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Monthly Archives: November 2009

Hussein’s Story

06 Friday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Public Bar, Travels

≈ 20 Comments

Hussein - Reuben Brand

Hussein (photo by Reuben Brand)

By Reuben Brand

It was the middle of summer, the middle of Ramadan, most of the country was fasting, all of the country was thirsty and there was not a drink in sight for miles. “It’s so bloody hot!” I said aloud, as my friend and I trudged wearily beneath the 40 degree Syrian sky towards the ancient citadel in Aleppo.

Parched, we arrived and quickly found refuge in the shade of one of its giant walls, “there he is again,” I said, pointing to a little boy we had seen the day before. His big eyes seemed to be overflowing with an unquenchable sadness as they followed our every move.

He once again walked sheepishly back and forth, just as he had done the previous day, as if he was studying us as part of a school project – all the while, never taking his gaze off us.

He tentatively made his way closer and finally perched himself on the wall beside us. “Hi, my name is Hussein,” he said in Arabic, as a smile broke his solemn stare and lit up his now bright face.

We sat talking to Hussein for some hours, he was a skinny little thing and looked about eight years old, although he assured us he was 11. His tiny hands were covered in dirt all the way up to his long fingernails which were stained red from henna, his shirt and trousers were as dusty as the hot surrounding landscape and in need of a good wash, but despite his circumstances he seemed overjoyed to just sit and talk.

“Where do you live?” we asked, he told us he lived in a house and pointed vaguely towards the city.

“There are eight of us in my family, but I didn’t go home last night, I slept out here under the stars,” he said with a grin. Hussein later told us that he had run away from home and hadn’t been back for a long time, so every night he was on his own.

Hussein lives on the streets along with a motley crew of other young vagabonds and runaways, but he is different, not like the rest of them, who, as we sat, darted in and out of conversation – little Hussein possesses a strength of character and integrity the likes of which some people take years to acquire.

He began to tell us that he had been subject to some kind of medical operation, or something else which he didn’t really want to talk about, the meaning of which was either lost in translation or obscured by embarrassment and shame. I can only imagine that it must have been something of a terrible nature to make him run away.

At that point a man on a bicycle rode up and angrily chased Hussein off as if he were nothing more than a stray dog, to which Hussein responded and darted off at top speed. The man saw that we were foreigners and thought that he could sneak a quick cigarette with us away from the prying eyes of the rest of the people who were fasting during Ramadan. “Be careful of these street kids,” the man said gruffly, “they will try to trick you and steal form you.” He nervously finished his cigarette and went on his way. “If only he would talk to some of these kids and give them a chance, maybe he would learn a thing or two,” I thought to myself.

Not a moment had gone by when Hussein’s smiling face returned, he asked if we would like to come and see his garden and led the way to a small patch of grass behind a nearby mosque.

It was getting late and was time for us to go, we said our goodbyes but Hussein didn’t want to leave us, his big eyes became foggy and it seemed that a tear would strike his cheek at any moment.

“Are you hungry?” We asked. “No, no I have already eaten,” he told us. But we insisted and invited him to join us for dinner, again he declined saying that he had eaten a sandwich sometime earlier, today? Yesterday? He wouldn’t say. Finally the promise of an ice cold Pepsi was too good to resist and we all made our way up to one of the local restaurants.

We were a sight for sore eyes, little Hussein, my Italian friend Daniele and my unkempt Aussie self, quite the unusual trio. Curiosity got the better of all the waiters, other patrons and even the manager, but nevertheless we were seated and treated to a lovely meal, the waiters and manager giving special attention to our young friend.

We asked Hussein if he went to school, he said that he didn’t want to because if he completed his school diploma he would be sent into military service. I couldn’t believe that at such a young age Hussein was already worried of being sent into the military and would forgo any form of education just to escape it. Most other kids of his age are only concerned with playing soccer, the latest Playstation game and watching TV.

Conscription is a dread that faces every young male here, it reminded me of a conversation I’d had the night before with a young man who worked at the hotel we were staying at. “It is one of the toughest armies in the world, some people die just in the training – I really don’t want to go, it takes two years of your life away from you. The only good thing about it is that you go into the military like a mouse and if you survive, you come out as strong as a lion,” he said.

We urged Hussein to go back to school, and told him the importance of a good education and the opportunities that lay ahead for him if he studied hard. He said he didn’t know what he wanted to do when he grew up, but agreed none the less to go back to school and try.

With a full belly and a smile from ear to ear it was once again time to go. After a strong handshake from such a small hand he looked up at us, smiled and slipped away into the night. I stood and watched as his tiny figure disappeared into the darkness, wondering if I will ever see him again.

Adoption crossed my mind many times as I walked home, “Where is UNICEF? Where is Save the Children?” I thought to myself.

God only knows what will happen to little Hussein and the countless others like him, for my part, I will do all I can to make it back to Aleppo to check up on my new little friend as often as possible.

Reuben Brand is an Australian Freelance Journalist currently based in the Middle East. For more information please visit his website at www.reubenbrand.com

OK, it’s just a phone clip but it’s a start

04 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Travels

≈ 6 Comments

Hi folks.

I finally got a video to work.  Sadly it was incredibly windy so I had to silence the audio track.  Next step will be to put some proper sound in there.

This was my favourite sculpture by the sea captured on a crappy phone camera – but hey….. it is between Bondi and Tamarama – filmed last Sunday evening.

Sculpture 1

Sculpture 1

 

Runs for 27 seconds in case you have to dash out for a cuppa….

Dymocks Online Digital Books is a Customer Service Joke

04 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 20 Comments

07192008_customerservice5

Thanks for Nothing.......

Dear Dymocks Online Customer Service

I have been struggling with your online digital download facility since Thursday last week.

I ordered two books.   Lakatos downloaded

The other – Theories of Scientific Progress was the most important one for an history and philosophy essay due (now) in two days.  It stubbornly refused to download – and then your web download server went guts up and coughed error messages all over my screen.

I sent a message to online support last Friday.  No reply.

Yesterday I phoned George St – since there is no published online support call number.  They put me through to Charlie’s answering machine.

Four hours later Charlie phoned me and apologised.  I asked if he could simply Email me the PDF file that I have already paid for.  He said he would get back to me within one hour.

But there has been no return call and no resolution of the problem.

So I went back to the Email below and tried the link for the second download.

Miracle – it worked !

No.  Just kidding.  It downloaded the first book a second time.

Then I noticed that the link in your Email is the same for both files.

Nice.

I will offer you two options:

1.  The preferred option.  Please send me the PDF today at the latest, or

2.  Cancel the transaction, refund the money and see the whole episode posted up on my website tomorrow.

You can find us at www.pigsarms.com.au –

It’s a website for people who typically like to read books – we get between 300 and 600 visits a day.  We have had over 4,000 comments since we went live in May.

Over to you.

Mike Jones

Father O’Way Learns

04 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

Father O'Way

NimmowRidingTheTube

Nimmow riding the Pleiades spatio-temporal tube

Warrigal does another swell job

The manor has a room that has two chairs and no window. Belinda and I joke about the room and we call it “The Cruel Room”. Buggered if I know why but we get a good laugh out of it. Helvi has shown us how the room works. You enter the room and sit down. The entire room them vanishes and you are sitting outside the ship, well, not really but it simulates the experience. At first it’s pretty scary but you get used to it after a while and it becomes a real buzz.  As soon as you stand up the room returns. While you are in the room you ask Catherine, the central computer, any question you like. The answer then gets shown on the far wall in a multimedia type format of narration, text, video and sound, it’s wicked.

So as we are headed to Joon for the cricket one day final so Belinda and I decide to get a low-down on our destination. Joon is a small planet about the size of Mars and is found in the group of stars called Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. Joon rotates around a star called Atlas and takes approximately 4 years to get in a full orbit. Joon is mainly water with a scattering of islands. Everyone on Joon loves cricket and it plays a large part in the culture. All nations play off for the final which the whole planet shuts down for. This years final is between the Bilbobs and the Aryans. Joon by the way is 425 light years from earth. Henry, the navigational computer, tells me that once we hit the SPEW it will take us 8 and a half hours to reach.

The Aryans are a very quiet sort of race, non drinking and very respectful whereas the Bilbobs have a huge cerebration around the cricket game. They dance, listen to funky music, smoke cannabis and drink rum by the bucket full. However the best part is the spit roast. They cook these animals that resemble goats called geni on spits called tals, so a common expression in the villages is “Hey man, how’s ya geni tals doing?” to which you answer “Cookin dude”

Helvi has been fantastic and has orientated us to ship life. Even Catherine has warmed up a bit. I’m starting to like this. The manor is beautifully appointed to a very high standard and the food is fantastic. Belinda and I take turns to help George with cooking and even some earthling habits are starting to appear in his character. Pity it will end when I have to teleport down to the surface of Joon and watch a stupid cricket game.

One thing is starting to worry me though. In the paper there are stories starting to appear about some trouble brewing with the cricket board. Bloody administrators always sticking their noses in where they are wanted.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Catherine, “Sandy, Belinda, I’ve just had a call from Gordon. He wants to see you in the Cruel Room”. “But Gordon’s on earth” I reply knowing as usual I’ll be wrong. “By hologram Sandy, c’mon,  he said its urgent” The three of us trundle off to the room and sit down. The walls and ceiling vanish and a hologram appears in the centre of the room. It’s Gordon and he’s in the Ladies Lounge at the Pigs Arms as I can see Tutu and Glenda in the background discussing genetic modification. “Hey guys” says Gordon “Look something’s up. The President of the Intergalactic Cricket Control Board (ICCB), Sunil Gavitron,  has joined forces with the evil Lord Deaf Vision  and are threatening war if some of the planets don’t start paying their cricket fees, Joon is one of those planets”. War over cricket fees, surely not I think to myself. “So Sandy” Gordon continues “it’s up to you to defend these worlds. You see Sandy I haven’t been quite straight with you. There is this invisible power in the universe called the Farce and you Sandy have the ability to channel the Farce and use it for good against evil” Oh shit, what is happening here, this wasn’t the deal, I mean I’m a lover not a fighter. “So Sandy head for Joon and protect them and may the farce be with you…..”

The BIG lollie houses are in Shepherd Street.

04 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in The Public Bar

≈ 19 Comments

004

Max playing for lollies

 

As we planned to live in Bowral we thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to experience how Halloween was celebrated there. The grandsons, all three of them, had been preparing for the event and their mothers had rummaged in wardrobes to retrieve last year garbs, knuckle dusters, fierce looking hatchets and of course the conical hats with the skull masks.

Little 6year old Max, who would like nothing more than to grow up on a diet of lollies was especially excited about the prospect of bulging bags with sweets.  Back in a very leafy suburb where they live, each year’s Halloween had been highly successful. Of course, those very green suburbs were always terrific for Halloween fans. The last few years many single houses with huge gardens were easy pickings for the money merchants to demolish and put up 8 townhouses instead. The ‘treat and trick’ kids get 8 chances instead of just the one. Against that, some of the latest now have formidable electronic gates which can only be opened by proper identity checks and clearances through the use of a walkie-talkie system and remotes. None the less, bagfuls were collected and the Bowral environment would have to do a lot to even come close.

The big day had almost arrived and the night before our daughters and their sons managed to liaise and merged together at Bowral and had settled in a friend’s house with take away Chinese meals, Harry Potter movie on the telly, and the knuckle dusters and other Halloween paraphernalia tucked under the kids beds.

Halloween was only hours away. The question; what would be the differences between the Halloweens of Sydney and Bowral, if any?  Could those differences be based on the social aspects of the inhabitants?  Some of the more salubrious suburbs of Sydney are very much populated by social climbers keen on material goodies rather than, well, not much else, according to our daughters. Bowral, on the other hand is very much the territory of the ‘arrived’.  Retired politicians, (Hewson is selling his abode at a mere $11.000.000) and successful race horse breeders, notable TV personalities , a mixture of gangsters and some poor sods that still catch the daily train to Sydney for work,  but, hopefully, not much longer . Those gated communities are on the rise there as well but nowhere like in Sydney.

The next morning, the Bowral community woke to a sunny day. The newsagent girls had already donned conical hats; their hair dyed a ghoulish blue. This was a good omen and I told the kids so at my return home with newspaper tucked under my arms. I also bought some lollies just in case of a disaster. The gardens are huge and it takes almost a hike to just reach the front door. How much stamina would our grandsons have to traverse those large gardens with miles of delphiniums and acres of petunias?

At about 5.30 pm we set off in 2 cars with the 2 mothers, three grandsons and me.  It was hot and the Halloween outfits were made of impenetrable black Nylon. The kids had also grown and the outfits were tight around the crutches. The mothers had suggested making cuts to give more room. But ‘my undies will show’, the kids retorted. Well,’ put on black underpants and no one will notice’. ‘No way’, Jak said. Off they went. The tight crutches a small price to pay for retaining dignity.

The first few attempts were lousy. The long walk-ups to the front door, past the parked car and barking terrier, and back again without as much as a single person opening doors were discouraging. Perhaps the residents had locked themselves up in anticipation of a real Halloween or were of Scottish descent. After some five doors knocks, some success. Thomas and Jak came back smiling.  Only Max was still miffed. They each had a packet of raisins!

All of a sudden another competing group of Trick and Treat kids came on the scene, accompanied by conical attired mothers with flowing witches’ dresses and wildly waving arms. ‘It is in Shepherd Street’ one mother told Max. ‘That’s where the really BIG lolly houses are’, she added.

We, of course forgot to ask where Shepherd Street was. No worries, my daughter looked up on her Sat Nav gadget and we all jumped in the two cars and in no time found the right street with the big lolly houses. It turned out that an old lady had arranged a street meeting with other owners and they all decided then to make an effort to make Halloween special for the local kids. Balloons and signs would be put on gates indicating that treats were there for the ‘tricking’.

What lovely social enterprising by this old lady. Bowral might be the place to retire to.

Remember; Shepherd Street is where the really BIG LOLLIE houses are

Trick or Treat ?

02 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Entertainment Upstairs, The Public Bar

≈ 44 Comments

Peter Andre

Andrew Peters - or something to do with Katie Price - whoever she might be

by Jayell

Just to get a better perspective of this glam affliction that the newspapers have. Here is a short note to go in tandem with the Unleashed story that has just appeared.

It is a constant observable  phenomena that the public are obsessed with celebrities. It has been that way for centuries. But of course with instant transmission of digital photographs by satellite, for instant publication, it is a frenzy that produces frantic ‘nowism’. I can almost imagine youngsters running to the news stands, newsagents or ipods to get it first.

However in this story we have one-upmanship on Unleashed.

Peter Andre was a student with my kids at a local Gold Coast School- and a pupil of  my other half to boot.

He was/is a good singer and was in the Rock Eisteddfods’, Dracula Spectacular, a local production- and a show put on by his family at the local Arts Theatre- where local kids performed.

His family are friends and our kids were always in each other’s houses.

So why am I writing this?

Well obviously the  ABC article prompted me. And…

….And, it is Halloween, a celebration that is new to me. I always thought that it was American. But it goes hand in glove with the topical (Halloween)references that I have included here.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1224261/Katie-Price-gets-Halloween-spirit-Peter-Andre-trick-treats-kids.html

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1224452/Scary-stuff-Alex-Reid-dons-stockings-suspenders-Katie-Price-vamp-Halloween.html

Peter is a down to earth lad and the publicity surrounding his ex-wife, will hopefully leave him untarnished. His character is the antitheses of hers.

In fact my Mother has fond memories of the band of friends; my sons, alias JL juniors; Peter; Cardiff; Craig and Shane gardening on her acreage years ago. They used to wear bandanas in the summer and get stuck in with lawnmowers and scythes, quenching their thirst with lemonade and juice.

Of course they graduated to beer and nightclubs later- and are still all great friends today But more of that another day.

Last time he was here, he confided to my wife (when they shot a scene for a doco, or something….which we haven’t seen),that it was all razzmatazz to keep the business income stream running.

And of course that is the crux. As someone said on Unleashed, “It’s all about the feelthy lucre”.

Why are we lured here? It can’t be the money (well yet Emm).

Do we crave notoriety and do we suffer from celebrity anxiety?

Or, are we unrequited artists, frustrated artisans, feeble writers cloistered in our expanded dot?

Neocon Tank Thinkers say Climate Change IS Brain Surgery

02 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 9 Comments

The Larry, Mo and Curly Joe of Australian Politics

The Larry, Mo and Curly Joe of Australian Politics

Digital Surgery by Warrigal

As the deadline for the climate change debate looms large, conservative politicians are, by their deliberations, proving that finding a sensible response to climate change is definitely more difficult than brain surgery.  Unfortunately, instead of recruiting rocket scientists, they unwittingly rolled up their sleeves and enlisted the assistance of the notorious space cadet Steve (Curly Joe) Fielding.

After a prolongued search for an idea, the best that the Three Stooges of Australian politics could come up with was “Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk”, prompting Penny Wong, the Minister for a Double Dissolution to suggest that at a time when the environment was calling for a massive transfusion, all the conservatives could come up with was type E negative .

In late breaking news this morning, Larry was quoted by the ABC as saying “”If after about four years you continually deal with unnamed sources in the paper and those unnamed sources say that the source of all their problems in life is you, then you say if you want to make yourself public and you are at the appropriate level, I’ll leave,” he said.

The lack of an anaesthetist would leave the coalition in an extremely painful condition, except that there is no evidence that Curly is capable of feeling pain and on the contrary it appears that he is routinely completely insensate in the Senate.

Sources close to Mo Heffernan were also struggling to find a pulse.

Orwellian Policy Leaves Indigenous Australians with Nothing to Say

01 Sunday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 11 Comments

Yirrkarla Primary

Yirrkarla Primary

By Warrigal Mirriyuula

There’s a kerfuffle going on at the moment up in The Northern Territory and like a lot of things Territorian it seems this one is also a fundamental disconnect between the whitefellas and the blackfellas.

You see, as part of Rudd’s much-spruiked but as yet unseen Education Revolution it has been decided, in consultation with the NT Parliament, that the kids of blackfellas are effectively illiterate because English is their second language and they don’t do so well on standardised tests used to determine literacy in white schools. Hardly surprising you say and of course you’d be right.

Age appropriate tests in their indigenous languages shows the kids to be just as bright and eager to learn as white kids in eastern schools. Funny that.

So what’s the kerfuffle about? Well it’s now been decided that the previous policy of bi-lingual language classes will be scrapped and all indigenous children will be taught in English exclusively for the first four hours of the school day. For those students for whom English is entirely foreign, and that’s lots of NT blackfellas, there will be indigenous interpreters to help students with little or no English skills. Not so radical you might say, given that if those kids want to integrate into the broader Australian society they’re going to need substantial English language skills.

Early indications however are that in those schools where this policy has already been implemented the children are voting with their feet. By the end of those four hours the classrooms are almost empty. In those schools, which are resisting the introduction of the policy, attendance is up

Where the children are taught in their first language and English is only taught after the kids have a sufficient grip on the grammar, vocabulary and narrative development of their own language, the literacy outcomes for both their own languages and English are improved significantly with students fluently using both their own language and English better. Sounds “win/win” to me.

So why, as Professor Charles Grimes and The Australian Society for Indigenous Languages suggest, has this anti intuitive course been charted. Beats the shit outa me, and the good Prof. too. Apparently it also caused Marion Scrygmour, The former NT Education Minister, some trouble. She admitted to Dr. Brian Devlin of Charles Darwin Uni.’s language department that the policy was made too quickly.

She said, ‘Look, I fucked up’,” Dr Devlin reported, but apparently not so badly that this dumb and damaging policy be dumped and the former bi-lingual process be reinstituted.

” I think what she was referring to is that there was a lack of consultation beforehand and that the application of her four-hour English directive of October the 14th had many unintended consequences.”

“It had certainly put her offside with traditional Indigenous people out in the communities.” the good Prof went on to say. Scrygmour is an indigenous woman herself, so this just gets curiouser and curiouser.

There is a groundswell of opinion suggesting that there are many factors not related to education including health and home conditions that affect school results.

“You could say as a ballpark figure that 80 to 90 per cent of the kids at this school would have a hearing impairment of the middle ear, infections or perforated eardrums at some time in their school career,” said the acting principal of the Lajamanu school, John Lane.

“The UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People says that Indigenous people, minority people, have the right to decide the way that they have their own education, including the role of their own language in that.” Says Prof. Grimes. Pity policy makers haven’t read that declaration recently.

As any one who has ever had to learn a language will tell you, learning a foreign language is difficult because you have to understand it by deconstructing your understanding of your own first language. If, however, you have little or no understanding of the structure and dynamics of your own language, learning another will be effectively nearly impossible

At this time there are very few surviving indigenous languages that are used in a traditional cultural and social setting on an everyday basis and most of these are in the NT. Recent studies have shown that at this time indigenous languages are just managing to hold their own against English, but there can be no doubt that if this “English First” policy continues the number of languages and the speakers of those languages will decline.

As well as being comprehensively ill informed, this policy is simply racist. It’s more “pillow softening” and seems to assume that indigenous languages are somehow second rate. It constitutes a fundamental attack on what it means to be indigenous in this country. It is Orwellian in that it seeks to limit and control the language tools available to describe the complex relationships in indigenous society and the relationship between indigenous society and the broader Australian society. Something which their own languages do very well, certainly better than English ever could.

There are many aspects of indigenous life and experience, religion and cosmology, let alone their prodigious understanding of Australian ecology, that simply cannot be translated directly into English without losing depth and complexity. Should the day come when there are simply no indigenous speakers left we will all, whitefellas and blackfellas, be forever and irrevocably separated from that experience and cosmology, that understanding. Its meaning and utility will be lost forever.

The indigenous people of this continent have, over more than 60K years, made Australia penetrable, open to understanding and it is in their languages that the last vestiges of that understanding are to be found. To allow this policy to contribute to the continuing decline of indigenous diversity and self expression would seem an act of the most heartless and stupid “ethnic cleansing by neglect”, and the very people so cleansed would have no means to critique their circumstances, except of course in English.

What would it then mean to be a blackfella, if you had no way of accessing the fundamental tools that make that meaning real and define who you are?  By making English the de facto indigenous language we are saying that there’s nothing worth saving and keeping in any of the remaining indigenous languages struggling to be heard against the white paradigm; and that’ll break blackfellas hearts all over again, all over the country.

Like I said, it just beats the shit outa me.

Pyne Sets New Standard – Poodles in Shadow Cabinet

01 Sunday Nov 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 16 Comments

StandardPynePoodle

Poodle loses face in shadow cabinet reshuffle

Warrigal gives Pyne a pounding….

Well, it was red faces all around in the shadow cabinet pack this weekend as the alternative government’s latest parliamentary tactic unravelled.  Sources close to the Opposition Leader revealed that his desire to “find out how Kevin does it” had been mistranslated by the shadow cabinet into a plot to infiltrate the Rudd household by insinuating another dog therein.

The plan apparently was for the member for rolling over and having his tummy rubbed to bound up to Kevin and …. roll over and invite Kevin to rub his tummy …. and then follow him home.   All went well until the Rudd’s cat Jasper took exception to an additional canine in the fold.  Jasper was quoted as saying ” No more f*cking mutts under my roof, Dad”.  Which suggests that the Prime Minister still needs to be more particular about his choice of words in front of the pets.

As the poodle bounded across the lodge linoleum, Jasper sunk his claws into its trailing bits, resulting in a sudden loss of face….. and another sudden loss of face…. and a third loss of face with the Opposition leader denying all knowledge of the plot and mumbling something about Godwin Gretsch.  Dissenting witnesses insisted that the Opposition leader was in fact complaining about testicular discomfort.

Poodle breeders were aghast and accused the member for  rolling over and having his tummy rubbed of lowering standards.  This point was echoed by the Opposition whip who rolled up a newspaper, smote the member for rolling over and having his tummy rubbed on the muzzle and told him that if he ever made another poodle in the shadow cabinet, it would be off to the vets for the big sleep.

Dogged Neocon numbers men are reportedly circling and sniffing arses in search of a new leader for their pack.

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