It is said that Rupert Murdoch's worldwide empire includes 70% of Australia's print media, and a great deal of the rest of the media here also. In Adelaide as in some other cities there is only one newspaper, and where this is so, it is because Rupert Murdoch has killed off the original opposition. That he, a man who traded his Australian nationality for the greater wealth he could make by becoming an American citizen, can through this media domination virtually prosecute a war on this or any Australian Government is outrageous and intolerable.
Murdoch's own organisation is deeply corrupt, and he is not a fit person to control such a huge proportion of the means by which people receive information. I ask the investigators to use all means at their disposal to loosen Murdoch's stranglehold on Australian media, and to make those who foment hatred and misinformation in all media much more subject to being held to account.
Elsewhere in the world many are calling for the Murdoch dynasty to be dismantled, or at least diluted, and the voice of Australia, the most heavily murdochratised of all nations, should be at the forefront of this chorus.
[As I write Murdoch is being described on ABC 24 as "The media Sun-King"! ]
This brings me to the other half of my concern: the downgrading of the ABC during the last decade, and in particular since the introduction of ABC 24. Never mind the inexpertise and glitches, the fact that when the Prime Minister is being interviewed at press conferences one can almost never hear the questions; it is the poor quality of many ABC journalists’ reportage, their trivialisation of serious issues, their acting as an echo-chamber for the mainly-Murdoch mainstream commercial media, their fascination with the skin-deep, that angers and saddens me. In particular the habit of giving prominence to antiscientific points of view – Monckton being but the most staring example – amounts to sabotage of Australian unity, and mischievous treachery on the part of the ABC. Despite repeated and reasonable objections over time, the Insiders show has insisted on including such as Andrew Bolt, the accredited racist hate-monger, and others who are equally bigoted, who make no secret of their extreme Rightist stance, and who time-out-of-mind have been permitted to interrupt and browbeat others who may have contrary views.
No such extreme Leftist points of view are ever aired, (and none are wanted), but there is no equivalence between the screeching from the Right, and the reasoned tones of everyone else. Why the ABC has continued to countenance and feature and indeed thereby promote discredited and divisive and hateful viewpoints and individuals is for the Inquirers to consider, but it amounts at least to mischief counter to the public good, and beyond that, an absolutely intolerable abuse of this our public broadcaster to promote anti-(Labor)-Government points of view.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Political Sword is a blogsite set up by a certain Ad astra three years ago with its avowed focus being to hold politicians and journalists to account insofar as the blogosphere allows. He is, I may say, very well struck in years, eminent in his original profession, experienced in matters of life, and articulate, considered, prolific and sensible in all his written deliberations, which are to be found in hyper-abundance on his site. He is universally regarded as a ‘sage’!
The archives of TPS record the thoughts of Ad astra, and of many like myself who day by day think we might have something to contribute to the political and journalistic discourse. Most of us are mildly Leftish, but extremism of any kind seems to wither on TPS when it does arise. That is as it should be in the society also, but I accuse the agenda-driven mainstream media of prospering the hate-spitters rather. It is a pity that such as Ad astra and other social educators do not receive that sort of coverage. Unlike those who, through the media, arouse such mindless frenzy as those who stormed the galleries of the House of Representatives recently, Ad astra thinks matters through carefully before ‘speaking’. Unfortunately he doesn’t get to speak as do the shock jocks, a matter with dire consequences for the level of information in the public in this country.
Having read his work carefully day after day and month after month I realized just how fair and useful were Ad astra’s observations in matters political, and several months ago I prevailed on him as best I could to offer his services, by way of advice, to the ABC Board. I do think he was tempted, but he declined by reason of time constraints. He might yet be persuaded to give of his wisdom to those of a truly proactive and inquiring mind, and I do hope that might include yourselves. As for his bona fides, they are there for all to see.
The point is that Ad astra’s archived site itself is the body of my submission. All we good-willed and thoughtful people, we are not just writing in a momentary whim, this is the single issue that binds us, concern with the quality of the Media and its dynamic relationship with the Politics of this country.
We cannot say it any better than we have been saying it all along. The concentration of media is a disgrace and makes a mockery of any notion of egalitarian democracy, and the trivialization, misrepresentation and disinformation in matters of grave national interest is a dereliction and a serious mischief. The ABC seems to have taken sides as Ad astra and others have contemporaneously pointed out in specific and exhaustive detail.
I entreat you to do whatever you can to bring about action to remedy this generally parlous state of affairs.
May I say that were you to take the initiative and contact Ad astra directly via his blogsite, you would earn a great deal of credibility and respect from the many who follow his essays and posts on his site, merely by the goodwill it would engender.
I intend to send this submission as a post on The Political Sword too, (so there is no confusion.)
Ad astra himself has as I write not the slightest idea that I am so volunteering his advice.
He might be a bit embarrassed, as he would, but his wisdom is assuredly there for the asking.
An Afterthought:
Yesterday Ad astra said “Folks
I thought Insiders was a reasonably balanced program this morning.” . . .
He might well have put a ! after that!
Yours faithfully
Bruce Bilney
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Story of Me and Rory
The Story of Me and Rory!
This is the story of one of the most remarkable little coincidences of my life. It might not sound so extremely amazing in the retelling, but it still blows me out when I think about it, now, years later. And I now have the photograph to go with it. Courtesy Kira Tombs. All the names, places and events are true.
Right, I’ve driven up-country, north, about fifty miles, to a tiny hamlet of eight, yes eight houses, called Julia, yes Julia, near Eudunda in the Barossa Valley. (Colin Thiele, South Australia’s best-beloved author, and my one-time English tutor, was raised in tiny Julia.) I’ve gone to see an old friend Erick, but he’s not home as I get there. So I’m waiting only a few minutes, and a green Datsun station wagon drives up and a little bloke I’ve never seen before gets out. I take one look at him and the first thing I say is, “You look like me!”
The bloke is a little taken aback, “Do I?”
We look in the car mirror, Yep! We sure do look alike!
Similar glasses, gingery hair (what’s left of it), beard, expression, everything. He’s just a bit taller, and a bit younger, but I’m a bit better looking, naturally.
The bloke’s name is Rory Tombs. We get along so well that later that day he invites me to his house, at Australia Plains, another tiny settlement of just a few dwellings on the very edge of absolute dry sandy desert.
[This is desert with no knobs on, flat sand, the desertiest edge-of-desert I’ve ever been at, and it starts at the other side of the road. I’m impressed. The world of men, and every visible living thing, ends here. It is pure.]
Rory shows me his work: he’s a silversmith, he makes trinkets, some of them very pretty. He calls his little operation Treasures from the Tombs. Nice. We have a pleasant parting.
One week later, to the very day, I’ve gone South this time about 50 miles, to the seaside township of Aldinga, where the local pub is holding a music and poetry festival. There’d be, say, 200 people there. I’m now 100 miles from where I met Rory, with the whole length of the long fair city of Adelaide fair in the middle between us.
I’m there doin’ my thing, I’ve read my poetry, now I’m flying a SKYTE, my little flying wondercraft, for the delight of the kids who infest the area. One particularly graceful girl of about 11 (graceful in the way she herself flew the Skyte, as kids love to do, and graceful in her manner too) has meanwhile been looking at me hard, with a really puzzled, perplexed look on her pretty face. After a while she says to me, “Do you drive a green Datsun?”
“No,” I tell her, “I drive a silver Mitsubishi station wagon.”
“Oh . . .” she says . . .
but her puzzled expression deepens . . .
She hesitates, but she’s too puzzled to let it go -
Then she asks,
“Are you a silversmith?”
HOHH!
(It just takes my breath away!)
“RORY TOMBS!” I almost shout at her.
“I met him last week! At Julia!”
“He’s my grandfather!” says the little lass simply. “You look like him!”
“I KNOW!” I say.
Her name is Ebony Tombs.
********************************************************************************************
Her aunt is Kira Tombs. I think I must have met her there too. My memory of some of the events since then are a bit hazy. I’m not quite sure how or when we actually did meet but I went to visit her once and she had a little red-headed boy child, Jordan. A dawning Tombs head!
What I had not remembered is that Kira took a photo of the two of us, Rory and me, together. Anyway, having found me on Facebook, she some months ago sent me this astonishing photograph, and you can see what I mean. Doppelgangers!
As I say, I’m the good-looking-er one. Naturally. I won’t say which one that is. It’s obvious!
An old friend took one look and reckoned there was some skulduggery about it all . . .
Something about my Dad . . . who had red hair too.
Since writing the above I’ve contacted Kira who now has 3 kinder, Jordan 7, Gabriel 4, and Aurora who’s a baby girl. Turns out we have long-term close friends in common, Erick Monier’s family, the people who live at Julia that I went to visit. We have plans to go and visit Rory, whom I haven’t seen in quite a few years, and I would love too to catch up with the graceful 11-year-old Ebony, who is now 17! Her mother, Kira’s sister Mischkha (sp?) I think I might’ve met too but my mind is holey. (Greetings to both of you.) (Oh and I had a Samoyed named Mischkha, Russian for bruin, a nice term for bear.)
Notice, this story would have been just as amazing to me if it hadn’t been for Kira having taken that photograph, after all I knew how amazing it was, but it wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic to everybody else without it, Kira proved our uncanny similarity for posterity! Thanks Kira.
This is the story of one of the most remarkable little coincidences of my life. It might not sound so extremely amazing in the retelling, but it still blows me out when I think about it, now, years later. And I now have the photograph to go with it. Courtesy Kira Tombs. All the names, places and events are true.
Right, I’ve driven up-country, north, about fifty miles, to a tiny hamlet of eight, yes eight houses, called Julia, yes Julia, near Eudunda in the Barossa Valley. (Colin Thiele, South Australia’s best-beloved author, and my one-time English tutor, was raised in tiny Julia.) I’ve gone to see an old friend Erick, but he’s not home as I get there. So I’m waiting only a few minutes, and a green Datsun station wagon drives up and a little bloke I’ve never seen before gets out. I take one look at him and the first thing I say is, “You look like me!”
The bloke is a little taken aback, “Do I?”
We look in the car mirror, Yep! We sure do look alike!
Similar glasses, gingery hair (what’s left of it), beard, expression, everything. He’s just a bit taller, and a bit younger, but I’m a bit better looking, naturally.
The bloke’s name is Rory Tombs. We get along so well that later that day he invites me to his house, at Australia Plains, another tiny settlement of just a few dwellings on the very edge of absolute dry sandy desert.
[This is desert with no knobs on, flat sand, the desertiest edge-of-desert I’ve ever been at, and it starts at the other side of the road. I’m impressed. The world of men, and every visible living thing, ends here. It is pure.]
Rory shows me his work: he’s a silversmith, he makes trinkets, some of them very pretty. He calls his little operation Treasures from the Tombs. Nice. We have a pleasant parting.
One week later, to the very day, I’ve gone South this time about 50 miles, to the seaside township of Aldinga, where the local pub is holding a music and poetry festival. There’d be, say, 200 people there. I’m now 100 miles from where I met Rory, with the whole length of the long fair city of Adelaide fair in the middle between us.
I’m there doin’ my thing, I’ve read my poetry, now I’m flying a SKYTE, my little flying wondercraft, for the delight of the kids who infest the area. One particularly graceful girl of about 11 (graceful in the way she herself flew the Skyte, as kids love to do, and graceful in her manner too) has meanwhile been looking at me hard, with a really puzzled, perplexed look on her pretty face. After a while she says to me, “Do you drive a green Datsun?”
“No,” I tell her, “I drive a silver Mitsubishi station wagon.”
“Oh . . .” she says . . .
but her puzzled expression deepens . . .
She hesitates, but she’s too puzzled to let it go -
Then she asks,
“Are you a silversmith?”
HOHH!
(It just takes my breath away!)
“RORY TOMBS!” I almost shout at her.
“I met him last week! At Julia!”
“He’s my grandfather!” says the little lass simply. “You look like him!”
“I KNOW!” I say.
Her name is Ebony Tombs.
********************************************************************************************
Her aunt is Kira Tombs. I think I must have met her there too. My memory of some of the events since then are a bit hazy. I’m not quite sure how or when we actually did meet but I went to visit her once and she had a little red-headed boy child, Jordan. A dawning Tombs head!
What I had not remembered is that Kira took a photo of the two of us, Rory and me, together. Anyway, having found me on Facebook, she some months ago sent me this astonishing photograph, and you can see what I mean. Doppelgangers!
As I say, I’m the good-looking-er one. Naturally. I won’t say which one that is. It’s obvious!
An old friend took one look and reckoned there was some skulduggery about it all . . .
Something about my Dad . . . who had red hair too.
Since writing the above I’ve contacted Kira who now has 3 kinder, Jordan 7, Gabriel 4, and Aurora who’s a baby girl. Turns out we have long-term close friends in common, Erick Monier’s family, the people who live at Julia that I went to visit. We have plans to go and visit Rory, whom I haven’t seen in quite a few years, and I would love too to catch up with the graceful 11-year-old Ebony, who is now 17! Her mother, Kira’s sister Mischkha (sp?) I think I might’ve met too but my mind is holey. (Greetings to both of you.) (Oh and I had a Samoyed named Mischkha, Russian for bruin, a nice term for bear.)
Notice, this story would have been just as amazing to me if it hadn’t been for Kira having taken that photograph, after all I knew how amazing it was, but it wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic to everybody else without it, Kira proved our uncanny similarity for posterity! Thanks Kira.
Flamingocky
Flamingocky
'Twas swillig: and four heroes young
Did gulp and guzzle West End Draught
Of Heroes deeds their Daddies sung
And drunk until they barfed.
Beware the FlamingO, fair Youths!
The Eye that's blind! The Plume that plucks!
That swansome Neck! Those trampling Hoofs!
The Beak that flips and sucks!
They took their cudgels stout in hand:
Eftsoons the pinksome Foe they found;
Then two on two, there at the Zoo,
They circled round and round.
And whilst in circles round they pranced,
The FlamingO, with blinded Eye,
And swansome Neck outstretched, advanced,
And honked a Goossome cry!
One! Two! Three! Four! Twelve times! A score!
Their cudgels stout went Whack! Whack! Whack!
They knocked it flat, and, feather in hat,
They clapped each other’s back.
Hast thou laid low the FlamingO?
Oh come to us, thou bold brave lads!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Rejoiced them thus their Dads.
‘Twas swilling, and four Heroes proven
Gulp and guzzle Tooheys New:
On their brave deeds their Dads a-groovin’
Drink until they spew.
'Twas swillig: and four heroes young
Did gulp and guzzle West End Draught
Of Heroes deeds their Daddies sung
And drunk until they barfed.
Beware the FlamingO, fair Youths!
The Eye that's blind! The Plume that plucks!
That swansome Neck! Those trampling Hoofs!
The Beak that flips and sucks!
They took their cudgels stout in hand:
Eftsoons the pinksome Foe they found;
Then two on two, there at the Zoo,
They circled round and round.
And whilst in circles round they pranced,
The FlamingO, with blinded Eye,
And swansome Neck outstretched, advanced,
And honked a Goossome cry!
One! Two! Three! Four! Twelve times! A score!
Their cudgels stout went Whack! Whack! Whack!
They knocked it flat, and, feather in hat,
They clapped each other’s back.
Hast thou laid low the FlamingO?
Oh come to us, thou bold brave lads!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Rejoiced them thus their Dads.
‘Twas swilling, and four Heroes proven
Gulp and guzzle Tooheys New:
On their brave deeds their Dads a-groovin’
Drink until they spew.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Royalty Eh . . . The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said
Royalty eh.
There's some great articles this morning on Lyn's Links about Royalty, and now I'll tell you my Royal Story:
The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said
When I was in Grade Four, Australia was abuzz with the news:
The Queen is coming to Adelaide!
Every day we had to go out onto our all-bitumen schoolyard to practise a sort of square-dance jig thing - with the GIRLS, even! - to the tune of The Cuckoo Waltz. It is branded into my memory. Da DA Dah! Da DA dah! Da DA-da da-dudda Dahhh!
We did it day in day out for MONTHS, true.
"Now when you do this in front of the Queen (et cetera, blah blah). . . " Mr Frick kept telling us, for we knew that schools from all over Adelaide would be there with us in one huge demonstration of our adoration and our splendid physiques.
It never happened. It all got cancelled for us plebs. Zip. We got given a little New Testament. O joy.
Oh no, I just remembered, that was when She was coronated. It was all a long time ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was in Grade SEVEN, Her Majesty was due to come again!
I was at a school where more than half the kids were the spawn of Ten Pound Poms, living in a nissen-hut migrant hostel just down the road, (and many of these people had really improved the society of Merrie England by the leaving of it.) They were really rough and tough, poor and mean, but they were oh-so-loyal to the country which had offered them nothing and been only too pleased to lose them, and they loved the Queen like she was their own Nanny.
Anyway the day came around, it was high summer and hot. All the kids from Reception up were loaded into buses - this is a school of about eight hundred kids, two-and-a-half Grade Sevens, classes each of FIFTY kids, (as I myself had occasion to teach later!) and the youngest of course being five-year-olds. It took a long time to load the buses, then the ride to Wayville Showgrounds was about eight slow miles through the middle of the hot city, and at last we pulled up at the jumping-off place, outside the oval where She was due to give us the honour of her presence. It was alongside the Animal Barns where the prize pigs and cows and other critters got judged, and it was on dry dusty dirt, with a North-facing iron wall behind us, in the sun, hundreds of kids standing and waiting.
Of all the schools we were the first there, so they put us on the very far end so other later schools could be marshalled conveniently in front of us.
We waited.
Schools kept arriving and getting slotted in front of us,
we all waited.
More and more schools, thousands and thousands of kids.
It was very hot, dust puffed up if you shuffled your feet, and all the kids were getting thirsty.
Some of the little kids started to cry. We big kids, I must say, did very well trying to comfort them, but there wasn't much we could do.
Our teachers, Mr Hall and Mrs Wallwork, tried to fetch us drinks but there were only a couple of glasses that could be found and the taps were fifty yards away and utterly crowded with uncontrolled other schools' kids who really did need a drink too but my school needed it most because we'd been there longest. No good.
Several kids including in my own class fainted. There was no help for them except to get us bigger kids to carry them into the bit of hot shade some distance away.
One little tiny boy came up to Mrs Wallwork, the other Gr7 teacher, and said in a tiny little shy voice, pointing gravely to another tiny kid who was in tears, "Please Miss Wallwork,
'e done a wee!" (it was EXACTLY those words, I will never forget!) and there was this poor little boy who would have to have wet pants for hours standing there crying his eyes out, my heart went out to him. Our poor teachers were beside themselves with trying to do something for the most distressed kids, but we were hemmed in and helpless.
We were there for probably an hour and a half, standing in close concentration.
At last the crowd started to move at the far-distant end of the assembled school groups - the last were first, and the first were last, just like in the Bible, and it took quite a while even for our school to start shuffling off to the oval entry gate, and at a snail-pace even then. We had the dust of tens of thousands of kids before us, it was hot, we were thirsty, kids in tears, shuffle shuffle shuffle, dust clouds, shuffle shuffle . . .
. . . It was then I thought of The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said:
I pointed my head downwards so I was fairly hidden, and yelled,
MOOOOOOO!!!
INSTANTLY other kids took it up!
Maa-aa! MOOOOOO! BAA-AA-AA!
THOUSANDS of kids! It went viral within seconds!
Kids started scuffing their feet surreptitiously deliberately, dust rose like in a big cattle drive, just about everyone was doing it.
A few kids started barking like dogs, there was neighing of horses and grunting lke pigs, chooks cackling, and many many sheep and cattle!
The teachers were in a panic, running around trying to shut us all up. But it was like punching holes in water, as quick as we were silenced in one part other kids started up again elsewhere, we were suddenly all laughing and loving it, the discomfort notwithstanding, and the insurrection lasted ten or so minutes, nearly all the way to the main gate. Every kid knew just what we were saying, and every kid was a revolutionary! I know Mr Hall was secretly delighted too, he earnt a lot of kudos with me that day.
So I knew now that the other kids like me were Republicans after all, and that forever they would feel as I have forever myself ever since then, that the Royals were privileged parasites and horrible hypocrites and I want an end to them and I want their symbol erased from the flag of my country.
When we finally got into the showgrounds we were the last and we were also the last this time, at the back in the bleachers and still standing in the sun. All the shaded stands were empty, but then got occupied by kids in private school uniforms, who were sneaked in late by a different gate, with the bluest nearest the front, but I didn't really mind - MUCH! - knowing as I did that She was going to get a stony reception from all my staunch kid compatriots when She came at last to grace us with her radiance.
In She came at last, in her black Roller, open top, ZOOM! around the oval at about 30 MPH, not even looking our way as they sped past, and my staunch troops, what did they do, they bloody-well CHEERED Her like you never heard kids cheer before in allyour life!
I knew then that the Republic was never going to be easy . . . I really did . . . from age 12.
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
There's some great articles this morning on Lyn's Links about Royalty, and now I'll tell you my Royal Story:
The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said
When I was in Grade Four, Australia was abuzz with the news:
The Queen is coming to Adelaide!
Every day we had to go out onto our all-bitumen schoolyard to practise a sort of square-dance jig thing - with the GIRLS, even! - to the tune of The Cuckoo Waltz. It is branded into my memory. Da DA Dah! Da DA dah! Da DA-da da-dudda Dahhh!
We did it day in day out for MONTHS, true.
"Now when you do this in front of the Queen (et cetera, blah blah). . . " Mr Frick kept telling us, for we knew that schools from all over Adelaide would be there with us in one huge demonstration of our adoration and our splendid physiques.
It never happened. It all got cancelled for us plebs. Zip. We got given a little New Testament. O joy.
Oh no, I just remembered, that was when She was coronated. It was all a long time ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was in Grade SEVEN, Her Majesty was due to come again!
I was at a school where more than half the kids were the spawn of Ten Pound Poms, living in a nissen-hut migrant hostel just down the road, (and many of these people had really improved the society of Merrie England by the leaving of it.) They were really rough and tough, poor and mean, but they were oh-so-loyal to the country which had offered them nothing and been only too pleased to lose them, and they loved the Queen like she was their own Nanny.
Anyway the day came around, it was high summer and hot. All the kids from Reception up were loaded into buses - this is a school of about eight hundred kids, two-and-a-half Grade Sevens, classes each of FIFTY kids, (as I myself had occasion to teach later!) and the youngest of course being five-year-olds. It took a long time to load the buses, then the ride to Wayville Showgrounds was about eight slow miles through the middle of the hot city, and at last we pulled up at the jumping-off place, outside the oval where She was due to give us the honour of her presence. It was alongside the Animal Barns where the prize pigs and cows and other critters got judged, and it was on dry dusty dirt, with a North-facing iron wall behind us, in the sun, hundreds of kids standing and waiting.
Of all the schools we were the first there, so they put us on the very far end so other later schools could be marshalled conveniently in front of us.
We waited.
Schools kept arriving and getting slotted in front of us,
we all waited.
More and more schools, thousands and thousands of kids.
It was very hot, dust puffed up if you shuffled your feet, and all the kids were getting thirsty.
Some of the little kids started to cry. We big kids, I must say, did very well trying to comfort them, but there wasn't much we could do.
Our teachers, Mr Hall and Mrs Wallwork, tried to fetch us drinks but there were only a couple of glasses that could be found and the taps were fifty yards away and utterly crowded with uncontrolled other schools' kids who really did need a drink too but my school needed it most because we'd been there longest. No good.
Several kids including in my own class fainted. There was no help for them except to get us bigger kids to carry them into the bit of hot shade some distance away.
One little tiny boy came up to Mrs Wallwork, the other Gr7 teacher, and said in a tiny little shy voice, pointing gravely to another tiny kid who was in tears, "Please Miss Wallwork,
'e done a wee!" (it was EXACTLY those words, I will never forget!) and there was this poor little boy who would have to have wet pants for hours standing there crying his eyes out, my heart went out to him. Our poor teachers were beside themselves with trying to do something for the most distressed kids, but we were hemmed in and helpless.
We were there for probably an hour and a half, standing in close concentration.
At last the crowd started to move at the far-distant end of the assembled school groups - the last were first, and the first were last, just like in the Bible, and it took quite a while even for our school to start shuffling off to the oval entry gate, and at a snail-pace even then. We had the dust of tens of thousands of kids before us, it was hot, we were thirsty, kids in tears, shuffle shuffle shuffle, dust clouds, shuffle shuffle . . .
. . . It was then I thought of The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said:
I pointed my head downwards so I was fairly hidden, and yelled,
MOOOOOOO!!!
INSTANTLY other kids took it up!
Maa-aa! MOOOOOO! BAA-AA-AA!
THOUSANDS of kids! It went viral within seconds!
Kids started scuffing their feet surreptitiously deliberately, dust rose like in a big cattle drive, just about everyone was doing it.
A few kids started barking like dogs, there was neighing of horses and grunting lke pigs, chooks cackling, and many many sheep and cattle!
The teachers were in a panic, running around trying to shut us all up. But it was like punching holes in water, as quick as we were silenced in one part other kids started up again elsewhere, we were suddenly all laughing and loving it, the discomfort notwithstanding, and the insurrection lasted ten or so minutes, nearly all the way to the main gate. Every kid knew just what we were saying, and every kid was a revolutionary! I know Mr Hall was secretly delighted too, he earnt a lot of kudos with me that day.
So I knew now that the other kids like me were Republicans after all, and that forever they would feel as I have forever myself ever since then, that the Royals were privileged parasites and horrible hypocrites and I want an end to them and I want their symbol erased from the flag of my country.
When we finally got into the showgrounds we were the last and we were also the last this time, at the back in the bleachers and still standing in the sun. All the shaded stands were empty, but then got occupied by kids in private school uniforms, who were sneaked in late by a different gate, with the bluest nearest the front, but I didn't really mind - MUCH! - knowing as I did that She was going to get a stony reception from all my staunch kid compatriots when She came at last to grace us with her radiance.
In She came at last, in her black Roller, open top, ZOOM! around the oval at about 30 MPH, not even looking our way as they sped past, and my staunch troops, what did they do, they bloody-well CHEERED Her like you never heard kids cheer before in allyour life!
I knew then that the Republic was never going to be easy . . . I really did . . . from age 12.
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Nodding-Head Abbortt
Tune: How much is that Doggie in the window?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
When he took a trip to play some war-games
And fire a machine-gun at whim
He noticed that excrement eventuates
And it's true it has happened to him!
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
In Afghanistan there was a camera (OOH! ME!)
And a microphone heard what he said
And now Riley's showin' him the footage (OOH! ME!)
He stands there just noddin' his head!
I'd rather have a kitty or a bunny
Or one of those parrots that squawk:
At least they are pretty and they're funny,
And a parrot can learn how to talk!
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
When he took a trip to play some war-games
And fire a machine-gun at whim
He noticed that excrement eventuates
And it's true it has happened to him!
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
In Afghanistan there was a camera (OOH! ME!)
And a microphone heard what he said
And now Riley's showin' him the footage (OOH! ME!)
He stands there just noddin' his head!
I'd rather have a kitty or a bunny
Or one of those parrots that squawk:
At least they are pretty and they're funny,
And a parrot can learn how to talk!
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!
Monday, January 24, 2011
Paul the Psychic Octopus
Paul the Psychic Octopus
(Tune: Puff the Magic Dragon)
Paul the Psychic Octopus lived in a jar,
He would have liked a life at sea, but he never got that far;
He tried to join a football team, but they wouldn’t let him play:
They said he had too many legs, and made him go away.
He would have loved a little Octopussy friend, you bet,
Or a dog shark or a catfish – but he had no pet to pet.
He dreamed he’d do Le Tour de France, and lead the peloton,
But he didn’t have octobike, nor an endoskeleton.
So Paul was left belonely, he had nothing much to do:
He beat the best computer chess, got bored with sudoku;
With no navel there to contemplate, he sucked his sucker-toes:
With eight legs each with twenty-nine, he had a lot of those.
Now Humans have two arms, ten fingers, two legs and ten toes,
So we’re digital and base-ten-based, as everybody knows;
But there was Paul left all alone – alone, to meditate
29 toes on 8 legs, (so, 29 X 8.)
Like Stephen Hawking in his chair, so Paul was in his jar:
A Mollusc like a garden snail, but cleverer by far;
Like many a brilliant genius with time to think to thank,
Paul had lots of thinking time to think in his think-tank.
Folk called Paul’s arm-legs ten-tacles, though Paul had only 8:
To digitals and decimals poor Paul could not relate;
He had to rethink Mathematics, that alone he knew,
With 8 times 29 as base, comes to two-thirty-two.
His ink filled many pages, he was thinking all the time,
It took him simply ages, cost him blood and sweat and slime;
He solved Octocalculus and Octorelativity,
But failed to find his Holy Grail, infallibility!
His sucker-toes grew flaccid; his slime in gollops oozed;
He skin like calamari, ’cos he’d turned to dope and booze:
But things just went from bad to worse, his eyes grew dry and dull;
He looked around his universe, and saw that it was null.
They thought poor Paul was finished: that he’d never find his Grail;
It seemed a sorry ending to a sad and lonely tale -
But! – Some dopey bimbo rinsed her [electric whatsit] in his jar! -
240 volts! Poor Paul convulsed! - Then squirted out, AHHH-HAAAAA!
240 volts was perfect! (See, Eight plus Two-Thirty-Two!)
It booted up his circuitry, and suddenly he KNEW!
He shrieked aloud, EUREKA! (but in Octopussinese),
Displaying symbols on his skin, which glowed like L.E.D’s!
In seconds he solved mysteries of space and life and time,
Of gravity and energy, wrote poetry and rhyme;
He had no need of keyboards, he made printouts with his toes,
Remember, he had two hundred and thirty-two of those!
Paul yearned to save the Earth, and end the miseries of Man;
Working for all he was worth to plan the perfect plan;
As Guest Speaker at the UN, he had only just begun
To tell them how to do it all when - it all came undone! -
The humans who controlled him made him turn his mighty brain
To forecast soccer, like who’d win ’tween Netherlands and Spain:
For Paul was omniprescient, his estimates exact,
So any team he picked would be the team those *’s backed!
Of course he never failed them, ’cos he was always right,
And no-one thought at all of Paul the Octopus’s plight:
Like making Einstein do your tax, or Phar Lap pull a cart,
Making Paul predict the soccer broke his octoheart.
Now Paul has gone forever – He could have saved the world!
They’re tanning him like leather, eight ten-tacles cutely curled;
But next time you have calamari, just remember, Friend,
The Ectoplasmic Octopus will get you in the end!
(Tune: Puff the Magic Dragon)
Paul the Psychic Octopus lived in a jar,
He would have liked a life at sea, but he never got that far;
He tried to join a football team, but they wouldn’t let him play:
They said he had too many legs, and made him go away.
He would have loved a little Octopussy friend, you bet,
Or a dog shark or a catfish – but he had no pet to pet.
He dreamed he’d do Le Tour de France, and lead the peloton,
But he didn’t have octobike, nor an endoskeleton.
So Paul was left belonely, he had nothing much to do:
He beat the best computer chess, got bored with sudoku;
With no navel there to contemplate, he sucked his sucker-toes:
With eight legs each with twenty-nine, he had a lot of those.
Now Humans have two arms, ten fingers, two legs and ten toes,
So we’re digital and base-ten-based, as everybody knows;
But there was Paul left all alone – alone, to meditate
29 toes on 8 legs, (so, 29 X 8.)
Like Stephen Hawking in his chair, so Paul was in his jar:
A Mollusc like a garden snail, but cleverer by far;
Like many a brilliant genius with time to think to thank,
Paul had lots of thinking time to think in his think-tank.
Folk called Paul’s arm-legs ten-tacles, though Paul had only 8:
To digitals and decimals poor Paul could not relate;
He had to rethink Mathematics, that alone he knew,
With 8 times 29 as base, comes to two-thirty-two.
His ink filled many pages, he was thinking all the time,
It took him simply ages, cost him blood and sweat and slime;
He solved Octocalculus and Octorelativity,
But failed to find his Holy Grail, infallibility!
His sucker-toes grew flaccid; his slime in gollops oozed;
He skin like calamari, ’cos he’d turned to dope and booze:
But things just went from bad to worse, his eyes grew dry and dull;
He looked around his universe, and saw that it was null.
They thought poor Paul was finished: that he’d never find his Grail;
It seemed a sorry ending to a sad and lonely tale -
But! – Some dopey bimbo rinsed her [electric whatsit] in his jar! -
240 volts! Poor Paul convulsed! - Then squirted out, AHHH-HAAAAA!
240 volts was perfect! (See, Eight plus Two-Thirty-Two!)
It booted up his circuitry, and suddenly he KNEW!
He shrieked aloud, EUREKA! (but in Octopussinese),
Displaying symbols on his skin, which glowed like L.E.D’s!
In seconds he solved mysteries of space and life and time,
Of gravity and energy, wrote poetry and rhyme;
He had no need of keyboards, he made printouts with his toes,
Remember, he had two hundred and thirty-two of those!
Paul yearned to save the Earth, and end the miseries of Man;
Working for all he was worth to plan the perfect plan;
As Guest Speaker at the UN, he had only just begun
To tell them how to do it all when - it all came undone! -
The humans who controlled him made him turn his mighty brain
To forecast soccer, like who’d win ’tween Netherlands and Spain:
For Paul was omniprescient, his estimates exact,
So any team he picked would be the team those *’s backed!
Of course he never failed them, ’cos he was always right,
And no-one thought at all of Paul the Octopus’s plight:
Like making Einstein do your tax, or Phar Lap pull a cart,
Making Paul predict the soccer broke his octoheart.
Now Paul has gone forever – He could have saved the world!
They’re tanning him like leather, eight ten-tacles cutely curled;
But next time you have calamari, just remember, Friend,
The Ectoplasmic Octopus will get you in the end!
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