Visiting the heart of the nation, or at least the local fish-market ...

(Above: as it once was, proudly the heart of the nation).

(Above: as it is now, heart gone, perhaps snatched by zombies or vampires, a dead lost heart, and along with it, whatever soul it once possessed).



In the old days, The Australian used to fancy itself as the heart or perhaps the pulse of the nation, but that notion seems to have been abandoned in the current bland banner.

Perhaps because in a flash, a snap of awareness, the rag realised that now it is the heart and pulse of crusading right wing hysteria, usually of a tabloid kind.

The tabloidism in the digital format has led to a desperate plethora, a plague, a cockroach army of bright red "exclusives".

These meretricious pompous markings suggest an intrinsic lack of faith and uncertainty in the product. Confronted by so many exclusives, it's impossible not to yawn. Here's a sampling of today's batch:

(no links, screen caps only, so many exclusives, so little time).

Do they really think that so many exclusives will make the punters kick the redbacks out of their handbags (and/or wallets), overcome their fear of the fickle gold bar finger of fate, and fork over their hard won shekels so they can sate themselves in an orgy of bright red "exclusives"?

Oh it's desperate days in the digital age, but it isn't the faux news exclusives which might draw a punter - news and ambulance chasing is cheap and abundant and everywhere, so much so that it takes animal cunning to avoid it. Not watching Mark Scott's ABC news at seven is a good starting point.

So what does the rag have on offer?

Why immediately the pond was drawn to Angela Shanahan, given the popular number three slot in the rotating splash at the top of the page (look at me Ma, I'm on top of the Oz page, top of the digital page Ma! Top of Rupe's wordl):

Yep, that's right behind the pompous Paul Kelly and the whimsically droll Tony Fitzgerald, so it must be considered important, and exclusive, since who else would publish the thoughts of Shanahan, as in When the marital fairytale wreaks havoc (behind the paywall to protect innocent young girls).

And sure enough, Shanahan delivers a familiar tirade, shamelessly seizing on the pregnancy of the Dutchess of Cambridge, to berate women's magazines for shamelessly seizing on the pregnancy of the Dutchess of Cambridge.

Yep, it's the magazines that keep peddling the impossible ideal of Prince Charming and the white wedding, which is no doubt why you remember the special joy of the Duke and Dutchess of Cambrdige getting married in a registry office and taking a short honeymoon in Torquay, where they hoped to catch up with their old mate Basil.

Even worse these magazines are an offence to everything that a conservative whining, whinging Catholic might carp about:

...what is really strange and dangerous about women's magazine culture is their attempt to accommodate radical and destructive social change for their 20- and 30-something readers, and actively promote it in the naive readership of magazines for teenagers. With insouciant treatments of lesbian partnerships, promiscuity for both sexes, and mouthing of empty feminism, as they wallow in the latest shrill accusation of misogyny from the Prime Minister, women's magazines rarely look at how destructive permissive sexual mores are for women and girls. 

Oh steady on. Just recently Woman's Day took on the cult of scientology, and pronounced Katie a winner (the teaser for the story is here):

Next up? If only they'd tackle The Australian and the cult of Angela Shanahan and conservative Catholicism ...

But do go on ranting:

Indeed, quite bizarrely some women's magazine editors came out in force (along with Julia Gillard) to criticise Tony Abbott's fatherly protectiveness of his daughters. The women's magazine ethos hypocritically embraces permissiveness along with the new feminist-style Cosmo girl, and at the same time drools over Prince Charming, the white wedding and now the pregnancy.

Shocking hypocrisy. The world will be so much better off when we ditch the witch, that man's bitch, or perhaps drown her in a chaff bag way out at sea.

Naturally Shanahan goes on to celebrate a recent publication by Dr Kevin Andrews, the man who did such an expert job helping out the family life of Dr. Mohamed Haneef, while having an anxiety attack about births out of wedlock, the stability of marriage, the evil role of women's magazines in many other areas of life, and who knows, perhaps their responsibility for the imminent decline and fall of the west, perhaps by December 21.

It's so completely tiresome and predictable, and so hysterical and riddled with angst that the pond almost feels like prescribing a Bex and a good lie down.

Except we all know what that did to kidneys. Oh what the hell, have a Bex and a good lie down ...

It never occurs once to the bubble-headed booby to mention and berate the Royal Family for their dedication to promoting their exclusive business by way of fantasy weddings and royal parades and the whole chocolate box gimmickry of the monarchy.

And here the pond was, thinking she was a grand republican (here, behind the paywall so your nose won't bleed).

Oh sure if there were no royals, women's magazines could revert to Michelle Obama and vegetable gardens, but blaming magazines for reporting what's thrust under their noses is a bit like blaming Angela Shanahan for the train wreck that is the Catholic church in Australia ...

So what else have we got?

Well wouldn't you know it, we've got Christopher Pearson issuing orders and instructions - not mere advice - to Julia Gillard:

Must act? Is this hubris, cheek, or pure blind stupidity at work?

Ah, but the header for the piece gives a clue:  Signs point to a New Year Poll (inside the paywall, so you can afford to buy a nice raspberry sorbet).

Yes, she must act, so she can pave the way for the arrival of the Messiah, as heralded by his charming man servant, spreading palm leaves for the donkey:

During the last week of parliament, where she spent much of the time channelling her inner fishwife, it was obvious that she was focused primarily on her own immediate survival ...

Inner fishwife? Oh surely that must mean that the debased Pearson reads women's magazines, and has been led astray, into a sluttish lifestyle of mean-spirited wordsmithing.

The rest, of course, is just the usual overdose of preening, and posturing, Pearson style. The pond had thought that perhaps a March election might be on the cards - given the strident efforts of Dr. No to turn himself into Dr. Yes - but the moment Pearson proposed it, the idea sounded like a total clunker, right up there with getting Simon Crean to lead the party.

The column is full of such fragile hopes and yearnings, of mights and maybes and dreams of Prince Charmings and white elections sweeping young Christopher off his feet and into a promised land.

Oh how cruel you are, you women's magazines, with your promises cruelly playing on such innocent hopes while Pearson writhes in the demented grasp of a fishmonger selling carp to a fishwife, a nightmare worse than a Bruegel painting.

Is there any hope, any hope at all?

The next six weeks may see more developments in the slush fund scandal. Apart from the police inquiries and the possibility that the WA or Victorian governments might set up judicial inquiries of their own, investigative journalists like The Australian's Hedley Thomas and The Age's Mark Baker won't be sitting on their hands.

May and might, and chin up, no sitting on hands stout-hearted Scout lads, just so Australians can sit down with their Xmas pud to contemplate yet more egg-beating and stirring ... just what we all want as our Xmas wish and our New Year promises ... another round of slush fund crusading, but sssh, whatever you do, don't mention Tony "Dr. Slush" Abbott's own very fine effort ...

But wait, we haven't done with the "might well" speculations, along with a heavy dose of contempt:

If Gillard's position deteriorates and she senses she is about to be tapped on the shoulder, the Prime Minister may well ask for a dissolution of the house of representatives before parliament resumes in February. Plainly, she would rather lead her party to defeat than suffer a humiliating rejection in caucus and be relegated to the backbench. With the possible exception of Rudd, it's hard to think of a prime minister for whom the exercise of high office was so comprehensively all about themselves. The possibility that someone else might do a better job just isn't in the equation, as far as Gillard is concerned.

Indeed. Can idle speculation by a man proven incessantly wrong in his idle speculations attain any greater heights of idle speculation?

Yep, it's hard to think of a columnist for whom the writing of columns was always so comprehensively about man love for Tony Abbott (not that there's anything wrong with man love), and all the fears, hopes, anxieties, dreams and desires it involves as we march towards that Prince Charming as PM and a white election ...

And it's hard to think of a columnist so stupid as to forget that a recent prime minister, one John Howard, so comprehensively thought the exercise of high office was all about himself that he preferred to lead his government to defeat, and lose his own seat, rather than hand it over to Peter Costello.

The pond would be tempted to sing "short memory, must have a short memory, he's got a short ..." except that would involve quoting Peter "short memory" Garrett ...

Meanwhile over at cardigan-knitting granny Fairfax, Peter Hartcher seems to have stopped drinking the Pearson kool-aid, and scribbled Abbott's white-line fever, which helps explain why Pearson is now routinely having a weekly agony aunt crisis scribbling about the dangers of fish wives ...

It turns out that, technically speaking, Tony Abbott is as unpopular as the carbon tax, and might well end up with Billy Snedden's dismal popularity rating - and Sir Billy, a fine and noble Australian, died on the job with his pants down!

What's it all mean? Who knows, but if your idea of a fun weekend is paying to read the likes of Angela Shanahan and Christopher Pearson, the pond has a nice hammer going cheap ...

Or perhaps you can spend your cash on a magazine for women, or head off to the fishmarket, in solidarity with fish wives, fish husbands and fish mongers.

The pond goes each weekend to the Sydney fish market, sometimes dropping in on the flea market held at the Harold Park trots headquarters ...

Yes there's life in the heart of the nation, just bugger all intellectual life at the heart of The Australian ...

(Below: and so to a few cartoons celebrating the work of the master fish-monger).