you as soon as possible.”

Federal Treasurer Scott Morrison, who has an honours degree in Applied Economic Geography and was once Managing Director of Tourism Australia and who is now Federal Treasurer for reasons which escape us all was asked a question recently on the issue of “marriage equality”, and he would not answer it. He was asked the question six times, and he did not answer six times, refusing to answer, whereupon he spoke of words being used being different from the words he was using, and how his words were better.

Your Manager has asked you a question.

I do not like that question, you say, and I will not answer it.

Oh, your Manager responds. Oh. You will need to start looking for another job then, your Manager informs you. As of now.



You only had one thing to do.

You did not do it, and made yourself look a right cunt …

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. You got some fuckin’ neck ain’t you? Who do you think you are? King of the castle? Cock of the walk? What you think this is the Wheel of Fortune? You really think I’m gonna have that, ya ponce? All right, I’ll make it easy for you. It’s not a difficult question, are you gonna answer it, yes or no? Quite frankly your attitude appals me. It’s not what you’re saying. It’s all this stuff you’re not saying. Insinnuendos, you fucking Dr White honkin’ jam-rag fucking spunk-bubble! Not this fucking time. No. No no no no no no no no no! No! No no no no no no no no no no no no no! No! Not this fucking time! No fucking way! No fucking way, no fucking way, no fucking way!”

“Mr. Morrison?”, says Leigh Sales.

“Yes, Leigh”, says Scott.

“You look a right cunt”.


The Australian Sex Party do good …

George Pell would not approve. Tom Lehrer on the other hand …


You will have rugs, fabulous, fabulous rugs.

Here are some words from a letter in the Sydney Morning Herald of June 25th, 2016

“ … for those who have chosen to live under God’s rule it would be wrong to marry someone of the same sex. … unlawful in God’s sight … negative consequences …sin …God’s standards … our world is worse off when we ignore His will … God’s laws … “

Gay marriage will not find, or lose you a job.

Gay marriage will not increase the price of groceries, clothing, electricity, gas, water, rent or housing. It will not increase or lower interest rates, or your taxes. It will not raise or lower the price of stocks. Gay marriage will not blow you up, shoot you or rape you, or your children, if you do not want to be gay. Gay marriage will not send you to war, then praise you and promptly forget about you when (or if) you return. It will not compulsorily acquire your home for a highway, chop down your trees, poison your water, or excavate your backyard for a mine. Gay marriage will not cut your aged or disability pension, defund women’s refuges, slash arts funding, privatise Medicare, the ABC and SBS, or dismiss the elderly as an ageing burden or youth as shiftless layabouts. It will not cause you to be regarded a worthless, bludging parasite on the face of humanity if, for whatever reason, you are unemployed or physically or mentally ill. Gay marriage will not shriek at you as if you are stupid and cannot tell fact from fiction. Gay marriage will not destroy the public health system, public education, public transport or public infrastructure in order to make a quick quid, and then expect you to be grateful.

We have governments for these.

Gay marriage may make some a little grumpy or tetchy in the head for a bit because they subscribe to a belief system or ideology which they feel everybody else should subscribe to whether they want to or not, but they will live and their dog/and or cat will continue to like them and ask them for food.

Gay marriage will cause a sharp and sudden spike in demand for marriage celebrants, function and reception halls, the hiring of, hotel rooms, caravan parks, perhaps tents, hiking gear, flannel shirts (?), caterers, caterers who require food so that they may cater, from butchers, grocers, bakers, bought from suppliers who buy the food from producers, icing sugar and dried fruits and little plastic bits and pieces, figurines and flowers perhaps, flowers, yes, flowers from florists who source them from producers, there will be waiters, servers, general staff and managers to manage them in the function and reception halls that have been hired and paid for, possibly recommended to others, possibly not.

There will be clothes to be bought, furniture, bits and pieces of this and that, premises to rent, premises to buy, things to change, labourers and tradesmen hired to change them, labourers and tradesman who will purchase their tools and their materials in order to labour and to trade from those who supply them from those who produce them.

There will be rugs, fabulous, fabulous rugs, and there will be “You are NOT putting that there” and there will be “You haven’t said anything, is it good or bad?” and there will be, “No, I like it, it’s soup, it’s nice”, and there will be “I don’t care if you don’t like it, you can tell me”, and there will be “I’m telling you” and “What, you don’t like it?”, “No! Yes! The fu – You know what I mean, it’s fine, for God’s sake”, and then there will be stony silences and stolen, sulky glances and “Oh, I don’t know” and “I’m sorry”, “That’s okay”, “Are you sure?”, “Yes, I’m fine. What do you want for dinner?”, “We’ll go out. I feel like going out, why don’t we see a movie as well, I like … ” and “Yes, I’ve heard of that, it’s supposed to be good”, and there’ll be rugs, fabulous, fabulous rugs, and there’ll be , “That would look nice in the hallway. And the price, for what it is. I think we should get it”, “Yeah, fine, I want to go look at some DVD’s after this, did you feed the dog?”, “Yes”.

There will be.

“You know where I’d like to go for our 10th anniversary?”

“Am I mind reader? Let me guess. No, I give up. Tell me or I’ll shoot the dog.”


” … “

“No, wait … “

” … “

Flights to be booked, people to book them, hotel rooms, the catering, this and that, from thee and thou, that and this, bits and pieces, “This would look nice in the … “, “The fucking hallway, yes, the hallway, Jesus”, “You’re impossible”, “Yeah, fine, I want to look at some DVD’s after this, did you text home about the dog?”, “Yes”.

Gay marriage.

It will either make us stronger, or kill us all.

But there will be rugs, fabulous, fabulous rugs!



Here are some words from an article typed by a dickhead …

“regressive left”
“lofty liberal ideals espoused by such leftists and their sordid output”
“regressive leftist denouncers of “Islamophobia””
“regressive leftists”
“regressive leftists”
“turncoat pseudo-liberals”
“progressive journalists”
“regressive leftists”
“regressive leftist attacks”
“So-called progressives”
“those who mouth liberal shibboleths”

A “theme” emerges.

The article was typed by one Jeffrey Taylor in defence of Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a woman who, as Taylor notes, ”suffered genital mutilation, donned the hijab and joined the Muslim Brotherhood, escaped a forced marriage and fled Africa for Holland, mastered Dutch and earned a graduate degree from a prestigious university, abandoned Islam after the 9/11 attacks awakened her intellectually, got herself elected to the Dutch parliament, publicly denounced the abuse suffered by immigrant Muslim women in Holland, wrote the screenplay for a short film about misogyny in Islam (for which its director, Theo van Gogh, was murdered by an Islamist in Amsterdam and for which his killer condemned her to death as well), found herself (following controversy over her asylum status) immigrating, in 2006, to the United States (where she was welcomed by Deputy Secretary of State Robert Zoellick as a “very courageous and impressive woman”), and established a foundation to protect women from honor killings and aid women’s development globally.”

For someone like Hirsi Ali, having endured, suffered and survived these deprivations, I very much doubt she needs “defending” by some random knobhead for whom the non-word “leftist” appears to be something of a nervous tic.

Whilst I am familiar with her name, I have not read Hirsi Ali’s books, and I have only read one book from a so-called New Atheist, Christopher Hitchens’ “God Is Not Great”, a dreary, tedious dummy-spit from a (by then) ageing irrelevancy who makes his point in the introduction, then proceeds to repeat it for several hundred pages.

I get it.

Shut. Up.

I no more need to read a book instructing me as to why religion of any brand is dangerously destructive and violent nonsense, than I need to read one which tells me it is not.

I drew my own conclusions by my own volition, not through teachings or instruction of any kind from anybody, but from sheer observance, observance of human nature and behaviour, observance from an early age, and these conclusions led me to the decision (as opposed to the “belief” or “non-belief”) that religion, faith, ideology, belief itself, is bollocks.

I do not need to believe in a chair in order to sit on it, nor do I need believe in a footpath in order to walk it. Things are what they are until they are not, and this is mine, not yours, nor a criticism of yours, nor of anybody else, but could you kindly keep it to your fucking selves and fuck off with it.


The “leftist” thing, this non-word.

It has come to prominence these last several years, used mostly by rightists, conservativists and libertarianists (yes, you saw what I did there), the likes of Taylor, Andrew Fucking Bolt, Gerard Henderson, Rowan Dean, and others of their ilk, chiefly as means of describing those who they do not agree with and who do not agree with them, on all manner of things, whether these things be religious, political or social in nature, a dull and lazy label, used in and with contempt, the easier to dismiss a person or people with, rather than engage with anything those people say or do …

The “Catholic”. Robes. Ceremony. Rape.

The “Jew”. Greed.

The “Muslim”. Terrorist.

The “Feminist”. Castrator.

The “Single Mother”. Whore.

And so on and so forth.

I do not live a “left-wing” life or “right-wing” life, I have no idea what that would entail.

How I like my coffee (flat white, no sugar) is not a political statement. Where I have worked, for whom, and the nature of it these last forty years, no. Where I have lived, no. What I eat (anything mostly, Indian, Italian yes please thanks), no. My race (Caucasian), nationality (Australian), no. My sexuality (heterosexual, not a “lifestyle” choice, no). My taste in music, books, movies, art, no.

If you were to ask me my “religion”, I would answer “None”. If then you were inclined to label me an “atheist” or an “agnostic”, I would say no, do not presume to assign me a label so that you may “process” my existence on this earth or in your presence, no, get fucked. If you were to ask me my politics, I would say, “I don’t know what that means, I have no politics, I’m a fucking person”, no.

I am not a Marxist for agreeing with this, no

“The final stages of capitalism, Marx wrote, would be marked by developments that are intimately familiar to most of us. Unable to eaxpand and generate profits at past levels, the capitalist system would begin to consume the structures that sustained it … It would, as it has, increasingly relocate jobs, including both manufacturingand professional positions, to countries with cheap pools of laborers. Industries would mechanise their workplaces … Politics would in the last stages of capitalism become subordinate to economics, leading to political parties hollowed out of any real political content and abjectly subservient to the dictates and money of global capitalism”

You can see it, it’s there, yes.

No ideology. Observance. Reason. Logic. Facts.

From Taylor’s article (my emphasis)…

“It’s about power, and Islam is a political movement … the Christian powers have accepted the separation of the worldly and the divineWe don’t interfere with their religion, and they don’t interfere with the state.  That hasn’t happened in Islam.”

Now that’s just being deliberately fucking thick, yes.

Your religion, your beliefs?

They’re yours. Keep them. Use them for yourself.

I choose, do you understand that, I choose not to share them, to pay them no lip-service, to be no apologist for crimes committed in their name, in the name of faith, a Messiah, a Prophet, this and that, mean nothing to me and never will, so save your fucking time and energy. For yourself.

Leftist. Leftard. Libtard. Bleeding Heart. Liberal (small “l”). Socialism. Marxism, Catholic, Jew, Muslim, this and that.

What do these things even mean, what are they expected to, in the face of a life lived in a world completely oblivious to them, these absurd, ridiculous, artificial constructs of fantasy, nonsense, belief, faith in a symbol, a thing, one person to whom you are so eager to submit, to surrender, and then demand others to do same at the threat of violence, banishment, an eternity of suffering, punishment, exorcism from civilisation, so-called.

To return to and borrow from Taylor’s creative typing “tic”, for those who “mouth” ideological “shibboleths”?

Just fuck off.

In comments? Don’t even think about it.




A fuckwit blew away the lives of fifty people the other night in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida.

The fuckwit took a gun, a firearm, as easy to operate as a cigarette lighter, as cheap as a toaster, and whose only purpose is to make holes in human beings, and proceeded to put holes in dozens of human beings, at a whim, because it could, because anybody could, and they often do, because they are fuckwits.

This particular fuckwit, a nothing, a nobody, forgotten and forsaken, ignored, wanted to be somebody, but didn’t have the talent, didn’t have the intelligence, and if no one would let it be a somebody, then it wouldn’t let them be a somebody either.

So it blew them away.

This fuckwit wanted to be a big deal, a boss, a master, a power to be reckoned with, an authority to be obeyed. It wanted to be the “King of the Castle”, the “Master of Its Domain”, but it couldn’t even manage to master its own fucking laundry.


In the aftermath of this fuckwit’s fuckwittery, various individuals, in media, and from the world of politics and religion are attempting to analyse the mind and motives behind this fuckwit’s actions, despite the fuckwit being dead, having had holes punched through it by police on the night.

The fuckwit was mentally ill, they say, a psychosis. The fuckwit was homophobic. The fuckwit was a Muslim.

The fuckwit was gay.

Our Prime Minister took a moment of his own time to remind us how events such as these are cause for us all to remain vigilant against threats to our way of life, a “strong, ever-present threat”, in this, an election year. Classy guy. A Family First fundamentalist tweeted along the lines of “aw gee shucks, but gay marriage something something children”. In the United States, a rat-faced orange hair-plug spoke of conspiracies, in this, an election year. A preacher preached “that there’s 50 less pedophiles in this world, because, you know, these homosexuals are a bunch of disgusting perverts and pedophiles.” And so it went, and so it shall go, tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow.

This commentary, this fevered conjecture and speculation as to the state of mind of a fuckwit, a dead fuckwit, all seems a little too self-serving to my own mind, the agendas of those choosing to publicly participate repulsively transparent, too righteously self-important, theories about theories about the why’s, how’s and what’s which rattled the mind of a fuckwit, a now (thankfully) dead fuckwit, and set it upon its course of mass murder.

What I do know, is that forty-nine men and women, gay men and women, men and women of a specific community, the LGBTI community were murdered, and over fifty others from that same community are wounded, and many of those may never recover, physically and/or psychologically.

Because of a fuckwit.

A fuckwit.

We need to call out the fuckwits in our midst, regardless of race, creed, colour or religion, we need to call them out when they say or do fucked-up things about or to people who would simply like the freedom to live their lives, love whom they choose to love, and go about their business in peace.

Which is pretty much most of us.

If the recollections of those who knew it are anything to go by, fuckwit had been a fuckwit for most of its fucked up life, schooled in the dark arts of general fuckwittery, misogyny and homophobia from an early and impressionable age by its male parent, another fuckwit.

Fuckwit took steroids, we know that, steroids being guaranteed to bulk up the body whilst shrinking the brain, not that there seemed much to shrink to begin with. Fuckwit beat and abused its first wife, held her hostage, treated her as its slave until she left four months after the marriage begun. Fuckwit had a bunch of go-nowhere jobs and went nowhere in them, those who worked with it kept clear of it, thought it was a fuckwit best avoided. Fuckwit hung out at the gay nightclub it shot up for a couple years, it used gay dating apps, yet, it would seem, nobody wanted to fuck the fuckwit let alone talk to it, no doubt because fuckwit wore its fuckwittery on its forehead and on its sleeve, and they probably thought to themselves, “There’s something a bit suspect about this fuckwit, something not quite right, something strange going on tonight, this fuckwit’s a bit off, this fuckwit’s wired.”

I don’t want to write about this fuckwit anymore, fuck it, 782 words are enough.

781 more than it deserves.

The one it does deserve?




Do you own books? Do you buy them? Do you read them?

I have a suggestion for you.

Throw them out. Throw them out now.

Construct for yourself a wondrous and fearsome pyre so that you may purge your life of these vainglorious conceits, these words. Clean your mind.

Is there art on your walls? Originals, prints, posters?

Turn them to face your walls, and gaze on them no longer.

Dispose of your music, vinyl records, your compact discs. Delete your iTunes.  Throw out your devices. All of them. Films? Those too. Out, out. Your television, your radio. Everything. Out.

Objets d’art? Jewellery? Curios? To hell with them all.

Do you eat from plates, with cutlery, do you drink from glassware, do you sit on chairs or sofas, do you sleep on a bed?

Stop this now.

Visit no cinemas, no theatres. No galleries. Attend no concerts or recitals.

These things, these foul things, are but the disposable externalities of the human condition, depraved, a hollow and unprofitable condition of mankind’s docile and self-indulgent intellectual degeneracy.

You will live in a concrete box, a brick box. You will sleep on cardboard, and let newspapers be your coverlet. You will wake each morning, you will clean yourself, you will drape yourself in shapeless rags, you will go to your place of work, and when your day’s work is done, you shall return to your box, your pasteboard bed, your paper blankets, you will stare at walls, through windows, and nothing shall disturb, arouse or engage your senses.


Do you understand?

You are living in a world without art, without design. Without science. Nothing to capture your eye, nothing to turn your head in wonder, astonishment, no sights, no sounds, no words in which to lose yourself, all memories lost, all history dead, all life a grim parade of achromatic gloom, function without form, an aesthetic without aesthetic, to brutalism and beyond.

You will return to your box one night, you will take a knife, a sharp knife, and you will plunge it deep into your throat, draw it across your neck, severing both carotid arteries, and as your flesh splits, as your blood spills, you will write on the wall, this crimson scrawl, the only thought you have left, this

“See that my grave is kept clean”.


There is a tendency among the smug, sneering maggots of commerce and industry, and their chittering, conservative counterparts in commercial/tabloid media to dismiss and deride “the arts”, especially contemporary arts, as the mere follies and fripperies, the unfathomable and mystifying works of “luvvies”.

To these silver spoon-fed, elitist toffee-snots, anything which challenges, which confronts their preconceptions of what “art” is, or what it should be, is deemed either laughable or of no value whatsoever, mere entertainments. What they cannot comprehend is what we should not, and to defy their ignorance, to enter into an argument of defence, is to be branded a “luvvie” as well, which is pretty much all they’ve got, and ever have had, by way of comeback.

Poor Precious Petals.

These conservatives, or “libertarians” as many now brand themselves so as to avoid (perfectly justifiable) comparisons to far-right madmen like Anders Breivik (with whom they share so much in common), see fit to anoint themselves judge and jurors, willing and ready to gleefully indict any who trespass, who dare transgress against their safe, staid and stodgy tastes, the comforting pleasures of predictability afforded them by the classicism of Dead White European Males, where every note is known, where the rules are never broken, the authorities are always supermen, and all things are always reassuringly pretty and happy and gay.

“Luvvies”, indeed. Poor Precious Petals. So soft, so delicate in the sensibilities.

Irrespective of the discipline, our ruling classes, die führungsschicht, find “the arts” too harsh a mistress, too unforgiving an adjudicator, cruelly comic reflections of the grotesque banality which lay under their skins, skins so easily pricked, thin, grey and papery, prick them they bleed, outrage and offence, they howl, they squeal and they squeak, “Indecency!”, “Disgusting!”, “Criminal!”, “Barbaric!”, “Pornography!”, yet these, these leaders, these politicians, these stinking base whores to a fast buck, hypocrites all, thieves in our modest temples, kings and queens in theirs, these are the ones who’d think nothing of fist-fucking a five-month old baby in the backside on the off-chance there were a gold coin to retrieve for their efforts, the ends always justifying the means, they would argue.

It’s the economy, stupid.

Fuck the economy. Stupid.

Ingeborg Van Teeseling, from “The Big Smoke”

“Not only does art momentarily release us from ourselves … It tells our stories, broadens our minds and makes us think. It fills us with ideas and feelings and, if it is really good, it empowers us. Those are all things politicians do not want in voters. They want us to focus on “jobs and growth,” on whether we can afford to buy a house (and negative gear another), on “the economy,” whatever that is. They don’t want us to think outside the box, or feel something different, because then we become difficult to manage … Art is, therefore, the scariest thing around for politicians. Art reminds them that they are temporary [a blip in human history] and, in the scheme of things, not very important.”

There will be no clamour of crowds in attendance at the funeral services of former Prime Ministers Rudd, Gillard or Abbott, as there will be nothing to remember, nothing to commemorate. The books have already been written, there’ll be nothing but chapters left to write, perhaps nothing but paragraphs, “in the scheme of things”.  In “human history”.

No legacy. Nothing.

Poor luvvies.

Unlike H.L. Mencken, unlike Gore Vidal or Studs Terkel, there will be no “collected works” forever in print from the likes of Mark Latham, Andrew Bolt or Miranda Devine or Rowan Dean and their ilk, there is nothing to collect, nothing of substance at least, nothing of lasting import, no history, their documents record nothing beyond their own sense of bloated self-importance, their irrational fears and prejudices, madly and artlessly spat, shat, upon the pages of partisan political pamphlets published by a tweeting fool who fancies himself Emperor Of Our World, Master Of The Universe when, in reality, in “the scheme of things” he is little more than a flea in a sandpit.

Just another Dumb Cunt With Money, one withered fist clutching a bottle of hard-on pills, the other a pre-nup.

Poor old petal.

They all have our best interests at heart. So they say.

They would like us to know what is, and what is not, suitable for our consumption. What is valid, and what is not. What our chillun’ should or should not be a-learnin’. To disagree, to argue, to challenge their edicts is not something they take kindly to, these luvvies, and difference of opinion is not simply that, but a vicious smear, a foul slur, an assault on their right to hold an opinion, “My freedom of speech! My freedom of speech! I have a right to be free with my speech!”, they bleat, oblivious to the fact they have offered their opinion, they have been free with their speech, and a whole lot of people have heard and read same and have quite simply told them to take their opinion and their speech and blow it out their fat, fucking arses.

The conservative “elite”. They’re a little soft of belly, the poor dears.

The Age, May 26, 2016

“Books, plays and films studied for VCE will soon be screened to ensure they don’t offend religious and cultural groups.

Education Minister James Merlino has ordered the Victorian Curriculum Assessment Authority (VCAA) to review its text selection process for VCE English, literature, drama and theatre studies.

A spokesman for Mr Merlino said the Minister requested to “extend” the guidelines to “ensure that the views and sensitivities of cultural and religious groups are considered”.

President of the Australian Association for the Teaching of English Monika Wagner said challenging texts encouraged students to think critically. “It [the review] does tend to suggest that there would be a single homogenised heteronormative, culturally normative type of text that is considered acceptable. I don’t know what that text would be but that’s what I would be afraid of.””

Hanya Yanagihara, Author, “A Little Life”

“I think if we go into the world of art with warnings, we stop looking at visual art, we stop listening to songs, we stop going to the movies, we stop reading fiction, and in the end, you end up cocooning yourself because you’re afraid of getting hurt. I understand that – I understand not wanting to put yourself in situations that are going to call back old traumas, but the fact is you’ll never know how you’re going to react until you start reacting.  I think trying to live life in a preventive way does no one any favours.”

The purpose of art, of science, all of it, is not to soothe, to pander to preconceptions, misconceptions, it is to fuck with your mind, to mess it up, or, as John Waters said, “wreck what came before”.

To a conservative, “critical thinking” is one thought too far, an offence to ideology, beliefs held so close to their breasts, and in their minds, that both heart and mind atrophy from lack of real-world experience, from genuine inquiry, inquisitive minds do not need to know, they need to be told what they must know, unquestioningly accept disciplined, righteous instruction on what is wrong and what is right, forget the why of it, curiosity kills cats, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, too much …

Edward Snowden.

Snowden, and others who came before him, Daniel Ellsberg, Jeffrey Wigand, Sherron Watkins; the doctors and workers from Manus and Nauru who have defiantly documented the horrors perpetrated (in our name) upon refugees in those criminal hellholes are, whether they know it or not, all engaged in the “art” of deconstruction, challenging the status quo, finger-fucking the lazy, hazy minds of those who complacently accept and obey it, hauling the sacred cows of authority to the slaughterhouse, fucking things up, and wrecking what has come before, what we thought we knew, they’re making life difficult, they’re making people think. Critically.

These are the enemies of the people, as are all artists, of the state, the Demonic Other, who would dare reveal “democracy” as nothing other than a polite and highly developed form of commercialised totalitarianism, where authentic forms of social consciousness must be ridiculed, marginalised, subjected and replaced by a chaste, Spartan ideology as promoted by the vainglorious conceits and unselfconscious hubris of extreme right-wing cultural fascists whose seething and resentful hatred of complexity, of thought, intellectual pursuits, honest reflection and creativity itself is their only aesthetic, the brute aesthetics of fear, of loathing, of the violence of body and of the mind.

A humane politic, which is to say, that capable of bridging the gap between reality and the mobilisation of spirit, is no longer possible, nor is it achievable. It is not even desirable, and so art, all art, in all its forms, must embrace the political, its memes and tropes, in order to kill what has come before, to transform it, to wreck it …

Peter Frankopan, The Sydney Morning Herald, May 25, 2016 …

“Societies that are inclusive, self-confident and successful go out of their way to promote the arts. Even the Mongols, whose reputation is considerably lower even than the present [Australian] government, singled out artists for particularly generous treatment. Those involved in creative arts had immense resources pushed in their direction to encourage them to create works of beauty that would frame their legacy. Cities and monuments across Asia bear witness to the funds lavished on culture by the Mongols and their successors. It is saying something when modern politicians stand up badly in comparison to Genghis Khan, Timur the Great (Tamburlaine) and those around them.”

We are not that society.

Richard Flanagan, The Guardian Australia, May 19, 2016 …

“The disenfranchisement of the imagination is ever the disempowerment of the individual. There is, after all, both a bitter irony and a profound connection in a government that would condemn the wretched of the earth as illiterate, while hard at work to rob its own people of their culture of words.”

$55 million to “settle” two refugees in Cambodia. $632 million to “maintain” refugee detention camps on Manus Island per year. $582 million ditto for Nauru. Per year. $50 billion to construct twelve submarines. So that we may defend ourselves against countries we cannot defend ourselves against.

In 2014, $100 million cut from the Arts sector. In 2015, $104 million.

Kate Mulvaney, Actor and Playwright …

“… knows there are “bigger issues” than the arts, with Indigenous people and refugees being “silenced”. But it’s the arts community that “historically has the guts to speak out on these issues”.

“Like so many of the characters and narratives that exist in society, there’s only so many times you can be told ‘You don’t meet our model of excellence’ before you start to get worn down and a very dark fear kicks in.

“Our community suffers. Our families suffer. Our culture suffers. That moral compass spins out of control, unattended. When these things happen, our stories disappear – sometimes tragically.”

The Guardian Australia, May 4, 2016 …

“Fairfax photographer Alex Ellinghausen snapped Australia’s immigration minister apparently emerging from the shadows to front to the media on Tuesday. [Peter] Dutton was holding a press conference about the self-immolation of a second asylum seeker on Nauru, which he said was the fault of refugee advocates.

Stephanie Peatling, Ellinghausen’s colleague and political correspondent, tweeted the photo with the caption “eek”. She was contacted by Dutton’s office, who asked that she take down the “unflattering” image.”

It didn’t work.

This did

“Every reference to Australia was scrubbed from the final version of a major UN report on climate change after the Australian government intervened, objecting that the information could harm tourism.

[Will] Steffen is an emeritus professor at the Australian National University and head of Australia’s Climate Council. He was previously executive director of the International Geosphere Biosphere Programme, where he worked with 50 countries on global change science.

“I’ve spent a lot of my career working internationally,” Steffen said. “And it’s very rare that I would see something like this happening. Perhaps in the old Soviet Union you would see this sort of thing happening, where governments would quash information because they didn’t like it. But not in western democracies. I haven’t seen it happen before.”

You will see it happen again.

Perhaps you will not even notice. Perhaps you will not even care.

Then …

You will live in a concrete box, a brick box. You will sleep on cardboard, and let newspapers be your coverlet. You will wake each morning, you will clean yourself, you will drape yourself in shapeless rags, you will go to your place of work, and when your day’s work is done, you will return to your box, your pasteboard bed, your paper blankets, you will stare at walls, through windows, and nothing shall disturb, arouse or engage your senses.


You can go the polls on July 2nd, and you can cast your vote to fuck things up, to fuck it up beautifully, to hang our parliament, to embrace chaos and dysfunction, to outrage and horrify, to make people nervous, fearful, distressed, discomfited.

Let transgression be your creed, deny respect to those of wealth and power who expect it be their birthright. Use ridicule and satire, be offensive, and laugh in the faces of those fools who would allow fear define their lives.

Cry Havoc! Solemnise and Celebrate it!

Returning once more to John Waters, “wreck what came before. Is there a better job description than that to aspire to?”

Kunst ist Kunst! Leben ist Kunst!

Glück Auf!



The Financial Review‘s Laura Tingle at the “leaders debate” between Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull and Opposition leader Bill Shorten.

Photograph by Mike Bowers at The Guardian Australia. His Walkley Award is in the mail …