I’ll be buggered if I’d go to a private school

An old journalist and scoundrel, Ronnie the Wheel, once told me in Melbourne that if you were capable of rational thought you would lean to the left side of the world.  Ronnie was correct yet still some people who can tie up their own shoelaces and wipe away dribble quickly can viciously cling to notions that are so unhinged and irrational it defies belief.  Then again belief over rational thought is perhaps the issue here.

The idea that private enterprise could provide better and seamless delivery of services to the masses over a lumbering public sector has held true, for most, since the 1980s. Whether, in this country, it was an overreaction to the Whitlam policy juggernaut that swept aside the post-war torpor of conservative back to wall politics or just simply catch-up.  It’s hard to know what motivated the accelerated attempt to sharpen the pencil without proper consideration.

But being a conservative in the 70s in Australia must have been like living on a diet of devon and dog shit. No one wanted hear you or to be near you. You allowed your hair to grow slightly over the collar but you stayed indoors after dark.  You leaned towards Jesus Christ and loved John Denver.  You were generally without deep thought and you never saw “Deep Throat”.  It wasn’t your time.  You had to stay in the shadows until it was.

At this time, if you were a bloke from the middle and upper class your feckless parents sent you to places such as St John’s College in Sydney or to Robb College in Armidale for a tertiary education.  But it was only a holding pattern.  Learning wasn’t your thing. It was purely a social experiment.  There you skirted around the sidelines, played rugby, hated poofs and drank rum.  You found you were not alone.  At Sydney University Tony Abbott stalked the halls, threatening women and charging his conservative credentials. There were others here and at Bachelor and Spinsters Balls you could find equally gormless females to grope and fornicate with.  You despised and dismissed any criticisms of your conservative cocoon.  You looked after you own and bugger the rest. You carried this dislike for progressive ideas with you for the rest of your life.  It meant you didn’t have to ever think again.

Conservative times really came to NSW in the late 80s and 1990s when that low ferret, Nic ‘Otine’ Greiner* got hold of power.  This unprincipled weasel got rid of the public service graded bureaucrats.  He then crudely inserted the Senior Executive Service system in its place. It was a contract system.  You could be punted at the end of your contract.  It sounded sensible to those who found the public service inflexible and unyielding to political nuance.  They believed that a Departmental Head had to virtually expose his todger in Martin Place to get sacked. Unlike politicians who generally did it in their electoral offices and got promoted.  The end result of this virtual privatisation of the public service was to neuter it.  No longer did most departmental heads provide fearless advice.  They knew to survive they now had to firmly tether the public interest against the rampant political good. The sell-off of public utilities soon followed.

In schooling, generous federal and state subsidies saw the growth of private sector schools. In NSW public sector school numbers dropped 20% in two decades.  Conservative parents pushed their fruit of the loin into faith-based and elite private schools.  This guaranteed that their offspring would not be challenged to consider different ideas nor have to confront different people.  And by giving a smatter of scholarships to your odd pov but talented sportsperson and Indigenous kiddies private schools could assuage any semblance of christian guilt.  Parents smugly bored everyone who would listen that they paid more than their share to send their Katies and Keirans to St Bede’s of the Busted Arses.

Little did they care that the role of the local school as a core of the community and its values would decline.  Nor did they connect that the social dislocation they decried was part and parcel of the careless society that had partly created.    They didn’t want their precious mixing with the spotty herberts from public housing.  They wanted a safe, quality education that they had worked hard to provide – in fact they often mentioned the incredible sacrifice they had to make to send them “off to school”.  They wanted gymnasiums, buckets of sporting fields, drama theatres and string quartets.  They wanted to dress their kiddies up in stupid military outfits, tartan skirts and boater hats to show that they were very, very special children.  But most of all they didn’t want them to be different from the ideal conservative nonces that they had become.  A dose of safe Williamson at the Wharf and a bit of rugger was what everyone needed to become balance, conservative cunt.

Of course they got upset when they found clowns like the smug shit-head Timmy Hawkes and his kind allegedly failed their duty of care to their charges by reporting offences to the police.  Surely, they thought, $40,000 a year guranteed a kiddy-fiddler free zone?

And so now in the era of Neo-Nazis, $Trumpet and Abbott, the white breads continue to flock together to breed and prosper – it is their time and be damned if you are one of the poor bastards who think.

 

*Nic Greiner was chairman of the board of WD&HO Wills and then British American Tobacco Australia for the period 1996 to 2004.

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Simply a tool in a top hat

I was strolling down George Street the other morning. You know the main Sydney transport artery that’s been clogged by inefficiency and high vis clowns who seem more intent on getting their morning coffee than doing any work.

I heard a car horn. A ruddy-bloke in a little Mercedes had chipped a bike courier for the mere hide of using the road in front of him. The courier stopped, turned around and gave, the now timid prick in the car, a mouthful.  I couldn’t help myself. I let go too in support of the lycra warrior.  But then he performed a piece of pure art. He got off his bike and deliberately wiped his lycra arse on the mini Merc’s bonnet. Not quickly, but slowly. Like a prick-teasing burlesque artist at the top of their game.   Bravo Bike Boy!  I gave him the thumbs up.

I felt the same on Tuesday when I saw Lloyd ‘The Tool’ Williams snatch another Melbourne Cup through the pure weight of cash. Williams and his goofy hooray-henry son, Nick, pop-up in spring like fucking field mushrooms.  Having spent the year ensconced in their Macedon bunker using their Packer pounds to buy pre-trained European Horse flesh.

When I saw him on the box I wanted to rub my bum all over his silly gray morning suit. I wanted to grab his stupid gray top hat and dunk it in the nearest port-o-loo. I wanted to tell the fawning media that this poncy pretender adds nothing to the fundamentals of racing in this country.  He is simply an equine opportunist who uses his considerable wealth to squeeze the juice out of the industry.

You will not see the Williams gang hanging over the rails at Mangatang cheering on one of their steeds in the Dial Before You Dig BM52 Handicap. You will not see him lobbying for fairer conditions for strappers and busted arse jockeys. He is simply content to raid the barns of Europe to indulge his Flemo fantasies.

A mate of the Fat Packers, founder of Crown, co-executor of the Goanna’s loot scoot and founder of the Shane Warne Foundation – Williams has the cruel gob of a crow and the smugness of a fat banker. His Hudson Conway company packages together his various property businesses. It includes his racing folly sandwiched in amongst property developments. It lost $7.6M last year. The company’s mission statement is “to help all Australians grow and protect their wealth”. That’s exactly what Crown has done for years, hasn’t it?

Lloyd Williams has protected his and his mate’s wealth for years by draining the pockets of gamblers at Crown Casino. They have broken rules to bust the best. He now draculises the industry that he professes to love.  But Lloyd is not about all Australians nor love.  He’s simply about himself and his fat Macedon mates. He is a dead set Class One Toad ever deserving of an A-Grade Arse wipe.

 

B & B and the dark arts of the Poo

They say you get the face you deserve at fifty. Bernard Tomic didn’t have to wait that long. His angular head seems to be the hasty work of an iced-up metal worker. A head, jaggered and angled with more juts than a fiord, pokes forward in defiance when challenged. Barnyard’s prominent chin invites fists. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t been belted by anyone yet but it probably won’t be long. I’d like do some gob work on him but that wouldn’t be the end.

I’d feel obliged to have a crack at the other clown Kygrios. Sporting the chain-sawed cockatoo look, Special K has more swagger than a drunk on stilts.  Talented but without manners or intelligence these tools would be in juvie if they couldn’t hit a yellow ball over the net.  Someone should tell them and their sauntering posse of loucheads that it is a slippery slope this fame game. But as we know jerks keep their counsel close. They tend to surround themselves with backslappers and urgers only. The history of circus animals is loud and likely. Anthony Mundine was counselled by clowns and Jeff Fenech by fruiterers and blokes in high volume suits and floral shirts. So it doesn’t matter what we say or even write because these lard buckets stopped reading at the Goofy and the Dwarf stages of their stunted development.

Do you remember Mark Philopoosos? The Poo should serve as a talisman for these two revved up Cortinas. Declared bankrupt Philopoosos has in more recent times recanted his folly. His downward spiral should be a compulsory study for these and others. Tennis Australia should make it mandatory for the young hopefuls that ply their trade on the JDS circuit.

Of course our recent attention has been drawn to these clowns by their lack of forelock tugging towards the AOC. I prefer to call this mob the OACTBC – as in Old Athletes Constantly Travelling Business Class. Every four years we are served up a panoply of sugar rich Olympic ideals. Please pass the bucket. If you erstwhile high jumpers and scullers were a bit serious about standards and values you shouldn’t have allowed drug fueled cheats to reign supreme for decades while seemingly more concerned about frequent flyer points than fairness.

Kitty Chiller who is the kitchen aid at the mission (apparently this is somewhat akin to a Thermomix that spits) set her sights on Barnyard and Bumhole. The Shrill reckoned these blokes didn’t quite measure up on the Bradbury Scale. Oh Doh Ray Fuck Me! Why is it even a topic?  Of course they don’t. They are simply gold medal deadshits Shrill. Move on and start confiscating the cough drops off the swimmers if you want to protect your tarnished rings.  These lads have made it very clear that the rings hold little ground in their cocktail dreams.  Of course the only reason tennis is in the Olympics is another grab by the IOC to ensure that their television rights are fattened further.

But back to the main course – tennis. By contrast it was great to see Rocket Rod Laver presented with another silver plate during the French Open a few weeks back. It made me think that it was highly unlikely that B & B will ever get a silver plate in recognition of their tennis achievements.

These talented yet stupid lads are simply a flash in the pan. A fashion du boof. In fact I tend to think of these two a bit like those allegedly fashionable tight mens suits illogically worn with brown shoes. Not a classic look for the fattening classes who look tres tweedle dumb twee.

Like B & B it appeared like the annual Bogong moth plague but stayed far too long. Even the not so young blades started wearing this fashion unquestionably. They all simply looked stupid.

It just went to show that the classics stay with us forever while the others simply look silly, stupid and eventually very sad as they fade away.

Should we pan Bronwyn and the others in the trough?

2015 is a weird year.  It’s indeed a weird time when the Son of Goanna is getting thinner and Gina is getting large enough to claim a postcode.  A time when the runs scored by a befuddled test team approximates their collective IQ and our elected goat-herd let by the Bish golds in trough gouging.

I love contrasts and I do strangely admire excess.  The caveat being if I can admire from a distance suitably attired in wellies and a thick rubber apron. I also love a good catalogue.  And to this end I have to doff my lid to the recent Domayne Bathroom Design ‘log’ that was scattered in the driveway together with offers from tree cowboys and varnished estate agents.

The Domayne dog is sixteen pages of taps,baths, basins and dunnies.  I love dunnies – always have since Stringer Armstrong told us the story about the country throne that sent him to hospital. Stringer was a teacher at my school, Knocks (as in hard) who had lost a leg somewhere.  He had a bit of a Douggie Bader refit so whenever his leg came into contact with anything it rang like a cow bell.  He only wore one pad when he played cricket and didn’t need a bat to do a leg glance.  String told the story of himself as a young teacher going to his first one teacher school.  He was boarded by the community on a farm on the outskirts of the small country town.

The first night in the new accommodation after a large,hearty meal saw him in need of dropping a weight grade or two.  He was sent out the back to the dunny. His mother had warned him about spiders so before hopping down he lit a match and inspected the arrangements.  Satisfied he dropped the match into the pan unaware that country practice involved putting a bit of kero into the bottom of a ‘fresh’ pan. A burnt freckle meant that String was a few days late in taking up his first bush appointment.

String would have been amazed at what water closets were available to your modern day punter. Within the pages of the Domaine log your are spoiled for choice if you have plenty of Harry Nash. Despite the allure of alliteration the log’s writers resisted the urge of ‘Domayne Dunnies’ and elected for Designer Toilet Suites.  And what sweets hey are! From the moderately priced “Parisi Quasar” at $1495.  You could also bog-on with models called “Joyce” – possibly one for the Qantas Frequent Flyers or “Jazz” that was designed by the Italian pan princes Sandro Meneghello and Marco Paolelli.

But the one that caught my eye was the Tece ‘Tecelux’ Senso Touch Electronic Black Glass Panel with Cistern. Oh what a feeling! With 3.3L flush. The ‘log’ goes on to describe this wonder;

“Touch Free ability for senso buttons, ‘Night Light’ buttons illuminate upon approach, ‘Odour vac’ begins operation upon approach.”

Heaven

Heaven

I don’t know why but when I saw this I immediately thought of Bronwyn Bishop.  Maybe it was the severity of the black glass panel against the white pan?  More likely it was the shit-awful excesses of the Bishop and the other horribly entitled clowns that reminded me.  However one thing is for certain it will require much more than the ‘odour vac’ to cover up the stench of their distasteful excesses.

 

Don’t Mention the garlic …continues

The extremely efficient German company ALDI got back to me.  It was your standard customer complaint response.

Dear Marina

Thank you for your response over my disappointment with ALDI’s Garlic # 77203.

I note that there was no attached Aldi compensatory voucher to cover my said disappointment.  This disappointment is, I can fairly claim, to be on the profound level of disappointment.

I also note that you say “your experience with ALDI’s product has been documented and forwarded to the appropriate departments.” 

I am unsure what this actually means. You will remember from my first piece of correspondence I wanted to actually know how ALDI was going to ensure that no further profoundly disappointing produce would appear on their shelves again (read here sad brocollini and rotting garlic).  I assume that the appropriate departments are Quality Control and Customer Assurance, however I will be awaiting their fulsome response with great interest.

Marina, your suggestion of taking the receipt together with the rotting garlic back to the store of purchase is indeed an excellent one. Given that the place of purchase was Ballina and I actually reside in Balmain (Sydney) this could cause a minor problem – logistically that is.  I believe that is actually a distance of around 740.2 kilometres between the two.

Look Marina – I want to work on this logistically challenging issue with you.  I could fly up to Ballina as I note that Virgin Airlines are doing some great deals at the moment – can you believe $89 would get me up there tomorrow and the same amount for the return journey?

Now obviously there would be transfers to and from both airports but I’ll leave that up to you clever and efficient people at ALDI to work out whether it is worth you covering my travel costs to return to the scene of my profound disappointment. 

So I suppose where we are at now is I will wait a reasonable time to get my fulsome response (and hopefully an ALDI voucher).

Regards

Don’t mention the garlic

A few weeks back I flew into Ballina.  Gateway to the profoundly beautiful and delusional.  On the plane were the usual faded flowers and tatted pretend-me-nots mixed in with the odd whiffy backpacker.  So far so good.  I was uptraded into a gold nondescript vehicle with a faulty rear view mirror that occasionally dropped onto the floor.  So far so good. I then popped around the corner to the Aldi store to get a few vittles to chew on in the hinterland.  Most items purchased were subsequently found to be quite good – the cheese in particular but I should have examined the entrails  a bit more closely in the produce section.  The sad wilted stuff reminded me of a fruiter in Newtown before the sharp set moved in.  I called him Kevin – “Fruiterer to the Disappointed”.  Passing by to grab a caffeine needle you’d see the saddest carrots and lettuce imaginable.  I suppose it’s good to know Kev is advising Aldi these days.  I reluctantly grabbed a knob of garlic that appeared reasonable.  Later that evening when preparing a meal I discovered that every clove was old, rotten crap.  Bloody Germans.

I was disappointed.  But moved on.  That is until I happened to be driving through one of the hinterland hamlets of Clunes.  Everything was pretty perfect until that moment. I was tuned into Paradise FM. The song playing at the time was “That’s when I think of you” by the Australian band ‘1927’.   And that’s when I found myself behind an Aldi truck.  It all began to come together.  Was this a sign?  Was the band name a clue to the year the German firm grew their garlic.  Had it been stored in some underground bunker since that time?  But it was the picture on the back of the German truck of a blond-haired blue-eyed girl filling her fat little gob with a large slice of watermelon and smiling …no mean feat…that really got me.  Yeah man it really got me going.

IMG_1592 IMG_1590

So on my return to the pointy end of Balmain I took a shiraz sedative and penned an email to Aldi with a few shots I’d taken for a bit of colour.

Dear Aldi

I understand that you are a German company allegedly synonymous with efficiency and quality.  Well chaps I can see why the Germans lost two wars given my profoundly disappointing experiencing on the 11 May 2015.  The 11th May strangely enough was my birthday – yes I am an older citizen of this country as you can obviously deduct from the fact that I referenced the war and I’m wasting what is left of my diminishing life writing to you over 82 cents worth of your awful garlic.    So to continue, I went to your Ballina store (on my birthday) and bought some garlic (see photo and receipt attached).  As you can see the garlic was reminiscent of the rotten teeth of someone who was either on ice or was dug up out of an Irish bog pit.

What do I want from you Mr Aldi?  Well not much really as I know full well pessimists never get disappointed.  But I will stake my claim quite simply.

1. I want you to stop selling sub-standard produce and I would like you to tell me how you are going to do this?

2. And I want an appropriate gift voucher (it was my birthday after all) to compensate for the fact that I couldn’t cook one of my very special signature dishes that evening (a chicken & tomato dish in case you may be vaguely interested) due to your sub-standard produce.

They’ve got four days to get back to me according to their very efficient website.  I’m biding my time.  I’ve got my army disposal camouflage pants on. I’m ready for whatever the German firm wants to throw at me and I’m particularly comforted by the fact that we’re already two zip up against them.

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