Beyond the soft palate



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

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

May 17, 2016

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

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

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

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

May 18, 2016

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

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

May 19, 2016

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

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

May 20, 2016

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

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

May 21, 2016

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

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

May 24, 2016

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

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

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

May 24, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

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

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

May 25, 2016

More on the new morality in my latest book:

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

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

May 27, 2016

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

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

But about the book:

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

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

I have nothing further to add but this …

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

Or, from Urban Dictionary

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

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

Please feel free to draw your own conclusions.


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


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

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

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


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.



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

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

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

Much better.

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


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

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

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

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

“Who the fuck was he?”

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

Turn page.

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

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

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

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

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

He has also said this …

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

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

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

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

Eric is a schmuck.

A yokel.

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

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

Don’t be an Eric.

Another Christian Dickhead

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


Richard Cooke from The Monthly ….

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

And this…

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

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

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

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

Sheridan continues …

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

No other prime minister could have stopped the boats.”

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

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

Abbott denies this. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Existence as we know it is over.

The End of Democracy. Only the illusion remains.

The Ascent of the Idiocratic Oligarchy is here.

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

He was right.

And they’re winning.


*Apologies to Laibach


Here is a letter (no link, sorry) from today’s Brisbane “Courier-Mail” in response to Mark Latham’s claim that domestic violence issues have been “hijacked” by “left-wing, man-hating, feminists”

“I was completely unsurprised by the backlash aimed at former Labor leader Mark Latham for having the temerity to challenge the dominant feminist position relating to domestic violence. I too have repeatedly challenged the feminist position that men are the sole cause of domestic violence.

The Courier-Mail’s pro-feminist stance on this issue has ensured that my legitimate challenge of that position has never seen the light of day, thereby sparing feminists from having to respond to criticism.

Latham is totally correct in his observation that the domestic violence debate has been hijacked by feminists for political gain. It is ironic that victims of domestic violence, and those who work in the field, are permitted such dominant voices in policy formation and funding distribution, yet the same privileged position is not extended to teachers when it comes to finding solutions to lifting education standards.” – Lawrence Di Bartolo, Kedron

I was 11 years old when the 60’s ended, so the whole feminism/sexual revolution movements passed me by, but here are a few things I know and understand.

  1. A man is employed to do a job. A woman is employed to do the same job. Pay both the same amount of money.

Not feminism. Logic.

  1. Do not hit a woman. Do not hit a man. Do not hit anyone for any reason other than your own self-protection and defence if necessary. Do not fight. Walk (or run) away from fights. They never end well.

Not feminism. Common sense.

  1. If a woman has come to the decision that the man she is in a relationship with (you) is no longer worth her time, suck it the fuck up, shut up and shove off. Yes, it may hurt your feelings. You will get over it.

Not feminism. Adult behavior.

  1. If there are children involved in this relationship, and the relationship has ended, do not use the children as leverage for some form of “revenge” upon the woman, such as killing them. They are children, not “property”. Nobody gives a fuck about your poor, bleeding broken heart. Fight it out in a courtroom, not the living room or the kitchen with a fucking knife. Grow the fuck up.

Not feminism.


There is no ideological dimension to these observations, none whatsoever, and all 4 points could be conveniently condensed to 4 simple words …

Don’t be a cunt.

Got it?

Mr. Di Bartolo is a knob.


Mark Latham used to be a politician. Of sorts.

He briefly served as leader of a political party. For 13 months. The shortest tenure of any federal Labor leader since 1916, and left politics in January 2005, having never held ministerial office.

Having achieved nothing in his career for the benefit of anyone other than himself, the point of Mark Latham has never been particularly clear, although he did succeed in garnering some attention in media at the time and from the public by calling all manner of people a variety of names including “arseholes”, “roosters” and other colourful epithets, and described himself as a “hater” which he has since gone on to prove himself to be with spectacular success.

Mark Latham appears to be a man who has never met a person he hasn’t taken an instant dislike to, mostly, it seems, because they’re not Mark Latham, proving without doubt that his head is stuck so far up his own arse with an inflated sense of self-importance that it is a miracle his navel does not flap whenever he draws breath.

Mark Latham once suffered from testicular cancer, and survived to go on to breed some children with his partner, which some may consider to be quite unfortunate, for, if his children turn out anything like their father, beating them to death with a hammer may become the only means of ridding the planet of his bloodline.

In recent years, Mark Latham has drawn attention to himself by criticising women he does not like (which seems to be all of them), including journalists Anne Summers, Leigh Sales, Lisa Pryor, Mia Freedman and Annabel Crabb.

He has been particularly vitriolic toward 2015’s Australian of the Year, Rosie Batty, whose son was violently murdered by her former husband in a public place, and who has ever since worked tirelessly to highlight the scourge of domestic violence and violence against women in general across Australia, to the acclaim and appreciation of pretty much everyone except Mark Latham, who has recently dubbed Ms. Batty “part of a feminist group using domestic violence for political gain and a campaign “against all Australian men”, and that “domestic violence is a tool of the feminist left”.

Mark Latham seems to be under the impression that Australian women (all of them) would like nothing better than to bite the cocks off Australian men (all of them) with steel dentures, and feed them to the family pet, because … well, patriarchy and feminism and matriarchy and Mark Latham.

Mark Latham thinks “political correctness” has gone “mad” in Australia, and would like the freedom to use words like “nigger”, and “whore”, and “kike” and “spic” in everyday conversation without criticism, because … well, Mark Latham.

Mark Latham is a cunt.

A 54 year old, pudding-faced, man-boobed, addle-brained, leg-humping, staggeringly unsuccessful ex-politician who will be sucking on the public teat for the rest of his miserable life.

At our expense.

Mark Latham has now been afforded his very own radio program on a commercial network where, for a period of time, he can earn some extra money by planting his sagging arse on a stool and barking into a microphone at people, telling them how and what they should think on things.

They should think like Mark Latham.

Which is not much.

For these, and many other reasons too numerous to list here, this is why I believe Mark Latham should be beaten to death with a hammer*.

After which, we can invite all the people he has offended and aggravated over the last few years to piss on his twitching corpse.

Also, it would be fun.

I hereby pronounce this day from hereon in to be national “MARK LATHAM IS AN IRRELEVANT FAT CUNT DAY”.

Please celebrate as you see fit.


*Not to be taken literally. It’s illegal.


This shall not take long.

Federal Immigration Minister Peter Fucking Dutton, recent and most worthy recipient of Crikey’s “Arsehat of the Year” Award, has greeted the new year in style by referring to a female journalist in one of Rupert’s daily comic books as a “mad fucking witch”, after which, all hell broke loose across the nation and continues to do so with tens of thousands of words of condemnation, outrage and pant-squirting heebies being written and spoken on the matter.

Personally, I could not give a fuck, so excuse me for not enlisting in this new branch of Outrage and Offence Junkies Inc.

I have written of Dutton once before, and shall not write of him again.

For as one journalist wrote some time back, “in a government which prizes making a goose of oneself, Dutton excels”, and there are only so many times one can say such things before one begins to sound like a broken record. Or Paul Sheehan.

He is incompetent, yes. He is a liar, yes. He is dumb, yes.

He is a fool, yes.

We get it.

But, as I did write of him that once, he is also this …

“As the current Immigration Minister, Dutton joins a long and undistinguished line of callous and unfeeling arseholes who have, for almost 15 years now, been enabling the rape, torture and physical and psychological abuse of already seriously damaged men, women and children by flinging them off to corruptly governed foreign islands so as to sate the primal fears of a nation whose populace now seems consumed and diseased by cowardice and new tribal hatreds, hatreds lovingly nurtured and fed by the frenzied illogic of the white trash on heat in our tabloids, and their political equivalents.”

Responsible for this

A six-year-old refugee was allegedly sexually abused on Nauru and the perpetrator caught in the act by her parents, but the man is yet to be arrested or charged, the father has said.

He (the father) has since had a number of run-ins with the accused man on the tiny island. “Police didn’t arrest him, not the first time, not any time, and now he is free,” he said.

The girl’s father said his daughter still suffered mental health issues after her time in detention, exacerbated by the alleged attack. “She’s crying all the time. She gets up in the midnight,” he said. “They didn’t do anything – the child protection office.”

The Nauruan child protection services referred Guardian Australia to police, who could not be reached.

The government of Nauru, through its Australian-based public relations representatives, did not respond to questions.

A spokesman told Guardian Australia the Australian immigration minister, Peter Dutton, was aware of the allegation. “The matter is under investigation and is a matter for the Nauruan police force,” the spokesman said.

There is your outrage, boys and girls, there is your outrage right there.

Not “mad fucking witch”.

Now what, as Malone said to Ness, are you prepared to do about that?



Is anybody there?


Is this on?


Just recently, I spied yet another column of commentary in one of those comic books with horoscopes oft referred to as “newspapers” imploring us, we, the populace in general, to “talk” about Islam, which is to say, talk about terrorism and the small clutch of adolescent sots who, on occasions, take leave of the little sense they have to gibber about blowing people up and other such nonsense. That, on occasions, they succeed in their aims provides perfect fodder for Rupert’s comic books – a squawking headline about SO BIG, an appalling pun, and the throwing about of words like “evil” and “terror” and “threats” to public safety lurking ‘round every street corner.

The “We need to talk about Islam” meme typically comes from opinion pieces compiled by the typing monkeys who work for these aforementioned comic books and boils down, in most cases, to this …

“I don’t like your religion, and I don’t like you and I wish you’d all piss off because you’re all fucking crazy”.

These monkeys are often aided and abetted in their cause by various politicians and public figures of a conservative bent, such as former Prime Minister Tony Abbott, a man seemingly now intent upon going the full vagina every time he plops himself into public view to rattle his sabres and flap his budgie at us all.

The “We need to talk about Islam” meme is similar in tone, if not downright identical at times to the “We need to talk about multiculturalism” topic which crops up occasionally, because the person wanting to “talk” thinks – nay – knows it (multiculturalism) doesn’t work and besides, they get nervous ‘round niggers, chinks and spicks and such and keep wondering where all the white folk have gone, which is probably down the local Thai joint for a larb gai and lassi for tea.

There’s also the “We need to talk about abortion” thing, a thing usually “talked” about by those self-styled warriors for the unborn who, when they’re not banging on about the sanctity of life, have a tendency to lurk outside family planning clinics harassing anyone who dares enter, or, depending the country you’re in, blowing holes through people’s heads with shotguns because, well … sanctity of life and all that.

As one of those individuals who comprise a “we”, I do wish these other “we’s” would shut up and keep their chatter between their silly conspiratorial selves and leave the rest of us the fuck alone.

But, alas no.

Article after article, column after column, commentary piled atop commentary, all of it essentially urging “we” should all “talk” about the same damned thing, even if we don’t know anything about it … but, goddammit, we sure as heck need to do some talkin’ ‘bout it because, well … some of them folks are doing some mighty crazy shit and, well … you know, talkin’ an’ shit.

I cannot “talk” about Islam simply because I know nothing of it, or any other religion, and have no inclination, and never have to find out. This is not a statement I make in contempt of religion or those of faith, but the likelihood of my engaging with a religious community to learn of religion is about as distant as the likelihood of my buying a Taylor Swift album, not because I have any issues with Taylor Swift, but because, well … it just ain’t for me.

I care not what religion, colour, race or creed you may be, it’s whether or not you’re a flaming fucking arsehole that will determine whether I engage with you or not.

Those who wish to “talk” about Islam as a “problem” for us all have allowed themselves, and actively seek to encourage others, to feel terrorised, panicked, by a small but noisy pack of attention-seeking, brain-dead, hoofwanking bunglecunts whose sole purpose in life, aside from pulling themselves, is to fuck other people up, deadshits representative of nothing at all, no faith, no country, no race, no colour.

They are nothing.

“We” do not need to “talk” about Islam.

Shut the fuck up.

Watch this instead …

Filzmoos Power



Such a year.

For a brief (very brief) period of time, Australia was governed by an inarticulate, unintelligent and deluded madman and his far-right minions until it became perfectly clear this was no longer sustainable or viable, and they were told, in no uncertain terms, to pack their swags and bugger off.

That’s the type of “leadership” best left to the United States. It comes natural to them. Down under, it all became just a little too weird.

After September 2015, posts were few and far between (about 7 or 8) due to personal matters (the illness, hospitalisation and subsequent death of my father), so my heart was not really in it and still isn’t. Besides, everything that needed to be said has been said, and then said again and again by all manner of people.

Please note that, come the New Year, there will be no posts made on this blog about Donald Trump. Ever. At this point in time, I have less life ahead of me than behind me, and I refuse to waste so much as a billionth of a nanosecond on such a yatebedam.

“The man who establishes his argument by noise and command knows that his reason is weak.” – Michel de Montaigne

And so, without further ado, here are some of things I ranted, raved, and swore about (profusely) during 2015.

Good night and good luck.

“The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.” – Carl Jung

January 30, 2015


From awful to fucked in the space of one brief week, Prime Minister Tony Abbott, our Dear Leader, the walking, talking testicle of contemporary Australian  political life, and embodiment of everything that is, and has been wrong with it these last several years, has morphed toot sweet from the once proudly simian gaited and throbbingly tumescent Cock ‘O’ the Walk and King of the Hill to flaccid impuissance, an instant noodle body-slammed into a bowl of his own steaming hot faeces.

February 12, 2015


You’re a cunt, Tony.

You have no policies, only punishments. You do not seek to govern, you seek to rule. You thrive on the disorders and despairs of others, fear is your aphrodisiac, loathing a love letter perfumed with the blood of disabled babes, the chaos of the underclasses a contemptible slander on your strivations to the Übermensch. You are The Overman, and in your world, everyone knows their place and keeps it, and if they do not, one will be found for them, and that place shall be decided by the heft of their wallet, the rattle of their chains, the number of their slaves, and the avarice that glints in their eyes, they who whisper sweet visions of many little murders of the soul, to bring the great unwashed to heel, to their heel, so they may be crushed for base entertainments, to satisfy the savage indulgences of The Rich and The Powerful in their habitual fits of cruel whimsy.

February 27, 2015


Previous observations I have made, of predictions, clairvoyant in nature, that have subsequently proven to be true, have convinced me that I have now become a God. And therefore, and thusly, I do say unto you, take heed of the following …

Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull shall inform Federal Treasurer Joe Hockey that his services are no longer required, and they will now be performed by Scott Morrison, with Foreign Minister Julie Bishop retaining her position. Mr. Hockey shall spontaneously burst into big, wet tears and shout, “IT’S NOT FAIR! IT’S NOT FAIR AND YOU KNOW IT AND YOU CAN ALL GET FUCKED I’M NOT PLAYING ANYMORE I’M NOT IT’S NOT FAIR AND YOU CAN ALL GET FUCKED!”, after which he will be forcibly escorted and removed from the premises by security. Mr. Hockey will subsequently resign his seat, and retire from politics altogether.

March 6, 2015


I have seen the sights, the sounds, and the shape of the Future and it is Shit.

The Intergenerational Report released yesterday by the Abbott Federal Government has made it perfectly clear to us all, in the starkest possible terms, that this country faces challenges ahead, in all aspects and walks of life, that must, and can, only be met by all of us willingly engaging in a broad, national conversation about the sacrifices and pressures we must all endure in order to remain a strong, secure and economically sound nation into the near and distant future, for the sake of our children, for the sake of theirs, and for all that lies ahead, all that can be ours, all that can be theirs, if only we, all Australians, men and women, are willing to grasp the opportunity to do so now, before it’s too late.

In short, there are far too many old cunts fucking it up for the rest of us.

March 11, 2015


Since 1972, when I was thirteen years old, I have observed Prime Ministers from the late Gough Whitlam through Paul Keating through to the shambolic dysfunction and shrill, shrieking chaos of the Rudd-Gillard-Rudd years, but of the current incumbent, Tony Abbott, I have now come to the sad, but somewhat predictable, one could say inevitable, conclusion that Our Prime Minister’s Brain Is Missing.

In its place, an organ of purely intuitive compulsion, which, when prodded or stroked, no matter how strongly or gently, spawns an instantaneous stream of insensate gibberish, his words like spores from a brooding coral, jerkingly spat into the wider atmosphere layering everything beneath it with a thin, cream layer of oozing slime which, rather than reproduce, suffocates and destroys all that lay before it.

This organ, if it were donated to science, would probably reveal itself to comprise something resembling a lone, mushy pea atop a small, grey ball of gnarly gristle.

April 22, 2015


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

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

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

As you would.

May 26, 2015


We are in a War.

We do not understand this War.

We did not ask to be in this War.

We should not be in this War.

We are now the Enemy of Government and the Enemy of Each Other in a War that is being sold to us shrouded in the weasel words of Nationalism, Fiscal Austerity and Personal Sacrifice. Team Australia. Leaners. Lifters. Enemies. Friends.

Government has now fully abnegated its responsibility to govern on behalf of the citizenry, and has, instead, fully embraced and expressed its desire to Rule, to Dictate, and to Command.

We are a nation now fully divided into strictly delineated class structures. The weak, the poor and the aged are to be vanquished through neglect and shamed for their impositions upon us. The young and the meek shall be inculcated to abide by and unquestioningly obey the New Rule of Universal Law that is the “Cult of Work,” a cult in which, once enlisted, you shall never leave, you shall never think of leaving. Dissent from the Proletariat will not be tolerated, and will be met and dealt with by threats and intimidation, by force if necessary, until silent submission to this New World Order of Infinite Productivity and mute and grateful  service to the state can be restored and maintained.

Sklaverei ist Freiheit!

We are in a war.

Humanity preys upon itself, like monsters of the deep, and here we sit at safe distance, dispassionate and incurious of mind, steadfast in resolve, and with smugly imperious certainty know what may seem cruel abominations to minds less rigorous in thought than our own, are in fact tender mercies and blessings from the wings of doves delivered with the sweetest of charity, and in the name of peace, and of love, and safety of passage.

July 2, 2015


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

September 2, 2015


As the former Federal Health Minister, he was regarded, by health professionals, as “the worst health minister in 35 years” and “will be remembered as the dullest, least innovative and most gullible for swallowing the reforms from his think tank … Although I am glad he has been demoted, it would have been good if he was still around to take responsibility for the current chaos he has caused.”

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

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

Stay sane. It’s not you. It’s everyone else.

Patrick B 422 X 539


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

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

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

It is hard news to take.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not redundant.


They were incompetent in their work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are no longer in the game.

Stop playing.

Go. Away.

Kevin Andrews


Malcolm Turnbull is addressing the media.

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

He does.

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

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

He has the numbers.

You’re fucked, Tony.

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

So precious. So very delicate.

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

What has just happened and why?

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

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

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

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

“What do you think I should do?”

“You’re in charge. Don’t you know?”

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

The obituaries have not been kind

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

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

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

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

Thank God that’s over.

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

People laughed a lot.

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


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

Fuck you, Tony Abbott.

You were shit.


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

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

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

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


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

How’s that working out for people?


Melbourne, today

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

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

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

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

Europe, now …

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


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


Europe is falling apart

“Eurovision” Laibach, 2014

The Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, comments

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


Such a mensch.

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


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