Monthly Archives: November 2009

Kisses and French Dressing

28 Saturday Nov 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, The Dining Room

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My remaining five  mysteries

By Helvi Oosterman

As you have all been waiting, with bated breath no doubt, for my remaining five mysterious things; no more suspense, here they are. To please dear Asty, I’ll start with something ‘sublime’ and leave the more mundane mysteries last:

6. Why are so many men cagey about shaking hands with females, whilst at the same time happy to pump their mates’ arms almost to a breaking point? Here I stand with my extended hand only  to be conveniently ignored. Are we girls a lower caste, or are the men afraid to appear too intimate with us. After all the French men hug you and plant not one but four kisses on one’s cheeks without fear of retribution. Swearing when there are females  present is another baffler. Don’t tell me the old story about ‘ladies’; we only have them in England, and they go together with the Lords…

7. I also like to know who ever came up with this unforgivable term, a ‘naughty’ or it’s brother ‘nookie’ when referring to making love. He wasn’t a Frenchman, that’s for sure.

8. We had lunch with some newish friends; the quiche was very good and the desert was divine. There was a salad to go with the main, but it wasn’t dressed, the vinaigrette was missing; what to do? Follow the hostess and sprinkle some oil from one bottle and a few drops of vinegar from another. But this is not the same as having a real vinaigrette made to proper quantities of oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, French mustard, pinch of sugar, some fresh herbs and even garlic if you so prefer. Is this two-bottle custom from middle ages?

9. While we are talking food I have to ask what is this calling some cheeses ‘tasty’? Are the other cheeses tasteless, perhaps? I have a husband who sometimes still buys those packets of pre-sliced processed ‘cheeses’, these slices are individually wrapped and at times very hard to get to. I suggest that he eat them with wrapping and all; they both taste the same more or less.

10. Now we are coming to the one mystery which I actually hate, really the only thing I hate, the flies. Why are there so many flies in the Australian bush? My dreams of picnics on the river were killed by millions of flies as soon as we took the tucker out. One Christmas I decked the table on the veranda with my best linen and tableware; as soon as the prawns arrived we all had to run inside as the flies swarmed from nowhere to attack the food. On my dad’s farm in Finland we did everything outside during summers, we had our coffee breaks, lunches and at times even dinners al fresco. We were not bothered by flies. I know the northern part of my fatherland is made inhabitable in summertime by mosquitoes , but that is a story for another time. I remember visting Bali when it was still pretty dirty and when the food scraps and other rubbish littered the place, and of course plenty of unclean water for flies to breed in, yet hardly any about…

I hope you can show some light into my little mysteries; be truthful or inventive, all explanations thankfully accepted!

Cyrus: Chapter 14: A Prodigy Indeed

28 Saturday Nov 2009

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 6 Comments

Phil Manzanera (sorry, couldn't find Mazares)

One of Croesus’ servants had run to tell the king about a prodigy which was happening right here in the centre of Sardis; indeed it was happening quite literally right under the king’s very nose, yet Croesus found he could hardly believe his eyes as he stared down into the public square from a second-floor balcony in one of his private apartments.

“Well… a prodigy indeed!” he drawled thoughtfully as he tossed the servant a gold coin to dismiss him. He turned to Sandanis and continued, “I would not have believed it if, had I not seen it with my own eyes! The whole city is swarming with snakes… and you say those horses actually left their pastures to come down into town to eat them? Aren’t horses usually terrified of snakes?”

“Yes your majesty” Sandanis replied, equally intrigued by this inexplicable and bizarre phenomenon; “Although, these are not poisonous, but harmless grass snakes…” he continued as he regarded the square below them once more. After a few more moments he finally observed, “Even so, I have never seen anything like it! What do you suppose it could mean?”

Fascinated, they continued to watch as the mercenaries’ horses continued to feed on the reptiles. Only the previous day these horses had been put out on the hills to graze, but this morning they had followed a swarm of snakes which had invaded the city in huge hordes, where the horses then began to feed on the serpents with a most voracious appetite.

Both Sandanis and Croesus, born into the aristocracy, had been horsemen all their lives; yet they were both astounded. This was a most unusual taste for horses to develop; though they were both educated men, neither had ever even heard of such a phenomenon. They could only conclude that it was the result of divine intervention. Surely, Croesus thought to himself, there must be some profound meaning behind these strange events; although he could make nothing at all out of them himself.

“Sandanis,” Croesus replied, pensively, to his general who was equally astounded and equally at a loss for words, “I have absolutely no idea; I’ve never seen anything like it either.” He thought for several moments and then ordered, “Send an inquiry to the soothsayers of Telmessus; they are the best I know at interpreting prodigies. If anyone can enlighten us as to the meaning of this one, they can.”

“I shall send a messenger at once Sire!” Sandanis said with alacrity, as he bowed and took his leave to obey the king’s orders. Telmessus was at least three days’ steady marching from Sardis, but a messenger on horseback could have a reply from them in less than half that time; soon they would have the solution to the enigma.

*** ***** ***

While Croesus retreated to Sardis, his enemy, Cyrus, had occupied Sinope, whose citizens were very relieved to see their Median and Persian allies chase the Lydian invaders out of their territory. The Syrians had feasted Cyrus and his men generously, treating them as heroes. In the meantime Cyrus took advantage of Croesus’ retreat not only to book and bury his dead, but also to rest his troops in shifts and to appoint a large detachment of troops under the command of General Mazares, Prince of the Budii, to take command of the garrison here.

Mazares was one of the five Princes of the Tribes who had been involved in the original plot which had culminated in Cyrus’ revolt from Astyages; his appointment to this post was his reward, for the courageous Mazares had taken more than his fair share of risk by organizing their very first fateful meeting. Harpagus was charged with overseeing the repairs to the city and with addressing their immediate needs for improved security, while Mazares organised a large cohort of troops to permanently garrison the city.

“Well Harpagus?” Cyrus now demanded as he faced his general over a large, chart-strewn table in the large chamber which they had chosen to use as a war-room, “Is the city secure?”

Harpagus had set his men immediately to strengthen any weak points he found in the city’s defences; most especially those which they themselves had just taken advantage of in recapturing the city. He immediately repaired the superficial damage which had been done to the city walls during its two recent battles; as well as the more serious damage which had been caused by generations of neglect. He also posted guards at regular intervals along the city’s walls and also in the high towers which framed the city’s gatehouse, rotated in four-hour shifts around the clock; this would give them plenty of warning of any surprise attack; he thought, or indeed, of any other approach by the enemy.

“Yes your majesty.” Harpagus replied, quite satisfied with the progress of his men’s work. ”The people will not revolt… they do not care for Lydians…” he added with a grin.

Indeed, Lydia’s sudden attack on Sinope was seen by all of the region’s inhabitants as the most despicable treachery. Although the Pterians had held no formal treaties of alliance with Lydia, they had nonetheless traded with her peacefully for centuries previously; as they had always done with all the countries with which she shared her borders; as indeed had all of Cappadocia. It was what had made them all rich. Inevitably such abominable treachery was rewarded with a universal and intensely-felt hatred from the citizens of Pteria for their conquerors; and that hatred remained undiminished even now that the enemy had been forced to relinquish their hold on their city.

This was just as Cyrus anticipated; now he thought silently to himself, he would make very good use of that sentiment. “And Croesus has fled with his army back to Sardis?” he demanded. The general nodded. This news had come as a great relief for Cyrus; it meant that at least the Lydians would not attack again for some time; perhaps not until the spring, he thought; maybe they would be content to sit the winter out behind Sardis’ walls and gather her allies.

“Yes sire!” Harpagus said with evident pleasure, “My spies tell me he now plans to winter there and attack again in the spring; he has even dismissed his mercenaries, who formed the backbone of his army! He assumes that we will winter here and strengthen our position before striking again.”

When he heard this Cyrus suddenly saw an opportunity to avoid a lengthy and possibly futile winter siege; he looked his general levelly in the eyes as, in an icy voice, he said, “Then we will strike now! Sardis will be ours before the winter sets in! Assemble the army! We march on Sardis immediately!”

“Yes your majesty!” Harpagus replied with a smart salute, snapping immediately to attention, “At once your majesty!”

Then he quickly turned to a trumpeter who waited dutifully nearby for instructions, and gave the order: ”Trumpeter, sound the Assembly!” The trumpeter instantly nodded once and then ran out of the building to sound the Assembly in the courtyard.

Instantly soldiers came running from every direction to form ranks in the square. Within a few minutes, while Cyrus and Harpagus went to find their steeds in the nearby livery stable, the whole army had swiftly formed ranks outside the city gates; with the cavalry at their head. Though they were a king and a general, cavalrymen and private soldiers rushed right past them in their haste to form ranks on parade, with little more acknowledgement of their rank than a cursory nod, in order to hastily arm themselves, put saddles on and mount their horses and form ranks in the courtyard with their comrades. Cyrus and Harpagus did not hurry, but strolled over to the livery stable, where grooms had already saddled their mounts, taking their time to give stragglers every chance to take their place in the regimental column. The king and his general then mounted their own horses and took their customary positions with the cavalry at the head of the column.

With a brassy fanfare from the trumpets, and the fifes and drums striking up a merry marching tune, the regiment of cavalry cantered smartly out of the city gates. They were closely followed by a massive column of infantry, comprised of archers and spearmen, both of which were also armed with long, bronze daggers as well as their primary weapons, the long, bronze-pointed spear. Marching at the double, they were only slightly slower than the cavalry. Finally, following the infantry at a fast walking pace was a gigantic baggage-train or caravan, consisting of several hundred heavily-laden camels, carrying all the supplies and equipment Cyrus felt he would need in order to besiege Sardis; the Sinopeans having generously resupplied him with a large contingent of troops and all the equipment he had required.

*** ***** ***

Croesus’ messenger bowed deeply as, with both hands, he received the small papyrus scroll on which the Sooth-sayers of Telmessus had written their response to Croesus’ enquiry regarding the prodigy which had been observed in Sardis. As he handed the messenger the scroll, by way of giving the herald a précis of the longer analysis contained in the scroll, the soothsayer said in a dark voice, “Croesus must look for an army of foreign invaders in his country; and when they come they will subdue the native inhabitants; since the snake is a child of the earth and the horse is both a warrior and a foreigner.”

Hearing this, the messenger was aghast; he turned and fled out of the Temple of the Soothsayers as fast as his well-trained legs could carry him, careless for the first time in his adult life of his bearing and dignity, and with but one thought occupying his entire being: Sardis was going to be invaded! The soothsayer’s message clearly indicated that Cyrus was not going to be content to winter in Sinope as Croesus had assumed; instead, he would besiege Sardis immediately. He must get back to Sardis in time to warn his king: Lydia was about to be attacked.

*** ***** ***

Father O’Way is a Farce

26 Thursday Nov 2009

Posted by in Mark

≈ 30 Comments

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Nimmow Rescue

Digitally Rescued by Warrigal

We have just hit space debris where the planet Joon should be and I’m now at the controls of a spaceship, controls that remind me of my faithful Toyota Camry. Henry, the navigational computer, is busy attempting to prevent the ship from being damaged and I am turning the ship as hard as possible to the right to get the zark outta here, wherever here is. The Hevli-tastic is standing next to me with my companion Belinda. Every one looks worried so I try to lighten the moment by saying something incredibly stupid like “Don’t worry you guys. Learnt this on my uncles farm in New England, anyway I have farcical powers”. Suddenly the ship rights itself and calm is restored on the ship. A voice pops up in my head, its Gordon “Use the farce Sandy, the farce is strong within you”.

Henry speaks through the intercom “Look Sandy, there’s a small moon over there, lets orbit it for protection”. Henry has now resumed control of the ship. Somehow using my farcical powers I have managed to put a hold on the current situation. “Look, Helvi, Belinda, what’s that on that asteroid on the left?” We all peer out of the control room to see an asteroid floating past with a bio. It’s a cricket picket inside the bio with a game going on. What the…? “I’ll send the Nimmow to rescue them”interjects Henry.

The Nimmow, with the Kipper and Jilligan set off to the asteroid and return with the battle weary cricket harden Joonians. “Hey man”says the first one on board still wearing his batting pads“I mean I was on 99 and heading for a century when these two goons in pink chiffon blouses turn up with laser cannons and say they are here to rescue us” “Welcome mate er, um, fella, whatever I’m Sandy from Earth and we have picked you up” I blurt not really knowing what one says in circumstances like this “Hey Sandy, dude, my name is Shah Latif Abdul Bahi or Slab for short as my mates reckon I can down a slab any day. I’m from Crickmanistan and this is our first eleven. We knew we was in trouble with the ICCB so we legged it to the Asteroid Oval, beautiful ground to play cricket on don’t you think?” Hmmm, my obvious weaknesses, an intense dislike for cricket and zarking acronyms. “Fabulous I’m sure” I reply as diplomatically as possible.

As the others enter into the control room Helvi grabs my arm “Sandy, that ain’t no moon” “Now Helvi there is no such word as ain’t” I reply in my sanctimonious parish priest voice. “Sandy, that AIN’T no moon, that’s an ICCB Death Ball, a genuine six stitcher” I focus my full attention on the ball and realise that Helvi is telling the truth “Henry, reverse swing or whatever I’m supposed to say to get us outta here” I bark “Sorry Sandy, we seem to be caught in a detractor beam, we can’t move, we will dock with the Death Ball in approximately 1 hour” “Detractor beam?”I reply “Yes Sandy. It locks onto the ship preventing it from moving and it makes very disparaging remarks and the ship and it’s crew, I’m feeling very hurt at the moment” Oh for zark sake, now Henry is telling me that we will be docking onto the Death Ball and he is upset at a bit of sledging, you know space never ceases to amaze me. “Anyone with an idea of what to do better speak up now?” “I know”says Belinda “Lets play a straight bat…..”

 

 

 

A Pig-Tel Christmas

25 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by in Pig-Tel Products, The Public Bar

≈ 27 Comments

Pig-Tel Toaster – for the geek who has everything

As we rocket towards the festive season, The Pig’s Arms marketing team Pig-Tel brings you, our faithful patron, the opportunity of a lifetime, the perfect gift for the geek who has everything – the PIG-Tel USB toaster.

Now we know that true geeks will be aware that the power coming out of the USB port of your PC is not a lot – and that a conventional toaster would take approximately two weeks to produce toast (well, dry bread more so than toast).

So the Pig-Tel boffins have come up with a new and revolutionary way of using a conventional oinkjet printer to lightly spray a brown tinge on a single slice of bread.  Quick as a wink.

So for just $9.95 plus postage and handling ($495.85, or two monthly payments of $300.67), this Pig-Tel USB toaster can be on its way to making your Christmas toast a paler shade of brown.

The Pig-Tel USB 2 slice toaster – out of the box * requires car battery !

Act now, and we’ll throw in an iVegemite oink cartridge and if you’re one of the first two callers, we go the whole hog and give you an automatic honey spreader.

Call us Now !

Distributed at the back of the car park of the Pig’s Arms – by the Hell’s Angles Out-of-the Boot Logistics Corporation.

Mary’s Mum

24 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 7 Comments

 

The moment I began writing about the Iranian lady the other day, the very moment I had put down the first word, another lady’s face also came to my mind and, with it, the need to write about her also. I brushed that need away until Mrs At read the story. When she finished reading it, she looked up at me and asked, “what about Mary’s mum? You said she also shocked you like that, remember?” Then that need to talk about her as well, became a must and so, here I am, writing about another woman whose face had also trashed my brain but for an altogether different reason. Mrs At. knows about Mary’s mum not because they had met but because her daughter used to come to our house often, after school, particularly during the breaks when I held rehearsals with my young theatre group. “Theatre Tricks.”

During those days, our house –quarter acre plus, if you don’t mind!- was jam full with students and the barbie would be going full bore, rain, hail or sunshine. Mary was also in my English class. Year 11. Beautiful, very beautiful kid but an unbearable prima donna, in class and out. She certainly was a great actress and had taken the role of Blanche in Streetcar, with everyone’s happy approval. I used to always run two casts who’d play on alternate nights, plus a few understudies and a whole bunch of directors and assistant directors, make up artists, hair dressers, floor managers, you name it –we had it. I wanted to occupy as many kids as possible –but that’s another story.

Mary was certainly intelligent. Stunning memory, learnt her lines within a couple of days and she was as sharp as a tack. But she was an absolute bugger of a kid to keep attentive in class. She was a thespian through and through. Exasperating. Couldn’t sit still. She’d walk around the class, taking over the lesson –a teacher’s nightmare. Midway through term one I caught up with her in the yard one day and asked her to tell her father to make an appointment to see me. “Nah. He won’t see you sir.” “Why not, Mary?” “Coz he’s a bastard and he’s left us.” “Oh, sorry to hear that, Mary. Well, tell mum then please, mate because we need to do something here…” “I know, sir, I told you I’m trying.” “Still, it won’t do any harm if we all sat together and had a little chat.” “She won’t come either, sir.” “Why not?” “Coz…” “Mary?” “She won’t come, I’m telling you. She…” “What?” “Nothing, Mr T. She just won’t come.” She looked into the distance, into her mind’s eye, for a moment and then said, “bastard left us three years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mary. Is mum still very upset about it?” “I guess so but that’s not why she won’t come, Mr T. You could call her though. She’ll talk on the phone with you. She’s always on the phone.” “Mary I need us to sit together and talk.” “She won’t come, sir. Have you worked out who’s playing Stan, yet?” “Mary… OK, let me have your phone number.” “Helen (my daughter) has it.”

So, the parent-teacher night came and I was looking forward to meeting Mary’s mum. Mary had told me during the day that she had convinced her mum to come. But parent followed parent until the last parent came and went and the room was empty of parents. The other two teachers got up and left. Mary’s mum was nowhere to be seen. Eventually I, too gave up and began to gather my books. That’s when I heard the footsteps. Mary came in first, stepping quietly, lest anyone would hear her. “Mr T, mum’s here. Are we too late?” “No, no, Mary. Where is she?” Mary walked out of the room and a minute later she walked back in with her mother. At first I thought the woman was mad. She was wearing sunglasses for goodness’ sake! In the middle of the night, in a dark classroom. Tall, slender, long shiny black hair like Mary’s. Another actress, I thought. That’s where Mary got her diva complex from. They both walked gingerly to my desk and sat opposite me. Mum leaned as far back as the chair and protocol would allow her; but I could sense it was a fearful gesture. She was hiding something and it was obvious that what she was hiding was behind those large dark sun glasses. I had to see what it was and I must have made this need obvious to her; and to Mary, so Mary explained nonchalantly. “Mum had a stroke three years ago, Mister T and her face is gone a bit funny. That’s why she’s wearing the goggles.” That was when the bolt hit me. Stunned. Couldn’t utter anything coherent. I could see the distortion now quite clearly. I understood her dread. The whole right side of her face had become a grotesque mass of shrivelled flesh. I could barely distinguish her eye from her cheek. I mumbled. Suddenly, my little problem with Mary had become a shocking reminder of the pettiness of it.

I didn’t want to bother this woman with my petty whines about her daughter. But I had to tell her something –after all I had insisted on her making this enormous sacrifice for me- but what? What was so important that I couldn’t have sort it out by myself, or with just a phone call? But whatever went on in my blurred brain it wasn’t utterable. I left it to Mary. She took over the conversation. She was great at it. A born actress. I had no idea what went on during that conversation. I remember little of it. None of it really. Only that I was still shocked well after they had left the room. During the school break we had the usual rehearsals and the usual Op Shop hunting, looking for costumes and props. During one of those days Mary told me quietly, “she’ll be right, Mr T. the docs reckon her face will get back to usual in a couple of years.” Streetcar was a brilliant success, thanks to Mary –as well as my daughter and a whole lot of other kids and parents. I haven’t seen Mary or her mum ever again but I’d love to know how they’re both going.

The thing that circles around my mind is the idea that one can be stunned with beauty without the “falling in love” bit just as one can be stunned by ugliness without the “falling in hatred” bit. I hadn’t “fallen in love” with the Iranian woman just as I hadn’t hated Mary’s mum. Is this “stunned” bit then, an emotional or an intellectual experience?

Tomorrow’s Horoscope – Sagittarius

24 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 2 Comments

Sagittarians will make a big mistake tomorrow

Sagittarians are well and truly on the cusp of Scorpio tomorrow – with dire consequences.

As bold and impetuous types, you will make a really effing huge mistake and, under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol and recreational drugs, you will get a tattoo.

Mars will not get the chance to rise in your fourth quarter until well after the swelling goes down.

Which might take a week at the least.

You will be so pissed off you’ll wish you hadn’t made that smart arse remark to the tattooist about Virgos.  On a brighter note, the next door neighbour’s 14 year old smelly cat – the one that sprays on the Chesterfield you have out on the porch – will finally cark it in an unfortunate accident with a pit bull disguised as a garden feature.

A traffic infringement officer will have  a heart attack while writing out a ticket for the car immediately before he gets to your expired meter.

Your lucky number is one.  Not that one, the one without the tattoo.

Astral Wally,

Cosmic seer.

Westfield Lovesong

24 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner

≈ 3 Comments

Valerie and TS Eliot

Let us leave then, you and I where the suburbs stretch out like pizza pie
and by the mall the women come and go
talking of woolworths and bi-lo

the maclaren prams that through the streets flow like a tedious argument
and lead us to the overwhelming question
of why it is they don’t relent

And as I think of teacups past
I part my hair and piss off fast
go looking for them at the beach – it’s
the singing mermaids, just out of reach.

By the corso, the women come and go
talking of woolworths and bi-lo

The water’s cool, the wind is free.
we’ve left the suburbs far behind
the lux-a-flex venetian blind
But i grow old and I grow old and wear my levis roughly rolled

Sit beneath a shady tree
inhale the breath of open sea and doubt the mermaids sing for me.

usual apols.
Emm

first published as a comment in gerard oosterman’s ABC Unleashed blog –  In isolation we live, November 23 2009

The Afghan Lady

23 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 7 Comments

The Afghan Cafe was the opposite of ‘The bitches Milk-bar’.  She was so beautiful, it made grown men weep.  She could be seen above her counter at the back of her small cafe, in the semi darkness of a cosily lit up area. She was Afghani, dark skinned with large kohl eyes which would look out and scan the passing scene for possible customers, or possible future husband. It was situated on a very busy street but away from the main shopping centre. We were told by a friend of a friend that her brother had put her there in the business to earn some money and hopefully also find a suitable partner. At the time, around the late eighties the only connection to Afghanistan were the thousands of Afghan camels roaming the North and North West of Australia as a result of those early goods and telegraph services between Southern Australia and Northern territory by camel trains led by their Afghan camel drivers. We knew of course that the development of outback Australia would have been very difficult if not impossible if not for those early Afghans coming to Australia as early as the 1830’s.

Whatever the motive, the beautiful eyed single Afghan lady sat in this restaurant cafe from late afternoon till the last of the customers would leave. The restaurant’s fare was genuine Afghan dishes. They were always tasty but not too spicy, more sweetish than chilli with raisins and dates, much use of lemon juice and yoghurt.  The cafe- restaurant was small and seated perhaps not much more than twelve or fifteen people. We loved going there and then all of a sudden it was closed and it became a laundry. She would have found a partner. This is what we all thought and hoped. She was too beautiful to be sitting there forever. Or did she go back to Afghanistan?

Paternalism

22 Sunday Nov 2009

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 20 Comments

Patria Nostra

Digital Patriarchy by Warrigal

Wikipedia says that “Paternalism refers usually to an attitude or a policy reminiscent of the hierarchic pattern of a family based on patriarchy, that is, there is a figurehead (the father, pater in Latin) that makes decisions on behalf of others (the “wife” and “children“) for their own good, even if this is contrary to their wishes.

It is implied that the fatherly figure is wiser than and acts in the best interest of its protected figures. The term may be used derogatorily to characterize attitudes or political systems that are thought to deprive individuals of freedom and responsibility, only nominally serving their interests, while in fact pursuing another agenda; and when the pursued agenda is directly against the interests of the individuals then the result is oppression.”

As a kid growing up in a trade unionist family, my DNA was shaped by a healthy disrespect for authority.  Not so difficult to understand for a working class family that had been living under Ming the Merciless for 5 years before I hit the planet.

It was to be a massive feat of endurance.  The conservatives stayed in power not because of their wonderful command of the good ship Australia (nor perhaps because of a protracted period of post-war prosperity and growth), but because the opposition parties – the ALP and then (and I use the term “opposition” very loosely) the DLP managed to spend a mind boggling 23 years in the wilderness through factional in-fighting and by having an essentially talentless leadership and front bench.

To be fair, though, Pig-iron Bob – and later his acolyte John Winston, masterfully exploited the pathetic ALP schisms and successfully painted them as a cretinous rabble unworthy of the trust and support of the Australian people at the polls.

A glimpse of any footage of Menzies shows him to be the massive, self-assured father of the nation that he understood himself to be.  The price of certainty for the Australian family was a stultifying wooden half-arsed English bland sameness.  Not so much groundhog day as it was groundhog year.   England lite with more sunshine.

But Pig Iron Bob took us from England Lite to a new and equally obsequious position  – that the Rodent (or Menzies Lite)  made concrete in the second conservative empire – namely the position of being the Side Kick to Uncle Sam.  Not just any Uncle Sam, but the maddest, most moronic demon president delivered unto the modern world. Or perhaps more accurately his secretaries of State and Defence.

Now it seems to me that we’re going around the loop again.  A slightly different loop and the shoe is on the other foot.

We have a massively popular figure head prime minister.  He has a team of marginally competent ministers – fulfilling the standard role of not particularly achieving a lot, but keeping the lid on the country and keeping the prime minister and the party off the front pages.  Mostly.

One should not forget that this in itself is no mean feat.  In a world that constantly threatens to explode – a planet groaning under the weight of too many people and not enough food, water and renewable natural resources, creating a nation society that mostly does not starve and (for the vast majority) can get up in the morning comfortably predicting that nothing catastrophic will disrupt their morning cappuccino – is a passable result.  But it comes at a cost that looks remarkable familiar.  Remarkably Ming-esque.

And we have all the other key ingredients for a paternalistic society.  An Opposition in total meltdown.  A pack of talent less egoists with no cohesive ideology and no viable leadership.  The conservatives in Australia, it’s fair to say, are as fucked as Labor was in the Ming Era.  And moreover they seem just as likely to stay there for years to come.

Interestingly enough, Kevin Rudd has  a lot of the other key ingredients that Menzies and the post-Ming conservatives enjoyed too.  A hostile Senate – always good for getting nothing much done.  Loony balance of power Senators.  Does anyone remember Senator Albert Fields ?  How incredibly resonant is Steve Fielding !  I find obtuseness and religion a very dangerous mix.

But now we have Kevin Rudd’s mastery of media manipulation – spin doctoring par excellence with the bogeyman of Communist trade unionism well and truly laid to rest.  A new right wing Labor era.  You bet !

The Australian family has never been in better shape.

Well, except that the family values so vehemently proselytised by Howard and Rudd alike are in free-fall in so many families – with both parents working to survive economically and their kids either working their guts out to get a decent HSC for the privilege of getting onto their own gold-plated BMW treadmills – or dropping out with a quiet bong behind the boy’s weather shed.

It’s lucky we have such a wonderful father.  Roll out the barbie, the banana chairs and cricket and footy on free-to-air.  We’re in for the long haul.

Status quo until the waters of global warming start lapping the safe Labor seats of the western suburbs.

Tell us what to do next, Kevin.

Ten Mostly Mysterious Things to Me

21 Saturday Nov 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge

≈ 25 Comments

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By Helvi Oosterman

We make lists of our ten favourite books or movies frequently.  At dinner parties we have light hearted discussions about which ten items we would rescue from a burning house or what ten things we would need to comfort us if we had to spend a month alone on a lonely island.

There are things that have puzzled me in the past, some of these have been explained to me; most of them are utterly trivial, some irritating, and all of them just a source of amusement to me. Here they are, not in an order of importance as most of them are not overly important at all.

  1. Why do we dress baby boys in blue and girls in pink? Is it because we are shy about asking baby’s gender, or  that we don’t really feel like offering to change baby’s nappy to find out the sneaky way…
  2. Driving through lush green valleys of South Coast, I see a sign indicating that I have entered the City of Shoalhaven. Where , where…?  Not a house, nor a shop anywhere, plenty of cows, farmers on their tractors, but churches or city squares, no. Same in the city of Sydney, you arrive in a suburb of Campsie and I’m told in smaller writing: City of Canterbury. Maybe you have a town , thus named in England, but this is just another suburb and the only city here is Sydney.
  3. I’m in somewhere, in someone’s office to sign some transaction or other; I’m well equipped with my driver’s licence, my passport, my rates’ notice, my husband with all his papers. This is not good enough; you have to go and sign this in front of a justice of peace, there’s a dentist on the second floor, madam. No way am I going to interrupt a busy tooth doctor at work, he doesn’t know me any better than this lousy clerk. Time to throw a little tantrum and time to ask his name and to call the boss. The boss wants me out and signing happens without any dental surgeons at present.
  4. I’m a member of a local club and showing my card, any card really will do as I sometimes accidentally show healthcare card, and yet the girl at the desk waves me in. If you are not a member you are forced to sign some papers, put your address in, just to have a chance to eat a bowl   of pasta with a glass of white.
  5. I still sometimes enter a chemist shop, where the chemist himself, the mixer of potions, stands on something elevated, on a kind of podium. Why? Is he better than the newsagent bloke next door, humbly standing there at the level of his customers? Is the chemist keeping a sharp eye on shop lifters; you can spot them better from his lofty position?

Now, folks, I need a rest and a coffee break; these baffling things take a lot out of you. On your permission, I’ll stop now, and if you absolutely demand, I’ll reveal the remaining five…