Monday, December 29, 2014

In which the pond is distracted from its holiday by frolicking pigs ...

(More of the story here).

“Gentlemen,” concluded George, “I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of Team Australia and the y'artz!” 
There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. After all they'd consumed three bottles of 2010 vintage Tyrrell's Semillon-Sauvignon, and swigged on a bottle of upmarket Italian Vin Santo del Chianti Bonacchi dessert wine, as well as glasses of Laurent-Perrier Champagne. And they were celebrating the y'artz after all with most excellent senior British arts representatives in attendance. 
But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the pigs? The pond's old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took up their copies of James Joyce and continued the reading that had been interrupted, and the animals crept silently away. 
But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that George Brandis and a senior British y'artz representative had violently disagreed on the significance of Joyce, that Irish ruffian and rapscallion. 
Four or five voices were shouting in anger - it was a most elite company - and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. (with apologies to Orwell, whose work can be found in full for free here).

Now practitioners of y'artz in Australia.

Pull in your belts, don socks and stockings with holes. Don't worry about others pissing money against the wall on piss, enough for a handy grant.

Times are tuff and we must all pull together by making mutual sacrifices. Though it should be understood that some sacrifices are more equal than others ...

And this was supposed to be a holiday. So many distractions, so little time ...

(Below: spot the minister, as opposed to the y'artz representatives, and win a grant)


  1. "Because food makes a pig so happy, it is easy to over-feed your pet. In worse case scenario of over feeding, a potbellied pig can be 100 pounds overweight. Extreme obesity can lead to blindness due to heavy fat accumulations around the eyes, deafness due to heavy fat accumulations around their ear canal; as well as negative behavior due to pain caused by its overweight condition. This overfeeding will lead to severe disabling diseases and physical problems, such as coronary artery disease, premature arthritis and joint disease. The obese pig is more prone to heat stress. It is much harder for your veterinarian to make an appropriate diagnosis if you pig is overweight."

    Applies to some humans.

  2. I am still wondering why a few poms are "important stakeholders" in the Australian arts scene. And that there are so few of them - apparently no more than 3 - if indeed it is important for the poms to cast an eye over our arts. It couldn't be that George was just enjoying the last days of the age of entitlement before Jolly Joe shut them down.

  3. If these prominent arty farty types were so necessary to Australian arts that they had to be dined and wined by Piggly Wiggly George at great cost to us, why are they not named and position or status given.

  4. And I always thought Brandis was TOTALLY useless...yet, I see he is quite deft at twisting the lids off bottles of expensive wine..One can almost hear that soft-whisper voice of his (think of the sound of a silk shroud slipping over polished mahogany of a coffin) 'breathing" to his guests as he tipples the wine...: "Gentlemen..I think you are going to like this".


Comments older than two days are moderated and there will be a delay in publishing them.