Beyond the soft palate



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.


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.



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”.


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!



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 …



Compare and contrast …

Dwight D. Eisenhower, POTUS 1953-1961

“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.”

“This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. The cost of one modern heavy bomber is this: a modern brick school in more than 30 cities. It is two electric power plants, each serving a town of 60,000 population. It is two fine, fully equipped hospitals. It is some 50 miles of concrete highway. We pay for a single fighter with a half million bushels of wheat. We pay for a single destroyer with new homes that could have housed more than 8,000 people…”

“This is one of those times in the affairs of nations when the gravest choices must be made, if there is to be a turning toward a just and lasting peace. It is a moment that calls upon the governments of the world to speak their intentions with simplicity and with honesty. It calls upon them to answer the questions that stirs the hearts of all sane men: is there no other way the world may live?”

Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull and Federal Defence Minister Marise Paine (2015-?)

Our decision to expand our submarine fleet to 12 regionally superior submarines [cost – $50 billion] is a decision driven by national security. Indeed as set out in the White Paper, by 2035 around half of the world’s submarines will be operating in the Indo- Pacific region. We need submarines with considerable range. We need the capacity to remain undisturbed and undetected for extended periods of time. We need submarines that are quiet, that have advanced sensor technology to detect other submarines. When we announced the CEP in February 2015 we made it clear that we required a submarine that had range and endurance similar to that of the Collins Class and superior sensor technology and stealth characteristics.

And …

The federal government would stop funding public schools while continuing to support private schools under a dramatic change to the nation’s education system outlined by Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull.

And …

Not only is the Turnbull Government going ahead with the freeze on Medicare rebates, the government is also keeping in place its decision to cut the bulk-billing incentive for pathology tests. These two measures will ensure that patients are being charged a co-payment when they see their GP; and then they’ll be charged an up-front fee to get tests done. There is absolutely no way for the Turnbull Government to spin this other than it being an attack on the healthcare of all Australians.

Just when you thought it’s safe to go back in the water, they drain the pool.


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

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

May 17, 2016

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

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

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

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

May 18, 2016

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

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

May 19, 2016

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

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

May 20, 2016

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

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

May 21, 2016

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

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

May 24, 2016

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

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

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

May 24, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

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

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

May 25, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

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

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

May 27, 2016

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

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

But about the book:

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

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

I have nothing further to add but this …

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

Or, from Urban Dictionary

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

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

Please feel free to draw your own conclusions.


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


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

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

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


Once upon a time …

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

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

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

In Sydney’s Kirribilli.

For $65.00 a week.

Yes. You have read that correctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I digress.

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

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

I have not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

$360.00 a week.

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

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

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

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

For $500,000.

Yes. You have read that correctly.

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

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

For a half-million.

Equal to over 8 times my then gross annual wage.

A half-million. Plus interest.


Piss off.

And now, in this time, not that one …

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

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

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

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

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

And this

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

And …

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

Which brings me to this …

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


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

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


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

And so, I beseech you …


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

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

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

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

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

John Symond

IF …

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

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

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

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

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

Can you defend that?

Can you? Do you dare?

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

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

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

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

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

Satirised. Demonised. Crucified.

Yet, the question would remain unanswered.

It has no defence. It cannot be justified.

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

Class War?

Count me in, and BRING IT ON.

Together, we will break us free.

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

Viva la revolución!


Tony Jones Q&A



My name’s Lyle Shelton*.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


*No, it’s not.
**No, I’m not.


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

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

The Islamists. The blacks. The ABC. Women.

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

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

In Andrew’s world.

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

Do you remember?

Then it all fell apart.

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

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

Nothing could be done. Nothing.

Rollover Red Rover.

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

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

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

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

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


Just for one day.

Where are they now?

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

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

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

And Andrew. Poor Andrew.

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

Don’t they?

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

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

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

John Dowland, 1596


Malcolm seems a pleasant man, happy in his work.

We only want what’s best for Malcolm.

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


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

Malcolm is the Prime Minister of Australia.

Turnbull. Malcolm Turnbull.

On February 8, 2016, Malcolm announced …

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

On February 4, 2016, it was reported

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

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

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

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

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

Is Malcolm confused?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smiling uneasily, Turnbull took on the interjectors.

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

Behold, Our Malcolm of The Immaculate Moral Equivalency.

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

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

An Empty Man.

A Nowhere Man.

Doing NOTHING the best he can.

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

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

Everything old is new again.

What does Malcolm stand for?


He must be happy in his work.

His whole future is as good as sealed.

They’re making plans for Malcolm.

They only want what’s best for him.

He just needs a helping hand.