Beyond the soft palate



In the decade during which I have been in the employ of a corporate concern, a multinational, I have witnessed people, too many to name, who have suddenly found themselves rudely and unceremoniously shuffled into irrelevancy, unemployment, deemed excess baggage or incompatible with whatever budgetary constraints are constraining the budget at whatever time, after working five, ten, twenty, even thirty years of their lifespan for said “concern”.

“Redundant” is the weasel word applied in such circumstances, which typically come about when a company undergoes or announces it is to undergo a “restructure”, which, as those of us living in the real world know, means one thing and one thing only – they’re going to sack a shitload of people and ship the work offshore where it’s cheaper.

When such news is delivered, recipients can react in a variety of ways. Anger. Resentment. A sense of betrayal; in some cases, even grief, that the work they do, that they’ve done, how they have gone about the doing of it, is no longer required, is no longer useful, and is no longer of value.

It is hard news to take.

Yet none (at least, to the best of my knowledge) ever reacted by trying to wreck the place before they left it.

There was no dancing on tables during spontaneous piss-ups, or breaking of legs, or the removing of shirts and beating of hairy man-boobs with clenched fists whilst bellowing how everyone can all get fucked. No, there was none of this. No foul-tempered, sulky, sooky ‘n’ sour spoilt-brat hissy-fits were sprayed at whoever may have been unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity at the time the news was given.

Most thought it unfair, which of course they would. Some simply shrugged with resignation, having expected it anyway, and some just didn’t care much at all, as they’d been there so long they’d grown sick of it. Some people in management got called “cunts” I suppose (especially the Americans), and a few may well have told a power-that-is on the odd occasion to take his/her job/company and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but everything and everybody soon settles down and gets on with business, either the taking care of it or the leaving of it, and doing so with a necessary modicum of restraint and decorum.

Which brings me to this small knot of squealing dickheads we’ve been hearing of, from and about the last couple months, a small knot of squealing dickheads from the rank of our body politic who were turfed from their jobs not long back because they were shit at them, and they haven’t shut up since.

Tony Abbott, Joe Hockey, Eric Abetz, and Kevin Andrews.

In less than the two years they held them, these men were sacked because they were crap at their jobs.

Not redundant.


They were incompetent in their work.

In the weeks since those events, we have borne embarrassed witness to the childishness of Abbott in the immediate wake of his usurpation, all glowering scowls and dark, sullen glares; we have listened to Joe Hockey’s specious delusions of grandeur, his sense of self-importance, and we have heard how both men, by their own assessment, were blessedly infallible in their words and actions, all of them, and how their untimely demise sprang not from any faults or failures of their own, but from grim and grubby deeds of treachery done dirt cheap on the sly by forces of pure evil.

Former Minister for Something I Can’t Remember Anymore Because He Was Crap At It, Eric Abetz, has had a few petulant grumbles to make on these shenanigans among other matters, as has former Defence Minister, Kevin Andrews, who still hasn’t quite managed to come to terms with the description “former”, and who yesterday saw fit to gift our nation his sage and sound advice – no doubt gleaned from years upon years of arduous study – on how to correctly prosecute a ground war against IS in Syria, advice that shall no doubt be pounced upon and devoured with gusto by the gormless gits currently in charge of the world’s military, because socially conservative, anti-gay, rabidly anti-abortion suburban Christian barristers are really shit hot at planning wars in desert ratholes they can send other people’s children to die in.

It’s the sheer gall of their ego’s, the fictions they’ve fed themselves as facts, the absorption in their own self-righteousness, the wilful ignorance on world matters they insist on showcasing and sharing as hard-won wisdom, the indulgent parade of bruised egos and damaged pride, and the conviction they seem to have that this, that they, still matter to us, and should matter to us, when most of us would prefer they just shut up and leave us all the fuck alone, we’ve been there already, enough, enough.

What a sad and sorry quartet of sore losers are these; graceless, bitter and undignified in defeat, still dishing up the same old hits ‘n’ memories to an audience who’ve long since changed channels.

I rack my brain trying to remember what it was they did when they had their jobs, and can think of nothing significant, nothing of real, tangible, substantive purpose beyond the chanting of clichés and the peddling of stereotypes, of clumsy and bellicose vindictiveness, of cruel judgments made and swingeing corrections imposed; these mutts could dish it out alright, but dish it back, they’re off like a bag of ha’penny crackers.

Here in the real world, where lives, not ideologies are lived, where the work we do is not just an abstract notion or mere statistic under consideration for a report, the likes of Andrews, Abbott, Abetz and Hockey may do well to reflect that, aside from themselves and a few like-minded, mouthy muppets in the media, no one gives a fuck about what they think on a thing anymore or why, nobody wants their opinion, and above all, nobody is in the least concerned about how they felt or still feel about losing their jobs (because they were rubbish at them), so could they suck it up, shut up and shove the fuck off and stop giving us all the shits.

You are no longer in the game.

Stop playing.

Go. Away.

Kevin Andrews


Malcolm Turnbull is addressing the media.

I am sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room of my parent’s home in Sydney’s south-west, my mother is in the living room watching a murder mystery on ABC One titled “Vera” when the program is interrupted by a “flash” of news, news that Malcolm Turnbull will shortly be addressing the media.

He does.

He will be challenging the incumbent Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, for the leadership of the Federal Liberal Party, and for the Prime Ministership of the country. He will be challenging tonight.

This “flash” of news becomes rolling coverage and keeps a-rolling for the rest of the night, thoroughly pissing off my mother who shall now never know who murdered who or why in the show she was watching, and she makes her feelings about this known to me more than once over the next few hours (as mothers are wont to do), whilst I am left to my own thoughts, chief amongst them this, “He (Malcolm) would not be doing this if wasn’t absolutely certain he had the numbers.”

He has the numbers.

You’re fucked, Tony.

I feel a sense of relief at this turn of events, a great sense of relief, and, about 11.30pm, I finally bed down for the night to the baying of various callers on ABC Radio 702 lulling me to satisfied slumber with howls of betrayal and outrage and anger over what has been done to “their” Tony, and how none of them, ever, ever again, will be able to bring themselves to vote for the Liberal Party, ever, ever again, not after this, and I think, “So, you’ll all be switching to Labor and the Greens now, will you?”, how I wish they’d take their oh-so-righteous, instant knee-jerk apoplexy and moral “outrage”, shove it and shut up.

So precious. So very delicate.

I do not own a computer, and my phone is not smart, and I am in Sydney for two weeks (unexpectedly) “managing” my elderly parents, one of whom is in hospital, so I am spared the incessant white noise of social media during all of this, and I am spared the views of people whose views don’t count to me; I am spared tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of words explaining to me what has just happened and why, what context I must place it, how I must feel, and who I must feel it for, and instead, all I am left with is a sense of relief.

What has just happened and why?

A tiresome and tedious fool has been expelled from the Palace, banished from the Kingdom, he had no hand to eye co-ordination, his slapstick was shit, and every time he flicked the switch to vaudeville, the auditorium exploded.

Tony was a silent movie star playing to a dark theatre, and the rest of us had all long ago fled to the talkies.

Tony was a fucking idiot, and he had to go.

It was reported, by whom I cannot recall, that upon being told he was to be challenged for the leadership by Turnbull, Abbott asked, “What do you think I should do?”, and this, this forlorn and bootless plea, this pitiable yelp alone stands as a simple, yet exquisite measure of this “man” made as he always was and always will be, in the image of a child.

“What do you think I should do?”

“You’re in charge. Don’t you know?”

The tabloids fired up Photoshop after his deposition, doing a few tricky things with Turnbull, with Shorten, and they cranked up their pun generator for a couple days, but overall, it really did feel as if their hearts were not truly in it, and now that their boy was gone, not only did Rupert have no one to order around anymore, neither did they have to continue their desperate defences of Abbott’s unrelenting talent for saying and doing things that made both him, and the country, a laughing stock and embarrassment across the globe.

The obituaries have not been kind

“He will not be missed. He should not be praised. He was a failure selfishly wishing that the world would fail with him. We can only hope his like will not be seen again.” The Saturday Paper, Editorial

There will be more of them, at least of the ones that matter, but it may take some time for these to fully develop, to ripen, for all the tawdry facts and fantastic fictions of these last two years to be laid bare, and to fully explore his failure as a man, and as a government, to do him the justice he so truly and richly deserves, to dish back at him the contempt he so freely and frequently dished out at us, a contempt ably illustrated by his assuming the portfolio of “Minister for Women”, a ministry he did nothing with, but claimed purely as a juvenile, middle-finger “Fuck You” to every  woman in his past personal and political life who had ever dared take issue with his infantile brand of lip-smacking, nod-and-wink patriarchy.

That’s Abbott, the little fella in the kitchen banging away on a saucepan with a wooden spoon, driving the adults crazy but they won’t shut him up lest he have a tantrum; his entire life and political career one long, continuous “Fuck You” to anyone or anything that challenged his view of himself as some Golden God on high, wise, noble, all-knowing and just, infallible, in charge or taking over, and, as former PM Paul Keating once noted, “wrecking the joint if you don’t give him the job”, then proceeding to wreck it anyway because he can’t think of anything else to do.

“The man does not want to be who he is, and thus, when he can do anything he wants, he became a force of destruction and failure.” Guy Rundle, Crikey

Thank God that’s over.

Of course, there are some in the media, print media mostly, who have been moved to decry his fate, the usual suspects; they have turned to poetry and prose, hymns, elegies, and soaring symphonies of praise they have offered up in honour of their favoured saviour, but nobody with eyes or ears or who has been conscious in this world over this brief time is buying that shit anymore, not least without laughing a lot. Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on Andrew Bolt, went all Jodi Picault a couple days ago and made himself cry.

People laughed a lot.

Former Liberal Minister For Something I’ve now forgotten, Eric Abetz, marked the occasion of Abbott’s removal by declaring “The King is dead, long live the King”.


Rather, let’s grab a shovel, dig him a hole, and dance on his fucking grave.

Fuck you, Tony Abbott.

You were shit.


Three weeks ago, my 87 year-old emphysemic father did topple, in a most unseemly and indelicate fashion, face-first onto a heavy wooden dining table, and then did flip backward onto the kitchen floor, causing two bones in his neck to fracture, necessitating a quick visit to the hospital via ambulance where stitches were sewn across the bridge of his nose, and a neck brace fitted to him which looks like something from a science-fiction film – “Alien” came to mind first time I laid eyes on it.

He did lay there for two weeks, looking like one big, bruised, broken vegetable until, early last week, he was transferred to an aged care transitional facility where he is to be slowly re-introduced to the novel concept of walking without falling over (firstly, stand up while hanging onto something), and moving his head about.

This little episode did require my presence in Sydney for an extended period to deal with all manner of things (not least, a 77 year-old mother who is deaf, and cannot hear anything across a phone line), and during which time I had no computer or internet access (because I do not own a computer and my phone is not smart, not so much the affectation of a Luddite as it is my continued penchant for exploring the uncharted and challenging extremes of mind-numbing procrastination within the known – and unknown – dimensions of this, our infinite universe ).

This is about the fourth or fifth fall he has had in as many years, and if things keep going on like this, I may suggest to him that if he likes acrobatics so much, why doesn’t he just go join a fucking circus?


I understand we have a new Prime Minister, that his name is Malcolm, and he speaks in complete sentences.

How’s that working out for people?


Melbourne, today

MOTORISTS and passengers can expect a hellish ride into the city Friday morning with roads jammed, trains cancelled and trams packed.

Metro workers are walking off the job between 10am and 2pm but services will start thinning from 8.15am and are not expected to resume to full capacity until 4.30pm.

VicRoads and Public Transport Victoria have urged those who can stay home to do so, with road congestion to be at peak hour levels all day long.

The stoppage will bring seven hours of chaos with 300,000 passengers disrupted and almost 700 train services cancelled.

Europe, now …

I see millions of hands
They are raised to the sky
I see millions of hands
They are raised to the sky
I see visions of outrage
I see visions of outrage


We are questioning peace
In the absence of god
We all pray to police
Oceans of people
Oceans of souls
Oceans of people
Oceans of souls


Europe is falling apart

“Eurovision” Laibach, 2014

The Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, comments

 “We saw yesterday on our screens a very sad, poignant image of children tragically dead at sea in illegal migration,” Mr Abbott told ABC radio. “Thankfully we have stopped that in Australia because we have stopped the illegal boats.”


Such a mensch.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee. – John Donne


Federal Immigration Minister Peter Dutton was on the television yesterday morning, on two channels that I noticed, twice, his gape-mouthed, dead, dull-eyed stare its usual blank and impenetrable fortress of vapid dumb, he’d been wound up with his talking points for the day and nothing, nothing, would sway him from his course, an insistent stream of hollow nonsense, bullshit and bluster, weary clichés and sulkily defensive hostility.

At one point Dutton accused Fairfax and the ABC of conspiring to topple the Abbott government by reporting news with news in it, such as the Australian Border Force fuck-up in Melbourne last Friday, another one of those masterstrokes in public relations our government has come to specialise in and which we, the citizenry, so abjectly fail to appreciate them for time and time again.

I stop listening, and the words “taking responsibility” come to mind. I leave the room, go have a shower (an apt thing to do after hearing or seeing Dutton at any time), and get ready for work. By the time I get there, Dutton’s all over the fucking internet, being rightfully lambasted and widely mocked for his remarks, and for generally carrying on like a sooky cunt.

To date, Dutton’s career as a government minister has not exactly been covered in glory, his exploits have heralded no fanfares and inspired no heroic monuments be established in his name; instead, as one Fairfax scribe noted “in a government which prizes making a goose of oneself, Dutton excels.”

Let us also not forget that, as the former Federal Health Minister, he was regarded, by health professionals, as “the worst health minister in 35 years” and “will be remembered as the dullest, least innovative and most gullible for swallowing the reforms from his think tank … Although I am glad he has been demoted, it would have been good if he was still around to take responsibility for the current chaos he has caused.”

To put it unkindly, the man’s not worth a pinch of shit, and we all know it.

Let us also not forget that, as the current Immigration Minister, Dutton joins a long and undistinguished line of callous and unfeeling arseholes who have, for almost 15 years now, been enabling the rape, torture and physical and psychological abuse of already seriously damaged men, women and children by flinging them off to corruptly governed foreign islands so as to sate the primal fears of a nation whose populace now seems consumed and diseased by cowardice and new tribal hatreds, hatreds lovingly nurtured and fed by the frenzied illogic of the white trash on heat in our tabloids, and their political equivalents.

Let us not forget this

“The story of Beth, a young refugee who was released into the Nauruan community in May. Allegedly Beth, whose name I have changed, was sitting on the beach with some other women when local men gave her a drink. Beth began to feel woozy, before being dragged into bushes by two or three men and raped. They then poured fuel on her and set her alight. I have seen photographs of her after the assault. Her left breast is so badly burnt that the skin has blackened and lifted from the flesh.

As a result of the rape, Beth became pregnant. A solemn Christian, the thought of abortion appalled her but she decided to go through with it. Beth was flown to Brisbane for the termination where, not long after, she attempted to hang herself with a bed sheet. She is now back on Nauru.”

Let us not forget this

“We, as a country, are effectively running overseas prison camps filled with people who have committed no crime, camps where abuse and neglect and maltreatment are routine, where the exercise of power is arbitrary and accountability is non-existent.”

Yet on such topics, Immigration Minister Peter Dutton has this to say …

“In Australia, the Department of Immigration and Border Protection, and the minister’s office, did not respond to detailed questions about the sexual assaults …  and conditions on Nauru for settled refugees.”

Not worth a pinch of shit.

Given that our government of the day has always argued against gender quotas in parliament, insisting that ministerial positions within it are accorded on “merit”, and, as one person put it, “being the worst [at something] is the best you’ve got”, as it is in Dutton’s case, the definition of “merit” becomes as shaky, flaky and psychosis-inducing as our onion-eating, coal and chimney-sweep fetishist Prime Minister, and one realises, one knows, that no media report of any kind, from any channel, could wage a better “vendetta” against the current government than its own members.

All they have to do is talk.

And we respond …

“You people are shit”.

Or …

“Peter fucking Dutton”.

“Bit of a dickhead, that one”.




Dr Kevin Donnelly is a Senior Research Fellow at the Australian Catholic University and the co-author of the Review of the Australian Curriculum. Donnelly taught for 18 years in government and non-government schools and was a branch president of the Victorian Secondary Teachers Association. In 2004 he was chief-of-staff to Liberal Party Minister Kevin Andrews.

Here is Dr. Donnelly on ABC’s The Drum holding forth in support of our Prime Minister’s latest example of Mad Cunt People Skillin’  by doing his “Nope, Nope, Nope” thing on marriage “equality” …

” … many of the arguments in favour of same-sex marriage are flawed. Those wanting change argue that defining marriage as involving a man and a woman discriminates against lesbians and homosexuals.

Ignored is that there are many examples where society and the law allow discrimination to occur. Women-only gyms and clubs are allowed to exclude men and those under 18 are not allowed to view X-rated films and videos.”

I’ll just leave that “logic” lying there for you people to ponder on, because it’s got me fucked.



No matter how many tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of words have been written or spoken about this woman and her history of immoderate extravagance, there is no “sniff test”, no “pub test”, no context one need put it in, no perspective to be applied, there is only this, and always has been only this ….

“You spent $5000 bucks chartering a fucking helicopter to go a ninety minute car drive because you were late to a fete?  OH, DO FUCK OFF, YOU STUPID FUCKING CLOWN!”

If only that were the headline the first time, and for the few days after, we would not have had to endure the last three weeks of front page photographs and footage of the woman, looking like The Joker playing Cruella deVille in a bawdy vaudeville pantomime – “Bite your pillow Australia, I’M STRAPPIN’ ON AND GOIN’ IN DRY!”

“BOOOOOOO!” the audience respond and recoil in unison. Some even flee the theatre.

A few weeks before all these shenanigans, the host of ABC News Breakfast interviews former Liberal leader John Hewson on various things, and asks Hewson if he is disappointed, if he despairs, the current level of policy debate and discussion in politics, its lack of substance.

Hewson replies that he does, and that he has observed its slow and steady degradation over the past twenty years or so, and I think to myself, “Yes, I too have noticed”.

Not too long before this, Creepy Rupert’s stable of News Corp arse-rags were all a-flutter with excitement that Federal Opposition Leader, Mr Brown Paper-Bag, had been summoned before a Royal Commission into something-something unions and asked questions on matters nobody but they seemed to give a flying fuck about, a matter that has since incuriously and understandably disappeared from the news cycle to make way for all these  lurid tales of the aforementioned old bat Bronwyn and her ratty delusions of aristocratic grandeur.

And while Mr. Paper-Bag’s Royal Commission appearance provided the work experience folk at the Photoshop and Pun Departments of Rupert’s papers oodles of jolly good fun for a day or two, a rather subdued announcement was made at that same time that a whopping great open-cut coal mine is to be constructed on a food bowl, and I think to myself, “Are you fucking kidding me? Really?

Our Prime Minion also declared war on “wind” a while back, but unfortunately for the rest of us, the opening salvo in this war on wind would not consist of blowing his and Joe Hockey’s head off with an air rifle.

Nobody’s perfect.

Tony got the shits with windmills, and he’d like the rest of us to have the shits with them too.

Jesus H. Christ.

Imagine a run-down, dilapidated amusement park.

In that park is an out-of-control carousel, spinning and spinning and spinning, careening this way and then that, a kaleidoscopic frenzy of speed, tawdry colours and bright lights, and on that carousel are the cast of inmates from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, all of them drunk or off their medications and whooping it up something wild, hanging on to their horses for dear life, laughing, screaming, waving their arms, the organ music’s at max volume and it’s always out of tune.

Welcome to Australian politics.

Each day, it lurches from deliriously, impenetrably weird to full-blown shrill psychosis and back again; one moment it sits quietly in a corner cackling to itself in a warm puddle of its own pee, and the next it’s flinging it’s poo at anyone and everyone in  sight, barking at shadows, hollerin’ batshit crazy things at random passers-by, it’s where “Medication Time” never comes, never has and never will, for there are no pills for this.

Waleed Aly writes a column in Fairfax’s Sydney Morning Herald, observing …

“Labor refuses to prosecute a difficult argument. The Coalition cannot prosecute one without finding an enemy to prosecute along with it. But no one is inviting us into a civil exchange. Perhaps with our instant online outrage and shallowing media cycle we’re not the best guests. Sure, I’ll accept that. But politicians aren’t merely self-interested combatants. They’re custodians of our political culture. And on that score there’s a problem because it’s never been easier to win politically by destroying politics.”

Aly notes that “Our disillusionment with politics is now complete”.

When 70% of Australians polled think leaders of both major political parties are about as useful as a couple eunuchs in a flophouse; when only 8% of Australians get their news from traditional print media, and almost 50% of those do not trust that media; and when the influence of this media is so rapidly declining that its public persuasion factor is almost nil, one may be more inclined to think that it not so much disillusionment with politics, but outright contempt, and a large, sloppy return serve of it to those in government and media who regularly see fit to regard the Australian public with same.

As Rodney Tiffen noted in his Inside Story article from June …

“ … the main medium that picks up on the tabloids’ coverage is commercial talkback radio, which then amplifies the papers’ sense of outrage even further. It should be remembered, though, that their elderly listeners are quite similar to the readers of the tabloid newspapers. Together, the two media form a self-aggrandising and self-referential noise machine, and their volume and bluster should not be mistaken for outreach.”

Tiffen goes on to add …

” … there is an increasing sense of editorial desperation among the Murdoch papers as their commercial plight worsens. Like a one-trick pony, they try ever-bigger versions of the old sensationalist ploys. Politically, the result is even less willingness to report fairly on parties and views they don’t support. Where there was once a populist touch, now there is just a grinding predictability. Where there was once a profitable balance between sensationalism and credibility, now the confected outrage and the beat-ups rarely hit home.”

None of these trends and statistics come as any surprise, for they perfectly reflect my own attitudes toward politics as it is played today, and those in the media who “report” on it, and confirm that I am, most definitely, not alone.

Which begs the question – Who are these people writing for?

Themselves and each other.

And the politicians who still think we’re paying attention to what these alleged “influential” columnists and “opinion-makers” have to say.

As Hadas Gold and Michael Hirsh noted in Politico last year …

“The combination of hyper-polarization and social-media frenzy has created a situation where it seems every spin-meister’s message and TV ad is exaggerated to such absurd lengths that they’ve effectively become meaningless—especially because they’re addressing audiences that are either (a) already fully committed on one side or the other, a choir that doesn’t need preaching to or (b) such sophisticated users of social media that they just don’t buy the crap any more.”

Nobody need read an entire column by anyone in (as Tiffen describes them) “our media’s stable of largely interchangeable and wholly predictable columnists” to know which way they’re whistling and how goes the tune. The headline, the byline, a quick glance at content, reliably daffy keywords are guaranteed to crop up every time, repeatedly, like “leftist” (whatever the fuck that means), and you’re done.

Why bother?

I have often wondered of these so-called “commentators”, the likes of Paul Sheehan or Andrew Bolt or Janet Albrechtson, precisely who they think the fuck they are that their opinions are supposed to matter to anyone who’s not already going to agree with them on a thing, because those who don’t never will.

My opinion on a thing is not fed by the opinions on that thing of others, but by facts, reportage, statistics, peer-reviewed, certified, actual information. WHAT. WE. KNOW.

When Federal Employment Minister Eric Abetz writes a column for Fairfax Media all a-frettin’ and a’fearin’ on the certain moral delinquency that shall arise in the wake of marriage equality (should it ever come to pass), not only shall I not read it, I shall also be inclined to briefly despair at the state of a media whose dearth of talent is such these days, that it would choose to publish such shit.

Or when the likes of Rowan Dean are given space anywhere in a nation’s mainstream press media to air their simple-minded and insubstantive sniggerings, or former political parrots Amanda Vanstone or Peter Reith in The Sydney Morning Herald, and don’t even get me started on Maurice “You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy” Newman in the “The Australian”, not paying attention becomes mandatory.

When “the politics of policy” matters more than the policy to the players, when it becomes nothing but an unending bellowing ululation of frenzied irrationality and fear, when criticism becomes treason, when the tactics are always dirty and the umpire’s always on the make, the audience stop listening, the game is rigged and we know it, it’s a sting, a gyp, a monkeyshines hustle, we know when we’re being diddled and played for patsies and we just ain’t buyin’ this crap no more.

“The Abbott government’s failure to implement so many of its own pre-election promises has contributed to a perception of it as an inefficient government. It has also experienced some very public reversals and botches on policy, including the Medicare co-payment, delaying payments for unemployed young people, cuts to the age pension, race discrimination law, jobseekers applying for 40 jobs a month, deregulation of higher education, and Tony Abbott’s signature paid parental leave policy.” – Sally Young, The Sydney Morning Herald

We do not perceive these things in the context and perspective from which our politicians and their pimps and panders in the mainstream press would like us to, we perceive them in the context and perspectives of our lives as we live them, and as we know others do, and the perception has lead us, has led a great many,  to the conclusion that this government is shit, and there ain’t nothin’ no-one can do or say that will change that as long they continue to keep proving it to us every day by carrying like a pack of full-retard fuckwits.

Goodnight and good luck.

Rosss nervous breakldown small

The above image was auto-generated based upon Facebook information, and you can get your very own front page here. I must say when mine turned up, I did laugh. Aloud.


From the letters page of “The Age”, July 22nd, 2015 …

The last time I took a helicopter to a Liberal Party function was during the Vietnam War. – Les Anderson, Woodend



It is another time, and it is another place, far, far away.

New laws rule this land in this time, and these laws must be upheld by das Volk to ensure the safety of the nation from those who would destroy it, those who would corrupt the minds of its young, befoul the tender flesh of its frauen, and recast the very soul and substance of its culture and the state, the cities and the towns, into a libertine haven for convicted scoundrels and a university for budding crooks.

The laws of the land do so decree that those who would besmirch our national character, those who would sully our people’s most sacred beliefs and institutions, those who would choose either to destroy the industries that keep us strong or hold them captive to their socialist ideologies of anti-government activism, who would forsake and deliver the sovereignty of our shores to the mongrel hordes of primitive, backward medievalism, who actively work against the good will of the government to safeguard  the welfare and security of our country and its citizens, shall now be purged from our midst forevermore, silenced, suppressed, broken, starved of resources, to be left utterly defeated and beaten, and to be banished from both our eyes and our ears, by whatever ways and means  possible.

Into this time and place, situate such people as Tony Abbott and Scott Morrison and Peter Dutton, Kevin Andrews and others of similar mindset, lawmakers and enforcers all, public figures of esteem and rectitude who, as Christians, have not the duty to allow themselves to be cheated, but the duty to be fighters for truth and justice, and to uphold the law.

In this environment, ask yourself, would any of these be the kind of men to hide the Jews in the attic, or would be they be the kind of men emptying bullets into the heads of das Juden faster than they could unload the clip?

Resplendent in their tailored Hugo Boss  leather greatcoats, jackboots, peak’d cap, endorsed by and endowed with the full authority of the state and its laws, would they be gleefully kicking the carcasses of their enemies and of the sick and weak and deformed into shallow mass graves, and congratulating themselves on a “difficult” and often “confronting” task well executed in the name of prosperity, economic austerity, and the will of the people?

“Every day, the [Immigration] department and the Australian Border Force within it will create, receive and use critical and important information including intelligence and personal information. Much of this information will be sensitive and complex.

“It is therefore necessary that information secrecy and disclosure arrangements should be in place not only to protect information but also to enable the disclosure of information in appropriately controlled circumstances.” – Peter Dutton, Federal Immigration Minister


“The receptivity of the masses is very limited, their intelligence is small, but their power of forgetting is enormous. In consequence of these facts, all effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points and must harp on these in slogans until the last member of the public understands what you want him to understand by your slogan.” – Adolf Hitler

Now imagine, if what you have just read were published in a mainstream news outlet or publication, or broadcast on the ABC television or radio, and imagine, just imagine, the outrage which would ensue, the high-keened chorus of frothing whimpers that would sweep all else to insignificance.

It may sound a little like this …

“That is an absolutely outrageous, offensive, utterly disgraceful, and highly disrespectful thing to say about any current member of this government, or for that matter, any sitting member of parliament. To suggest that we are in any way similar or comparable to a regime as evil as that of Hitler’s is not just an unforgivable slur upon the ethical, moral and professional standards of our elected representatives, but a vile, vile, and deeply disturbing statement of disrespect towards the millions of innocent men, women and children who suffered and died horribly under that regime. To say that our policies resemble in any way, in any way, those of Nazi Germany is just … just … totally unacceptable in this day and age, quite frankly, and statements such as those don’t belong in any intelligent debate or policy discussion.”

Outrage and offense, the impertinence and cheek, it’s a nice and easy tactic to divert attention from matters of actual substance; it’s the shit that makes the flowers grow, where column inches soon become yards, and indignation the headline of the day, bought to you by the White Trash on Heat from the tabloid commentariat, who’ll never let an opportunity to go full dudgeon over a spot of name-calling pass by, especially if it’s directed at the side of politics their media masters have told them to shill for.

Just let us speak not of this

Social workers, doctors, nurses, teachers and humanitarian staff who have worked inside Australia’s detention centres have united in an unprecedented show of defiance against new laws that could see workers in detention centres jailed for speaking out about abuses.

“If we witness child abuse in Australia we are legally obliged to report it to child protection authorities. If we witness child abuse in detention centres, we can go to prison for attempting to advocate for them effectively. Internal reporting mechanisms such as they are have failed to remove children from detention; a situation that is itself recognised as a form of systematic child abuse.”

Or of this

“A four-year-old girl who began exhibiting behaviour consistent with a child who had been sexually assaulted, including sexualised dancing and pulling her pants down to invite adults to insert their finger into her anus. Despite child protection workers assessing her to be at “high risk of ongoing sexual abuse”, the submission said the immigration department did not remove her from detention.”

The Minister shall determine the appropriate controls and circumstances under which such information shall be disclosed or released, and it will be at the discretion of the Minister and the government under which he serves to determine whether the disclosure of such information is in the public interest, or is not.

“Child abuse on Nauru was first publicly reported in an anonymous submission (#183) to the Australian Human Rights Commission (AHRC). Prior to this submission, despite evidence provided to the AHRC, child abuse was never disclosed. We now know there were multiple incidents of abuse that had occurred by the time these organisations gave evidence but they chose not to report it. – Viktoria Vibhakar, former senior child protection work for Save the Children on Nauru.

I repeat, the Minister shall determine the appropriate controls and circumstances under which such information shall be disclosed or released, and it will be at the discretion of the Minister and the government under which he serves to determine whether the disclosure of such information is in the public interest, or is not.

“I do not think there is as much unhappiness in us as vanity, nor as much malice as stupidity. We are not so full of evil as of inanity; we are not as wretched as we are worthless.” – Michel de Montaigne


We’ll keep Australia safer, safer than it’s ever been before, and we won’t be having no desert-nigger lovin’ raghead sum-bitches comin’ into our fuckin’ houses just so they can piss on our rugs and shit on our lawns, goddammit. We’re the rain to wash this scum off the earth, we are the swords fashioned from bright bolts of lightning plucked from thundering skies on whose blades heads shall roll, we are the ones who decide  who comes here and the manner in which they come, we are the ones who will decide who stays, who goes, who is, or is not, Australian, we are judge and we are jury, and we call upon you, our fellow Australians, to be our executioners, in thought, word and deed, on our side, with us, not against us, and whosoever chooses not to gather with us, shall be given good and righteous cause to scatter from our collective wrath.

“Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves” – William Shakespeare, “King Lear”

We can stunt and dull our senses with the psychological thalidomide of asinine entertainments and “moral” panics, we can redact our hearts and hide our minds from themselves, we can spit our collective contempt upon the faces of the feeble, the frail, and the a’feared, we can choose to live every minute of our future as a memory of our past, but nothing, nothing, will ever, wipe these sordid stains from our history or from our souls.



“There is something about the state putting the power to bully into the hands of subnormal, sadistic apes that makes my blood boil.” – Gore Vidal


Written by Ken Morris and originally posted on the Facebook page of  the Anglican Parish of Gosford

“Hello world.

Nothing about this young man’s [Zaky Mallah] appearance on this show [Q&A] worried me. Nothing about his reply to the Minister worried me.

What did worry me was the assumption that a young angry Muslim man could not be making a good point badly, he could only be making a bad point well.

This assumption was evident immediately from Tony Jones and confirmed by subsequent commentary and media, including an interview with the Muslim Waleed Ali.

You need to take a very stilted view of his amateur communication to derive some sort of threat. Angry with the Minister’s dismissive opportunistic and melodramatic role abuse, Zaky got hot in the head and tried to explain that it is precisely that kind of automatic dismissal without adequate facts, that feeds the radicalisation of some. He stated this in the positive present tense as an actuality. If he had had media training (like everyone on the panel) he might have stated it in the future conditional and with a qualification. (‘It is statements like the Minister has just made that could see radicalised young people make the mistake of going to join ISIL.’)

I have read the transcript of his trial and I find nothing to indicate that he was acquitted of previous matters on a technicality. On the contrary, I find the court’s record of this young man’s life profoundly sad and moving. He was orphaned early and got gradually onto the wrong side of the tracks where young men (of many cultures) develop, through experience of authority, a mistrust and anger for it. He developed a specific attitude towards ASIO and immigration officials when he was denied a VISA to go back to his country of origin to attend a wedding and to meet the woman who had been selected for him according to custom, as his wife. (The custom being that both parties have a right of refusal of each other.) Things went from bad to worse and he served a term in gaol for the threats he made.

I have been meeting young men like this throughout my life as a youth worker. They are angry at their parents, angry at police, angry at teachers and angry at everyone who crosses their path. But their anger is not the sum total of their humanity. It is a symptom of a combination of events, misplaced elements of temperament, unmet attachment needs, immature emotions and the unpredictable lighting of a fuse. And yes, rarely…once in a thousand times, it is a symptom of something I can’t really identify…that looks like pure evil.

What we saw on the program was a tiny microcosm of how I think some radicalisation happens. This damaged angry young Muslim man was confronted with a Christian white power figure who, without access to anything other than, as he admitted, a vague memory (which was wrong), pronounced that young man’s guilt and announced his punishment of banishment from the country Zaky says he loves. In front of a national audience, and without a shred of shame. It was a shocking and appalling display by the Minister.

And so a nation bears witness through the lens of our now-distorted view of people like this young man. We respond as Germans responded to young Jewish men in 1939. We respond through the prism of the lies we have been told and the stereotypes we have been fed. We couldn’t hear his humanity because his Muslim-ness was shouting too loudly at us. To our bent minds when Muslims get angry they don’t speak more truth, they only speak more terrorism.

I am ashamed of this country at the moment. I am ashamed at the (mostly) white, suited, male, middle-class politicians from the LNP/National/Labor coalition who now rule this country with one mind, informed by the bigotry and cruelty that they all fostered in us. I am ashamed that we have become both blind and deaf to fundamental truths. I am ashamed that, in the quest for the populist vote of misinformed xenophobia by ‘stopping the boats’, we have also managed to stop up any remnants of our national spirit of empathy and compassion.

Legislation that by-passes the oversight of the courts to condemn someone on the basis of ‘intelligence’ is wrong, but will be passed because it supports the oligarchy of the powerful on both sides of politics. Intelligence of course, is the same unblemished reliable kind of truth-telling that assured us Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction and Dr Muhammad Hanif was a terrorist. Intelligence would be the commodity that completely failed to observe that a man named Man Haron Monis, whose madness and violence was hardly a secret, was still walking the streets…until he took people siege and ended two innocent lives. Intelligence is the raw data for drones carrying death. Intelligence resulted in Guantanamo Bay water-boarding.

It’s lucky I’m a white Christian middle-class male saying this. If I was a young Muslim boy the foot of the ABC and the nation would be down my throat by now.”

I have nothing further to add, beyond “Well said, that man”.


Feeling anxious?


Are you mental, mad, is there a screw loose on your cupboard door, a plank missing from your deck, a wheel off your trolley?

Are you overly fond of cats, and do you carry big wads of crumpled newspapers around with you in plastic bags?

Throw away those pills! Cancel that therapy!

Our Federal Social Services Minister has found the simple solution to your sorrows…



Now, if that doesn’t work, sure as shit nothing will, so you may as well face up to it and hang yourself from the living room light fitting, you fucking loser.


“The ABC is out of control and must be reformed!”, howls Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on taste and restraint, and O! how he doth howl, often and most loudly. His frequent allies in this noble quest – from the mighty Gerard Henderson, to stout and doughty Piers Akerman, from the audacious Janet Albrechtsen to the staunch daring of Miranda Devine and beyond, gallants all – steadfast and true in their brave crusade. This fearlessly outspoken consortium of Brothers and Sisters in Adjectival Febrility remain unwavering in their pursuits and arrayed, united and opposed, to the multiple perfidies of progressive advocacy that have lodged deep within the bowels of the nation’s public broadcaster and must, now and forevermore, be purged.

Begin position …

The ABC has consistently and wilfully betrayed its charter and its key, core constituents, those men and women of Australia on whose behalf it is expected to serve, to educate and inform – the Common Man and Common Woman of this land, the working man and woman, the mother, the wife, the modest and the humble.

The ABC’s news and current affairs content, on all platforms, has revealed itself repeatedly, and over time, to be fatally biased toward a disruptively radical “left-wing” liberal-social agenda by embracing and promoting without question positions of extreme anti-capitalism, anti-industry, and anti-family agitprop, to name but a few, as the preferred, prevailing paradigms of our time.

The nation’s public broadcaster has arrogantly forsworn its clear responsibilities to this charter by engaging in, and encouraging, base rumours, confected smears, slurs and vile slanders against the government of the day and the current Australian Prime Minister in particular, and elevating such things to the status of “news”, which they are clearly not.

The established orthodoxies which have served as the foundation and bedrock stones of our nation, and the nation’s citizens since Federation, are sneeringly dismissed as merely the antediluvian obsessions of naïve bumpkins and yokels, their traditional values, mores and morality reduced to the stuff of parody and satire, and sheer common decency regarded as a joke out of fashion and out of time, a fetish for simple-minded fools.

End position.

Nothing is ever what it simply is, or of its times, according to these, and countless other diligent Media Hounds for Truth, Justice and Wanting Everything Their Own Fucking Way All The Time, but rather, each item of “news” and the manner in which it is presented must be assigned, by them, a context serving some underlying political, religious or social ideology, whether that context be deduced from a facial expression, a random turn of phrase, or the sandwich and coffee someone’s just had for lunch.

To their critics, the ABC charter is an unholy mash of Marxist screed and Gaian enviro-ganda, its intent and ambition to thwart our minds with the language of misunderstanding, to alter our perceptions with catastrophic visions of our futures, to blind us with science, to expose our most senior government members to ridicule and scorn, seed our minds with doubt and mistruths, and to arouse and pervert our desires just to prove we’re depraved.

It is not just an organisation, mostly a broadcaster of news with news in it, and occasional entertainments of widely disparate quality and interest, but a “movement” now, an ideological concentrate of pure “leftist” evil and irresponsibility, a grotesque malformation of orthodox mores and virtues, an amorphous accretion of base tumescence, smearing its fusty scent across all things decent, and of righteous virtue, upstanding temperance and unostentatious reserve.

The ABC’s latest vile crime against propriety and couth occurred on June 22nd’s episode of “Q&A”, a program of negligible quality and import which usually comprises a bunch of heads talking at and over each other about the issues of the moment, mostly in what appears nothing more than frenetic pursuit of achieving “quip of the night”, or making a headline the next day for being the biggest dickhead on the show.

On this momentous occasion, a brief and tepid exchange of words between a dickhead in the audience and a government minister on the panel resulted in said dickhead having a “Who? Ya muvver?!” moment, tetchily saying the type of thing one would expect a dickhead to say, which was promptly ruled out of order by the show’s host, who then quickly wrapped up and called it a night.

“O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.”

“What side are you on?!” bellowed our Prime Minister in discombobulated outrage by way of response to this event, all a-flutter in his mind with choleric vapours, and, soon enough, his rallying cry was dutifully picked up and echoed through the august journals of the people and of the land, demanding action be taken, apologies issued, investigations launched and retribution sought to ensure that our ABC shall never again be taken hostage by such barbaric forces of pure evil, and that our nation’s citizens shall never again be subjected to such expressions of deviant tyranny on the national broadcaster at the expense of Team Australia.

Or dickheads saying stupid shit on the tee-vee.

“Pollies get away with spouting rubbish because we let them. If we as a society have the collective attention span of a gnat, and obsess more about who’s stabbing whom in the back on the reality programme du jour than the future of our country, we can’t complain if politicians talk down to us or treat us as mugs, and if the media reports name-calling as serious political news.” – Terry Barnes, The Guardian.

Never let it be said that the White Trash on Heat who currently comprise our body politic and their media cohorts won’t abandon all sense of perspective on a thing in a heartbeat in favour of inchoate squeals of beleaguered rage and protestation over trivialities to deflect any substantive discussion or debate about issues of actual import, those things that affect real people out here in the real world.

No, let us not be thinking, let alone speaking, of the wholesale trashing of industries, the destruction of jobs, the demonisation of the young, the criminalisation of unemployment, and of poverty that our government are so enthusiastically engaged in; let us not be thinking of the shattered cheekbones of battered women denied refuge because funding no longer allows it; let us not think of our abandonment of human rights, the tortures and travails we inflict on the confused minds and soft bodies of women and children fleeing foreign conflicts; let us not think of the desecration of our lands and environments when we can be thinking of the money to be made from them; let us think not on these, or any other such things when we can find lazy solace in the easily confected outrage of the righteous where reality exists solely as a means of fulfilling an ideological end, and if it does not, reality will be duly denied.

You can’t handle the truth.

So let’s make some shit up.

Beat those drums of terror, dance to the discordant rhythms of fear and of loathing, come comrades, sing songs of battle, of defeat and of glorious victory over our most loath’d enemies, for they are closer than we think, much closer, and they do walk among us, in stealth and in silence …


Attention-seeking trolls talking shit on the tee-vee.

“Nurse, pass me the rubber underpants. I’m spending the night under the bed.”

For fuck’s sake.


I read the news today, oh boy.

Bronwyn Bishop, Speaker of the House has admonished Gillian Triggs, President of the Human Rights Commission, saying “If you do wish to be a political participant, then you have to be no longer a statutory officer and stand for office”, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

I see Scott Morrison, former Minister for Immigration being interviewed on television, and he speaks of “on-water operational matters” in regards refugees and won’t answer a question, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

Somebody in the office has wished me “Good morning”, and inquires as to the going of my day, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, before muttering “F-f-f-f-f-f ….. Fine. Thanks”, in reply and moving on.

The Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey talks of housing affordability and good jobs for good people, but does it in such a way that has most everybody thinking, “For fuck’s sake”, and thinking it over and over and over again every time he speaks. Our Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, speaks disconcertingly of windmills he has witnessed, tilting portentously over the lands, ever-growing in number, and spreading all manner of wretched maladies and miasmic blights to rattle the minds of the countryfolk, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

Opposition Leader Bill Shorten is probably doing something somewhere right now that I’m not currently paying attention to, but if I were, I’d probably think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”.

A sausage roll and an orange juice for lunch has cost me eight bucks fifty, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I can remember when they were about a buck each back in the day.

Watching ABC TV’s “The Drum” a couple days ago, and Rowan Dean is on the panel again, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, a little bit louder now, just a little bit louder, and then there’s a snippet from an interview with current Immigration Minister Peter Dutton coming up, and I think to myself, “For fuck’s sake”, and lunge for the remote control so I can hit the mute button, and then I get up and go to the fridge for a glass of wine, and I find myself looking at the dirty dishes in the sink and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake” before sitting back down, and hoping Peter Dutton has fucked off, but he hasn’t, so I light a cigarette and wonder if I should listen to some music instead.

A schooner of James Squire ale at my local pub costs $7.60, and I think to myself “For fuck’s sake”, I could buy a bottle of wine for that, but I pay it anyway, and I’ll pay it again, and again, because, well, for fuck’s sake, these are drinkin’ times, hard-drinkin’ times, and a man could go crazy thinking on this stuff, all this stuff they sayin’ and doin’ that don’t make no lick ‘o’ sense, an’ I don’ wanna be no crazy ol’ man mutterin’ at walls an’ yellin’ at fenceposts and pickin’ fights with squirrels.

No sir, I don’t.

Maybe Gerard Henderson will be on ABC’s “Insiders” again this Sunday.



Over at AIMN (Australian Independent Media Network) is a new piece I have written titled “PEACE IN OUR TIME”.

You may read it there if you wish.

Click the fucking link.


Flicked over to Channel 7’s “Sunrise” program briefly this morning, and it’s a live cross to “Kochie” from  Turkey and he’s promising upcoming coverage of a “great ceremony” in the morrow.

It’s the Olympics for Dead People. Who came dead first. Who came dead last.

Professor Bruce Scates writing for The Age yesterday …

“The centenary should have been the time to widen the ambit of remembrance, to reckon with the aftermath of Anzac. A legion of blind and crippled and insane men and women, irreparably damaged by war, returned to Australia. For those who came home, and for the families who supported them, a new and equally exacting battle began: to raise a family on an inadequate pension, find work without an arm or eye, forget the nightmare of what one saw, and did, on Gallipoli or the Somme, Palestine or Flanders.

Promised a land fit for heroes, inexperienced men were set to work marginal land on worthless soldier settlement blocks. Promised the praise of a grateful nation, they faced the Great Depression. Many would survive the war, but not the peace. Throughout the 1920s, gassed men choked to death, cot cases perished in their beds, “nervy men” blew their brains out.  Far from uniting a nation, as we are so often told, the war tore us apart and left a legacy of trauma.

These harsh realities of the aftermath of war do not lend themselves to the rousing rhetoric of princes or politicians. They highlight the obscenity of what has become a parody of remembrance, Anzac as carnival, commodity and re-enactment, a brand sold by tour guides, breweries, and supermarkets. In 1915, the landing failed. In 2015, we failed that generation yet again.”

Have a nice day.


Somebody’s left the gate open at the cunt farm again …

A terrifying troupe of terrorist teen tots and twenty-somethings had been planning to launch an extreme assault upon the Australian public on our nation’s finest and most revered of days, Holy of Holies, Oh Woe are We for We are Besieged by Evil!

They were going to go at it with a knife and a sword somewhere to avenge the death of some other dickhead with a name that sounded like a brand of Turkish nougat who bought a knife to a gunfight outside a police station a while back and got himself shot for his troubles.

As you would.

Our New Band of Brothers in Evil did speak often, and at large about their demonic plans for bloody savagery on our national Day of Mourning & Remembrance, and they did speak loudly, on Facebook and Twitter and other social networks, on blogs, texting and talking on their mobile phones, on Skype, and they were disgustingly adamant and unconcerned about the effect their vile intentions would have upon the otherwise genteel souls of our fair and most free land.

Most of their conversations did appear to come from the script of “Khartoum”, and are scattered with dark references to the flowing of blood, the slitting of throats, rolling heads, and infidels this and infidels that, and I suspect they also called each other “bro’” a lot, and did that lame rapper thing with the pointy-finger air-jabbing and the jazz hands.

So imagine their complete surprise, and their dismay, that their plans, hitherto unknown, highly secret, tightly kept plans to wreak this havoc became known to police and a bunch of these same police turned up at our dastardly dickheads front doors 4am one morning to make a few “inquiries”.

“Who snitched?”, our criminal crib-wetters must have wondered wide-eyed, casting furtive glances at each other, and wondering if their crew had been infiltrated by a mole acting on behalf of the agents of Zion.

Some of our dastardly clan of motley’s even claimed they had been “roughed up” and “mishandled” by these violently oppressive enemies of freedom from the Victorian Police Force during this melee, and photos were taken in evidence, showing small scratches and a few bruises here and there because, when you’re plotting to stab someone in a public place and run about like a lunatic shouting religiously inspired claptrap and stuff, the police should only ever be expected to tap gently at your door, politely ask to be invited in, and just proceed to whup you about the head with a Chux for a bit if you don’t make them a nice cup of tea and offer them a biscuit.


Silly little buggers.



Mid-morning Sunday last, I am watching ABCNews24, as is my wont, and, as also is my wont, my finger is hovering over the “mute” button on the remote just in case any Australian politician or “leading business figure” pops up talking slogans about bullshit billions here and bullshit billions there and gnarling and gnashing their squirrelly pebble gray teeth over what troublesome little bunnies we all are and how much easier it would be to run a country if it weren’t for all the fucking people in it.

My complete disengagement from Australian politics is almost complete.

There is a live-cross to Victorian Premier Daniel Andrews, a man I know nothing about beyond that, because, as far as state politics go, there are six of the goddamn things and a bloody territory, and I couldn’t give a flying fuck about any of them with all their backwoods, parochial “my state is better than your state” dribbly bullshit and carrying-on.

Andrews was speaking, favourably, to the subject of “medical marijuana” and as he spoke, I found myself … listening.

He was not reading from notes, of if he was, it was not evident, in fact, he appears to have been speaking “off the cuff”, and using full sentences to boot, and I thought to myself, “You actually sound as if you know what you’re talking about”, because he actually did, and then I think, “Shit. That doesn’t happen very often”, because it doesn’t.

He speaks of a boy, a young boy who suffers all manner of dreadful ailments and seizures, and Andrews appears to be acquainted with the actual circumstances of this boys’ life, and he speaks of this boy, of the boys’ parents, and of the ordeals they have endured, and he goes on for a bit about the benefits of this, and the benefits of that, and I listen to it all, something I very rarely do, and when he has finished, I thought, “That was good. That was about a real thing. Good.”

Can it be?

Can it be there may be individuals within this boggy swamp of our  fetid body politic who can talk on and about a topic sensibly, and logically, without resort to carnival barker sloganeering and “I’m such a Smug-Cunt” chest-puffery?

Fuck me with a spoon.

The last politician I paid attention to when he had something to say was former Independent MP, Tony Windsor, and before that, Paul Keating.

Does anyone remember Simon Crean?

No. Why would you?

Shortly after Julia Gillard enlisted the support of Windsor and his fellow Independent Rob Oakeshott to form government and inflict her Raging Red Reign of Horror upon the  innocently unsuspecting masses of this fair land, Windsor was interviewed on ABC’s “7:30 Report” by then host Kerry O’Brien.

O’Brien asked Windsor a question.

Windsor answered it.

Shit! You just answered a question”, I thought to myself at the time. That doesn’t happen very often. Because it doesn’t.

O’Brien too looked a little taken aback, muttered a few “ums” and “ah’s”, shuffled a paper or two, and it was as if he were thinking to himself, “You bastard. I was expecting to have to go another two, three minutes to drag an answer out of you. You’ve fucked up my timing.”

When Tony Windsor (Windsor’s interview with Richard Fidler on ABC Radio’s “Conversations” a week or two ago can be downloaded from iTunes, or the ABC site, and I highly recommend you do) says Our Prime Descending Testicle did say he would do anything but sell his arse for the job, and Abbott says he did not, who the fuck are you going to be more inclined to listen to and believe, for Christ’s sake?.

If you expect people to listen to you, talk like a person, know what it is you are speaking about, get to the fucking point, answer the questions you are asked, and if you don’t know the answer, and you know you don’t know it, don’t make shit up, because you’ll only end up making yourself look and sound a complete fuckwit.

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

You don’t have to be Martin Luther King.

You don’t have to be Billy McMahon either. Or Bill Shorten.

Here endeth the lesson.

In other news of note I am currently choosing to ignore but others are not, Our Prime Descending Testicle skolled a beer, Julie Bishop wore a scarf, and Malcom Turnbull appeared on the cover of Australian “GQ” looking like an over-eager counter boy from “Wendy’s” circa 1983, and then this popped up …


… Don’t cry, Baby Jesus, only one nail left to go.

I am going back to sleep now.

Wake me in time for Armageddon.


The early 90’s, I worked for a market research company, part time, four hour shifts, nights, Saturdays, Sundays, and I did it purely for the extra cash, my “regular” job paid crap money, and I was jack of having fuck all.

We would ring people and ask their opinion of various products, or perhaps services they had used. Qantas was a client, so was Ansett. Understand this – Nobody in their right mind would willingly volunteer to spend a Sunday sitting on their arse in a fucking cubicle ringing one person after another after another, asking the same damn questions each time, and listen to some dreary knobhead whine about the fucking food they were served or the lack of legroom on their Brisbane to Cairns flight, such hardship men were not expected to endure, and so they would often share their travails, their tales of woe, and you would be obliged to listen. A little incentive helped in this respect, and that incentive was the penalty rate on offer, maybe double-time, maybe time and a half, I can’t recall exactly, but the couple hundred bucks extra I was earning each week came in very handy at the time, I can certainly recall that.

After about a year, I ditched it, it was driving me up the wall. Not exactly enthralling type of work, not something you’d think to yourself, “Gee, I’d like to do this forever and forever and forever”, not something that would ever strike you as a pathway to a career, but good enough to persevere with for a time to get you through a rough patch, maybe pay some expenses, some bills, do a few things.

I see young men and women working behind the bar of my local pub nights and weekends, the bottleshop counter, and often they’ll have a textbook open beside them, something to pore over during down times if they’re lucky enough to get any, and take it from me as I am in a position to know, those things are fucking expensive. A little extra cash can go to some very good use.

But no.

A little extra is a little too much in this day and age, say some, far too much to be dealt with, and so, some VERY CONCERNED citizens, Employers of Note, Great Men and Grand Women of Stature, Giants of Industry, Captains of Endeavour, Hard-Workin’ Hard-Dick MEN, Battle-Scarred salts of this, our Savage Earth, have gathered together, have reached out to their brethren, have raised their fists to the skies, and have shouted to the world, “THIS IS TOO BIG TO IGNORE!”

The “this” of course, is penalty rates.

“We’re sorry that we’re closed today”, they opine. “We’d like to be open to serve you”, they lament.

“We’d like to give local people jobs”, they sob, on their palms the stigmata of selfless sacrifice, the Wounds of Christ, their blood our water, our wine, and bled for our sustenance, and ours alone.

“BUT THE PENALTY RATES ARE TOO HIGH!”, they howl, their pain the sad, sickening sounds of desperately wounded animals felled by far more savage beasts than they.

“Tell Canberra something has to change”, they conclude, oh





If I were a violent man, I could imagine myself happily throwing rocks through the shopfront windows of any business that would display such a thing.

But I am not a violent man.

This bell has been rung before …

“Celebrity chef George Calombaris has entered the industrial relations debate, slamming penalty rates faced by restaurateurs under the federal government’s Fair Work Act as uneconomical.

Calombaris, who stars in the high-rating MasterChef TV show, has complained about the rates he will have to pay staff at his new Melbourne pasta bar, due to open this month, claiming it’s up to $40 an hour per worker on Sundays.

“The problem is that wages on public holidays and weekend greatly exceed the opportunity for profit.””

And …

“[Luke] Mangan, who has built an $80 million food empire, also admitted his business was forced to employ more than 20 per cent of its chefs and waiters from overseas on 457 work visas due to a shortage of homegrown talent.

Mr Mangan, who operates restaurants in Singapore, Tokyo, Jakarta and the Maldives, said Australia’s high penalty rates were forcing many businesses, including his Sydney restaurant Glass, to close on public holidays.”

Our Prime Minister too, has had his own struggles

““If you don’t want to work on a weekend, fair enough don’t work on a weekend. But if you do want to work on a weekend, and lots of people, particularly students, particularly young people, want to work on a weekend, you want the places to be open to provide jobs,” [Tony Abbott] said, pointing out that the hotel he uses in Melbourne closed its restaurant on Sunday night because it couldn’t afford to pay penalty rates and that he had found it difficult to find a bottle shop open over Easter for the same reason.

“I don’t begrudge people the money … but in the end there is a balance that has to be struck here and my preference will always be in favour of more jobs,” he said.”

It is admirable of our Prime Testicle not to “begrudge” these young folk the money they require in order to live, an honourable sentiment indeed, yet perhaps Mr. Abbott should be made aware that it is not just the young, not just students, but a colourful multitude of others, of all ages, of all qualifications and experience, who may well say things such as this, “Mum, there’s a couple Sunday shifts coming up, and I need the extra money, can you look after the kids those days?”, or the nurse who’s picked up a week’s worth or graveyard shifts, her husband’s job went offshore a couple months back, and he can’t get a look-in for a new one, and they NEED THE FUCKING MONEY IN ORDER TO LIVE.

It’s not “extra”. It makes it “enough”.

That is what makes people do it.

Here is Luke “Mr. 80 Million” Mangan again …

“In our age group, we just did anything, worked anywhere to get where we wanted to go,’’ he told The Saturday Telegraph. “Today I get apprentices’ mums calling and saying about Little Johnny, ‘you’re working him 50 hours a week’.

“My mum and dad would drop me off at the train station and make darn sure I worked 50 hours a week — work that out.’’

… Such fond, faded and sepia-toned memories of simpler times, when a man knew the value of a penny, and children would race billy-carts made from orange crates up and down the back lanes of inner suburbia on weekends or after school, and a boy was taught to work hard, taught the meaning of hard work, harder than any boy had ever worked before, for they be a whuppin’ in the offing he don’t, a hard-scrabble, scratching and scraping life, but the kids today …

They expect, that if you are going to ask them to work for 50 hours a week, you will fucking well pay them for it, and if you are not prepared to do that, then do the FUCKING WORK YOURSELF.

They expect, that if you are going to ask them to work till 12.00pm on a Sunday evening, they will be appropriately recompensed for working such unsociable hours, the hours that keep them away from their partners or their children, away from their friends, the hours they will work simply because, and for no reason other, that they NEED THE FUCKING MONEY IN ORDER TO LIVE, and maybe you could throw in a CabCharge voucher as well so they can get home without being bashed or raped on the way by some lunatic cunt.

If you are going to start a business, you are expected to comply with certain rules and regulations, especially if you are employing other people, and if you did enter into your business unaware that it’s nature would require you to pay your employees penalty rates for irregular hours, then you are a wanking twat and your business deserves to fail. You knew the rules when you entered the game. You don’t enter the game and decide you need some new rules simply because the existing ones no longer suit your sucking greed.

I do not expect this campaign against penalty rates from the folk of “Chambers Across Australia” to resonate particularly well with the average member of the wage-earning public, but one can never be too sure how such things may pan out given we have a federal government who seem pathologically obsessed in doing anything and everything within their power to fuck with people’s lives, whether it be through health, education, welfare or work.

A new underclass, they are the Morlocks, and we are the Eloi.

However … as the recently made redundant former Premier of Queensland, Campbell Newman did find out, in one very brief term of office, if, upon ascending to office, one of your first actions – in the name of fiscal purity – is to sack 40,000 public servants, you lose 40,000 votes.

If each of those 40,000 have one or more relatives, dependents or close friends negatively affected by this action, you lose double that, maybe 100,000, maybe more.

Do you really, seriously, want to fuck with the viability of so many other people’s livelihoods?

Be careful what you wish for, boys.

That night nurse may suddenly find herself all out of painkillers just when you need them most.

food here penalty rates


ABC News Breakfast Thursday morning crosses to a live interview on ABC Radio with Finance Minister Matthias Corman.

Corman is asked straight up if he were active in alleged discussions on calling a double dissolution.

He says he was not, and then continues that the only thing he has been active in is getting on with the job of government and addressing those issues that are of real concern to the Australian people today, which is jobs and the economy, and the mess we’re in, and the previous Labor Government this and the previous Labor Government that, and so forth.

After one particularly mind-numbing stream of incoherent babble, I mutter “Jesus Christ”, hit the mute button on the remote and decide this would be a good time to go have a shower and get ready for work.

We don’t need a double dissolution.

We need a double-barreled shotgun to blow these twaddle-peddling bullshit artists into political oblivion, and start advertising in Seek for replacements.

Essential: Ability to communicate complex issues in clear, direct language to a broad spectrum of stakeholders without resort to jargon, clichés, witless one-liners repeated ad nauseum at every available opportunity in a day, PowerPoint presentations, and incomprehensible, incoherent bullshit of no substance whatsoever.

Essential: A high degree of literacy and demonstrable numeracy, coupled with the ability to speak with authority, weight and gravitas over a wide variety of often weighty subjects of national import, to be informed with intelligent argument either for or against an issue, and to be prepared with peer-reviewed facts supported by clear evidence to advance that argument.

Do you feel lethargic, irritable, worn down, fed up, chewed up, spat out, and occasionally overwhelmed by the barely restrained impulse to throw fistfuls of your own poo at the television, drop your radio off a fifty-storey balcony and slowly drive your dog insane by constantly shouting the words “bone” and “walk” at it every couple minutes?

Welcome to the ranks of The Disappointed, their numbers are legion and growing larger by the minute, by the syllable.

Have you read all those articles, the ones that detail the various ways and whys in which people have come to be disillusioned with politics as it is today? Have you read the polls, and looked at the demographics, of how this group or that group just couldn’t be bothered anymore, and don’t pay much attention, it’s no longer even about them, so why waste precious time? Have you heard our politicians, when asked of this, reply that “Yes, they need to engage more with voters, and put more effort into selling their message”, which essentially means they need to find other ways to pull a few fast ones and hope nobody’s paying too much attention? Have you read or watched or listened to the aging hipsters of yesteryear (Richard Neville comes instantly to mind) bemoan the apathy and self-absorption of today’s young folk, they’re not out on the streets anymore, waving placards, marching, standing up for their beliefs, rousing choruses of “Kumbayah” echoing through the streets of our cities, people are throwing themselves in front of bulldozers, and handing out flowers to the PIGS, MAN, like FUCK, you know, … ?

And do you, after all this, ask yourself, “Who can fucking blame them? Why the fuck would any sane human being involve themselves with this shit?”

A perfectly reasonable assessment.

Laura Tingle in AFR March 20, 2015…

“… we don’t seem to quite be able to take in the growing realisation that we actually are being governed by idiots and fools, or that this actually has real-world consequences.

We finish the week with a Prime Minister who has lost his bundle and is making policy and political calls that go beyond reckless in an increasingly panicked and desperate attempt to save himself; a government that has not just utterly lost its way but its authority; and important policy debates left either as smouldering wrecks or unprosecuted.”

And …

“It’s not just that voters don’t like Tony Abbott any more, or are angry about broken promises, they see the government as incapable of doing its job competently.

This is a particularly devastating assessment for a conservative government. The phrase the Coalition used before the last election was that voters needed to put “the adults back in charge”.”

With “adults” like these in charge, today’s young  folk have sensibly decided to keep the fuck out of the way.

Today’s “young folk” are not apathetic and self-absorbed, ignorant or lazy as so many “old folk” would have us believe. With their lives before them, with hopes, dreams and ambitions, a world to live in and to experience, theirs are not hearts and minds drawn to the gas-belching swamp of contemporary Australian politics, where self-interest truly lies, where go the sad and the old, the rich and the privileged, driven by pure greed, by power alone, and by a cruel and punishing ideology which would have us all be slaves under their command, under their rule, and be thankful to them for it.

Why, you can be somewhat less than whole in either body or in mind, or both, and this government will let you work for a whole 99 cents an hour, how about that, aren’t you lucky, you lucky, lucky thing, you?

“We know that without honesty there is no trust and without trust there is no fairness and without fairness civil society cannot long survive.” (Tony  Abbott, “Battlelines” 2009)

The young, the elderly, the working poor, the unemployed, the ill, the man in the far-flung rural area who has to drive three hundred miles in agonising pain to have an abscessed tooth ripped out and then three hundred miles back with a mouth full of bloody cotton swabs will not engage in a politic that regards them, that is forever telling them how wrong they all are, what a blight, a burden, an affront to economic efficacy, an affront to the ideal buffed and bronzed all-around true blue Larrikin Aussie Aryan descended from the long dead warrior heroes of Gallipoli they seem so desirous of.

This is a government whose sole purpose so far since taking office, whose central message it would seem, is to be forever telling the rest of us how completely shit we all are.

There’s nothing to engage with, or in. Nothing.

Absolutely fuck all.

When Independent Senator Nick Xenophon recently described Education Minister Christopher Pyne’s antics this week over higher education reform as “student politics”, he pretty much summed up the tenor of the entire government, a Playschool government whose host is irrevocably stupid, a clown, and whose cast members are mere “students of politics” who keep failing their exams, over and over and over, because they insist on scribbling crude penis doodles on their papers, and they keep running off to the toilet blocks with a Playboy magazine stuffed up their shirts, and a couple fags in their pockets for the afterwank.

We do realise we are being governed by “idiots and fools”, as Laura Tingle writes, and we realised it way before she or her media colleagues did. We did not ask for it. We certainly did nothing to deserve it. We wish it had not happened.

Our Prime Minister is an idiot.

We can not stoop to his level of idiocy by engaging with it. We must bide our time, and when our time comes, we must throw this mob out.

I try to avoid using phrases like “worst government ever”, but in this case, they may or may not be the worst, but they are certainly the dumbest mob of motherfuckers I’ve experienced in my lifetime.


PS – As I was writing this, news came through that former Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser had died this morning. Your assignment this week is to compare and contrast the former Prime Minister with the current incumbent. This will comprise 50% of your final assessment.

Here is Paul Keating’s statement on the death of Mr. Fraser …

“The death of Malcolm Fraser underwrites a great loss to Australia.

Notwithstanding a controversial Prime Ministership, in later years he harboured one abiding and important idea about Australia – its need and its right to be a strategically independent country.

He detested what he saw as our strategic subservience to the United States and our willingness to be easily led from the path of a truly independent foreign policy.

His public life also enshrined other important principles: no truck with race or colour and no tolerance for whispered notions of exclusivity tinged by race.

I always thought Malcolm would be around a lot longer. I must say, I wished he had been.”

Papers with penis doodles on them will not be accepted.

Illustration by Steve Griffin


I was idly flipping through the pages of “The Australian” yesterday (it’s a quick flip), at my local pub, quietly sipping a beer, when my eye did spy amidst the cluster of bylines and scribblings from a small flock of old white people on the “opinion” pages, an ode.

An ode of love. Of joy and of devotion. Of high praise for the constancy of spirit, the balance of mind, the purity of soul and embodiment of the rugged individualism of Man, One Man, Tony Abbott, Prime Minister.

The piece was penned by Maurice (You Can Call Me The Space Cowboy) Newman, a well-respected and highly sought-after spokesperson for the Views of The Oppressed, The Common Folk, the Dear Hearts and Gentle People who would otherwise cow and tremble, and timidly hold their tongues in defence of their conservative views for fear of the ridicule that would rain upon them from the Sneering Bigots of the Radical Socialist Left, and the self-anointed inner-city Generals of the Intellectual Elite forever proselytising their foul collectivist causes through the taxpayer-funded outlets of the ABC, and the unapologetically Leftist bias of the Fairfax media.

Mr. Newman is currently chairman of the Prime Minister’s Business Advisory Council, has studied intensively on environmental science via Wally’s Wide World of Webby Wonder, and begins his lusty appraisal of Mr. Abbott thusly …

“FOR the Left there is no greater hate figure than Tony Abbott.

After all, the Prime Minister is a liberal of the European school and embraces all the policy instincts and beliefs the Left despises. What’s more, Abbott effectively toppled Australia’s first female prime-minister, the Left’s beloved Julia Gillard, and it is determined to get even.

Abbott is a fiscal conservative. He stands for lower taxes. He believes in smaller government and competition. He wants freer trade, freer markets and fewer regulations. He encourages entrepreneurship and innovation, which run counter to the ideals of the collective. He sees a place for private education and private health. He is opposed to open borders. He believes migrants should respect our values and our laws. He is for work and self-reliance, not welfare. He’s a monarchist, a Catholic and, worse, not of the global warming faith.

Above all, for as long as he remains Prime Minister, he is an ever-present threat to the socialist legacy of the Gillard years.”

After which it all gets a bit weird and scatty, until Maurice concludes as follows …

“Too often the commentariat writes what it hopes rather than what is. Prejudice passes for analysis. So the government has a critical role in communicating the reality.”

There’s another nail in the coffin of satire.

Maurice’s spirited portrait of Dear Tony follows closely on the heels of a recent Fairfax report, a series of focus groups held with residents of western Sydney whose opinions on Mr. Abbott could be neatly summed up as “What fucking dickhead” …

“One woman declared: “He could be talking about the weather and you’d still think, oh… I don’t know.””

Tony Abbott talking about the “weather” is certainly a task for the imagination as it would indicate a sea-change of sudden awareness, a dawning consciousness of mind, of the environment in which he lives, the one that can and must, in accordance with the current Gospels of Our Good Government under His Tutelage, submit to our will, bend to our service, and be utilised for the material and financial benefits to our lives, and ours only, fuck the consequences, there aren’t any, never have been, not now, not ever, so there, nyah, nyah, your muvver wears army boots and sleeps in a swamp.

When a “conservative” columnist, that is to say, some smarmy, self-righteous, know-it-fucking-all, right-wing rich old cunt feigning only beneficent intent and infallibility of opinion, throws about the word “socialist” willy nilly, it becomes instantly apparent that what one is dealing with is one of those crusty, dusty and oddly sad relics from the long lost days of the Cold War, Mutually Assured Destruction, the Bay of Pigs, Stalin, Khrushchev, B.A. Santamaria babbling away on the television on a Sunday morning, here I am a twelve or thirteen year old kid wondering who and what the fuck this bald old guy’s going on about, and what happened to the fucking cartoons.

In their minds still, they are diving under school desks, covering their heads with their arms in case of nuclear attack, and yes, a desk will most certainly be a FUCKING GREAT BIG FUCKING HELP, WON’T IT?

A desk, or maybe inside a refrigerator.

In their minds still are mushroom clouds, hammers, sickles; on the horizon, the threat of a looming welfare state, the proletariat hordes clamouring at the doors of Government for more, sir, more, can I please have some more, where the Age of Entitlement is an Age no more, but an Era, spanning decade upon decade, until all the money is gone, and our children and their children, inheriting this financial wasteland, this perfect storm of socialist ideology, shall wander deserted streets, in ragged clothes, in rags, starving, their bellies slowly swelling from malnutrition, desperately seeking – Dear God, please make it so –  just a small handful of dirt to eat on the off chance there might be a worm inside.

That Maurice writes “What’s more, Abbott effectively toppled Australia’s first female prime-minister, the Left’s beloved Julia Gillard”, is something further to observe and take not of, for it seems a proud statement of noble and just achievement, a celebration that, after the nation’s disastrous experiment with putting tits in the Lodge, the patriarchy has, once more, been rightly restored to its traditional position of power, as wholeheartedly endorsed by the electorate, and no more shall we endure the gaudy spectacle of some ginger cow flouncing about the lawns of Kirribilli House getting up to God only knows what with her fucking BOYFRIEND.

Maurice is a bit of a dick.

He continues …

“He [Tony Abbott] was denied the honeymoon normally granted to new governments. He has been called untrustworthy, a misogynist, a racist, a sexist, a homophobe, a bully and Gina Rinehart’s butler.

This demonisation was eagerly retailed by the leftist media. Groupthink reigned supreme.”

I have never heard of Tony Abbott being referred to by anyone as “Gina Rinehart’s butler’, but as far as the other labels are concerned, I do believe a quick straw poll up the local pub would conclude most patrons would at least agree with the “untrustworthy” and “bully” tags, as we have more than enough evidence, indeed years of it, undoctored by the Leftist hate-media, that he’s an insensitive, yammering bore, and a lying sack of shit, and proves it every time he opens his fucking mouth.

When over 50 percent of voters do not approve of the job you are doing, and how you are doing it, when over 50 percent of voters think you suck as a human being, that you are an “embarrassment” to the nation, that you are dishonest, it is not a supreme act of “Groupthink” in action.

It is because you are shit.

You have communicated your message, the message has been received by the masses, and the masses have told you, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck yourself, you’re shit.

I think Maurice has not quite received, or processed that message, however Maurice does strike me as a mite unschooled in real life matters, and yet to familiarise himself with a world in which facts matter, and fantasies do not, so perhaps he should tear himself away from his studies on Wally’s Wide World of Webby Wonder, and get out and meet some real people.

A man his age needs mental stimulation, and this disjointed piece of deranged gibberish proves he needs it fast.

However, if you put your mind to it, you can turn it into haiku’s, so all is not completely lost …

No greater figure
He remains Prime Minister
A bully butler


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 245 other followers