09 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted in Politics in the Pig's Arms
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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
Tags
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.
31 Monday May 2010
Posted in Emmjay, The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar
Ducati 250cc Mk III - photos courtesy of Stew Ross
The Pig’s Arms has clocked up its first year and nearly every day we get a person or two coming over to read the piece mentioning perhaps the greatest road bike ever built – the Ducati 900ss. This was a monster that sorted out the men from the boys simply by having a clutch beyond the power of a wimp to engage. It was a beautiful, elegant piece of open road mischief, and a mechanics’ dream to keep on the road. But for any serious motorcyclist of the 1970s and beyond, it was street cred writ large.
I have never owned one and the closest I’ve come to riding one was a more modern, heavier and more brutal Mike Hailwood replica.
But for a year or so I did have the pleasure of riding my girlfriend’s Ducati 250 Mk III Desmo. At the time I owned and rode a BMW R75/6 – a sweet as a nut touring bike with a bikini fairing borrowed from the big brother R90/6.
What a contrast ! The Duke weighed about half as much as the BM and was tiny in comparison. But it was a joy to ride. And it was reputedly good for 100 mph. But it was pretty scary over 70 or 80 – probably because I was always short of coin in those days and I used to eke out the last adhesion available in the Pirellis, Michelins, Avons or Metzelers or Continentals – or whatever the last owner had graciously conceded at sale time.
And another small matter was that the gear shift and rear brake were respectively on the right and left – the opposite of just about everything else on two wheels at the time. Not a good idea to forget this in a decreasing radius corner.
When one piles the miles on one’s own clock, it’s easy to forget the simple pleasures of youth. Every now and again, I feel a hankering for the thrills of my life back then. Last weekend, FM and I ticked one item off our bucket list and went off on a Ferrari drive weekend. We went in convoy behind a generously-driven Alfa GT and drove from Sydney down to Kiama- via the Royal national Park, along the seabridge and through Jamberoo. We took turns in a 1988 F328 manual – the best in my view – an F355, F360 and a 2006 F430. The newish one had 500 horses under the bonnet and acceleration that was beyond belief. Make no mistake, driving a Ferrari is a blast, but the average number of outings per year undertaken by people who are so indulgent that they buy one – is just 12. A toy. And a bloody expensive one at that. The excess insurance for the weekend was a snip at $10,000 and so we were all rather careful that we didn’t need to call it in.
But cars, are well, just cars and when I was thinking about my old bikes (most of which had stellar acceleration by car standards ) and eyeball-popping brakes – and some also had handling too, my thoughts returned to one of the greatest little motorcycles ever built. I was fooling around looking for pictures and videos of the little beast – having little or no chance of finding my own and I discovered over at Youtube a clip of a Ducati 250 (probably an early 70’s Mk III following a Ferrari 328 along a freeway. Go find that for yourself. But there were better images to be had and there’s a video for your delight below.
The spectacular Ducati singles were made mostly in the late ’60s and early ’70s. Ducati started out with the small 250s – and as many manufacturers have done – they upped the ante by hotting up the 250, that later became a 350 and an astonishingly good wheel-standing 450. Big M said he saw a 450 for sale recently unrestored – asking price ten grand. And Duke restoration is a heroic undertaking requiring highly specialised and detailed mechanical engineering knowledge – or access to that bloke.
Then Ducati had a little brain explosion and built something ordinary – the 500cc parallel twin. Redeemed later with the gorgeous SL500 V twin Desmo Pantah in the early 1980s. One of which is in FM ‘s Dad’s shed waiting for me to cash up.
In the mean time I also found one of a solid band of Australian collectors and restorers and Stewart Ross kindly gave me the use of photographs of his amazing concourse condition 1968 Ducati 250 Mk III. My girlfriend’s bike was probably one year older and had – of all things, two filler caps on the tank. Photos of that model are even more rare – many actually being a 350.
Best movie is a bit cheesy and it’s a very modern 250. But it certainly brings it all back for me.
Enjoy you old road warriors. Vale Dennis Hopper.
31 Monday May 2010
Posted in Susan Merrell
Julian Moti - photo abc.net.au
Fred Martens - photo by JAKE NOWAKOWSKI cairns.com.au
By Susan Merrell
Between the years 1994 when Australia’s child-sex tourism legislation was adopted and March 2009 when the latest charge under this legislation was laid there have been 30 arrests according to statistics provided by Childwise, Australia’s leading child protection agency.
Only 5 of these offences were committed in the Pacific. So one every three years. Does this crime hardly ever occur in the Pacific?
Not according to Bernadette McMenamin AO, CEO of Childwise who thinks the explanation lies with the Australian Federal Police (AFP) who are falling down on the job.
Ms. McMenamin believes that most child-sex tourists are not being caught. She believes Police have become reactive instead of pro active, in fact the words she used were “incredibly lazy.”
“Police don’t even go into the bars where most offences are committed,” she said. “Apparently their protocol doesn’t allow it.”
Yet the AFP’s website claims that: “The Australian Federal Police actively monitors and prosecutes child sex tourists.”
“The Australian government won’t even let Childwise do any preventative work in the Pacific,” said Ms. McMenamin. She doesn’t really know why.
Ms McMenamin was also disappointed with the paltry sums of government money that was given her organization – even when they were conducting national campaigns.
Child-sex tourism is a complex issue revolving around unequal power and poverty. There’s a large element of neo-colonialism. Child-sex tourists often exist in a dissociative state. “They’re different to us, so it’s OK.” The children are poor, they need the money. Poverty is also the explanation why witnesses to the crime are easily bought off.
The same paradigms exist in reverse. It’s also relatively easy to find someone who will make a false allegation of child-sex tourism if enough money is proffered. In the Pacific, throw enough money around (and it doesn’t need to be a lot) and you can get people to say what did happen didn’t, and what didn’t did.
Of the five people charged for child-sex tourism in the Pacific there’s only been one solid conviction. Of the other four, there’s been one acquittal and one withdrawal through lack of evidence.
Then there are the cases of Fred Martens and Julian Moti.
If Ms. McMenamin is correct in her belief that the AFP lack the will to prosecute child-sex cases generally then these two cases are glaring anomalies.
The AFP tenaciously pursued Fred Martens and obtained a conviction. Martens’ family finally found the evidence that proved his innocence. This was evidence that the AFP had sworn under oath did not exist. Some of this evidence they had wilfully removed. By this time Martens had been in jail for around three years. Martens is suing for $45 million dollars. That’s going to prove an expensive stuff-up by the AFP on the public purse!
In the case of Moti, Tuesday 1 June, will be another chapter in his saga. It’s when the Commonwealth Director of Public Prosecutions (CDPP) will begin an appeal in the Brisbane Supreme Court against the decision of Justice Debra Mullins when she granted Moti a permanent stay of proceedings because the payment to witnesses brought the court into disrepute. (Interpretation: AFP bribed the witnesses for testimony)
So it seems the criminals buy off witnesses in child-sex cases to stop them testifying and the AFP do too but to secure testimony. It makes it hard to tell the good guys from the bad, doesn’t it?
For Fred Martens also has irrefutable evidence that people were paid by the AFP to bear witness in his case.
It’s bribery, and it’s wrong. Justice Mullins saw that. Blind Freddy can. But the CDPP will expensively argue their case regardless.
Besides, the child-sex tourism laws were meant to function as a back-up for when paedophiles escaped prosecution in the jurisdiction where the crime was allegedly committed. Ms. McMenamin states that the Australian authorities certainly prefer that option, given the costs of a prosecution.
Not in the Moti case. They prosecuted even though the charges had already been heard by a Vanuatu court that found Moti had no case to answer.
For Martens, he was never allowed to go back to Papua New Guinea and face his accuser – he was willing to. No expense has been spared pursuing these two men.
Why are these two cases so anomalous with the usual uninterested conduct of the AFP in child-sex tourism cases?
Politics motivated the prosecutions. And for that allegation there is overwhelming evidence that is much more than circumstantial. I’ve seen this evidence. It comes straight from official minutes of the AFP and has everything to do with Australia’s political agenda in the Pacific.
To explain a very complex issue in a few words: Moti as attorney general of the Solomon Islands was considered an impediment to Australia’s interests. In the case of Martens, Australia needed to justify –with a successful arrest – its proposed policing role in Papua New Guinea (which was eventually to falter under a PNG court ruling of the illegality of one of its terms.)
Even the family of Moti’s alleged victim – the very family that were having all their expenses paid in order that they be available to testify (and still are despite the December ruling) have stated to the press (The Age May 28) that although the AFP couched their encouragement to prosecute in terms of ‘justice’ in reality it became evident that their motives were political.
This is as much abuse of the alleged victim as is the alleged crime.
Child-sex tourism legislation is good legislation – if only someone would use it well and as intended.
First published at Open Forum Sunday 30 / 5 / 2010
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 