Andrew Bolt day

Once a year, this site pauses to ponder an infinite truth, take it easy and celebrate a day. Kind of a national holyday.

No words are required, just pictures and a sense of wonder and a surging, rushing feeling of hope and joy and celebration. Amongst the celebrants:


Yes, forget silly old Alan Seymour, this is the one day of the Oz year, as we scrub off our old pictures and parade them again for purple ribbon day.

But what, you ask, are the details of this moving ceremony, now widely recognised as one of the most important days in Australia's cultural life? More significant than a papal visit feeling up Cardinal Pell, and much more valuable than government subsidy squandered on so-called "art" (the sound of spit hitting the spittoon is an optional sound effect):

Everybody joins in. Below, Chairman Rudd can be seen being given his very own ribbon in a ceremony where some in the crowd wept, and a few women - always the cliched women - fainted:

Details of the Sydney celebration are to hand. It naturally embraces our very own, very special, very favourite Akker Dakker, and we don't mean Jason Akermanis:


There are celebrations in other states, but you can only get the details by visiting the day's guardian and chief celebrant, Mr Moon, here, where you can see a work that when put together casts a shadow over the Sistine Chapel. And why wouldn't it, with Andrew Bolt as inspiration?

Oh to be touched by a razor sharp great mind, ready to teach the world about the so-called science of global warming, based on years of finely honed scientific experiments devised while working for a tabloid newspaper.

We're hoping for a special guest to be disinterred and join with us for a Sydney scone. No names, no pack drill, but we're shooting for the biggest shooting stars in the conservative galaxy:

And if Ronnie can't make it, hopefully others can come from la la land, above the magic faraway tree:

There are many other things you can do if you can't make the many exciting formal ceremonies:

Privacy!

Here at the pond we always like to dress up, go out and look up at the moon, and howl. A ten minute howl is therapeutic, twenty minutes and you'll be cured of every emotional disease and neurosis, or dead from a neighbour's powerfully flung shoe mistaking you for a doltish cat.

But if zen buddhist tranquility doesn't work for you, how about a sexual fetish?

And if you can't get a special guest to attend your festivities, why not shoot for the moon yourself? Always reliably found blathering away at the opening of a red fire hydrant, ready to reveal it's a communist plant for international terrorism, there's one special guest you should ask to come along as a special favour:

And that, happily, is the last we need to think about Andrew Bolt until his day turns up as reliably as Swiss clockwork - or is that cheese? - next year on the calendar.

Now don't turn up tomorrow with some feeble excuse that you didn't have enough forewarning to party down ... 24 hours dudes and it's party on ...