13 Sunday Jun 2010
Posted in Bands at the Pig's Arms, Emmjay
Tags
Hello patrons de la pork. During a deep and thorough research session for a piece on the evolution of Inner West pub rock, I chanced on this gem.
Cripes ….. Not the Ol’ 55 you were thinking of ~ Check the moves on the left handed rhythm guitarist…….
Thunderbirds are GO !!!
Two more pink drinks, thanks, Merv
10 Thursday Jun 2010
Posted in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles
Tags
CYRUS
by
Theseustoo
CHAPTER 17:
The Assyrian Empire
An Importunate Deity
The progress of Cyrus’ expedition towards Babylon was slowed considerably when they came to the River Gyndes, a broad and deep river with a very strong current; which would clearly require either boats or a bridge to cross, for it could clearly not be forded. As Cyrus’ army drew gradually to a halt beside the riverbanks a sudden commotion arose from the van. One of the six sacred white stallions which pulled Cyrus’ great chariot, as soon as it had been released from its harness, had refused the restraining commands of its groom and had suddenly plunged into the river and attempted to swim across on its own. The current, however, was far too strong and the beautiful snow-white beast was quickly swept away downstream and drowned.
Thankfully, Cyrus had not been in the chariot at the time; he had been scouting the banks with Pactyas for fordable places; although as it turned out they had done so in vain. Distressed at the loss of one of his sacred charges, the groom immediately sought his master to inform him of the loss. He found Cyrus just as he and Pactyas returned from their search.
“My king,” the groom said with a deep bow, “I have terrible news to report…” Nervously he looked up at Cyrus, who merely stared at him silently, the intensity of his gaze now silently demanding further information. Even more nervously the groom continued, “As you can see, Lord, this river, the Gyndes, is both too wide and too deep to be crossed without boats, nevertheless, one of your sacred white horses tried to cross it on it’s own as soon as it was un-hitched from your chariot…” here the groom broke off to wipe away a tear which had sprung unbidden from the corner of his eyes, for he had loved his charges very dearly, “Such a courageous creature! But it did not succeed, Lord; it was swept away downstream and drowned. The god of the river has claimed it as a sacrifice!”
Cyrus' Chariot
Had it been any other horse, it would probably have been simply regarded as one of the inevitable losses any large armed force was bound to suffer on a major expedition; but as it was one of Cyrus’ own pure-white sacred horses, he took it as a personal insult. Another man might well think twice before complaining about such a sacrifice claimed by the river-god, but Cyrus was no ordinary man. His advisors had constantly insisted that his was no ordinary birth; it was foreshadowed with omens and portents they had said; the Magister had even said he had found Cyrus’ name in an old and obscure Hebrew prophesy which had suggested that he might well be the ‘Anointed One’; the Messiah whom the prophecy said would seize Babylon and destroy the Assyrian empire forever; and in doing so, unify the whole world. The manner of his accession to the throne, the Magister insisted, itself proved that it was certainly his destiny to rise from total obscurity to supreme power.
Babylon
At first Cyrus had wisely shrugged off such suggestions as fanciful, but as his empire had expanded, and victory piled upon victories were laid at his feet; often accomplished with remarkable ease, even in what were otherwise extremely difficult situations; that finally even Cyrus was persuaded that there may, after all, be some supernatural being guiding or even orchestrating his successes. The manner in which the path had been found which had given his soldiers the access they needed to Sardis and which had enabled them to take the city with little resistance, for example, had seemed even at the time like a gift from the gods.
The most ancient of all traditions held that a warrior who was victorious over all of his enemies; who thus subjugated them all to his own will, could only be the earthly incarnation of the son of the highest gods, Ea and Enlil themselves. Such a noble, indomitable and all-conquering warrior would eventually came to be recognized as the earthly incarnation of Merodach, their divine son; the Son of Heaven. Heracles, Cyrus had believed, was the last incarnation of such a demi-god, and before him, Perseus. But that he had been referred to as such even by his defeated enemies, he felt, was the final confirmation he had been waiting for before he allowed himself to be persuaded to believe in his own divinity.
So by the time Cyrus had reached the Gyndes, it was no longer any mere mortal whom the river-god had thus insulted with this involuntary sacrifice, but the Son of Heaven; a living demi-god, whose own status as the son of the highest god and goddess gave him superiority over any mere river-god. The insult to his dignity was thus, Cyrus decided, too much to bear.
“By all the gods!” he declared, “I cannot tolerate this insolence! The god of this river has overstepped his proper bounds with this theft! Have I not been called the Son of Heaven even by my defeated enemies? The god of this river must be punished! I shall break his strength so that in future even women will be able to cross it easily without wetting their knees. Divide the army into two parts, half on one side of the river, half on the other; I shall mark out trenches on either side of the river for the army to dig.”
*** ***** ***
Digging the channels which had been marked out by Cyrus cost him the whole summer and most of autumn; and now the first frosts of early winter gave the fresh morning air a crispy bite. Even so it was with evident satisfaction that Cyrus now surveyed his army’s handiwork, as he inspected the river’s depth with Hystaspes.
True to his word, the pair was able to wade across the river easily; the water coming only midway up their calves; and the current was considerably slowed; their knees were not even wet, Hystaspes noticed, as they climbed up the other bank, the gradient of which had been adjusted on both sides to facilitate the army’s crossing.
“Well then Hystaspes,” Cyrus crowed enthusiastically “we have shown this river, Gyndes, who its master is!”
Hystaspes, however, though pleased at his king’s success nonetheless felt that it had been something of a distraction from the main purpose of the expedition; and one which had cost them much valuable time.
“Yes my Lord;” he replied, a little wearily, “but we’ve lost the whole of the summer season digging the three hundred and sixty channels it took to do it!”
“Yes…” Cyrus drawled, thoughtfully. He could understand Hystaspes’ frustration; his general was eager to get at the enemy; like a hunting-dog, straining at the leash in its keen-ness to chase its prey, he thought. What Hystaspes doesn’t yet understand, Cyrus realized, is that by demonstrating my control over the natural elements like this, I have also just successfully completed my first act as a god. But somehow he felt that for him to say anything of this would still, he felt, have been rather immodest, so instead he simply ignored the implied criticism and changed the subject, “It looks like we shall have to winter here; we can raid the country-side for our supplies through the winter… we’ll attack in spring.”
“Yes your majesty,” Hystaspes said obediently, then, just a little hesitantly, he added, “but the disruption this will cause to the Assyrians’ economy will warn them of our intent to take Babylon.”
For such a great general, Cyrus thought to himself, the prince of the Paretacenae could certainly be obtuse at times. He found himself missing the quick, agile and subtle mind of Harpagus. Harpagus, he thought, would have been most amused by Hystaspes’ obtuseness. Patiently, Cyrus turned towards him, looking Hystaspes right in the eyes, so that he could see the twinkle that sparkled in his own, as the king laughed and said, ”Hystaspes, they know that much already! Their king, Labynetus, will be waiting for us even now, I’m sure.”
Hystaspes frowned; he was a little relieved that at least Cyrus was aware that his attack on Babylon would be no surprise to her current Assyrian occupants. Yet he was a little taken aback by what, to him, looked like Cyrus’ carefree attitude to their expedition. After all, he thought to himself, until Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Cyaxares had evicted them from their capital city of Nineveh, thus forcing them to retreat to Babylon, the Assyrians had for centuries been the most powerful state in the world; Hystaspes could not help but feel that they were about to grab a tiger by its tail.
“Indeed your majesty;” he responded grimly, “the taking of Babylon will be no easy matter; her walls are of baked brick and they are very high and very strong…“
“Hmmm“ Cyrus hummed thoughtfully; mentally reminding himself that it was his extremely cautious nature which made Hystaspes such an efficient general. And he was right about the Assyrians taking a defensive position behind Babylon’s reputedly invincible walls; he was quite sure that will be exactly what they would do. What neither they nor Hystaspes knew, however, was that Cyrus had already learned of a weak spot in her defences. He had said nothing of this to anyone, fearing that if the enemy should get wind of what he was planning they would simply take steps to circumvent it. But, just to put the poor puzzled Hystaspes out of his misery; at least to some degree; he said enigmatically, “That’s true Hystaspes. But perhaps their very strength may prove to be their undoing!”
Now Hystaspes was genuinely relieved; he had no need to know what Cyrus’ plan was for the taking of Babylon; he merely needed to know that his king actually had a plan. And although he could make little sense of this, his king’s latest utterance, yet he was quite confident that it made perfect sense to Cyrus, at least; and that was all that mattered. Indeed, Hystaspes now thought that his king and emperor certainly seemed to know exactly what he had in mind; and if he said nothing further about it, Hystaspes knew now that this was because of the need for secrecy and not for want of a plan.
*** ***** ***
09 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted in Politics in the Pig's Arms
Tags
Dear Friends of the Pig’s Arms – we’ve been collaborating a bit lately with friends at the new blog – thedailybludge.
This little gem from one of their readers – Denise – CFMEU response to mining industry gnashing, wailing and rending of garments…. We’ll all be RUINED !
08 Tuesday Jun 2010
Posted in Gregor Stronach
Tags
..... oh, I thought you said satyr
By Gregor Stronach
My name is Gregor Stronach, and I am a satirist. It’s not a full time occupation – I doubt that anyone, aside from George Carlin and perhaps George Bush, is making a living out of full time satire in the world today.
But that doesn’t mean that you, gentle reader, should baulk at the idea of becoming a satirist yourself. I’ve decided to help you in this endeavour, should the mood ever take you and your desire to make fun of other people from behind a shield of smug conceit overwhelm what is otherwise a personality based on good taste and pleasant humour.
For the ease of remembrance, I will divide this lesson into seven easy sections – rules to live by, should you become a satirist, or just simply rules by which you can see the ‘magic’ of the satirist explained.
1. Making fun of individual people. This is perhaps the easiest of all satire, and is usually the least rewarding, unless done very, very well. There are two ways of approaching this, and the method through which it is achieved depends on the nature of the person you’re attacking – I mean, lampooning. Should the person upon whom you have decided to heap your scorn be quite clearly a total buffoon, ie Michael Jackson, George Bush (Sr or Jr, it matters not for the purposes of the exercise) or a woeful sportsperson such as Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, the methodology is simple. Merely quote them, or describe their exploits, and wonder to your readers in phrases such as “How on earth am I supposed to sleep at night?”, or “It’s little wonder children are afraid of birthday clowns.”
The harder targets are the smarter ones, people such as Colin Powell, Margaret Thatcher or The Pope. In cases like this, it’s often best to descend into puerile or infantile ramblings: “Colin Powell likes to eat his own snot!!!” or “The Pope tried to touch me. In a special place.”
2. Making fun of groups of people. This is slightly more difficult than making fun of a smart person, and there are several pitfalls to be avoided. First of all, before you rush out and begin making gags based on racial stereotypes, make sure you can claim some sort of connection to the group you’re talking about, however tangential that connection might be. The only people who can get up on stage, or put pen to paper and talk about how all Italians are like the Sopranos, or how all Asian folks know Kung Fu but can’t drive, are members of those communities. For a middle class white man, such as myself, to make those remarks, it’s racism. But if you’re a member of a minority, it ceases to be racism, and becomes ‘holding up a mirror to the world’, or ‘telling it like it is. In the ‘hood. Yo.’ Important stuff indeed.
3. Lampooning Politics. It’s easy to do so from a right wing position, and beyond difficult from anywhere left of moderate. PJ O’Rourke, lifelong Republican and one of the greatest living satirists has it easy. Making a gag that has a reader laughing guiltily, blushing furiously and thinking quietly to themselves ‘if my pseudo-intellectual friends catch me laughing about the plight of the Haitian people, I’ll never sip chardonnay with them again’ is very easy. But approaching the same problem (using Haiti as an example again) from the leftist view, it verges on the impossible to complete the task without resorting to iconoclastic ramblings. Of course, you’ll need to add the occasional ‘but it’s OK, because I gave Reuben, my guide, every penny I earned for writing this story’ feel good phrase thrown in for good measure. It’s funny, because we all know that there isn’t a leftist on the planet who likes paying for anything, let alone the $25 they generally get paid per article in their limp little newsletters. Plus, leftists tend to be dope fiends or drunks, and as a rule they have no money.
4. The Facts. How you treat the ‘facts’ of any matter is vitally important, and there’s a scale that needs to be memorised. When dealing with ‘facts’, it’s obviously best to have your facts 100% correct. Next best, surprisingly, is to have them 100% wrong, in case you ever get called on what you’ve written, and need to fall back on the satirist’s best retort: ‘It’s satire, you moron, and I didn’t mean a word of it’. Any mix of facts, right and wrong, means disaster. You’re better off claiming that George Bush has personally drowned better than 160 kittens in the White House swimming pool than suggesting he’s responsible for thousands of innocent Iraqi citizens losing their lives through his attempts to ‘liberate’ them. The former example is ludicrous, and bound to raise a wry chuckle at the very least. The latter smacks of effort and earnestness – two things to be avoided at all costs. The satirist should always appear aloof and sophisticated, saving angry rants for polite dinner conversation and ensuring that the reader feels included in the writer’s air of callous conceit.
5. Making fun of a tragic event. This is a tricky one, but there’s a rule of thumb that I have developed that makes the art of lampooning bad news, without fear of overtly offending large slabs of the population. A satirist should skate close to the edge, but never, ever cross the line into truly tasteless humour.
So when assessing a calamitous event to see whether it is fit to be lampooned, one must simply look to the last word in the title of that event. Anything that ends in ‘Tragedy’ is verboten, such as ‘The Diana Spencer Tragedy’. Anything that ends with ‘Disaster’ is fair game, for example ‘The Challenger Disaster’. Anything that ends with ‘Bombing’ or ‘Attack’ should be left alone for at least three months, before testing the waters with a few genteel, sombre jokes. ‘Killings’ should never be touched, but ‘Slayings’ or ‘Shootings’ are generally ripe for the satirists attention within a week of the final burial. Naturally, ‘Scandal’ should be leapt upon within seconds and devoured like ice cream on a scalding hot day, except for anything that ends in ‘-gate’, in which case the satire should best be left to the mainstream press and their hamfisted attempts to ‘expose the truth’.
6. Religion. It’s the modern satirist’s minefield, so beware – the laughs could land you some serious karmic retribution, in jail, on the wrong end of a Holy War or an eternity in a fiery afterlife, depending on who you manage to annoy. It’s best, when attempting religious satire, to go all out on your own ‘people’ first, paving the way for some bone-crushingly insensitive comments concerning other people’s beliefs. A few religions are quite tolerant of satire – the Moonees know how silly they are, the Amish will never, ever hit you, no matter what you do and Catholics have shown uncharacteristic kindness towards Mel Gibson’s latest satirical efforts, so they have clearly stopped caring. Middle Eastern religions are generally easy going, except for a fringe element that is notoriously intolerant of ridicule – unless you covet the notion of waking up one morning strapped to a bomb, it’s best to steer clear altogether. Avoid conflict with the Scientologists too – they, along with the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons, will subscribe you to every mailing list known to man, and will visit you, at home, at six in the morning, every day for the rest of your life. Leave satirising the Jewish people to the Jews – no one does it better, and you’ll just end up looking foolish. Of course, for those that have tried and failed and are feeling down upon themselves, you could always look to the pseudo-spiritual teachings of cult leader Anthony Robbins. Even though the idea of ‘Awakening the Giant Within’ actually sounds pretty painful, I’m assured by Anthony himself that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
7. Yourself. The most important weapon in the arsenal of the satirist is a rifle made entirely of self-deprecation. The knack is to beat the reader – and, more importantly, the object of your satire – to the punch. “Mother Theresa was an old whore with no morals! But I have a small dick – how funny is that?’ is a shining example. Be prepared to debase yourself on a million levels, and in the instance of satirising yourself, comical overstatement is paramount. Not only will it provide your audience with an instant sense of relief should you inadvertently offend them, but it’s also a relatively cheap form of therapy. You can also use this arena to admit your ‘sins’ before the eyes of God, safe from the long arm of the law – after all, it’s satire, isn’t it? None of it, no matter how truthful, will stand up in court.
I trust that this document will assist you in your efforts to bring your own warped view of the world into the public arena. (I should note that during the typing of that sentence, my scrotum was attacked and, apparently, punctured by my pet kitten. It’s this sort of emotional availability that separates the wheat from the satirical chaff.) I am available for private tuition in the art of satire, should you feel that these lessons aren’t enough. The fees are steep, but remember – the mark of a good satirist is someone who knows where to start. The mark of a brilliant satirist is someone who knows when to stop. So I’ll stop. Now.
First published by http://www.Rumandmonkey.com
07 Monday Jun 2010
Posted in Emmjay, The Dining Room
Persimmons - the offal fruit
There’s a time of year that I for one have traditionally come to dread. It’s marked out for all to see in the fruit and veg in the local greengrocers.
I’m talking about the arrival of truckloads of persimmons.
Persimmons have no reason to resist extinction. No more reason do they have to exist, than do chokoes. Yes, they are cheerfully orange at a grey time of year and yes, they have a squishy texture. But they have a dreadful mouth feel – not unlike something hacked up from a lower lobe of a diseased lung. And they have a more-or-less total lack of flavour. Sorry, I meant to say that they have a very delicate perfume, quite reminiscent of Clag glue – that favourite staple of my early school years.
Not far behind the persimmons we notice the mandarins. I personally have no axe to grind with mandarins. Except the ones that have a seed content approaching 87%. I quite like the mandarin zest that accumulates under the fingernails, the sticky fingers and the bucket load of skin one needs to dispose as part of the after-lunchtime ritual. Or not.
There are of course pomegranates to widen the choice of inedible fruit during the colder months. Pomegranates remind us that we are a culturally diverse nation, doffing our hats to Persia, North Africa and the Middle East. And like the inhabitants of those climes, they bring colour and texture to our otherwise bland Anglo fare. But they bring seeds. Man oh man, they are a seed-rich experience
And quinces – that intriguing cross between apples and rocks. Thirty cents and the greengrocer will fill up the boot of your car with quinces – because they are a such a sought-after delicacy. As an alternative, you might consider drying them and using them as a carbon-neutral source of bio-fuel. Or road base. Strangely, quince paste is sometimes flogged as an antidote to blue cheese. The idea being that one smears some on a cracker, followed by blue cheese and then (incredibly) it’s supposed to be OK to eat. In my experience, quince paste makes an excellent emergency alternative to axle grease and should be part of every caravanner’s kit. Particularly if the tub is inexplicably lost interstate.
So what do these phoney pretenders to green-grocer shelf-space have in common ? Answer: they need to have the absolute bejesus stewed out of them with the addition of two thirds of the Bundaberg sugar crop to be made into the kind of preserves that jostle for space up the back of the fridge behind the coleslaw. And compete, unsuccessfully with the rock of the school fete – Lemon Butter.
In recent years we’ve seen the arrival of new exotic fruit. I’m mindful of the dragon fruit – with lovely red, triffid-like skin and fruit with the flavour and texture of jellied sand with black sesame seeds thrown in by way of contrast.
What to do ? It’s depressing to wander the aisles of the green grocer in the months lacking an “r”. Best to stay away for a while. I prefer to go for mainstream preserves during the discontent of our winter. I eke out a meagre existence on Poire William or Calvados, maybe Slivovitz, and Kirsch – at a pinch, Vodka citron. Sometimes I even resort to eating Californian pesticides harvested and imported as heavily disguised navel oranges or ruby red grapefruit.
In a desperate attempt to make it through to the first mango of the season, I sometimes revert to purchasing chestnuts – a relative newcomer to the Australian green grocery. These can sit in the pantry for months until the first mango of the new season arrives, pristine, in its orangey-red hugeness direct from the mango fields of the Northern Territory. Like the first swallow returning to Capistrano, this mango is not for eating. The five dollar price tag covers just the transport cost. Flavour and texture are not included in the price. Colour, yes, but flavour and texture, no way.
But the chestnuts are divine. Not for eating, for reminding one of the romance of roast chestnuts in the snow on the Champs Elysees. I recommend that you do remember them this way – even if you have never been to Paris, I can faithfully report that winter fruit does not get better than this.
Purchase enough chestnuts to pan roast for two people. That would be two chestnuts. Then leave them in the pantry until the first stone fruit of the new season appears – and – throw the chestnuts out – saving you the trouble of third degree lacerations from trying to peel them, or third degree burns in the unlikely event that you CAN peel them and inadvertently put one in your mouth. Oh, and if you’ve made it this far with the chestnuts, they will have a texture and a taste not unlike pencil erasers – completing (with the persimmon-Clag combination) the daily double of infants’ school taste reminiscences.
Not a good memory, but a memory, none-the-less. Glad to have one.
This was first Published by the ABC at Unleashed – Christ knows why – they disappeared it totally – after just three days …..
This version has the spelling mistakes fixed and a better photo.
07 Monday Jun 2010
Posted in Big M
Tags
The things you find on the Internet - here's a virtual pelvice floor....
By Big M
There were only two items on this morning’s agenda. The first item was Dr James’s P.E.N.I.S, and Nurse Riley’s ‘problems’. Sister Kent was squirming, trying to get her support stockings comfortable. She’d worn support hose for most of her life, now they, and the varicose veins were the only things keeping her upright, her bones almost completely demineralised by years of smoking and drinking black coffee.
Mrs Tickle had a quizzical expression. The board members all assumed she was concentrating hard on the minutes. She was, in fact, struggling with her pelvic floor exercises. She’s become a convert after a visit to a urologist who’d threatened all sorts of surgical interventions for her pubococcygeus.
Dr James was resplendent in a brand new Sylvatex suit, K-market tie, and business shirt. He was also wearing a new cologne, ‘Links-Hyena’, also from the K-market. It was supposed to be a real ‘turn on’ for the ladies, so he was hoping to try it out at lunchtime.
Acacia was already hard at work writing short hand. This was unusual as she was often nursing a broken acrylic nail, and unable to concentrate. The other problem was that she couldn’t read short hand.
Uva Kent poured herself a cup of thick, tarry hospital coffee, which she topped up with hospital brandy. She moved the Camel around to the corner of her mouth, so she could speak, smoke and talk, all the while in a pall of blue smoke. “Well James, now that we’ve all managed to see your penis in action, I must say, I’m appalled.”
“Appalled, why, I think that my P.E.N.I.S. is working quite well. We’ve managed to close one ward, saving money by retrenching staff. The hospital will have saved three hundred thousand by the end of the financial year.” James was indignant.
“Saved money on paper, but spent over four hundred thou on casual RNs, and we’ve lost experienced staff to the private system, plus the litany of incident forms, complaints to the area health service, and adverse publicity in the local rag.” She glanced at Acacia’s pad, which was covered in meaningless doodles. “Hope you’re getting’ this all down, luvvy, not talkin’ too quick, are we?”
“Please refrain from berating my secretary. The matter at hand is my P.E.N.I.S, not Ms Bush’s shorthand.” James referred to the balance sheet in front of him. “I think some of the board members could do with a lesson in reading balance sheets.”
“Yes, terrific idea.” Mrs Tickle had finally relaxed her pelvic floor. “Perhaps the board could have some in-service education?”
“Tess, have another cup of tea, dear.” Uva was just a tad condescending.” Blind Freddy can see that four hundred thou minus three hundred thou is a hundred thou over budget. A bloody school kid could tell you that!” Uva stood up to pour another coffee and brandy.
Dr James smiled. Obviously old Sister Kent was confused by all of these numbers. “Clearly my P.E.N.I.S. is a great success. We’ll have that recorded in the minutes, thankyou Ms Bush.” Acacia’s doodles were becoming more flamboyant. “On to our other agenda item, which, I believe Sister Kent raised.”
Uva was ensconced in her cloud of smoke. “It’s your boy, Geoffrey. Coupla little things. One, he stinks, not just BO, he reeks. Two, he’s perpetually unshaven. Three, he’s an idiot…”
James interrupted. “Sister Kent. One, he’s not my boy. Two, his personal hygiene is not the business of the board and three, I’ll not stand by whilst you use pejorative terms to describe a staff member.”
Acacia was struggling to find a doodle to represent ’pejorative’, which was difficult, as she had no idea of what the word meant. Mrs Tickle was screwing her face up again. She was back in the ‘zone’, that is, the ‘pelvic floor zone’.
“Well James, can I suggest that you have a coupla little words in the lad’s pink, shell-like regarding his aroma, and, perhaps, while you’re with him, you can teach him how to use a razor?” Uva flicked the ash from her uniform. “Perhaps you could introduce him to your tailor and teach him how to wash and iron, given that you seemed to have mastered these so well.”
Dr James took this as a great compliment. He was proud of his sartorial taste. He had one of the highest dry-cleaning bills in the hospital. “Why, thankyou, Uva, I am pressed for time, I’m giving the opening speech at the Incontinence Forum, but will find some time this afternoon.”
“What about the other matter?” Mrs Tickle had come out of the zone. “Geoffrey’s idiocy. What can we do about that?”
“Mrs Tickle, we’ve already minuted the fact that we don’t tolerate pejorative terms. We may even need to put that as part of our Mission Statement, but, as you are asking, Geoffrey does seem to have made a bit of a nuisance of himself in obstets.”
“Pfffft”. Uva only avoided choking on another butt because she’d run out of Camels. “Nuisance, that’s a bloody understatement! Now, let’s see, The Geoffrey File Volume Two.” The document was the size of the Sydney White Pages. “…Asked one of our older mums if she was the grandmother, in spite of the fact that she was sitting up in bed, in a nightie, breast feeding the baby…tripped over the ‘Caution, Wet Floor’ only three times this week…asked one of our most esteemed obstetricians if he was the ‘old kook’ who worked with vaginas…oh, here’s a good one, didn’t notice the high level of jaundice in a baby ‘on account of it being Chinese’. The parents were Caucasian. Need I go on?”
“Clearly Geoffrey isn’t cut out for obstets. As it happens, neither am I.” Dr James had made similar mistakes when he was on his extensive clinical experience in the hospital. “Perhaps we could transfer him to the Outpatient Clinics, just for some experience, and a little rest from shift work.”
“You’ll talk to him?” Uva was starting to slur her words; perhaps a wee bit too much ‘coffee’.
“Yes, I will, straight after lunch.” Dr James was looking forward to a visit to obstets, but not before a liberal splash of ‘Hyena’.
Geoffrey couldn’t wait to get home to tell Mum that he was being moved to the Clinic. She looked upon these moves as promotions, so would be really impressed, especially after disgracing himself at the Madis Gras. They should warn people that it’s for gays! She’d be even more impressed when he told her that the Director of Nursing, Dr James had been the one to tell him. He’d also let him in on the secret to success in nursing: washed and ironed uniforms every day, shower, shave and shampoo every day, and, the greatest secret of all, Dr James own brand of aftershave; Links-Hyena. He hurried as he had plenty of shopping to do at K-market.
06 Sunday Jun 2010
Posted in Astyages, Bands at the Pig's Arms
Tags
Steam Locomotive: The Duchess of Hamilton
Okay, here’s the second song I recorded that I thought sounded good enough to post
I know… it does sound a bit rough, but I’m sure that all my loyal piglet friends will understand the context and not expect the same from a jam session, recorded in my lounge on Abner’s iPod, as they might from a concert in the Royal Albert Hall or the Sydney Opera House…
Anyway, here’s our interpretation of Jethro Tull’s ‘Locomotive Breath’, from one of my favorite albums of all time, “Aqualung”. Highly recommended to anyone who’s never heard of or had the good fortune to listen to Jethro Tull; the very pinnacle of English folk-rock… I had the great privilige of watching Tull perform live at Hammersmith Odeon circa 1979 I think; I’ll just bet Julian was there too… Anyway, without further ado, here it is:
🙂
03 Thursday Jun 2010
Posted in Astyages, Bands at the Pig's Arms
Tags
Last night the front bar of the Pigs Arms was treated to a sneak preview of the Burnside Refugees latest jam session. In this sneak preview, bootleged from last night’s concert in the front bar, T2 does ‘Elvis’; the song is sadly incomplete as Abner forgot to hit the ‘record’ button at the start, but it gives you an idea; will try to post something a bit more complete shortly…
Anyway, here they are, jamming together for the first time in over a year, a big hand please, folks, for the BURNSIDE REFUGEES!
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!
🙂
02 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted in Bands at the Pig's Arms, Big M
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Brought to you by the Pig’s super muso-sleuth, Big M.
01 Tuesday Jun 2010
Posted in Politics in the Pig's Arms, Warrigal Mirriyuula
Australia's political future
Well-crafted rant by Warrigal Mirriyuula
This is getting ridiculous. We’ve got an election in a few months and as of this date it looks like most of us wouldn’t vote for either of the major parties, and many of the minor political groupings and independents look increasingly self interested, irrelevant, marginalised or simply loopy; except the Greens, which look like getting a significant fraction of the primary vote, 16 percent some are saying, even if only by default. The Greens of course can say what they like. That they’ll not have to form a government any time soon assures them of that right. Their role at this time is to be the net that will catch the disaffected voters from both sides.
So what happened to the notion of Rudd as saviour from the excesses of Tiny Johnny Small, The Turd Long Boy’s crypto-fascism? How did this man we saw as some kind of political demi urge cock it up so badly that most of us now think him a wonk at best, at worst an disingenuous shyster? On the other side; why have the Liberal party abandoned any semblance of liberalism and shown themselves openly to be the cats paw of big money interests, unable to see the utter social, cultural and philosophical poverty of the idea that “the market” will save us all if only we’d let it rip? It worked really well for the financial markets didn’t it?
As a nation we’re up to our hips in shit and, as Harry Jenkins had it the other day, our elected leaders are flinging schoolyard abuse at one another across the chamber over whether or not Clive Palmer really is the CEO and principal shareholder of the Liberal party.
I think the repulsive Sophie Mirabella had it best when she spat vituperatively at Rudd, “No one believes you any more, you fool.” Of course she conveniently didn’t mention that her side has offered no believable policy for quite some time and she has never done anything but spit and scratch like the fevered feral pussy she is.
And what are the media doing while this farce seems to get more farcical as the days before the election shorten? Well they’re doing for the most part what they’ve always done. They’re pandering and fluffing fit to bust. The notion that the tiny exclusive club of Australian media owners has anything on its mind other that sowing continual discord and misinformation in the pursuit of an ersatz political debate full of heat and fury but no substance just so they can prop up their failing old economy business models and keep the shareholders sweet is just laughable, except that it really is quite serious. Look at Channel Seven’s shameless handling of the Campbell case. So obsessed with the prurient aspects of the story they missed the simple fact that he, like the rest of NSW Labor, has been so incompetent in his portfolio that NSW has gone from Wran’s conceit of being the “Premier” state to being in a state of almost irreversible disarray, disrepair and decline. But would you vote for a party dominated by the evil David Clarke, because he is the weeping pustule behind Big Barry O’Farrell’s smiling but ultimately empty head.
So what are these problems we really must get our heads around if we’re not to fall into the pit toilet future our politicians seem so keen to dig for us.
No side has yet given any indication they are committed to both acknowledging the reality of climate change and the need to act nationally in our own interest and that of the globe more generally. The Murray Darling is still our biggest environmental challenge for while it’s just managing to feed most of us, it’s dying none the less. The recent floods have only postponed the inevitable. One of the greatest disappointments of the Rudd ascendency must be Penny Wong and her incompetent mishandling of the negotiations over the ETS with Turnbull that saw Minchin install his favourite glove puppet before buggering off to greener pastures leaving us with Big Ears, the Mad Monk. Make no mistake; we have Abbott because of Penny Wong’s short sighted arrogance and stupidity and, as always, the cupidity of big money Liberal backers.
After the now apparent lip service of the so called “Apology” and that great gab fest held in Canberra shortly after Rudd was elected why is it that Indigenous issues are as far from the heart of Canberra’s great concerns as ever they were and none of the grand intellectual gems of the gab fest have been realised. It really was, as so many said at the time, just a photo op for Rudd and Cate Blanchett. Aboriginal children are still appallingly afflicted with Chlamydia and a host of other preventable diseases, their culture and languages discounted, forgotten, their families and communities still beset with such difficulty as the white paradigm gets back to business as usual.
Neither side has dealt meaningfully with the GFC as a regulatory challenge; and this at a time when our pensions are more and more leveraged by fund managers with an eye on the main chance. How many Australians, forced into the share market by legislation, now find their hard earned superannuation halved or even quartered by the unconstrained greed of people they don’t even know. Further; Rudd’s genius idea of funding the future with an income stream from the mineral boom, potentially the greatest lay down misere for average Australians who, having lost every turn in that boom up until now, might just have won the hand; none the less looks like foundering on the rocks of a well funded disinformation campaign paid for by that same Clive Palmer and the likes of Andrew Forrest, both billionaires from digging up our dirt and not a bit grateful for it, bleating that such a tax is unAustralian. I suppose because so many Australians are mining billionaires. Beats the shit outa me!
And what about the great Australian polity, what about us the electors? Are we really so stupid as to think that this internecine tribal warfare will actually serve us well in a future that is increasingly complex and demanding of greater personal commitment than the simple slavish repetition of idiot mantras like” great big new tax” or “for working families”. And don’t get me started on communications policy; the rise of Conroy’s militant self righteousness, all in a sweat over titties and bums on the net but couching its creepy Christian campaign in terms of child protection, just another dog whistle in the moral panic we appear to be in over our kids, because we love to panic, we just don’t panic constructively enough to want to do anything about it. So what do we get but a filter that won’t work and another slanging match between the mental midget Conroy and Google because Conroy isn’t bright enough to see that what he wants to do is a refracted version of what he accuses Google of doing. The paedophiles are laughing all the way to their secret file swap sites. It beggars belief except that all this is true, the transcripts are available.
I’ll take a breath now while I consider something a friend said the other day. He said, “Spengler was right. Before collapse you get comedy!” and of course he’s right, not that Spengler actually ever said that, that’s the stand up version of what Spengler said. Spengler wasn’t into post modernism and probably wouldn’t have subscribed to semiotics even if someone had filled him in but that’s what Spengler meant. But then Spengler was a madman howling in the wilderness too.
“And your point is?” I hear you all asking.
I have no real point. This was just a vent really, a bit of a spit at the political class. After all, that’s what democracy is about, it’s all we’re allowed these days, a vent and a spit at the ballot box. Trying to maintain an opinion contrary to any of the prevailing paradigms is difficult. You’ll get slagged off and marginalised. Just ask Petro Georgiou or Judi Moylan. When Abbott went back to the future the other day on boat people they tried to speak up for compassion and humanity only to be put back in their box by Abbott’s stupid and mendacious line on The Liberal Party being “a broad church”; but as Petro and Judi know, you only get heard if you sing in the choir singing from the choirmasters song sheet. Soloists are discouraged no matter how sweet their song.
And me? I probably won’t do anything about any of the points I raised until I’m in that little cardboard cubicle with the pencil in my hand. Sadly even then I’ll only have a politician to invest my hopes in. Makes me wonder why I bother; except that there once was a bloke called Peter Andren and I live in hope that when the chips are down and the shit’s flying, someone like him might turn up ready to serve.
One can but hope.
