Friday, December 04, 2015

A Friday potpourri as the pond joins the reptiles in shouting at the clouds and the Walkleys ...

Indeed, god doesn't fix much, whichever god you back, She seems to be eternally absent these days, and that Daily News story is here.

But how cheeky of the Fairfaxians to purloin an LA Times' editorial and make it their own, without even offering the piece the dignity of a link back to the original at Horror in San Bernardino: The U.S. infatuation with guns is bordering on a society-wide suicidal impulse ...

But this leaves the pond with a dilemma - how to turn away from yet an another American massacre, how to turn back to matters Australian in a tasteful way, how to lighten the tone, yet providing a decent sort of segue?

Ah, there it is:

Phew, which of course allows the pond to celebrate some of the recent coverage of things Abbott.

Normally the pond ignores the Fairfaxians - how outrageous and shocking that these wretches and the filthy vile cardigan wearers at the ABC should scoop the Walkleys, leaving a few prizes to snappers at News Corp and Hunster Smethurst for Choppergate. Why there was 4 Corners and even The Insiders picked up a gong, but the reptiles of Oz were conspicuous by their absence. Instead they handed out a gong to Stan Grant for his scribbles for the Graudian and riff raff of the likes of Simons and Tacon in The Monthly, and so on and so forth ...

And where was the Bolter, that goliath strutting the stage of Sunday television? (The full outrageous, shocking, confronting and challenging list of winners is here - at Fairfax!)

Truly the leftists who run the Walkleys will feel the majestic wrath of Chris Mitchell. Surely it's time for News Corp to organise their very own Packing Room Prize, or is sending journalists packing recognition enough?

Oh wait, come Friday week, the pond will be organising a farewell party for that feather duster, whico it seems, will be reduced to scribbling nonsense about the media ... while the editor of the Daily Terrorist, having produced the worst tabloid in Australia, swans in to deliver the death blow to what was once a prestigious publication.

Meanwhile, the feather duster will be joining other angry, doddery, older white men, to cluster around the water cooler to imbide the daily dose of the kool aid, before heading out to shout at clouds ...

Never mind, for once, this day the pond, as a lover of all things ironical, feels like taking detour through the Fairfaxians for some delicious moments:

Oh it's delicious. No wait, it's actually beyond delicious:

Then came other news:

Margie Abbott has told friends her husband is shattered by the loss of the prime ministership, predicting grimly that his pain will last a lifetime. Of all the understandable emotions including grief, regret, and, presumably something akin to guilt, that Margie has revealed, it was his betrayal by close colleagues that has cut the dumped leader the deepest... 
...A separate account from inside the depleted Canberra bunker, has the erstwhile PM so deflated he has to be coached on a daily basis into interacting with colleagues by his ex-chief of staff (turned landlord) Peta Credlin, preferring to mull over his legacy and his losses in the sanctity of his office. Abbott's now celebrated attendance at one of Peter Dutton's "Monkey Pod" lunches, replete with a cake baked by "Peta", suddenly makes sense in this light. It suggests the ex-PM's confidant remains utterly pivotal to his future in politics. 
It's Peta who is "keeping Tony in the game", says a sympathetic MP. "She believes he can make a come-back probably more than him and is pushing him to it." But nobody really knows. Coalition members have talked themselves dry on the subject of Abbott's plans.  (more at Fairfax here, with forced video).

It suddenly occurred, in a rare introspective moment of reflection by the pond, that the pond was still dancing on Abbott's political grave, while much of the world was moving on, uncaring, to Christmas.

Why this vindictive lust for humiliation, and the more the better? Usually when a politician departs, torn apart by the baying mob and/or his or her colleagues, the pond can muster some sympathy or some pity, or even a shudder of guilt.

Most politicians are human enough, and even if their fate is predictable - it's the way the system works - it's still a tricky, dirty job and someone has to do it, as best they can, knowing that they'll never satisfy everyone or, on bad day, anyone ...

Yet Abbott was different, special. Aggro and divisive, confronting and alienating, shirtfronting here, macho strutting there, a man who delivered contempt in spades and, seemingly didn't understand that as a result, that's what he got it in return.

Now it's over, it's a matter for comedy:

Turnbull commonly told colleagues that Abbott's capacity for self-delusion, his lack of comprehension for the feelings of those around him, showed that he was "basically a psychopath". Turnbull had been described by an earlier Liberal leader, Brendan Nelson, as suffering "narcissistic personality disorder". Now it seemed the narcissist was calling the psychopath crazy. (Hartcher away here).

But at the time it was enervating, and debilitating, making a mockery of the blather about a gentler polity.

The pond will keep dancing well into the new year on each fresh ironical thrust and jab, each humiliating new story.

This was the worst prime minister in the pond's living memory - and as that includes Billy McMahon, Harold Holt, and the last year of Whitlam's final tragic cabinet, that's saying something. Why even Black Jack did better ... and John Gorton seems like an amiable master ... and Julia Gillard and former chairman Rudd must be thanking their patron saints that such a foolish, inept, strutting clown succeeded them ...

What's playing out now is that ritual once celebrated in Lord of the Flies ... the exorcising of the demon that once strutted in our midst ...

Meanwhile, the reptiles of Oz keep showing why they needed to invent their own awards ...

What a predictable dispiriting round of nonsense they disinterred for this Friday ...

The pond is so over Lomborgian hot air, but what else was there?

Well there was the Swiss bank account man pretending that he was still Labor by sinking the boot into the rough Brough -  in reality he's as Labor as a Swiss bank account or any average hack churning it out for Sky - and David Crowe was on hand to perform a tricky balancing act:

The pond stopped reading that one right after "The outspoken Josh Frydenberg deserves no flak ..."

No wonder they needed to invent their own awards.

And the lizard editorialist was off on a new scheme to boost circulation ...

Actually, the case for Chris Mitchell moving out the door is compelling; the case for him to be replaced by the chief Terrorist not so much ...

Oh okay, if we must, the pond would love a chance to vote on the NBN. 

But this too isn't a new scandal. 

While the pond still languishes, the pond's son - long ago, and routinely - gloated about the new fibre to the basement service offered by a private sector supplier to his penthouse city pad ... only for the NBN to turn up months later to duplicate and overbuild the service, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, except to try to steal the private supplier's customers,  in the process forcing the private supplier to go through the charade of inventing an arm's length supplier ...

This while others struggle along with an appalling service ...

Malware's NBN is a daily scandal, so let's see if he follows the reptile advice, and bungs on an early do, and in the process provides further evidence that he's a professional liar, like the rest of them, and all his talk of serving out the term was just fairy floss of the usual sugary, disingenuous kind ...

But even after this rant, the pond was still feeling more-ish, and so turned to an unlikely source, the oscillating fan:

Well it sounded intriguing, but if you took the click bait, you suddenly began to understand even more clearly why the reptiles had to invent their own awards:

That's it?

A mere 380 words featuring the bleeding obvious and a bunch of conservative MPs talking out the corners of their mouths?

A paltry recycling of common gossip of the most obvious and banal kind?

Was it only a few months ago that a feather duster was pleading this way?

The nature of politics has changed in the past decade. We have more polls and more commentary than ever before. Mostly sour, bitter, character assassination. Poll-driven panic has produced a revolving-door prime ministership which can't be good for our country. And a febrile media culture has developed that rewards treachery. 
And if there's one piece of advice I can give to the media, it's this: refuse to print self-serving claims that the person making them won't put his or her name to. Refuse to connive at dishonour by acting as the assassin's knife. (Fairfax the speech here, with forced video)

Oh well, at least the pond can keep dancing and laughing as the world drifts towards Xmas ... it is, after all, hard to complain.

It could be worse, the ironies could be richer, to the point where liver and kidneys would explode... but how unfair that we don't have proper recognition for those who Make Australia Dumb ...

Come on reptiles, time to invent some new awards ... make sure you score plenty of them ...


  1. You clearly don't understand the market, do you, DP? When two sellers want people to buy the same product, they waste enormous amounts of time and energy in duplicating said product, thereby giving the buyer the ultimate prize: 'choice'. The choice of A or B, Tweedledum or Tweedledee.

    And what's wrong with two NBNs? Surely there are enough electrons to go around?

    1. You are then entitled, Anon, by way of the pond's special voucher, to install a second sewerage system in Malware's house and the rest of the country, so all will have a way of disposing of his crap ...

  2. Hi Dorothy,

    Regarding your vindictive assault on our ex-PM, Tony Abbott, I would have thought you had been brought up properly, so as to know that it never on to punch a man when he is down.

    One must never stoop to that level.

    The correct action is instead to go in with both feet, preferably clad in hob nail boots. A good kicking is much more effective and instructive, as well as ensuring you keep a good posture.

    Also why on earth is Credlin still wet-nursing the permanent man-child, I thought she wanted to move on and get her own voice? Instead she is still stuck in the role of ventriloquist with a dumb puppet on her lap.


    1. If only the pond had hob nailed boots DW. Perhaps instead we got get one of those nice 'knife in toe of boot' devices deployed by the very nice Colonel Rosa Klebb in From Russia with Love ... now there's a role model Peta could follow too ...


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