There is a threat facing civilization today, greater than any we have faced before. Greater even than Popstars Live. I"m talking about the rise in popularity of the acoustic guitar, coupled with the inability to play the thing. Every time some bunch of hair-product wearing, pimply-faced fuck-sticks want to increase their chances with da ladeez, out comes the acoustic accompaniment to some slow paced dirge about teen love.
That would be bad enough if they could actually play their instruments; but when they have been raised on them fandangled e - lectrical gee-tars with their lower action (meaning the strings are closer to the fretboard) and lighter guage strings, coupled with an innate lack of application, you have all the makings of a disaster. None of these pricks is capable of making a chord change without dragging the fingers of their left hand all over the strings, making that annoying (really, really annoying) squeaking sound, like they've got a chorus of mouse backup singers.
These knob-gobblers are getting about forty years wages* per song; admittedly most of the money comes from spoiled pre-pubescent girls, but they get their money from real people, so you would think that they could at least take the time to learn how to do the job properly. But noooo, they just commit outrage after outrage, little girls lap it up and everybody else lets it slide. No more; we must rise up, brothers and sisters!
We must destroy this threat now!
Destroy it before it destroys music as we know it!
In the "I'll believe it when I see it" department today we have the story that farm subsidies in the EU and the States may be axed right across the board. Before I go any further, just let me add an editorial comment:
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Anyway here's the story (in dribs and drabs, with smartarse and/or relevant comments from me dotted throughout.):
Associated Press
New Proposal Expected at WTO Talks 07.28.2004, 10:18 PM
The World Trade Organization chief was expected to produce a new proposal Thursday as senior trade mediators and government negotiators worked to bridge the divide between rich and poor nations over farm trade liberalization. The WTO's 147 members are trying to reach an agreement by the end of the week to clear the way for sweeping changes in world trade. But mediators said farm trade disagreements are holding up the talks. "It depends on the (agriculture) session, which is ongoing," WTO Director-General Supachai Panitchpakdi told reporters Wednesday. "I think there's a limit to their time."
Now this is the bit I want you to pay attention to:
Negotiators are under pressure to reach a deal quickly because the U.S. presidential elections in November and government changes in other countries will likely put off further talks until next year.
From there we will skip to:
Oshima told the heads of WTO delegations that agriculture negotiations were holding up the revised negotiating text. Five major agricultural producers - the United States, the European Union, Brazil, India and Australia - met for a second day Wednesday, hoping to find a solution to open up farm trade. The so-called Group of 10 countries that heavily subsidize farmers - which includes Israel, Japan and Switzerland - has said it is worried about being excluded from those discussions. But it expressed hope that negotiations were on track after the collapse of talks in Cancun, Mexico, last September. "We have the impression that since Cancun certain progress has been made, but there are still several elements of concern," said Swiss President and Economics Minister Joseph Deiss, who heads the G10. When asked if the bloc would walk away from the talks if it did not agree with the result, Deiss told reporters it "will depend on the result we get tomorrow morning." "In any negotiation you have to accept the possibility of failure," he added. "We're not able to say simply that we will accept everything that will come out." Developing countries are pushing for concessions from wealthier countries, pointing out that the current talks are part of a "development round" of negotiations.
Remember two quotes ago?:
The EU has expressed concern that its farmers would have to give up more government support than its U.S. rivals. The union has agreed to eliminate all export subsidies on farm products and to make big cuts to other subsidies, but only if other rich nations, including the United States, follow suit. EU trade ministers will vet the final version of the text before allowing the EU's Lamy to accept it. WTO members agree in principle that cutting barriers to international trade, such as import taxes and government subsidies, is good for the world economy. But uncontrolled trade liberalization could have devastating consequences for individual countries, and diplomats are fighting hard to protect national interests.
There's an election this year in the U.S. this year, just in case you hadn't noticed. It ain't never gonna happen. The Americans aren't going to put ther farm lobby off-side, so the EU will use that as an excuse to do nothing (or very little, anyway) as well.
Sorry, pinched that title from a book by John Harms. It sort of fits, though. Today kiddies, for no apparent reason, I thought that I would demonstrate the difference between the American national psyche and the Australian national psyche using football as the exemplar.
In U.S. football, they have a man for every job. Every man knows how to do that job and does it extremely well. These jobs have evolved over a period of time so that they fit together seamlessly, allowing complex plans to be made and executed with confidence. The receiver knows how many paces to run before he turns and is hit on the chest by a pass from the quarterback who also has his moves calculated to the inch. The defense is likewise organized with military precision. When everything goes well it is truly beautiful to watch, poetry in motion, in fact. When it doesn't go according to plan, well..., it isn't so pretty. Nobody, or at least very few people, seem to be able to adapt to the changed circumstances all that well. The receiver gets hit in the belly instead of the chest and fumbles; the commentators are tolerant, perhaps blaming the QB (unless he was being pressured by the defense).They have teams for attack, teams for defense, even teams for when they're not sure. I remember when Darren Bennett went over to play for the San Diego Whatevers; he kicked (punted?) a ball, which was caught by one of the other mob, who got through the first line of San Diego defense so Bennett tackled him. The commentator nearly tossed his taddies over the microphone. I've got an idea that Bennett at some stage managed to get his hands on the ball after a kick and ran with it, possibly even passing it to somebody else; but that may be one of those 'false memories' they talk about.
Aussie Rules on the other hand, has a one-in-all-in sort of a feel to it. Unless you've been watching it for a while you would think that there is absolutely no strategic thinking involved whatsoever. There are specialists on the team, but no job is so specifically 'your job' that I can't do it at a pinch. There are very few set plays and those that exist, exist only in the 'broad stroke' stage of development. Everybody does what they see as the best thing to do at the time they see it, there are no 'time-outs to explain your idea to anybody. This results in a much more 'messy' game at times, but one in which any player can be the star, not only of the game, but of the team over a period of the game. It's also a game which is a lot more 'fun' to watch and play, even the absolute champions look like they're enjoying themselves.
One more anecdote before I go; Peter Fitzsimmons (sp?) ex-Wallaby and media smug person played gridiron at a high school level in the states. He was the bloke who stands in front of the QB at the start of each play and stops the QB from getting tackled. Fitzy and the QB didn't get along all that well as Fitzy couldn't understand why the QB was necessarily the star of every team and the QB in question was a bit snotty about it. One day when the defensive player in front of Fitzy was particularly large, Fitzy took a step to the left and let the tackler through. As they were scraping the QB on to a stretcher Fitzy lent over and said "See what happens when I don't do my job?"
Oh, the working class Can kiss my arse, 'Cos I've got a bludger's job at last
And making headlines today -
John Howard got older,
Something Happened in Iraq and -
I got a new job!
Yes folks, it's true; in just a few days, or weeks or whatever notice I decide to give this mob, I'll be out of here and off into the wild west to start another job. 20% pay rise (up to a level enjoyed by only the very best dumb shits in The City), more salubrious housing, four wheel drive for personal as well as work use and a benefit you just don't get in a city job - fresh meat. Yes folks, as well as cotton we've (note the possessive) also got a feedlot, as well as a small flock of sheep kept solely for domestic consumption.
As a contrast in management styles - I've been working on this place for over two years and have never been to either the owners' - or the foremans'- place socially. At the interview yesterday much emphasis was placed on the fact that it was "beers on Friday, usually here, but sometimes we go to the pub in town." When you couple this with the fact that there is broadband access in the area, how could I refuse?
The new place has less than half of the area of cotton country this place has, but it's well designed and looks to be a simple system to operate. Talking with the new boss, we agreed on most things to do with the actual farming of cotton, which will be a welcome change from here. You can't argue with results and they've got the runs on the board here when it comes to crop yield, but gees they've got some laborious ways of going about things sometimes.
And in sporting news over the weekend, the hotly anticipated senior's Rugby Union match between the Condamine Codgers and the Moree Broken Pizzles ended in a hard fought draw*, while Lance Armstrong rode his bicycle reasonably quickly for a while in one of them countries where they talk funny.
Before I go, I got an email today from the lovely Hooch, ( I assume that she's lovely, she does read this stuff, after all) asking for an explanation of the "kick in the nuts" reference yesterday; soon, I promise, soon.
*Apparently all Senior's matches finish in a draw.
So I went to see about the new job. It wasn't a done deal like I thought it was - when the fella asked if I was interested, I didn't realise that he was interviewing a few blokes. Oops. So anyway, the place is right next door to Cubbie Station (of Tony Eastley stupid story fame), right up the road from Hebel. Haven't been to Hebel in about fifteen years or so. Today kiddies, I'm going to tell you about something that happened to me the other side of Hebel, in 1987. It was known as The Great Crash...
Back then, I was living in Lightning Ridge, opal mining and losing the arse out of my pants. In true opal miner tradition I was living in a tin shed with a dirt floor, no water, no electricity, no nothin'. Every now and then I would get a call for help from somebody who was having a spot of mechanical trouble or who just needed a hand. One of these calls came from a bloke who had a dirt-bike which was playing up on him. It was a minor problem and didn't take long to repair, but while I was in the process of fixing it, another fella asked if I would give him a hand to muster some sheep.
Use of the dirt bike was approved, so I gave it a go. Big paddocks (5000 acres+ per paddock) + big mob of sheep = big fun. It only took a day to clear the paddock and put the mob two paddocks over so we had beers after. Riding home again late that night, at about 100kph on the Castlereagh Highway, I was hit by a kangaroo. Only a little one, the bugger jumped over the table drain straight into my front wheel, knocking it out from underneath me. Bear in mind I was wearing the approved sheep mustering wear: shorts, work shirt and boots. You will note that there is no helmet in that inventory. It took me years to replicate the sound my head made when it hit the bitumen, but in 1996, at the Calliope folk museum I managed it when I hit a blacksmith's anvil with a block of red-gum.
I must have blacked out for a second as the next thing I can remember is laying face down, watching the trees slide up-wards, out of my vision. Didn't take too long to work out that I was still sliding, feet first, down the road. I looked up and the bike was sliding as well, faster than I was. I raised myself up on my right arm and fended the bike off. I was nearly stopped by then anyway.
I got up and caught my breath, seeing which bits I could move and which bits were out of action. Surprisingly enough, I guess, everything seemed to do what I wanted it to. I had a look at Skippy; he wasn't going to be rescuing Sonny any time soon. I had a look at the bike, it seemed to be in one piece, so I stood it up. That was a lot harder than it normally was. I sat on it and had a rest for a while. I had blood running down my face and dripping off my nose. Actually, dripping isn't the right word; it was streaming off, not breaking up into drops before it hit the tank of the bike.
This was a bit disconcerting when it sank in through the fog. "I'd better get back to town." I thought, so I gave the bike a kick. Big mistake. I've had my legs held by two blokes while a third one kicked me in the nuts (long story) and it didn't hurt as bad as kicking that bike did. I dropped the bike again as I fell over and didn't do much but whimper and feel sorry for myself for a while. When I was able, I stood up and hobbled around for a while; my leg was hurting like a bitch by then, similar quantities of blood spurting out of my knee as my scone. I went over for another look at Skippy, then kicked him a few times (left foot). He was already dead, but I felt a little better afterward.
I went back over to the bike, picked it up and had another rest on it. When I got my breath back, I had a go at roll-starting it, using the camber of the road as a slope. I tried about fifty-five thousand times - she no go. In the end I pushed the bike off the road and hid it behind some bushes and started to walk back to town. I was pretty tired by then, operating on auto-pilot. I kept dozing off as I was walking, whenever I woke up I had to open my eyes with my fingers as the blood started to dry over them. When I did get them open, each time I looked around to find myself off in the scrub on the right-hand side of the road. I really just wanted to lay down and go to sleep, but I was scared that if I did a) I wouldn't wake up and b) nobody would ever find me. So I kept walking.
After a while I felt somebody putting me in their car. I don't know if I was still walking by this stage or not. The local copper had picked me up, at first he assumed I was a drunk, until he got closer. He asked me where I was headed. I told him I was going back to the Ridge. "Not that way, you're not. Another few hours and you could have made Goodooga, I s'pose."
He thought it was funny, anyway. He took me back to the Bush Nursing Hospital for a bit of a check-up. There was no doctor resident in the Ridge in those days, so one of the nurses had a look at me. She wanted to get the helicopter to airlift me to Dubbo or Sydney, but there was some reason why that couldn't happen, don't have any idea what it is, though. By this stage I had a hangover that would kill a drover's dog on top of the other, comparatively minor problems. They couldn't give me any drugs or anything to drink because of my head injuries so I just had to put up with it. Eventually they got a conventional ambulance to take me to Walgett, where I was changed over to another ambulance - apparently I was injured severely enough to be airlifted, but not so severely that the ambulance was allowed to stray too far from home. Same again at Coonamble, except that I had whinged enough all the way from Walgett that they radioed ahead and arranged for me to have a cup of ice-cubes, which I enjoyed immensely. (Do you know hard it was to avoid saying "cool" then?)
I was starting to cramp up by then, too; I had gravel rash up both my arms and legs as well as the head injuries, so I was laying on my back with my arms and legs in the air like somebody doing a 'dead-dog' impression in an attempt to avoid touching anything.When we did get to Dubbo they took me to Intensive care where they cut my clothes off me, washed me down a bit, then shipped me off to X=ray. They took a couple of shots of my arms and legs ans a side shot of my head before they moved the machine to take a front on shot of my head. I could see my head in the reflection on the front of the machine. I shit myself. I couldn't see my right eye as a big chunk of my forehead was hanging down over it. I could, however, see about six square inches of my skull.
To cut a long story short, I ended up with about forty stitches to my right ankle, about sixty to my right knee (plus some sort of tricko internal stitch job to the tendons or something. I was full of pethidine at the time and wasn't paying much attention), about fifty stitches to my right elbow, a couple of broken fingers (one with the nail ripped off) and about a hundred and fifty stitches to my face.
You will note that I use the word 'about' quite frequently. That's because the doctor who put them in didn't keep a count and they left them in a day too long, plus I had been too active in the meantime which caused them to bleed - and scab over, so the nurses didn't keep a count when they took them out either. It took them four hours in the morning to take them out of my leg and arm, plus about four hours in the afternoon to take them out of my face. Can't complain about the quality of the sewing on my scone, though, I'm not much uglier than I was before. I've got a little bump on my brow, right between my eyes, which wasn't there. Most people don't notice any scarring which remains these days, unless I've been exerting myself on a hot day.
I'm a pretty happy chappy right about now. I've got the weekend off for the first time since May. Astute observers will be aware that I had a week off at the start of June, but as this involved attending a residential skool for uni (paid for upfront, Libertarians) this doesn't count, although sleeping in to 6 a.m. and knocking off at about 5p.m. nearly qualified it as a holiday.
I was planning on doing S.F.A. for the entire weekend, but apparently I am being head-hunted. A fella from further west rang up to offer me a job. Sounds like a pretty good deal, but it's way out in the boonies - even boonier than here. So, on Sunday morning I'm going to go and case the joint and see what I think. In the meantime, it's time to portabilise my life again. I don't go much on possession. I'm no dirty pinko commie bastard or peace, love and land rights for gay whales Grass Roots reading alternative type, either; I just don't seem to be the type to settle down and having to pack stuff up and unpack it shits me. Usually, I can be packed and gone within three hours of making the decision. Lately, however, I've acquired too much stuff. In cities or larger towns, what I would usually do is pack what I thought I needed (books, CD's and photo's, maybe clothes as well) and give the rest to Vinnies, with the proviso they pick it up.
I can't do that now, but. Firstly, the nearest Vinnies or Salvos is 140k's away and they just ain't gonna come. Second, there isn't anywhere else to replace the stuff I'd leave behind anywhere near where I'm probably going to go. However, it's time to put the lifestyle on a diet. I think tomorrow that I'll start at one end of the house and work my way to the other and get rid of anthing that I haven't used in some yet-to-be-set arbitrary time-period. Don't know what I'll do with the cast-offs, load the trailer and give them to the salvos I guess.
So Donald McGauchie is the new chairman of Telstra. He's a farmer. I don't care. On the wireless today John Howard was asked if it was a political appointment. In keeping with ATI policy I haven't bothered to get a transcript but I can remember the gist of it:
Interviewer: Was it a political appointment?
JH: Of course not, he was appointed by the board.
I: But you appointed the board, didn't you?
JH: No, the board is appointed by the shareholders.
I: But, isn't the government the majority shareholder?
JH: Well..., yes, but...(spin, spin, spin.)
I really don't give a rat's arse who's the Telstra chairman and neither does anybody else I know. Telstra is going to be fully privatised and nobody is going to change that. I don't think that it's a very good idea, I don't subscribe to the whole economics-is-God thing that seems to be the go these days. I think the point has got to be reached eventually when you have to stop and ask yourself why there needs to be a profit in every human interaction. (If anybody can explain this to me I'd be very interested in hearing from you, but don't bother if you can't do it without statistics) Offhand, I can't think of a single instance where my quality of life has been improved by the privatisation of anything.
But that's by-the-by. What annoyed me was Mr. Howard reverting to lawyer-type by not answering the question in a straightforward manner. Of course it was a political appointment. So what? What's the point of being in politics if you can't make a political appointment? It's not as if any other party is so pure that they would refuse to do the same thing. I really don't like Mr. Howard, which may or may not colour my opnion of his actions. I do try to be objective, but any time something happens and there is room for doubt, I find myself on the opposition benches - and not very happy with the company I find there. The above interview goes a little way to showing why I distrust our P.M. Even if he isn't being dishonest in the Webster's sense of the word, he is being deceptive. Or attempting to.
I firmly believe John Howard is a liar, for one reason; in 1996, prior to the Federal Election, somebody*, I think it was Kerry O'Brien (cue the cynical outbursts from the RWDB's) was interviewing John about privatising Telstra and after a period of evasion which would make the above exchange look like "yes", Mr. Howard said"If I am elected, my government, or any future government of which I am leader, will never,ever(his bad grammar, not mine)(this time) sell more than one third of Telstra." On The Country Hour earlier this year, Mr Costello, our Treasurer was quoted as saying "Full privatisation of Telstra was always the plan, a partially privatised entity just doesn't make sense."
One of them is a liar, I know who my money is on.
A fair few years ago, my mum started to show signs of Alzheimers' - she'd always been absent-minded but it had progressed(?) beyond that. She would forget that she had begun cooking a meal, until she happened to pass by the kitchen and notice the pots on the stove, things like that. She gave up driving because it required too much concentration, ditto reading. Dad gave up work to look after her as she slid from Alzheimers to dementia. Mum had a couple of little tricks she had taught herself in an effort to post-pone the inevitable. For instance she had memorised the name of every person who had ever been important in her life, a list she would recite every time she forgot someone's name, until she got the one that made the connection. One day dad came back from getting the paper and mum didn't recognise him. Thinking that he was an intruder she began to scream and throw things at him.
Dad went next door to get the neighbours to see if they could calm mum down, but she didn't recognise them, either. Eventually an ambulance came and mum never came home again. First stop was the psychiatric ward of the local hospital, then a home for about a year, then the crematorium. I wouldn't say it was entirely without humour, though; my mother, who had never deliberately insulted anybody in her (rational) life saw a rather large nurse bending over a table to help one of the other patients and said - loudly - "My God, look at the size of her arse!"
For some people, the slide happens all at once: in about 1998 I was back in Vic., visiting the olds. I pulled up at the traffic lights on the highway in their home town. There were a few cars in the right lane, I was the second car in the left lane. The lights changed to green, the car in front, didn't move. The lights changed to red again and I put my hazards on and went up to the front car to see what was wrong. Or remonstrate forcefully, as the case may be. The driver was a vaguely familiar old man, alone in the car and crying like a baby.
I knocked on the window, he looked at me. I knocked on the window again, he just kept looking at me, crying. I opened the door and said words to the effect of,"What's wrong, why don't you pull over if you're too upset to drive?"
"I can't" he said.
"What, won't it drive?"
"No," he said"I can't" I led him out of the car and 'round to the passenger seat. When the lights changed to green (yet again, many horns were blowing) I drove around the corner and parked, then got my car, which had sat there, unlocked and with the motor running all this time. Eventually, to cut a long story short, I found out that he was a farmer from my old home town and took him back to my parents' house. We contacted one of his kids who came and took him home. He died about three months later.
Somebody pretty special I know is going through something similar with her mother at the moment, only in her case it's largely self-inflicted. This, I would think, multiplies the pain and anger, but it shouldn't. I don't have a good reason why it shouldn't, except that it is not going to do you any good at all, emotionally or physically. You've come a long way, too far to go back. If you do allow yourself to be overcome by the situation, you will be no better than your mother. It will do nothing more than perpetuate the problem and spread it to those who come after.
Funny and/or ag-related stuff next-time I promise*.
*Promises on this site are not to be given any credence.
You know, reading blogs is relaxing and sometimes informative but sometimes it just makes you wonder. There are a lot of blogs around written by people whose writing I admire, some of whom also have ideas which, by and large, I can find a degree of agreement with. There is one thing though, that I just don't get... why would any otherwise rational and relatively intelligent adult call themself a Right Wing Death Beast?
I mean, seriously? It sounds like the name of the official Melbourne Grammar School Rap Group. Or a Death-metal band from Montmorency. Or a street-gang at a Blue-Light Disco. Is it supposed to be a clique or club or what? Some of these people are brilliant writers (by no means all of them, some of them shouldn't be allowed out of the house unless they are on a leash) but really...RWDB?...bwahahahaha!
While I'm here, can somebody explain something for me? Why is it that the right wing has all the best writers, but the left wing has all the best music? I'd like an explanation or a guide to left-wing blogs worth reading and right-wing music worth listening to.
I have been snowed under by a request to know what colour this farm is; red, yellow or green. Note for persons not interested in machinery or agriculture: Piss off. You won't enjoy this post even a little bit. In fact it would probably bore your balls off...unless you are a woman. In which case it won't, but it may cause your ovaries to fall out. Or something. Come back later. I'll have something for you then. Maybe. In the meantime, an explanation; in Australia there are three main companies which supply tractors and ancillary machines. The red machines are Case branded, the yellow ones are Caterpillars and the green ones are John Deere.
Until recently, in a display of brand-loyalty that I find baffling, most farms were either green (the most common), or red. About* ten years ago Caterpillar, which had hitherto stuck to manufacturing earthmoving equipment, began to market Challengers, essentially tractors with rubber tracks in place of wheels/tyres. These were supposed to reduce the amount of compaction suffered by the soil over which the tractor passed and in certain conditions, they do. More on that later. Shortly after the Challengers appeared, John Deere released an equally revolutionary line of tractors, the 8000 series.
These were the first tractors to feature computerised engine management systems, computerised transmission control, electronic hydraulic controls and the list goes on. While all this was going on, Case fell by the wayside somewhat, with no whizz-bangery to their name. They did a fair bit of catch-up work with the MX Series which replaced the venerable (and sadly missed - by me, anyway) Magnums.
Before I tell you what colour this farm is, I'll give a little critique of each colour based on my experience, lightly seaoned by some piss-talk I've heard from blokes in pubs.
Firstly, the Cats. Don't like 'em. They still (at least in 2000, the last model I've driven) don't have electronic hydraulic controls, which means they are not all that comfortable to operate compared to other tractors, although they are light years ahead of anything that preceded them. They are very thirsty when compared to tractors of similar horsepower ratings, they also have more engine problems than they should, usually in the injection system. The smaller (up to 300hp) rowcrop models use the same transmission as the Johnnys but the gearshift is set up differently, better, in some ways, worse in others. Better because you can, at the flick of a switch, alternate between a straight sequential shift to a skip mode, where the transmission will jump two or three gears at a time, which can be very handy. Worse, because while the gearshift on the Greenies is 1" long and can be operated with one finger, the yellow one is a standard sizes stick, meaning youcan't do anything else while you are changing gear. The current models - as well as the red and green - have a system in place where you push a button as you near the end of a run and the transmission wiil select the correct reverse ratio (there are four of them) alter the engine revs to a set-point, then select the correct forward ratio to allow you to complete your turn. When you are lined up for your next run you hit the swich again and the engine and tranny return to the "working" positions.
I also have a problem with track tractors in general. Not the one usually cited by blokes in pubs, which is the 'directness' of the steering, which has resulted in some pretty wobbly rows of cotton being planted. This is overcome by teaching fuckwits how to drive properly. Nor is it the sometimes huge windrows of dirt they can leave when turning around at the head-ditch. Showing a bit of restraint when turning reduces this effect and you're going to scarify it before you put in rota-bucks so what does it matter, anyway? The problem I have is compaction. On level ground track tractors will reduce compaction by a fair bit because of the greater contact patch the weight is spread over, although this effect must be reduced when pulling a tractor-mounted implement. This all goes out the window when you get into a furrow situation because the track is square in section and the furrow isn't. All the weight is carried on the outside of the tracks, right in the root-zone of the plant. When you think that the track is also not as compliant as a tyre you start to see what I mean. Having said that, the most enjoyable tractor I have ever driven was a Cat - a 95E. It wasn't the nifty computer that allowed you to see information on everything from intake air temperature and fuel compsumption (81.5 litres/hour was my personal best) to percentage of time spent idling and the energy value of the fuel being used. Nor was it the variable horsepower set - up (340hp in 1st gear, 375hp in 2nd and 3rd, with 410hp for the rest). No... it was the big fat stereo with the four 60 watt speakers directly above your head and the separate (cough)watt sub-woofer behind the seat. Rockin'.
Red tractors have gone to shit in recent years IMHO. Actually, I just put that IMHO thing in because that's what all the cool kids on the popular blogs are doing. The old Magnums were legendary, stong, reliable, comfortable (for their time) and very nearly fuckwit-proof. I haven't had any contact with the Reds for a few years now, but they have a lot of catching up to do from when they first released the MX's in 1999. I was working west of Moree when they came out and we (meaning "them" - the mob I was working for) bought a few of them. They had the same sort of transmission controls as the Cats and Johnnys, but for some reason they decide to put the forward and reverse control on a stick on the opposite side of the steering column so that you needed to use two hands to change gears at the end of a run. Dickheads. We also had trouble with the three-point linkage going up and down at times of its own choosing, as well as plenty of trouble with the fuel system.
Which brings me to the Greenies. In 1998 I started in the cotton industry. I hadn't driven a tractor in about fifteen years. When I started I was lent a videotape to look at. It was the instruction tape that accompanied John Deere tractars. It started off with the seat. Twenty minutes later they were still talking about the seat. I got scared and turned it off.
On the right side of the seat is a thing called 'the control-arm'. This looks, at first glance, to be an arm-rest; which it is, but so much more. With one hand, on an 8000- series tractor, you can - if you are dextrous and feel the need - change gear/direction, operate the three point linkage and the controls for three separate hydraulic circuits and turn the P.T.O. on or off - at the same time! This still amazes me nearly seven years later. What the exec's from the other companies felt I don't know, but it wasn't a good time to ask for a raise if you happened to be a tractor designer. Also on the arm-rest are the controls for a fourth hydraulic remote, the depth control for the linkage, the maximum height control for the linkage lift, the drop-speed control for the linkage as well as the draft control (this controls the way a linkage-mounted implement reacts to changes in the 'hardness' of the ground, as well as dips and bumps.) And a glovebox.
Coupled with almost bullet-proof reliability, this is A Good Thing.
I haven't driven the new 8020- series Johnnies, but with front suspension and a few other goodies, I think they'd be the duck's guts. For now, the 8000- series are the tractors by which all others are judged, by me anyway. I love 'em. When I get big, I'm going to marry one.
By the way, this place is a bit mongrel bred - green tractors and pickers and yellow grader, dozer, excavator and backhoe. Even the irrigation pump motors are a mixture, green, yellow and black (Cummins).
*In keeping with ATI policy, absolutely no research or fact-checking has been carried out for this - or any other - post.
The title is a direct quote from a conversation I overheard (from the other side of the street) in a western NSW town not a million miles from this very spot, between two young persons of aboriginal heritage; and goes quite a long way towards demonstrating why Hip-Hop/rap music is evil and must be eradicated!
Music is a misnomer when applied to the rhythmic noise that accompanies the chanting/ dirge that is hip-hop. Music implies musicians. Musicians play instruments. They don't programme computers (to make music), nor do they press play. An instrument probably can be described better than I am capable of doing by people better educated than myself, but for my purposes an instrument is any object which produces a sound of a particular type when a specific action is performed on it. Note: I said "a sound", not "a string of sounds" such as is produced from samplers, etc.
A turntable-ist is a musician, someone playing samples is not. This is not to say that some of the noises aren't enjoyable, it's just that they're not music. This phenomena isn't restricted to hip-hop, by any means - been to a nightclub this millenium? Apart from Basement Jaxx (sp.) and a couple of what I suppose are novelty recordings I would be hard pressed to name any dance music that I enjoy, either. There's plenty of finely crafted noises out there, but 159bps isn't really my speed.
None of which goes to explain why hip-hop is evil and must be eradicated. No, that's because the rhyming sucks. Really badly. They try so hard to rhyme, at the expense of any coherence in the lyric that the best(?) of it sounds contrived, the rest is just painful. A short message to the "beats and Rhymes" crowd:
If you have to tell me how good you are, then you aren't; quality is self-evident, fuckwits!
I don't care how tough your childhood was,
I don't care if "your niggahs" are all fucked up,
I don't care if you did/do stickups (unless you stick me up, in which case be afraid, be very afraid; because, if I survive, I'll write some very scathing comments about you on this page. And you don't want that to happen now, do you?)
I don't care if your muthah is a crack-whore.
I don't care if everybody wants to be like/fuck you,
I especially don't care about all this if you're an Australian kid(s) trying to make a career out of victimhood.
As a matter of fact I am not even slightly interested in any aspect of your dirty, peurile, inadequate little existence at all, so
Shut the fuck up and find something else to talk about.
Please. If not for me, then for your own self-respect. You don't really want your grandchildren to drag out your old cd's when you are in your dotage and show them to their friends so that they can laugh and point at you do you... ? "Who's a badass muthafuckah now Granpa, eh? Eh? Who's a badass now, you ol' fuckahh? What's that?...Please stop?...Get yo' momma to make me stop Granpa!!! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!"
That said, I must confess that I have heard some hip-hop that I enjoyed, Hilltop Hoods may receive some of the fruits of my labours shortly, Butterfingers ditto, despite the gimmick single.
By and large though, hip-hop sucks. Particularly when performed by white people, not just Vanlla Ice, I was working in a fair-sized crew when that Eminem fuckwit arrived on the scene. It was towards the end of the shelf-life of the second single before we realised he wasn't a comedy act - one bloke thought he was Woody Allen. I mean, have you ever heard such a whiny little poor bugger me voice on an alleged 'badass' before?
I'm feeling a little bit happy with mt lot in life tonight. I'll tell you why in a minute, for now I'll just get on with what I was going to say and tryto leavethe new task bar alone.
for instance,
I'll try not to
put in too many gimmicks,
like bullet points or
numbered
lists.
Anyway, back to the point of it all:
I'd like to start by saying "Thanks" to all the ravening hordes who flock to this page daily to get their fix of sanity in an otherwise unfathomable world. Special thanks to those who have seen fit to link to this page from their (uniformly) brilliant homepages. What follows will be part critique of said homepages, part thanksgiving to the operators of same and part shameless sucking up to these people and to anybody else who feels like they deserve it. We all do, sometimes. It's good for the soul. The following is my personal opnion and does not necessarily reflect the policies and opnions of the management or staff of ATI.
Hang on, I'm the staff and management of ATI, so I guess it does reflect the... stuff.
First, let me start by saying a heart felt "Thanks, mate" to http://jafablog.typepad.com/man_of_lettuce/, that was supposed to be a hyperlink with the word 'Adrian' in it. Oh well, I'll work it out later. I'm getting off track again. Adrian was the first person to link to this page and has since been a never-ending source of advice, encouragement and suggestions. I can find much to disagree with in his political opnions, but not in the methods he uses to arrive at them. For an excellent read, with a distinct 'slice of life' bent, you can't go past The Man Of Lettuce.
If you want to know what the latest is on The Chucker, or where the best pub in Oz is, or hav a query regarding just about anything to do with contemporary music, real music, that is, then http://aftergrog.drivelwarehouse.com/ is just the ticket. Tony T. is erudite, informed and piss-funny.
One for the younger set:http://85george.blogspot.com/, young Jonas is a very clever, funny and intelligent young man, probably movie-star handsome, too, in a tanned surfie sort of way. Dunno, never met him. Too late nayway ladies, Miss Green Dress already has that job. The Gold Coast may not be such a shit-hole after all.
On the opposite side of the country, where Jonas was chased out of by irate fathers', is Yobbo.http://www.gravett.org/yobbo/ is the place to go for everything from political discourse and opinion pieces on economics to everybody's favourite, boobies. Extremely well written and researched, an accusation that you will never hear levelled against this page, by the way, Yobbo has an opinion on most everything. If you don't, then borrow one of his.
This one is a bit special to me, for two reasons, firstly http://landownunder.blogspot.com/ is the first site to link to me before I had read it, let alone drawn Mr. Holden's attention by commenting on it. Which gives a hint of the second reason it is special to me; it is written by F.X. Holden , the (inaccurate) moniker by which the first Holden car is known. I suppose 48/215 Holden wouldn.t have the same ring to it. Once again, very well written and very diverse, knowledgable on topics from The MC5 to contemporary politics to Hank Williams, I have no idea what he see's in this drivel.
Last, but not least, this link gave me a tiny little thrill. Seriously. I felt good after I got linked to http://spinstartshere.com/. Not only because it's a very popular ( and deservedly so) site, but because Caz and her henchpersons are fairly finicky about who goes on the blogroll at TSSH. Their hit-counter doohickemmy thingo is up over 208,000 hits and yet they have only 26 blogs up on their list. I have more than that, but then, I'm a bit of a slut. Go there, get involved, make a mark; but beware, the bitches bite. Idiots are treated like idiots. You have been warned.
That's about all for now. I'll be trying out a few things in the future to see how they work, I'm having nearly as much fun trying to work out how these things work and how to change them as I am trying to come up with something to write that I would bother reading which hasn't already been done to death elsewhere. The ongoing saga of Austereo v. Frenzal Rhomb is a case in point. I was going to suggest an orchestrated campaign of Frenzal requests to 2DAY, accompanied by a "More OZmusic" campaign to the Austereo management, but the topic seems to be adequately covered elsewhere.
I have been thinking of adding a suggestion box/forum page to the site somewhere. Sort of a "Why don't you do a post on (topic you may feel that I have some sort of an insight into/interest in)" Or somewhere for people sans blog to have a rant, or to have a go about something that for whatever reason doesn't fit your usual ouvre.
Heh, ouvre, I didn't even know I new that word. Meanwhile, I don't know if I'll do it or not... it's sort of like a chatroom. But not. Not sure if there'd be a need for it, or a call for it, anyway. Most of it's functions are already in place I guess, but I think it'd be pretty neat though, which is always a good reason to do something. Knowing how to make it happen would be good, but I've got faith that I could work it out if I tried. Really hard.
What sort of Bevans are these guys?
Listening to The Hack today (JJJ's attempt at current affairs, not Caz's manbitch) they had the latest instalment in an ongoing saga about how hard it is for Aussie bands to get commercial airplay. They interviewed A Guy who manged a couple of acts; 1200 Techniques, who suck dingo's balls, and this mob, who don't. Apparently though, the management at Austereo, operators of MMM and 2DAY FM considered them "Too Bogan" for their network.
That's a bit like Today Tonight saying that a story is "Too inane" for them, or Endemol Southern Star saying that a Reality TV show is "Too contrived".
The Casanovas must have their flannos tattooed on.
DRUNKEN David Walker has been jailed after downing 15 pints and accidentally blasting himself in the testicles with a sawn-off shotgun.
The 28-year-old still has pellets embedded in his scrotum and will undergo further tests to reveal whether he has been left infertile.
Sheffield Crown Court heard how he had stuffed the gun down his trousers when it accidentally went off.
The accident occurred on March 6 after Walker and a gang of mates enjoyed a boozy session in a Dinnington pub.
Walker left the pub in the late evening after a series of heated exchanges with friend Stuart Simpson over whose turn it was to buy a round.
Walker returned to his home at The Crescent, Dinnington, which he shares with his mother, and left with the gun.
Prosecutor Andrew Hatton said a short time later Walker's mother found him slumped in the kitchen with blood pouring from his groin.
He was taken to hospital and after undergoing surgery confessed to police that he had accidentally shot himself while staggering back towards the pub with the loaded gun in his pocket.
Walker said he then dumped the gun in a bin and crawled back to his home.
Gulzar Syed, defending, said: "He is still suffering as a result of the injuries. He still feels quite severe pain."
Walker was charged with possessing a gun and was today starting a five year jail term - the minimum sentence for possessing a firearm.
During the hearing, Judge Robert Moore said: "The gun could have gone off anywhere, anytime, at anyone. It is only good fortune that it hit him."
The court heard that Walker had bought the gun for his own safety four years ago after being attacked by his then lover's ex-boyfriend.
During sentencing, Judge Moore said: "Contrary to local speculation you have not lost your testicles, but there was damage."
The judge added that he hoped the sentence would act as a deterrent.
14 July 2004
I only hope that he hasn't dirtied the gene pool yet.
I was told that I was anal retentive today. It's an odd phrase, 'anal retentive'. It doesn't, as far as I know, have anything to do with the meaning of the individual words that make up the whole. I mean; if you take the phrase literally, then yes I am anal retentive. I'd like to retain my anus for as long as possible. It's a handy thing to have and I use it at least once a day, usually with satisfying results.
It was a gay guy many years ago who first told me that I was anal retentive, I thought it was some kind of gay-code for "man who won't let me fuck him".
Which reminds me; many, many years ago I was eighteen years old and an apprentice motor-mechanic living in the bush with Mum'n'Dad. During my holidays I stayed at a friends place in Blackrock, a suburb of Melbourne where one of my childhood heroes, Alan Marshall, lived. As an aside from the aside, the first movie that I went to with anybody but my parents was a Polish language version of 'I Can Jump Puddles' at the Palais in St. Kilda with my cousins. A week later they took me to a talk by Vincent Serventy about saving Australia's Deserts - riveting stuff to an eight year-old. I don't talk to my cousins anymore.
Any fuckin' way - I managed to wheedle my way into doing an occasional day in the workshop of a touring car team which was housed in Port Melbourne. Being December in Melbourne, it was hot most days (shut up), so one evening as I trundled back along Beaconsfield Parade in my compulsory-for an-apprentice-mechanic badly modified Holden, I thought I'd stop for a beer. I'd already passed a few pubs which I've since found out aren't as bad as some (I think one of them was the one Hookesy got clobbered at). Instead of continuing on to the Lower Esplanade (I think) and Beach Road, I hung a lefty at Fitzroy Street and pulled up at the first empty park I could find. Across the road was The Prince Of Wales Hotel, or PoW as I found out it's called.
I crossed the road and walked down to the PoW and walked into the first bar I came to. A trap for young players. I don't know what it's like these days, but twenty-plus years ago it was a bit of an odd-bod of a pub. The corner, public, bar was your typical suburban working class bloodhouse bar. Upstairs was a popular live music venue, downstairs was one of those dimly lit,intimate little bars you take women to (they think it's because you are mature and want to focus your attention on them, but more often it's because they are fugly and you don't want anybody you know to see you with them). Adjacent to- and sharing toilet facilities with- the public bar was a smaller, saloon-style bar, the bar I entered; famous, in my house, for being The First Gay Bar I ever entered.
Not that I realised it when I walked in. There were no signs advising me, no men kissing each other, nothing. The first odd thing I noticed was the bar person. I'm not sure whether to say barman or barmaid because the attendant in question was the least convincing transvestite in Christendom. Think Divine in The Pink Flamingos. I ordered a pot 'cos that's what blokes drink and the barperson engaged me in conversation, starting off by complaining about the Christmas decorations. Thinking back, the impression I have is of a cotton plant painted silver. Looked o.k. to me, so I said so. "But it's just not Christmas though, is it sweetie?"
Divine waddled off to serve someone else so I had a bit of a look around. Lot's of really tight jeans, most with bandanas stuck in the pocket. Shitloads of big moustaches and cut-off shirts. Remember, I was eighteen years old, lived in the bush all my life and was only vaguely aware that there even were gay people, let alone groups of them who were so outrageous as to actually admit to being gay and even socialise with other gay people. To that point, I had never met anybody who was openly gay (except for another one of my cousins and I didn't know about him for another five or ten years). I seriously figured it must have been some kind of Village People theme party or something. I didn't even make the connection. I mean my Dad liked the Village People.
Like I said, I was eighteen at the time, straight from The Bush and also training about nine hours a week, trying to bulk up for the next years' footy season. I may be bragging, but I think it would have made some of those blokes pretty happy to do rude things with/to me.
It wasn't long before I found myself talking to a group of blokes. Don't remember what the conversation was about, it was either fairly innocent or I was even more naive than I remember. A couple of times a bloke would ask me to come over and join his group. I was thinking that cities are pretty friendly places, but before long the bitchiness set in between the blokes I was drinking with and the other blokes who kept inviting me over. I'm pretty sure the other blokes were all drinking together and the two groups had a prior history. By this stage even I was starting to get suspicious. The situation reached crisis point when I felt somebody groping my bum. Looking around to see who it was, I made eye contact with one of the Village People - types who winked at me. What should I do? I was a horny, hormonally charged eighteen year old, a few drinks to the good, in a strange town, eager for new experiences.
I ran like a bitch.
The friends where I was staying didn't stop laughing until about three weeks ago. They still call me The Prince. I retained my anus, anyway.
Don't know if bestrode is a word or not, but if it isn't, then it should be.
Once again I was bombing up'n'down the paddock today, listening to the steam-powered wireless. This time I was listening to Macca's show. He read out an editorial comment from a magazine that I have never heard of, Sydney Business. Due to my rigid policy of never carrying out research or bothering to find out any actual facts I don't know the precise wording of the quote that got my attention, but it went a little something like this..one, two,...one, two, three, four "It's been ten years since any Australian politician made a truly visionary speech, one which was focused on the big picture...what Australia stands for and where it is headed."
This got me to thinking, where are the statesmen? Not just in Oz, but all over the world politicians have gotten smaller. Smaller in their ambition, smaller in their vision and smaller in their morality. Our country has only produced two Prime Ministers with anything like statesman-like qualities and they couldn't be further apart in the Oz political spectrum. 'Pig-Iron' Bob Menzies was disappointing as a war-time leader, too prepared to save the Empire while losing Australia. However, he was truly great as a post-war inspiration to his followers. Like a lot of conservative politicians of his era, Bob was more concerned with the act of ruling than he was with the outcome of his ruling, save only that the dreaded reds must not be allowed to govern.
'God' Whitlam, on the other hand, wanted to change, if not the world, then at least Oz. Witness the two-man cabinet. I'm no economist or social historian, so I'll leave it to others to pretend to know whether, in the long term, the rule of 'God' was A Good Thing or not. Opinions are divided, to say the least.
As an aside, neither of these ranks as a podium-getter in my list of best P.M.'s.
Restricting myself to the last hundred years, I can think of only two or three great statesmen. Churchill is an obvious choice, despite a poor showing in WW1. FDR was inspirational. Gandhi ditto. JFK, like Kurt Cobain, was raised to greatness post-mortem. Mandela's icon status should probably elevate him to the Hall Of Fame, but I can't help feeling that a lot of his 'greatness' is generated by the media. And a remarkably vengeanceless soul.
I see no prospect in the current crop. Domestically, Mr. Howard is probably Australia's most effective politician ever, but that is a different thing. He is too mean-spirited to be a statesman, despite channeling the spirit of Menzies through his eyebrows. Latham has the necessary degree of arrogance, but he too lacks the vision.
Overseas, Blair is too slimy and car-salesman slick, while GWB is incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together without outside help.
I suppose that it's the inevitable outcome of living in an age where mediocrity is celebrated that the mediocre now make up our ruling classes.
I was bombing up and down the paddock today, peaking the hills up in preparation for planting and listening to the ABC's coverage of the kilickity on the wireless. It was 9 down for the aussies and Gilchrist was giving it a bit of slap and tickle. He smacked another six, which almost hit the channel nine commentary box. I think it was Gerry Collins commentating who said "That was lucky, if it had of hit it, it would have busted the window."
Our Kerry's reply?
"If it did break the window, Griegy'd flog it off for four monthly payments of $79.00."
I heard on the wireless yesterday that legendary Detroit band The MC5 are going to grace our shores with their presence. I can't say that I greeted this news with unalloyed pleasure. After all, they are well past their prime and may be something of a sad spectacle.
For those kiddies who don't know what I'm on about, I'll give you a bit of insight. Way, way back in 1967, when all the middle class rebel hippies were hanging out in Haight-Asbury, sponging off their parents back East as the twentieth century equivalent of remittance men, the real revolution was taking place in working class Detroit, home of the sixties hardest working rock band The Motor City Five, (MC5). While all the hippies dropped acid and recited Ginsberg to each other, the underclasses would get drunk and Kick Out The Jams. The story goes that Iggy and the Stooges (also from Detroit, I think) were heavily influenced by The MC5, and the Stooges Raw Power is said to mark the birth of the US alternative scene. Bands influenced by the Stooges include The Ramones and The Pixies, who, in turn, (is that too many commas?) influenced Nirvana who, of course, influenced every zit-faced teenaged fuckwit who thought Cobain was onto something new.
But that was way back in '67. I'm scared that these days watching The MC5 will be like watching Ozzy Osbourne trying to relive'72, when Sabbath Bloody Sabbath could still do more than give old ladies a bit of a thrill. Even worse than watching that masterpiece of animatronics, Keith Richards wander around in the background as that aging, middle class social climber Jagger poonces around in a pathetic echo of his former glory (?).
Still, I may go and have a Bo-peep. It's a bit like visiting someone at the Peter McCallum Clinic - unpleasant, but you do it anyway, in memory of past joys.
For no particular reason, I thought I'd waffle on a little bit about band-names. In no apparent order, here are some names of bands in my sparse music collection - Omar & The Howlers, Hound-Dog Taylor & The Houserockers, Studebaker John & The Hawks. All blues bands who have been firmly reminded of their 'sidemen' status by the title of the act. I knew the work of all those acts before purchasing their product, here are some I bought because of the name alone - Thunderdunny, Lubricated Goat, Dead Kennedy's (actually, I first bought one of their albums in the '80's because of an article in the paper about a single of theirs that was banned - "Too Drunk To Fuck"), The Bondi Cigars (this joke will mean nothing to younger readers, suffice to say it is a 'poo' joke) and a compilation album called "Here Come Eleven Nuns, One With A Bucket Of Chips For Me" featuring songs by 'artists' such as The Fuck-Fucks, Teddy Turner & The Bunsen Burners and the band with the best name of all the bands in my collection Squirming Gerbil Death. This isn't my all time favourite name, though. That title would go to an Adelaide band who (as far as I know) never recorded, nor did I ever see them, I've only ever been told about them. They were called... wait for it... Buster Hymen & The Penetrators.
I love childish double entendres.
Ever wonder how people form opinions? So do I. I have no real idea, but I'm going to dribble about it for a little while anyway. There seems to be a technique used by everybody from TV commentators to bloggers to try and direct people's opinion which involves labelling. "Trendy small 'l' liberal" ABC, Mark "anti-American" Latham, "Jackboot Johnny" Howard and the list goes on. From my own perspective, this is more likely to either harden my opinion if it is the one that is being discouraged, or at least it will alienate me from the 'orthodoxy' being promulgated by the writer or speaker or whatever.
I just read that sentence back and it's not pretty. Fuck it, I've been getting a bit of throat oil into the system, so it'll have to do.
To continue: This because I don't like; a) being manipulated and these not-so-subtle attempts at directing my thoughts are a pretty crude attempt to do just that; b) the assumption that I share your bias (on whatever subject) or, if I don't, then I can just fuck off and; c) being treated like an idiot, which is a slight variation on option a. This is because the writer (or speaker, or mime-artist or whatever) is hoping to some extent, that, as he is cool, you will want to be cool, too. Naturally, this will involve the repetition of their 'cool' expressions and that the repeated use of these expressions will lead you to agree with them. John Howard and John Laws are extraordinarily good at this.
In fact, to some extent, all media outlets and politicians practice to a varying degree the doctrine of "If you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth".
Of course, our Mr. Howard would probably also hold the record for the number of times the "I wasn't advised" defense has been used in any given time period when the use of the doctrine has been suspected by his public. Makes you wonder what he pays his advisors for, sometimes.
While I'm ranting, how often do I need to be told about the left-wing bias in the ABC. I know there's a left-wing bias in the ABC, but how many of you are willing to admit why? Try a variation of this at applied to any major media outlet; Channel nine = Kerry Packer = big business = conservative party support. You don't get to be a major league business person (Kerry, Rupert etc.) by being an idiot and only an idiot would allow a company he owns to be used as a vehicle for opinions which are damaging to his current status or future earnings. Therefore, he ain't gunna hire no lefties, so all that's left is the ABC so that's where they go. (and plot the eventual overthrow of... oh, you know the rest). This does NOT make channel nine (or anybody else) evil. It just means that a filter needs to be applied to all information, wherever it comes from. It helps if you can compare a few sources as well.
While I'm disagreeing with everybody, can we please stop trying to polarise opinion on the US? Being the world's most powerful nation does not make them right, nor does it mean they are evil empire builders. The idea that they saved our arse in WW2 (correct, but with modifiers) so therefore we must support them now makes no sense at all in the age of Japanese domination of the electronic consumer market. Surely references to sixty year old alliances are irrelevant without the opposition being retained as well? As for the idea that the US is powerful, so we'd best get on side is, frankly, sickening - do we revere or revile the Quisling and Vichy regimes? And why?
Whether US foreign policy is right or wrong is the question, not how much will it cost us to disagree. That way treason lies. A word I chose carefully. No doubt some tool with too much time on their hands will come up with a dictionary definition, but I believe treason begins when you subjugate your own nation's interests or welfare in favour of that of another nation, whether that is the US, the UK or Hutt River Province. You will note that I have not said whether or not I believe we should support the US in the current (or any other) situation. That's because, for my purposes tonight, my opinion is irrelevant. So's yours, what matters is how and why you arrived at it.
Thank you and goodniiiiiiiiight!
When I lived in the NT (the first time, in the late '80's/early '90's) there were three federal members of parliament; one Rep and two senators. Don't remember who the MHR was, he must have been a boring prick. The two senators were Warren Snowdon, famous for his Italian Market-Gardener style moustache and his hat. Policies? What policies? The other one was Bob Collins, famous for being morbidly obese. Also an ex-market gardener(?), maybe he lent his 'tache to Wozza. Both were in the Labor Party and therefore evil, bloodsucking lefties. I guess.
Bobbo reached the lofty heights of Federal Cabinet when he was made the Minister Assisting The Minister Who Knows A Bloke Who Can Get Us A Deal On A Cheap Airport. Or something like that.
On the steam-powered wireless today was a news item which would probably have caused Bobbo some mixed feelings if he were conscious ( He's currently in hospital in Adelaide with some busted stuff after his 4X4 fell over in Kakadu). You see, Bobbo's been accused of sexual assault by four blokes who reckon he gave them a bit of a sore bum in the seventies. As an aside, why do all these people wait until they are nearly dead of old age before airing their complaints? If somebody porks my pooper then I'm going to do something about it NOW, like slip a post-hole digger up their clacker. Or re-arrange my wardrobe to separate my semi-formals from my formals, and my casuals from my partywear, as Kylie drones on the stereo and my unwooded chardy sits neglected on the sideboard, all the while crying "Why doesn't he call, he SAID that he'd call? God, I hate men." Erm, maybe not that one.
Anyway, back to Bobbo. I reckon he'd be fairly chuffed that these blokes think that he'd be capable of poking his todger up anybody at all, let alone the (presumably) tightly clamped sphincters of a few adolescent boys. Bobbo hasn't seen his wedding tackle since he was about sixteen, let alone used it in anger. The extra blood required would be enough to tip him over the edge into heartie-land. I mean, it'd have to be at least 12 inches long and harder than Chinese Algebra just to see the light of day.
Unless, of course, these boys were sent in under the blubber on a Pelvic Discovery Tour. But surely that would require some form of consent.
MEANINGLESS ASIDE: Spellchecker just tried to replace 'sphincter' with 'spanked'. Sickos.
