In which the pond is saved by Lloydie of the Amazon, but must run Dame Slap and the dog botherer just to fill up the space ...

 

The pond's hits might be way down, but there's nobody like a Lloydie of the Amazon (or should that be Lloydy?) to help nuke the comments section, which is why the pond was vastly relieved that he stepped up yet again to help the pond out ...

Good old Andy. He's a Lloydie fave ... and others love him too ...

More on that fuss here ... 

Meanwhile, the reptiles are on to Albo with an EXCLUSIVE...

Sinister backroom veteran operatives and old mates, and the "climate agenda"? 

Well it's up there with "faceless men", though the pond does feel a little nostalgia for the old days ...

And now back to Lloydie because Australia's security and the pond's security is involved, if only because the pond recently looked at a change of scenery and discovered the insurance for the property would be 7k a year because of heightened bushfire risks (and who could argue with that? Chop down the gum trees and all will be well) ...

Ah yes, the deep uncertainty that means there's no emergency, no need to get knickers in a knot, all is well, respected Italian scientists have assured Lloydie ... though the pond did recall the time way back in October 2019 that Andy managed to get his knickers in a knot ...

More on that ancient fuss at the Graudian ...

Meanwhile Lloydie is making out in his usual bandit style, and what a relief to know that the climate isn't the weather, and so insurers and banks and such like are being incredibly silly ...

Yes, feel free to keep building on flood plains and right on the beach, and in the middle of a good patch of gums, because ...

... because it's all highly questionable, though the question the pond usually asks is why is Andy such a twit? The pond already knows that Lloydie of the Amazon is one, but the ways of profs with an eye on publicity and attention-seeking are arcane and mysterious ...

And so to a little light relief ...

Well the pond thought it was going to be a little light relief, but to compare the existential crisis facing women in countries such as Iran and Afghanistan to a few signs is something only a clown capable of epic and monstrous stupidity, not to mention mindless cruelty, could manage ...

Whenever the pond comes across this kind of Karen-ish whine, it feels like shouting "oh harden the fuck up, you pathetic, snivelling snowflake", only to realise that's the sort of response Dame Slap wants ...

There's some serious shit going down in Iran at the moment ...

... and all this Karen can do is whine about a few signs? 

Sure, they might say futtocks of the Dame Slap kind aren't welcome, but where's the harm in that?

Oh not the comrade Dan thing again ... and yet it's the very same attitude that helps explain the treatment of an indigenous footballer, which Dame Slap also cavils at ...

Oh sheesh, editorial standards are slipping at the pond, and a gobbet of Dame Slap was overlooked. Call it Freudian if you like, note that it was more of the same, but still for the completeness of the record ...

There's more about the footy before we get to the footy ...

Now there's a vision ... Dame Slap at the footy and running all over the field kicking a football like a champion ... and likely as not her parents suing when she grazed an elbow, so she might learn early on in life that this is what lawyers are wont to do ...

As for driving at a sensible speed in built-up areas, the pond is pleased to report that at most times of the day you're lucky to hit 20km an hour in King Street ... which makes the whining snowflakery a tad irrelevant.

Now, after that unfortunate failure of editorial control, back to Dame Slap ruminating on the fate of footballers ...

The pond knows the sort of re-education program Moran would cop under Dame Slap. Hysterically over-react to a reaction to comrade Dan deciding to ditch an Aboriginal name for a hospital for one celebrating a dumb dog ...

And that's why Dame Slap wins every time. A visit to planet Janet above the faraway tree means getting bogged in a morass of mindless contradictions, and idle comparisons, and meanwhile, there's real shit going down in the likes of Iran and Afghanistan ...

So it goes, and so to the quest for a bonus ...

And here the pond must explain its choice. The bromancer is an obvious fave, but he's taken on the role of "Ned" and gone on at exceptional length, and so the pond will put him off to Sunday, where he can be safely ignored.

And then the pond gave a deep sigh, shed copious tears and sobbed at our Gracie's headline about suffering landlords, because the suffering of landlords always deeply moves the pond, as opposed to those poor buggers facing rent increases every six months ... but still ...

And the pond could see that the craven Craven was back out and about, ready to risk the ire of Dame Slap and the like with his own listicle, but still...

Prattling "Polonius" was, of course, off limits, because his sole purpose in life is to blather about the lack of conservatives in the ABC and at literary festivals, and that's a essential ingredient for a Sunday, when the pond wants to urge people to ignore the reptiles and have a good, relaxing sleep-in ...

No, it had to be the dog botherer, and yet it's such an embarrassing spectacle, the sight of a fragile mind shattering in the wind, that the pond flinched a little ...

And yet at the same time, it was incredibly revealing, almost Freudian, in the way that bringing Killer and masks together is a rough equivalent to putting the dog botherer, football and the absence of a mention of climate science denialism on the couch,  because finally you get an inkling why he's so deeply tormented and fucked in the head ...

You see? Here's a man driven mad by living in Adelaide and following the football. 

Sure, it explains why he's a fuckwit about climate science, but the slobbering drivel is embarrassing to behold, and the pond doesn't know what to say or where to begin, except perhaps to acknowledge this Kudelka ...

Remember the pond has just staggered from a Dame Slap where simultaneously it's righteous to ditch an Aboriginal name to celebrate a dead queen - as if the queen and Phil the Greek don't already have enough things named after them or gongs or whatever - while at the same time celebrating the savaging of the dumb royal dogs ...

The poor old dog botherer - it's the first time the pond has ever felt a surge of pity - is similarly stricken, rather like he's stumbled into a performance of The One Day of the Year, or realised for the first time that the sport he follows has been, is, and will continue to be deeply racist... and then has to spew endless words trying to figure it out...

 

Oh dear sweet long absent lord, not Salisbury North. The dog botherer has reached the point of meandering senility, and all the pond can add is that the girls at Kidman Park Girls Technical High School were terrified at the thought of playing the girls from Salisbury, and if that doesn't tell you all you need to know about Salisbury, you clearly need to spend time in Adelaide so you can go quietly mad ...

But the pond digresses, and it shouldn't, because the dog botherer's parochial tale of woe goes on at an interminable length in a way that would make nattering "Ned" proud ...

The pond supposes that it must come as something of a shock to the dog botherer to realise, many years after it mattered, that casual racism is deeply embedded in Australian culture, which is why Dame Slap might think it matters not at all what happens to Aboriginal names ...

As for the pond, it retains a glimmer of awareness that this is a grand final weekend. The pond won't be watching, one of the great reliefs offered by being in Sydney is that you don't have to go through the ritual - at birthday parties, on the first day at a new job, or simply by being born - of answering the question "who do you barrack for?" ... 

And there you have it, the full confusion in a nutshell of simplistic dog botherer blather ... a rich history of egalitarianism and inclusiveness, provided you smile so you can be seen, and if you take a preachy attitude to these issues you must be fully woke and virtue signalling, and why didn't Christ just shut up so we could all follow the orange Jesus, and there must be full transparency, and damage repair and practical action, so that uppity, difficult, tricky blacks, might know what to expect, and never you mind the weirdness of reading about "pastoral care" and "preachy attitude" in the same paragraph.

Forgive the pond, at moments of great trauma like this, it always reverts to Paul Kelly ...

The wisteria on the back verandah is still blooming

And all the great aunts are either insane or dead

Kensington Road runs straight for a while before turning

We lived on the bend; it was there I was raised and fed

Counting and running as I go

Down past the hedges all in a row

In Adelaide, Adelaide

Dad's hands used to shake but I never knew he was dying

I was thirteen, I never dreamed he could fall

And all the great aunts were red in the eyes from crying

I rang the bells, I never felt nothing at all

All the king's horses, all the king's men

Cannot bring him back again

Find me a bar or a girl or guitar, now where do you go on a Saturday night?

I own this town, I spilled my wine at the bottom of the statue of Colonel Light

And the streets are so wide, everybody's inside

Sitting in the same chairs they were sitting in last year

(This is my town!)

All the king's horses, all the king's men

Wouldn't drag me back again

To Adelaide, Adelaide, Adelaide, Adelaide

And that's how the pond could cope with a final gobbet, because nothing will ever drag the pond back to Adelaide again, and Kidman Park is but a dream of a nightmare...

Oh just name it the Queen Elizabeth II memorial grand final and all will be well and reconciled, and in the meantime, for a closer, have a Wilcox ...