In which the major Mitchell eerily reminds the pond of ghosts of Xmas past ...

    

They say that childhood memories revive and get more vivid as you get older, and the pond can still recall the excitement of mesh stockings on Xmas day.

The ones served up to the pond always had a comic at the top, usually some milk-drinking weirdo in a purple suit pretending to be rough on roughnecks, but soon enough Mrs Claus was made to realise the errors of her ways, and deliver anything with Carl Barks in it ...

Of course over the years, it wasn't just the tawdry gimcrack dime store novelty that lost its charm, it was the very notion itself. 

Things started to fall apart when Ms Claus turned up with a second hand bicycle, being too poorto afford a new one, and apparently without the capacity to get the elves to manufacture a decent set of wheels. 

And then the whispers started in the playground. Perhaps Ms Claus was a fake and a phoney, just like her obese and unhealthy partner ...

Still, the feeling of euphoria never quite goes away, and these days it's easy for the pond to recapture the excitement, the whiff of pine needles, the smell of plum pudding left out overnight as a treat, simply by turning to major Mitchell ...

The major Mitchell has become a Monday delight. The pond goes to sleep on a Sunday night quivering with anticipation, thinking that the next day will bring revelations, and if not Ms Claus, certainly the major Mitchell.

After a slow start, the bird has found his wings and left the cage, and each screech is a startling delight that echoes over field and vale ...

Now the pond understands that others might read the digital Oz for important news of comings and goings ...

And it has always been thus, this valuable and important function.

It was one of the tragedies of western civilisation when the Sydney Morning Herald stopped printing important vice-regal news of the kind that caught the eye on the 25th June, 1929:

Well yes, but then the vice-regal comings and goings of the former PM in waiting are vastly more important than the activities of de Chairs ... and soon enough the musical chairs will resume ...

But right now the pond has a major Mitchell chewing on the eaves and must pay attention ...

It was just like Xmas all over again, with that special tang of old duffer, or if you will, old fart, railing at the youffs of today ...

That line about the Triple J generation ... it was a sure sign we would be walking nostalgia road looking for ancient mesh stockings ...

But would the bird address the outrageous behaviour of the AFR when it dared to mock him?

Well no, it turned out that the doddery dead-set doofus of an old duffer had other fish to fry this day ... because this day it was all the ABC's fault ...

Note to self. 

Never write notes to self. 

It suggests that doddery old duffer status has gone too far and that senility isn't just around the corner, it's landed in the front yard with a clatter of reindeer hooves ...

But it was that last line that really did it for the pond. 

Some people blame welfare, some people blame drugs, some people blame The Simpsons, some people blame capitalists, some people blame hippies, some people blame hippie capitalists in The Simpsons on drugs singing a song from Hair ...

But the major Mitchell blames the ABC. Just as grandpa Simpson shouts at clouds.

Now if the pond might be so bold, before we continue with the major Mitchell squawking to establish that he's no mynah bird, exactly what generation are we talking about?

A quick squiz at wiki produced these birth dates - and if they're wrong, talk to the hand or the wiki.

Dr Karl was born in 1948, as was Greig Pickhaver (back in the day when he traded as Greg), John Doyle and Angela Catterns came along in 1953, Robbie Buck arrived late in 1959, and then even later came Steve Cannane in 1970, and Will Anderson in 1974.

What's this got to do with anything? you might ask.

Well it turns out that it's important to establish a timeline, so that the concept of "generation" might be re-written in a biblical way to embrace many generations ...

What the fuck?

Zero about Vietnam? 

But they wrote a song specifically about the major Mitchell ready to embark on an Order of Lenin hunt ...

And he was like so many more from that time on 
Their lives were all so empty, until they found their chosen one, the Chairman 
And their zips were often open 
But their minds were always closed 
And their hearts were held in fast suburban chains
And talk of everyday Australians 
And the copy pages were yellow, hours long, paypacket lean 
And the telex writers clattered 
Borrowed copy from the WSJ
Where the gunships once had been 
And car parks made the pond jumpy 
And reading the major Mitchell never stopped the dreams 
Or the growing need for speed and novacaine ...

Or some such thing, and so on and so forth and apologies to the original ...

... though could it be such a crime, in comparison to such a fatuous reference to Cold Chisel and Jimmy the screecher Barnes, and a song about a riot in a pub in 1979 which actually wasn't just about free fucking beer ...

Cue drag queens Stella and Glendab being evicted from a pub and driven by the coppers to a new pub, and this bit of the wiki entry about life returning to the run down old pub the Star ...

Stella asked if the barmaid could open up the front bar, which faced Hunter Street. 
The first Saturday night Stella and Glenda climbed up onto the bar and began to mime to Shirley Bassey numbers. The Palais Dance Hall was directly across from the Hotel in Hunter Street. 
The crowd from the Palais that were gathered on the Street had not seen anything like this before. Within minutes 50 or so noses pressed against the pub windows and then the crowd started to trickle in. 
The next Friday and Saturday night were standing room only. They opened the bar facing Scott Street that had been abandoned years before where bands such as Rick Poynton's Benny and the Jets regularly played to packed houses. 
The Star Hotel, in the West End district of Newcastle, Australia, was a pub and live music venue that catered to young people, gays and merchant seamen. It featured drag shows and live music in all genres. The Star was run down, and had attracted negative attention from the authorities.

Then Tooths shut it down, in much the same tone and style as the blue-stockinged, up-himself major Mitchell reckoning it was just about free beer ...

Somewhere bridges were burning as the walls came down at the Star ...

And then there was that attempt to sound hip by abusing wearers of skinny ties, which actually flings us back into the 1960s ...

As for the risible notion that the ancient Methuselah had at any time any connection with youff culture or an enjoyment or appreciation of JJJ music ... why the idea is simply preposterous ... here's what was hip for men in the 1970s ... (and the women are here too ... warning, they want your money) ...

Men's fashion became more bold and daring throughout the 1970s. The hippie influence of the late 1960s crossed over into the fashion of both sexes. For men, this meant wide, colourful ties and bright, fitted shirts with big collars. Many men grew short beards, sideburns or moustaches and let their hair grow long. Flared trousers were popular with both men and women throughout the decade - ranging from a subtle flare to huge, flapping bell-bottoms. By the end of the 1970s, however, trouser legs had gradually straightened again.

Oh okay, what a hideous time it was ... and that walk down memory lane is all because the major Mitchell is about as un-dude as they come, so un-dude that all the pond can do is piss on the carpet that this column constitutes ... but finish it we must ...

Tragic really, beyond the valley of the pathetic, into the mountains of wild generalisations and rampant silliness. 

Here's a man still stuck in the time warp of the 1950s, fighting the old cultural values war, flailing about ... and then citing The Who as part of it... and Pink Floyd ... like some hipster returning to vinyl and the 8 track ... as if the major Mitchell or the rest of the reactionary reptiles gave a flying fuck about feminism, except as insofar it allowed them to carry on their crusader war against the infidels ...

Is it possible to simultaneously pretend to be a leftist and a feminist, while excoriating leftists and feminists for abandoning proper leftist and feminist values, and sound like a right old conservative bird?

Apparently it is, at least if you're that unique bird, the major Mitchell ...

As for the period musical references, as ancient as the pond remembering Xmas, here's what's happening at JJJ right now. 

Check out the hit list and see if you can find a relevant track from the 1970s ...

So this is what happens when the Chairman (or his sons) put you out to pasture, and all that's left is that you're given a compensatory column so that you can howl at the moon, or bark at the scudding clouds ...

And in the process all that results is a column sounding like a battered punch-drunk boxer, shadow boxing and mourning how he could have been a contender, he coulda been ... and fine examples of punching bag logic ...

Pissing on a concrete piling (oh please, forget the Mother Grundy urination word) is a matter for celebration because of the way it stuck it to a pretty moralising, humourless bunch who opposed freedom of thought and expression ...?

But how wretched is it that the moralising, humourless bunch who opposed freedom of thought and expression don't take to twitter to have a meltdown about the racist and sexist abuse that abounds in US rap, or the average Donald Trump speech supported by the GOP and the Chairman? 

Presumably so they can once again be accused of being a moralising, humourless bunch ...

What a useless doofus, what a dumbbell with a keyboard, and the pond says that with full regard to 18C ... 

And yet another, tedious, interminable mention of its power to suppress intelligent debate, though it shows no sign of affecting the major Mitchell being allowed to parade signs of incipient senility and certainly signs of monstrous stupidity ...

Never mind, so it goes.

Instead of being reminded of the Order of Lenin hunt, the pond was reminded of Xmas's past, and the accumulating sense of disappointment that followed the sense of anticipation and the thrill of early morning hope. 

Where once there was the smell of pine leaves, then came the dead pine tree, to be taken out the back and burned to a crisp ...

As surely as they came in a pillow slip dangling from the mantelpiece, all that was left in the end were some cheap, half-arsed toys and the hope that the next Xmas, or perhaps the next column, would be remotely more interesting ... and yes, you do realise there's now only three and a bit months to the next Xmas?

The pond is here to help, now here, have a play before embarking on your next Order of Lenin hunt ...

And here's what the JJJ youff are listening to ...