The pond stopped doing two posts a day awhile ago, but it's the Xmas season, and the pond has no problem being theologically and politically correct, and wishing everyone happy holydays and a Merry Xmas …or a splendid Saturnalia for those so inclined ...
The pond missed the culture wars this year, Zwarte Piet and all that stuff, and couldn't even get excited about the recent fuss …
Google away, but baby, it's warm outside, and a bit sodden and humid too …
What did excite the pond was that the Speccie mob had bunged on an Xmas special …
Now a line had to be drawn … watching that refugee Pom Brendan O'Neill try to make a living with excursions down under was a bridge too far, but the pond decided to relent on the Bolter … and sure enough the humbug revealed enough to keep a Freudian in work for a year …
Now some will be attracted to the enormous stupidity of the Bolter blathering about the Franks ruining Gaul, as if he'd never read Caesar's Gallic Wars and understood that maybe the Gauls weren't so pleased at being invaded by a nice little Roman civilisation …let alone celebrating poor Gregory of Tours himself, a notorious zealot and bigot and heretic hunter, though no doubt in the same spiritual style as the Bolter's dedicated crusading (Greg Hunters and heretics, head here).
But there's a bigger question the pond always asks about the Bolter. Did he cynically embark on a crusader lifestyle to enhance himself, his status, and his material wealth?
Call it the Father Coughlin question if you will …a question which turned up recently in The New Yorker …
Here for the rest, currently outside the paywall …
The cynical answer to the Bolter question comes later, and in the meantime, there's the usual Coughlin-style blather to endure ...
He was feeling apocalyptic?
He's always feeling apocalyptic. It's the Coughlin/Bolter way ...
The Bolter sitting down to write a big or small novel?
But the Bolter is a narcissist, he loves the attention, he seeks it out, and he also doesn't mind the cash in the paw …
He's always feeling apocalyptic. It's the Coughlin/Bolter way ...
The Bolter sitting down to write a big or small novel?
But the Bolter is a narcissist, he loves the attention, he seeks it out, and he also doesn't mind the cash in the paw …
He shares a certain soul-mindedness with others …
But back to the field day for Freudians, and the Bolter being primped, petted, posed, pictured, pampered, in the style that narcissist ponces love ...
Tip: drink Talisker at the seafood bar on the hill behind the distillery while eating oysters taken from the misty Harport loch before you. What a harmony of briny tastes and views – a harmony of Whistlerian proportions. And a context for creativity.
Why is it so revealing? Well for starters, any novel written in this style would be a dank draft of Bolter shit direct from the mouldy Heathcliffian moors …
And for seconds, for all the talk of caring about the western suburbs and common folk and all that crap, the Bolter is actually aspirational petit bourgeoisie, with a tendency to wanking away about the y'artz …
And for travel, and indulgences, and visiting the homes of writers you need plenty of cash in the paw …
And for thirds, it's beyond pathetic when a wretched ideologue who makes his money by traducing others and moaning and groaning on a daily basis, introducing assorted pathologies into the system, suddenly relaxes at Xmas and begins to simper about the "super-nova of creativity ignited deep inside the author."
What a wanker he is.
The Bolter is an ancient mariner, without a clue about the way he's corrupted himself, never understanding the albatross he's draped around his neck ...
Van Gogh green in winter? Streeton blue? Oh to see Van Gogh and Streeton reduced to this kind of epic wankery … but note the point of it all …
The Bolter has made enough to build his own bolt hole …and all the rest is just idle seasonal blather designed to titillate the Freudians and the 'leets.
The pond knows what sort of reaction it would get, if it let out that stream of self-conscious, indulgent waffle and crap in Tamworth …
But if the pond could then show off a snap of a dream beach place, nobody would talk about rising sea levels. They'd marvel at how Father Coughlin was living the dream, and his architect had built a veritable beach dream by the Van Goghian sea, with essence of Streeton blue to add to the visual splendour …
Who do you think is watching? Any Freudian and anyone interested in the fluff to be found by navel-gazing ...
And now, since the pond has strayed into the Speccie mob for Xmas, and as the pond has only got a few more posts left in it for the year, how about a bit of Flinty?
You see, Flinty has also been haunted by the ghosts of Xmas past …
Well who wouldn't be, it's pretty scary stuff …
… a bit like Flinty haunting the Speccie mob perhaps, but by golly the lad was in the grip of genuine fear ...
Ah, the crowned republic. Good old Flinty, delusional as ever …
The pond just had to fling that one in, though strangely there's no one asking "what the fuck's a crowned republic?"
You see, the pond regards Flinty as being much like the mad uncle you get out of the attic, and bring down to share in the chook, the ham, the Xmas crackers, and the pud.
There's no point arguing with him. You just leave him in a corner, ranting away, and try to enjoy the cracker jokes, though they seem to get worse each year, unimaginable as that is …
Now as before, the pond notes that the idea of Alan Jones in a pub, or Flinty or the Bolter, or any one of them having a sensible word to say about 'leets is just a way of introducing Xmas cheer at the pond …
Tip: drink Talisker at the seafood bar on the hill behind the distillery while eating oysters taken from the misty Harport loch before you. What a harmony of briny tastes and views – a harmony of Whistlerian proportions. And a context for creativity.
What a bunch of 'leet wankers they are. Is it any wonder that the pond turns to a cartoon or three for relief?
And so to the final gobbet of Xmas fun Flinty …
What a wanker he is, and yet no mention of the grand state of New England, with Tamworth as its noble capital (forget Newcastle, forget Armidale), and yet the thing the pond noticed most in that last screed was that neither the Speccie mob nor Flinty seemed to have the capacity to put a link into the text.
The pond presumes this is at least better than Rudy's Twitter typo, but all the same it confirms the pond's worst fears as to what happens when you get the mad uncle out of the attic …
Instead of interesting links, nstead of offering some Swiss chocolates to the assembled family, a Flinty kind of mad uncle, made excitable by the smell of the roast chook, starts ranting about Swiss referendums and the need for new states, while assuring everyone this won't mean more politicians …
By golly, there not being a cracker to hand, the pond resorted to an Xmas puzzle and a few other cartoons …
We are so lucky to have a real tough old blue singlet wharfie type as Flinty to warn us about "The Elites" and point out to us who they are
ReplyDeleteFlinty is known as "10 Schooner Dave" from his days of downing 10 in a row in the public bar at the The Five Dock Bar and Brawl pub on Saturday mornings before challenging the bar to a fight.
They don't male knock about blokes like Flinty anymore, way too many fops and elites.
Correction "make"
ReplyDeleteWhat a choice for this close to Saturnalia, DP: Flinty and The Bolter.
ReplyDeleteNow that other fine exemplar from a foreign land, Boris Johnson, reckons that 16% of the population (of GB anyway) have an IQ below 85. Now if that is correct, and if it holds here, then about 3 million Australians in the age group of 20 and above have IQs below 85.
Which is way, way too many for the miniscule fanclubs of Flinty and The Bolter. I can only conclude that their fans basically have IQs around 60 or less. Which clearly puts them into the categories Moron (IQ 50-69), Imbecile (IQ 30-49) and Idiot (IQ 29 or below).
Have a superb Saturnalia.
A new state known as Boot Brisbane? I'm moving. For the weather mind, not the name.
ReplyDeleteOh joy.
ReplyDeleteOne of 2018's great existential battles has been the one the Bolter holds within himself as he cannot make up his mind just how much of himself he should be sharing with us.
As always, the man screaming of censorship is everywhere, and he here is again - cosseted with his 1400 readers in the Speccie, torn, ripped apart by the prospect of actually achieving something worthwhile. As per the dog botherer, he's decided against doing anything worthwhile, and will continue tossing out tabloid bilge as he has for years now. It may be 30 degrees and Whistler blue, but he's going to find this decision somewhat of an error in his retiring years.
Go on Bolter, write us that great novel we know you have in you.
Will we have long to wait, d'you think, vc ?
Delete"Is France the only nation named after its German invaders?"
ReplyDeletePretty funny question from a guy who proceeds to talk about going to Angle-Land...