Monday, April 24, 2017

In which the pond enthusiastically embraces the Major Mitchell's war on everything, and does a little cultural background checking ...



There's nothing like a good war on everything ... who doesn't fondly remember Goebbels' Sportpalast speech?

Ich frage euch: Wollt ihr den totalen Krieg? Wollt ihr ihn, wenn nötig, totaler und radikaler, als wir ihn uns heute überhaupt erst vorstellen können?
"I ask you: Do you want total war? If necessary, do you want a war more total and radical than anything that we can even yet imagine?"

Nun, Volk, steh auf und Sturm brich los!
"Now, people, rise up, and let the storm break loose!"

Let the crocs be skinned and turned into shoes and purses; let the sharks become flake around the land!

But enough of the pond's attempts to ramp up its Godwin's Law swear jar holdings, it's on with the warrior Major Mitchell mourning the way some bloody useless greenies think that other creatures should have a place in the sun, as opposed to a presence on the plate ...




Indeed, indeed. 

If Malware follows the Major Mitchell, a war on sharks might well boost his numbers. It would follow on from any number of other useful wars ... the war on digital, the war on wogs, the war on 457, the war on the onion muncher, the war on Islamics ... and might lead to many more fruitful wars ... the war on North Korea, the war on Indonesia, the war on the EU ... so many wars, it's hard to remember them all, or guess the wars to come, but the polls already dance with delight ...



Now don't get the pond wrong, shark is in fact one of the pond's favourite foods, firm but flavoursome in a fishy way, it curries up nicely, suits a stir fry, fills out a marinara sauce, takes pride of place on a seafood pizza, and the pond's in-law is a dab hand at frying it in a light succulent batter ...

Forgive the pond for wiping away a slavering spot of spittle ... in fact the pond bought a kilo of Angel shark fillets on the weekend at the fish market, for just under thirteen bucks ...

Ah well, there goes the green readership, but to return to the in-law.

This in-law happens to be a keen surfer, and spends much time in the water, as well as being a keen fisherman, who spends much time catching and cooking gummy sharks and the like.

He's had a few close calls with sharks, but is inclined to be philosophical. He catches and eats his fair share, so he understands the impulse of the average shark, and takes a variety of precautions to pre-empt their live to eat, eat to live philosophy.

He hasn't got much time for a war on sharks - well that's the pond trying to turn "fucking pathetic" into family friendly discourse - but then he thinks he's heading into their turf for his pleasure, and that doesn't mean that all of them should die.

He also thinks the war is delusional, unless the aim is to wipe sharks from the oceans of the world, but then he lives in a remote location where the notion of netting or mounting a war on sharks is absurd, in economic terms, and also as a way of actually avoiding shark attacks.

The pond has repeatedly tried to explain to him the necessity of a war on sharks, the killing fields or at least the sea running red with their blood, and even suggested other wars for the area ... like a war on crows, a war on possums, a war on koalas and a war on snakes ...

Frankly the sooner the bush is cleared of dangerous creatures (beware the drop bears), the better the planet will be. The sooner we have a mammal monoculture where the only serious competitors are cockroaches and flies, the safer the planet will be ...

Thank the long absent lord that the Major Mitchell has given up temporarily his hunt for the Order of Lenin medal that Manning Clark wore so conspicuously on so many famous, well-recorded, well-publicised occasions so that he might explain the virtues and benefits of shark-hunting ... no doubt the pond's in-law will be diligently reading ... (well at least there's as much chance as a snowball in hell has) ...




Other critters might die? True, but so what. Fuck 'em, fuck 'em all ... who do they think they are? Do they think they have a right to swim in the sea? Who said? Man has got dominion over the lot of 'em (and over complimentary women too, and don't those uppity feminists go forgetting it ...).

And as for flogging horses to death in the name of entertainment, and fuckwitted loser gambling on same, who are these bloody objectors?

Why if the pond wants to indulge in so-called "wastage", who's to say that's wrong.

Hmm, the pond must remember these arguments when it bashes the shit out of the eternally barking dog in the house next door. If the neighbours get uppity, the pond will remind them that the Major sees nothing wrong in a little wastage ...

Sorry neighbour, your dog just got wasted, but where's the harm in a little wastage?

And so to the other mission of the day. 

There were so many reptile delights on view in the lizard Oz this day that the pond had to cull furiously to get to an acceptable bag limit. Tiddlers were thrown back, though it has to be said that the pond's connection to either fishing or surfing is extremely limited.

While fishing in the Peel river (with occasional tedious trips to the Namoi in search of Murray cod), the pond learned the wonders and joys of watching paint dry, and has been a devotee of the art of drying paint ever since (it has to be noted that these recent twenty minute dry to the touch paints have quite ruined the art). The pond subsequently learned that root canal therapy was a way to liven up fishing so that all might enjoy it ...

Speaking of Tamworth - always a sign the pond is in a brooding mood - one of the other early skills the pond developed was wog spotting ... which brings us to this effort ...




Okay, let's forget the the "cultural values worth testing" angle - the google splash better represents the header for the piece, "Cultural background of citizens is legitimate object of scrutiny."

Well indeed, indeed, and so who better to scrutinise in Joe's Garage than Stephen Chavura himself.

The pond, its well honed Tamworth-refined wog radar on high alert, noted that the name "Chavura" didn't seem to fit what it knew of Anglo-Celtic name-calling ...

In fact the closest match in terms of googling was the Temple Sholom coming up with Eco-Chavura, though it seems it's a word which can be used in a variety of contexts.


So Chavura's a community? A self-contained, self-enclosed community? Alarming, conspiratorial, paranoia-inducing stuff ...

But it really brought the pond no closer to an understanding, though it did remind the pond of the splendid way that the Peel street pawnbroker Mr Solomon was always called "Ikie" ("Ikey" if you will) Solomon ...

Oh there's nothing like a cultural stereotype, but the Macquarie University listing here for Chavura didn't help either ...


Well yes, indeed, and it no doubt helps to know that Dr Stephen Chavura is a Campion College Australian teammate, but  we're not doing religious identity here, we're doing a rigorous scrutinising Joe's garage style on cultural identity.

Really why aren't there many biographical details allowing for the legitimate scrutiny of the cultural background of this citizen?

Not to put too fine a Tamworth point on it, what's the source of the wog-sounding name? What does it mean? What are the origins? Were orgies involved? Should the pond be suspicious and paranoid? Is there something to hide here?

Would the author start off his piece for the reptiles of Oz by saying, "my name reveals a foreign, corrupting taint, and it's true my family came here on boats or planes or such like, but I have adopted Australian values and I am therefore immune from the legitimate scrutiny of my cultural identity?"

Unlikely ...



Well that wasn't very revealing, was it?

I mean, the pond is no racist, but who on earth let the Chavura name into the country?

Oh gosh darn it, there the pond goes for feeling guilty, when all it's doing is asking a possible wog to be explicit about his potential wogdom ...

The pond routinely reveals its German blut, and an uncanny Irish ability not to get to there by starting from here ...

In the end, it has to be said that this piece isn't much more revealing than a cartoon celebrating dinkum Aussie values ...


The pond sensed that nothing would be revealed or cleared up in the final short gobbet ...



Never mind, it reminded the pond that as well as a war on sharks, a war on wogs and Islamics is a fine and noble thing, and a dinkum Aussie thing to do ...but that a war on Xians is mean and hurtful and definitely unAustralian ...

And now, since the pond has been tracking the tweets and mentioned Adolf a couple of times, an old cartoon ...


And in these LePen times, let us not forget the war on the EU ...


And while we're at it,  wandering down memory lane, let us recall Toad's famous war on the stoats and weasels ... 

There's a piece in Meanjin by John Clarke doing the social media rounds ... it's a fun read in full here, starting as it does with memories of primary school, moving through Beckett plays, dropping in on Plutarch's Lives of the Greeks and Alexander, and ending up this way with Alexander scoring a horse ...


Every so often the pond is tempted away from the usual reptile shyte to a fun read, but where would that leave the pond? Swimming with the sharks and the reptiles is also fun, albeit in a deeply weird, kinky and perverted way ...





There are days when the pond simply can't cope ... there are simply too many riches, too many temptations ...

Look at the line up of reptiles this day, a galaxy of stars which sees the Order of Lenin hunter turned great white shark hunter, but such is the strength of the competition, he's forced to lurk at the bottom of the list. A few bars of John Williams shark music, if you please maestro, so that he might make his way up the page ...

Then there's the lesser Akker Dakker explaining the onion muncher is a man of peace, and Creighton embracing his inner Donald, and Gra Gra sticking up for Coatsie - well, the Olympic Games is such a fine example of clean competitive sports - and guest star Chavura returns to bash multiculturalism. Hmm, in the good old days in Tamworth, somebody would have noted that "Chavura" sounded pretty wog and wondered where the wog had come from ...after all, what's the use of a decent Anglo-Celtic culture if you're not allowed to spot a wog at a hundred paces?

Given this line up, the pond was shocked and disappointed to see that it had even been able to include a mention of the Oz editorialist's variant on "all the way with LBJ", though the slogan ran a little longer in these complex times: 

"all the way with an evolution denying, climate science refusenik, Christian fundamentalist, can't dine with a woman alone lest I turn into a Don Juan or ravaging rapist Mike Pence ..."


Confronted with such a rich array of challengers might seem perverse for the pond to stick with old favourite the Oreo.

But the pond was deeply traumatised last week when the Oreo suddenly disappeared and the pond had to check its navel and think on deep questions regarding immortality and whither Judeo-Christian western white civilisation if there was no Oreo around to protect and celebrate it ...

Besides, the pond has a special love of columns which are headed "must" and "mustn't", as in Callick's "mustn't silence criticism" and the Oreo's "superpowers must agree."

It reminds the pond of its own favourite effort, "Donald Trump must change his ways", a powerful column with immediate results, since the Donald now changes his ways, his policies, his attitudes and his election promises at least four times an hour.

The pond is still waiting on discernible results from its piece "Vlad the impaler Putin must resign today", while apparently Kim Jong-un has yet to read the pond's excellent advice,  "Kim Jong-un must accept a gig with Kath and Kim, because a Logie must be awarded to a freshened-up act ..."

Sadly, it turned out in the google splash that the Oreo wasn't delivering quite the "must" column that automatically becomes a "must read" ...


Hang on, hang on, Team America? The Oreo takes puppets seriously?


Dear sweet long absent lord, who knows where that might lead?



But enough with the tease, it's on with the Oreo instructing Vlad the impaler and X-man Xi on what they must do ...


Now it has to be said that the pond thinks the Oreo's week off has done her no good, and perhaps might have done irreparable harm. She must never ever take a holiday again, and leave the pond alone to contemplate a threatening universe!

There is, for example, not a single mention of Judeo-Christian civilisation being under threat from North Korean nukes in this first gobbet ...that's a bit like reading the bible and not coming across Jehovah. Hence forth, the Oreo must make mention of Judeo-Christian civilisation in every column ... the pond has a warm lettuce leaf at the ready.

The resolute refusal to use "the hermit kingdom" must also be counted as against the Oreo's usual strength, the impeccable cliché ... the Oreo must be grateful for her love of cliché, and she must keep them handy, and she must trot them out ...

The pond began to get a glum sense that the Oreo had changed. It was like munching on a healthy low fat, low carbs, low sugar Oreo ...


Thirty per cent less than an original Oreo? Truly terrifying and grim, putting talk of a nuke strike into solemn perspective ...

The Oreo must improve, and the pond's only hope was that she must insist that China and Russia must do what she says, because the pond routinely advises the Kremlin and Zhongnanhai that they must read the Oreo and they must do what she says ... or else!

Or else the pond must release Dame Slap and must turn her on them, and then needs must, they'll be sorry ...



Phew, that's a relief, the Donald, the X-man, and Vlad the impaler must do as Oreo has instructed and must sort things out, preferably by close of business tomorrow.

What a relief that the Donald has discovered the location of his fleet ... and that the US, or perhaps a veritable armada headed by the nuke-powered USS Carl Vinson, is steaming north to denuclearise the Korean Peninsuala lickety-split. Remember, they must do what the Oreo has demanded.

Unfortunately, the Oreo didn't quite explain how all this must be done, it seems it must have something to do with hard power, but somehow the Oreo drew back from a description of what hard power meant and what must be done with it...

Would the Oreo flinch when what she means to say is that the North Koreans must be nuked and this must be done quickly because hard power sometimes wilts and shrinks? (except of course in puppet land when Team America get it on).

Never mind, done and dusted it must be, because the Oreo has spoken ... or at least written ...and things must happen, whatever they must be ...

And now in the interval before all-out war breaks out on the Korean peninsula, please allow the pond to share a joke from the excellent David Rowe, who seems to have taken something of a set against the mutton Dutton, with more excellent Rowe here ...


The pond shed a tear at the way the mutton Dutton had become part of the great dinkum Oz values tradition ... more people must do it, and the mutton Dutton must show the way!

    




Sunday, April 23, 2017

In which the pond celebrates Murdochian values with Akker Dakker and the Devine ...


The pond couldn't resist starting with a comedy item in the Sunday Terror about the Manly Mauler ... so desperate in his attention-seeking that anything is possible.

Naturally the notion of a 59 year old onion munching fool was discussed solemnly on The Insiders, but the pond had other things in mind ... an outing to the car wash, the only chance the pond gets these days to come into contact with actual tree-killing editions of the gutter tabloid press ...

The car wash means well, it's not their fault that pornography and filth turn up on their coffee tables ...

The pond couldn't help but notice in the digital edition of the Terror that there was a shocking example of unAustralian values at work ...

Akker Dakker had been displaced from the opinion splashes yet again by a couple of skirts ...


In the tree killer edition, Akker Dakker took his rightful place next to the Terrorist editorial ...


The Devine was deeper into the rag, but she was given delightful wombles as a witty illustration, and a whole page to herself ...


This shocked the pond to the core ... because if ever there was anyone who stood for dinkum, portly, dry sherry or a snort of the white powder in the leather arm chair Aussie values, it was Akker Dakker ...



It came as something of an anti-climax - as most things Akker Dakker do - to discover on returning from the car wash and perusing the digital edition that Akker Dakker was seriously confused.


You see, Akker Dakker was expecting to attack Malware himself because everyone knows you could offer him a sausage sandwich and he'd plead he was on a gluten-free diet (well that was The Insiders joke anyway).

Here were the greenies, comrade Bill and his comrades, the ABC (what no Fairfax?) having a burl, having a lash, when really they should have left it to Akker Dakker ...

It's his bloody turf. How dare they?


You see? After having a go at the bed wetters, Akker Dakker himself can't resist wetting the bed with one of those classic "Billy goat butt" openings, as in "But ... it pains the portly retained of all knowledge of dinkum Aussie values to point out ..." that Malware is unAustralian and lacks dinkum sausage values ...

Immediately after that came the sort of photo we've become familiar with thanks to SNL ...


Yep, here's the puppet, standing to screen left of the puppet master ... getting ready for a good Akker Dakker bollocking and dressing down ...


There isn't actually any need to read Akker Dakker rehearsing all his usual lines ... why not just enjoy a cartoon the pond found in the Sun-Herald?


The funny thing is the way that Malware must have thought he was on to a good thing with the values stuff, but when you're a hater, of the Akker Dakker kind, anything Malware does is up for a good hating ... stand clear, greenies, comrade Bill, the ABC, and Fairfax, your man Akker Dakker is on the bed wetting job ...


Hmm, Malware set fire to the 457 visas? Or he's burning down the house?

Oh wait, that must be someone thinking they can drum up business by advertising on Akker Dakker's page ... by golly, nice lizard ...


Actually if you've got ticker or hypertension problems, or you're overweight, you should think twice about the salt content in Vegemite ... on the other hand, if Akker Dakker thinks that's the mark of being dinkum, who would want to stop him enjoying his very own myocardial infarction ... though maybe that could be induced just by clicking heels three times and whispering that magic incantation into his ear, Allah, Allah, Allah ...

Well there was another cartoon in the tree-killing edition of the Fairfax rag ...and it seemed to echo Akker Dakker and set up the Devine ...


By golly, that print-through gives it an authentic tang of tree killing ... and so on to the Devine, who decided this day to trash Canberra, the federal government, public servants and the whole damn thing ...


Of course the illustration made no sense. The best-know Wombles live in Wimbledom Common, which has bugger all to do with Canberra or federal politics or public servants - it would have been more sensible to resort to the common abuse of smurfs or muppets or the LGM godbots in Toy Story - but who ever expected a Devine column to make sense or contain relevance?

It's the abuse that's at the heart of the matter ...and a whiner telling others to stop whining always delivers the iron the pond's diet requires ...


It's as if Barners' attempts to shift departments lock, stock and barrel out of town - sending every government department and bureaucrat into a tizz and a deep funk these past few weeks - hasn't been happening ... though the pond hears it's the first and last item around the water cooler as people contemplate their shift to Woolbrook to get the town on the move ...

But of course that's the entire point of the piece ... a smug, entitled Murdochian mocking others for being smug and entitled ...


Now anyone who glanced at the dinkum Australian values in that Wilcox cartoon would have noted that the smug Devine is living in smug Sydney, where real estate pricing is a form of madness designed to forever exclude the young of everyone except those spawned by the already well-heeled ...

What's the point of this Devine piece? Well it's just a different angle on the fat cats routine, as opposed to talking about the lives of quiet desperation lived by many public servants, the lesser cogs in the wheel, who do much of the grunt work trying to make the wheel go round ...


Oh look, and they take balloon rids and they paddle on the lake. Is there no end to their luxury lifestyles?

It's such a tediously obvious bit of hate, fear and loathing that there's not much point blinking, even when the academics and the ABC turn up to get done over by the rage machine.

Of course if anyone asks the Devine what she gets paid - a shit load of money no doubt - she'll suddenly go all coy. When she returned to the Terror to start her new era of rabidity she told the reptiles of Oz "It was never about the money." (Mumbrella here).

Of course not, it was also about the hate. But please, don't forget the money, oodles of it ...

Bear that in mind when reading the following seething mass of neuroses, resentment, hostility, anger and hate, sustained by an exceptionally generous stipend from News Corp. 

Anyone with long enough memories can remember asking the Bolter to reveal his salary (Media Watch here), only to be greeted with dead silence, because anyone who discovered what Murdoch's queen bees are being paid would reel away in shock (of course if anyone thinks they're being underpaid, the pond would be only too happy to reveal the shocking underpayment):


Indeed, indeed ...



Never mind, it's time to harden the fuck up Canberran ps'ers. 

Everyone's been done over by Miranda the Devine, and had Vitriole, essence of heart of darkness splashed on them. 

This week it was Canberrans, next week, dinkum Australian values demand that some other bunch of mugs have the shit ritually been beaten out of them by an exceptionally well paid Murdochian hate machine ...

But at least the pond can claim it gets its samples from the car wash ...



Another day, another dollar in the sock ... yes, it's not just the well-paid Manly Mauler, with handsome parliamentary pension, standing by to dish out a pounding ... each time someone slips a dollar in the Chairman's till, they're helping spread that essence of Vitriole around the land ...


In which the pond does time with a white feather woman, aka petulant Peta ...


(An anonymous note written on the back of what is thought to be a 10 year old boy's picture: What a promising boy… Now wear this brooch and buttons and your frilly white dress. ‘Whilst your brother goes to war (his older brother was 16 at the time and a member of the Royal Field Artillery), riding gallantly, the town all sees your ways… Chicken you are!! - here).

The pond would like to approach today's reptile column cautiously and indirectly, by noting one of the more contemptible aspects of World War One, a war notorious for introducing a vast range of contemptible ways of making war, from chemical weapons to warm bodies being treated as mindless bullet and munitions stoppers ... and that's before we get on to the vast meaninglessness and futility of the enterprise in which so many innocents were lost for no good reason, and others who survived had their lives ruined ...

This particular contemptible phenomenon featured women, and it involved an idea which devolved from a group of women who formed an Order of the White Feather (as noted above, more here).

This noxious, cowardly, devious, nasty, toxic notion involved flourishing white feathers at men so that they might be shamed into heading off to war ...





As always, there were victims ... the site linked to above provided this story by Francis Becket, published in The Guardian in 2008, about his grandfather, shamed into fighting:

He had three small daughters, which saved him from conscription, and his attempt to volunteer was turned down in 1914 because he was short-sighted. But in 1916, as he walked home to south London from his office, a woman gave him a white feather… He enlisted the next day. 
By that time, they cared nothing for short sight. They just wanted a body to stop a shell, which Rifleman James Cutmore duly did in February 1918, dying of his wounds on March 28. 
 My mother was nine, and never got over it…. She blamed the politicians. She blamed the generation that sent him to war. She was with Kipling: “If any question why we died, / Tell them, because our fathers lied.” … But most of all, she blamed that unknown woman who gave him a white feather, and the thousands of brittle, self-righteous women all over the country who had done the same… (the story can be found in full at The Graudian here).

There are always petty, mean-spirited, noxious, toxic women ready to hand out the white feather, and so the pond can now turn to the latest modern example ...



You've got to wonder why people write this sort of simple-minded rhetorical meaningless shit, of the golden age, there were giants in those days, kind, which strips people of their shared humanity.

You know, this sort of poster nonsense designed beguile fools and lead them to their death ...



There's always a point of course, in doing the compare and contrast, and handing out the modern white feather ...

It's done to demean the current living and the different... It's a form of rhetorical bullying and Colonel Blimp bluster, best done by those who've never seen or experienced action ... and it produces this sort of response to the dog whistle ...


Yes, it's that special brand of Terrorist reader ... a genuine fuckwit, addle-brained and bigoted to boot, who presumes to speak on behalf of others, while basking in the inner glory of his bigotry.

This sort of warfare usually results in a lining up of distant relatives - the pond's grandfather was a machine gunner in the Somme - to re-fight contemporary wars, with neither side actually anywhere near stomach-high churning mud, bullets zipping by or high explosives producing deafness at best, and instant death at worst ...(the pond's grandfather luckily settled for deafness).

The syndrome is best revealed by petulant Peta's opening gambit ... which naturally trades on a snap of men heading off to die in abundant numbers ...


There it is, a classic white feather moment. Note well that petulant Peta didn't stand, while a member of Australia's armed forces in Iraq or Afghanistan, though the opportunity was no doubt open to her ...

Instead, she stood in a touring party, no doubt with a handy security guard surrounding the party, amongst headstones and had an ecstatic moment of identification with the dead ... quite possibly before hopping into a business class seat and flying back home after a few nights in a decent hotel.

Talk about a cosmic joke, no doubt one that would be enjoyed by the diggers killed long ago in one of the most epically futile, stupid and useless military operations of a war noted for many such exercises ...

Once upon a time, the pitch was that Anzac Day was a time for remembering sacrifice and the fallen, not glorifying war ...

It's supposed to be a commemoration, and the long absent lord strike the pond down for quoting the man who gave Sydney the Olympics rather than infrastructure, but this was Bob Carr's take on it ...


Well your average, war-mongering white feather woman isn't going to have any of that ... there must be viciousness, and trading off on a snap of even more graves ...


Oh fuck, here it comes, the valiant warrior, petulant Peta, is going to go to war and blather about the "unique set of Australian values that set this country apart". 

Exceptionalism, provincialism, dunderheaded parochialism never dies ... it just dons its set of white feathers and flaps squawking into the sky ... but please don't forget to include a shot of fighting diggers so that the white feather woman might pose amongst them ...


Actually, the pond's grandfather came back from the Somme shattered by his experiences of war, and turned into a hopeless drunk, who occasionally bashed his wife when he was fully on the piss, and then turned remorseful and gentle and kind when he sobered up.

Demons raged within him, and he stormed around the house shouting at pink elephants (it was what alcoholics were supposed to do, and so he did). He routinely locked us out of the house, and when he was in his cups, he made life miserable for all of us ...

He never talked about the war ... most of those in the pond's extended family who served - and being lumpenproletariat country folk, there were many who were ripe to be cannon fodder - never talked about their experiences.

The few hints they dropped consisted mainly of the hope that fuckwits and jingoists of the white feather kind might never put their descendants in harm's way ...

They were also inclined to be surprisingly tolerant, which isn't that surprising. After you've lain in a trench and seen the man next to you have his head blown off, questions of gender and tolerance and such like seem quite minor matters ... but not to your average valiant white feather woman ...


Every Anzac Day there's at least one contemptible column that comes the pond's way, and this is it, at least until the next reptile has a go. 

What would the white feather woman make of the pond's grandfather hitting the pond's grandmother ... "real men don't hit women". 

But he was a real man, one of those bronzed Anzacs the twits blather about, a machine gunner at the Somme, up to his guts in winter mud, at a time when machine gunners were a prime target because of the damage they could do (though he wasn't bronzed, and by the time the pond knew him, he was white haired and feeble).

He just happened to be a tortured and lost soul, but at least he was a tolerant man ... and as a result, we enjoyed the free food sent across by the Chinese running the restaurant across the road, and formed a friendship with the owners - lumpenproletariats and aliens together ...

It seems safe to say he would have loathed the words of a white feather woman rabbiting on about identity politics, and would have gone with family over ideology ... after all, the pond notes with some pride that his sister was barking mad and ended up a nun, and others in the family were barking mad, and so all got along famously barking at each other ...

No doubt it helps explain why the pond turned different, and moved amongst other aliens and dissidents ... and routinely takes heart that others think that petulant Peta, the onion muncher and the like are just a jingoistic bunch of dickheads ... likely to reveal all that's worst about themselves and their beliefs on significant occasions ...

And so to a few ways to change the tone ...

Everybody was once made to study the poem below at school, and the pond still likes it. The ADB has a tidy short biography of Kenneth Slessor here ... it pleases the pond to note that he was an agnostic to the end and had a secular burial service, along with this reminder of his once common larrikin stance ...

...His admiration for the ordinary soldier combined with his sharp eye and linguistic skill to make him a distinctive correspondent, but his dislike of military authority, and his frustrations with wartime censorship and military bureaucracy, led to disputes.

Put it another way. It was a great tradition to mock horses' arses, and the sort of cheap, easy, jingoistic rhetoric of the sort of horse's arse crap spouted by the white feather woman ...

First the pond must borrow a couple of cartoons from the Kiwis ...



And a couple from plucky Aussies ...




And so to that Slessor poem ...


Now there's a spirit the pond understands ... and if anyone wants to feel sentimental, forget the stupid war on political correctness and remember the sharing ...