As the reptiles carry on about the voice and super, the pond turns to the bog dotherer, and the Bjorn-again one with a resigned shrug ...

 

Super and the voice. That's all the reptiles have got, and the pond is so very tired of it, and that's part of the reptile strategy - bore the readership and the pond into insensibility, and forward to victory.

They had a chance to vary it, with the mutton Dutton pleading for attention, but he was tucked away, though the reptiles will probably drag him out later in the day ...

Would the pond rather be reading a cartoon, perhaps one by the immortal Rowe?

Of course it would. A day late on the anniversary, but still the right sentiment, and so much shorter and to the point than the mutton Dutton.

When wanting a distraction, all that's left for the pond is to note certain reptile quirks, as in this outing late yesterday ...

The long absent lord knows how that dash crept into that word salad, but by the next day the reptiles had fixed it ...

And there you go - the readership so enfeebled, Paige was left to do a summary of the thinking of Pearson and Morris, and alongside that effort came "Ned" nattering about super... and despite the return of the lizard Oz graphics department, the pond decided to defer the horror of a super "Ned" until Sunday's sleep-in.

The commentary section was just as problematic ...

There was the original Pearson """ Morris epic, so kindly summarised by Paige, and across the way, an outburst by Gemma, who seems to think that bureaucratic indifference to the old is a Labor invention. So little does she know that the pond couldn't spare any time for her outburst, driven by personal grief. 

Meanwhile, the reptiles placed veteran black basher Gazza Johns alongside the Pearson """" Morris outing, just to make sure that any attempt to placate Noel was immediately displaced by an assault on the voice, and down below, there came Frank offering a word salad on the voice.

Ostensibly on the right side, only a Jesuit priest could scribble with a straight face about completing the Constitution, not changing it, and then propose a change to the constitution. 

The pond couldn't stand a full sermon, so cut to the chase...

A new section 127 of the Constitution could provide: “There shall be an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice with such structure and functions as the parliament deems necessary to facilitate consultation prior to the making of special laws with respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, and with such other functions as the parliament determines.”
This would be a way of completing the Constitution, not changing it, and would also be consistent with the Uluru Statement from the Heart. The voice could be given additional functions by legislation. Those additional functions could include representations to parliament on laws other than special laws with respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, as well as representations to government on laws and policies impacting on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. But these would not be constitutional functions of the voice. The voice’s structure and additional functions would be determined by legislation and could be varied from time to time by parliament.

Not helping Frank. A new section of the constitution, whatever it provides, is a way of changing it. 

It might also complete it, but truth to tell, you have a book to flog, don't you?

This is an edited extract from Frank Brennan’s An Indigenous Voice to Parliament: Considering a Constitutional Bridge, Garratt Publishing, published this week.

But what else could the pond have expected from the credentials outlined at the ACU?  Frank Brennan is a Jesuit priest and Rector of Newman College at the University of Melbourne.

The pond is reminded of something it learned long ago ... never argue with a Jesuit, because the resulting word salad will never produce light, though it might result in some heat ...

Meanwhile, speaking of a word salad in action ...

Thoroughly grumpy by now, the pond moved on to the usual weekend outburst by the dog botherer (though the pond could get used to calling him the bog ditherer)...

The strategic and survival instincts of mayflies? As the man hired by Malware,  and the man who helpfully helped produced Utegate, the dog botherer at least is living proof of what he scribbles.

Please allow a detour because the pond needs a little comedy just to keep going ... and an ancient Charlie Lewis is certain to provide a laugh about the beefy boofhead afraid of windmills, Malware and the bog dotherer, all in one go ...

Yes, that's better and frabjus joy, the beefy boofhead still continues apace ... as does the dog botherer.

Now back to the last DB Ginsbergian howl of pain, almost as long as the poem ...

Speaking of Petey boy. as the pond rarely does, the pond was on the way to a medical appointment near Parramatta road, and saw a forlorn book flapping in the breeze. 

The pond often goes out of its way to rescue a book, as book burnings, book bans and book re-writes send the pond into a frenzy, but unfortunately this was the tome ...

Ten bucks, and with gift wrapping? Tell 'em they're dreaming. 

Sadly Petey boy's effort, with a hack to help in the scribbling, had lost its dust jacket, and the pond decided to leave the tome flapping in the breeze, a marker showing its last reader had managed to only get to the half way mark before giving up and tossing it aside. 

There it sat, and there the pond left it, and it rained a little while later, and the pond realised that not all books could or should be saved, and death by drowning was probably as kind a way as any to put the book down ... not nearly as ugly or as unhappy as the way that kittens were consigned to chaff bags and tossed into the Peel ...

Sorry, sorry, wasn't the dog botherer rabbiting on about climate science or something, still doing his denialist thing?

Would the pond rather be reading a cartoon?

Of course the pond would, but best get on with it, before the DB's scribbling turns into the ancient must of a Petey boy outing ...

Be fair. The pond did promise a Ginsbergian howl, and the dog botherer has delivered, and the major problem is that he's still delivering ...

Would the pond rather be reading a cartoon?

Of course it would, but as usual the pond is stuck with the dog botherer on a Saturday ...

Here's the thing. You can bet a dollar to a dog botherer pound that the dog botherer has set himself up nicely, thanks to years of sucking on chairman Rupert's teat, which is why his blather about a black Swan event strikes the pond as so much self-serving horseshit ...

And there we go, back to the future, because if anyone knows how to burn political capital, it's the dog botherer ...

And with that done and dusted, the pond turned to the Bjorn-again one, still omnipresent at the lizard Oz ...

What might they engage in? A broader range of productive activities? You mean, productively scribbling bullshit in the Bjorn-again manner? 

Well he's got that right, there's productivity in all its knockdown glory, and as a result, likely the planet is doomed ...

Would the pond rather be reading a cartoon?

Well yes, but it's the pond's duty to watch the antics and the cavortings of the reptiles, and pretend they're amusing, and some days it's not an easy task ...

It's a cunning ply by the Bjorn-again one. Climate science is dismissed from class by the simple ploy of proposing that we can't do everything, and his previous blather about the need to fix climate science by spending oodles on research is now swept away by the need to spend oodles on research on just about everything except climate science.

It's a master class in obfuscation, reeling, writhing and distraction, and the great thing is that there'll be no need to worry about climate change ... there'll be tremendous crops able to grow strongly in the rising seas ...

The pond is sure that long time reptile addicts will love those faux statistics, with astounding social benefits put into $ terms and promises of astonishing benefits from sundry investments, up there with a spruiker for the very best kinds of crypto ...

And there you have it, a splendid demonstration of what happens when an aging con artist and snake oil salesman realises his old pitch has gone stale, and he needs a new hustle of he's going to keep fleecing the sheep at the carnival ...

Meanwhile, the pond will end where it started, with a portrait celebrating that dire anniversary ...

In which the pond spends quality time with broken clock Henry on a significant day, while the lizard Oz editorialist imitates a black hole, and there's a splendid (which is to say short) listicle groaning ...

 

The reptiles have decided on an all-out war to protect the filthy rich, so naturally Dame Groan was snatched from her Tuesday slot to form the centrepiece of the reptiles' unholy supeer triptych ...

Realising that there are a few unhealthy cultists who have a weird fixation on any groan emitted by Dame Groan - the louder the groaning the better - the pond will save this groan for the bitter end ...

Meanwhile, it was February 24th, and only one reptile stood up to honour the day ...

Yes, broken clock, twice a day and all that, but what alternative did the pond have? 

Cackling Claire doing some tranny bashing? No thanks, red card, though it did remind the pond of Arwa Mahdawi's piece in The Graudian, The New York Times’ trans coverage is under fire. The paper needs to listen. You could easily convert that to "cackling Claire is deeply offensive and needs to listen" ...

Meanwhile, it's on with our Henry, because broken clock, twice a day and all that ...

Well yes, trusting Vlad the Impaler is roughly equivalent to trusting a host on Fox News ...

The pond only mentions that because Tuckyo Rose is still at it ...

And so on and on, including references to Biden visiting an autocrat in a tracksuit in Kyiv, and doomsaying and neighsaying in the usual patented Tuckyo manner, but fortunately our Henry was unaware he was kissing cousins with a treacherous, deviant worshipper at the feet of autocrat Vlad the impaler ...

And as for Tuckyo Rose and the lickspittle lackey Murdochian fellow travellers? There, our Henry was silent ... or had eyes wide shut ...

But at least there's one broken clock in Murdoch la la land ...

Meanwhile, back in the United States, the Murdochians are still unwilling to pull the plug on the mango Mussolini, or Tuckyo Rose, or all the rest, with not a hint of a waver from the secessionists, isolationists and Putin lovers ...

But at least broken clock, twice a day, yadda yadda, and just a gobbet to go ...

Well yes, and as a bit of a tease, before getting on to the groaning, after that serve, how about a slice of the lizard Oz editorialist on the voice?

Yes, yes, the pond routinely red cards the reptiles on the voice, but this contained such an astonishing conceit, such an astonishing sight - the lizard Oz editorialist so far up the paper's collective bum that sight and light and reason were entirely lost from sight - that the pond simply had to go with it.

The line?

This newspaper stands out in the Australian media for its unparalleled role in covering Indigenous affairs with deep knowledge, understanding and empathy; it has long been in favour of an acknowledgment of the country’s first peoples. 

Oh fair suck of the bigoted sauce bottle, you wretched clowns ... as you push the coalition line of confusion and chaos and blather about details, in much the same way as you've done to befuddle climate science in recent decades ...

That infamous lizard Oz editorialist line full of preening self-regard hasn't come yet, but the pond promises it will ... 

Meanwhile, top of the page, fuck it, they'll do it LIVE,  the reptiles have to push that stupid woman who doesn't know how to spell Susan ...

But enough of leying aside useful arable land to waste time with Sussan - what a deeply offensive line that is, that it's only about political fortunes - it's on to that immortal lizard Oz editorialist line - distilled essence of humbug - and a final stabbing in the back of poor old Noel Pearson, once much loved in reptile la la land, and now discarded, flung aside, a warning to those who go swimming with reptiles and think they'll somehow survive the experience ...

Sorry Noel, if the reptiles have their way, they'll do a mutton Dutton and turn their backs, and it'll be silence for you. 

They might apologise in twenty years time for the back-turning, but it'll still be mired in the same bullshit and humbug as This newspaper stands out in the Australian media for its unparalleled role in covering Indigenous affairs with deep knowledge, understanding and empathy; it has long been in favour of an acknowledgment of the country’s first peoples.

So far up themselves, even a black hole lets out more light and sense and empathy... 

Speaking of black holes, at last it's time for a jolly good groaning ... and what a relief, it's only two gobbets shallow, though replete with the usual dot point listicle beloved by devotees ...

Never stand between a rich person and their tax breaks, because if you can't make out like a bandit, what's the point?

Should the pond at this point have mentioned Qantas, Coles, Woolies and the like making out like bandits?

No need there's an infallible Pope to hand which does that job ...

And so to the listicle, in which the Groaner patiently explains why the rich must keep their snouts in trough, or where's the humanity ...

Oh yes, the sky will fall in if the rich and their breaks are in any way challenged, and the immortal Rowe senses the mood this day ... though it might require a trip to Bizarro World ...

It's always in the detail and the pond had a difficult time picking between this detail ...

... and this detail ... (especially if you substitute "Oh Peter" with "Oh Dame Groan, what a splendid groaning" ....)

In which the pond spends time in little England, before moving on to Roger of The Times ...

 

The pond just about gave up on the reptiles of the lizard Oz this day, pausing only to wonder what inspired the reptiles to change this header ...

Was it the whiny, needy, snowflakey tone of the original that prompted the change? Did they want to emphasise that the story was being written by a gross hypocrite and so 'gross hypocrisy' should be featured in the header?

Mysterious and inexplicable are the ways of the reptiles, and instead of trying to decipher it, the pond turned to the UK version of the Daily Terror for some light relief.

Everything about the story was a delight, beginning with the header By pandering to the woke for his Coronation, the King risks his own irrelevance.

Pandering, woke and the deeply relevant King Chuck risking irrelevance!

Then there was the name of the author, Petronella Wyatt...

The pond belatedly realises that Petronella came from the Greek, Petra, and meant Rock. It hadn't done well in the baby name stakes of late, but it turned out Petronella's nickname was 'Petsy', another delight, and even better between 2000 and 2004 she'd had an affair with Boris and her mum had dobbed her into the press, or so her wiki says.

Then came the opening thrust, the gambit if you will ...

My late father, the politician and boulevardier, Woodrow Wyatt, attended Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation in 1953. There were 8,251 guests, accommodated by the scaffolding built into Westminster Abbey, and they sat on velvet chairs, which you could buy afterwards. The profits went to covering the cost of an occasion that made the world wonder.

Forget the wondering world, note that word "bouevardier". Some might take it as referring to a cocktail, but it comes from a man who frequents the boulevards and so a man about town or a bon vivant, or a wealthy, fashionable socialite. Pure delight, and such a novel way to evoke larrikin rake, as sordid types down under are sometimes called.

The lad was married four times, and let a colourful life, covered at length in his wiki. He naturally berated Mandela, as one did at the time, and even helped out the chairman ...

In the mid-1980s he played a key role as Rupert Murdoch's fixer in brokering negotiations with the electricians' union, aiding News International to move to Wapping.

Gad sir well-played, and then back to the Rock, for a pitiful cry,  a plea for a relief from life wth the Tories, the storylines in that sitcom having worn a bit thin:

Life in Britain, 70 years on, is dreary and depressing, and we need something to gild and fresco it. A slimmed-down monarchy is just about palatable, but I can’t digest a slimmed down Coronation; I want a big fat one, replete with irrelevance, people in pantaloons, and an orgy of excess.

Pantaloons ..  an orgy of excess, just like Boris, and the fear of missing out ...

The Duke of Norfolk, whose family seem to have a right to the Coronation business, is supposed to be organising the event. There are tantrums already.
In 1952, every peer in Britain was invited. While it is not unreasonable to suppose that in 2023, this might be too costly, I hear that only peers who are members of the Government can expect an invitation.
In their desperation, those fearful of being excluded are becoming inventive. One of the proposals secretly put forward was to divert the royal procession through a scaffolded Westminster Hall, so that the Lords could pay their respects there. Norfolk has said no to this.
I suppose the lesson is that peers are nobodies these days. But if titles and the hereditary principle are no longer important, where does that leave the Monarchy itself? Kings are not dissimilar from Dukes and Earls; their main function is to be picaresque and uplifting. It’s a bit like the Catholic religion. There is no rational reason for monarchy, only spectacle and a leap of faith.

Gad sir, is there no place for the faithful and the picaresque? 

Some might think"picaresque" an attempt to remember "picturesque", but the definition is precise and useful, as it is of or relating to rogues and rascals, as in pertaining to, characteristic of, or characterized by a form of prose fiction, originally developed in Spain, in which the adventures of an engagingly roguish hero are described in a series of usually humorous or satiric episodes that often depict, in realistic detail, the everyday life of the common people. (or so the Dictionary says)

And as Catholicism had been evoked, at the risk of sounding like the infamous Mary I of England, so to a mourning for the loss of the Latin mass, or at least a splendidly arcane ritual of a similar kind ...

It is particularly disturbing that the Earl of Derby has not been asked to provide falcons, as his family have done since the 16th Century. These little things deprive people of their purpose in life.

An existential crisis, people deprived of their purpose in life, by a failure to heed the cry of the birds, and all the fault of the bloody woke ...

I concede that Charles faces a dilemma. He is the first social media monarch, but by pandering to the woke, as he did with the row centred around Lady Susan Hussey, he begins his own suicide note.
When I hear from friends close to the King that the Coronation will be a tribute to “yoof” and “diversity” - just the sort of people who cost poor Lady Susan her job - I cannot let out a rousing cheer.
The Coronation should be a shining mark to the whole camorra of professional doom-sayers, puritanical bores, and the cancel commentariat. The British Monarchy is not diverse and inclusive, and it never can be, being limited to one family.
The value of diamonds depends on a controlled and limited output. So does the value of the Monarchy, something it would do well to remember.

Well played Rock, and it reminded the pond of the value of the royalty and the talking tampon, King Chuck himself ...

There's something about royalty and attendant lords and ladies that tempts all sorts, not just the Rock of the ages. 

Not having any Rock to relieve them, Americans are particularly vulnerable. The Daily Beast is routinely full of it, and with Lady Anne Glenconner out and about to flog a book, the beasts led with Lady Anne Glenconner Knows Many Royal Secrets. Now She’s Telling All.

And The New Yorker went full hue and cry with Oldest Living Aristocratic Widow Tells All (possibly paywall affected)

The pond was lifted up, far away from its dreary, depressing life in the world of the reptiles, only to return with a thud.

First they were still banging on about Super ...

The beefy anti-windmill boofhead, as transcribed by simplistic 'here no conflict of interest' Simon,. and petulant Peta blathring on about socialism, as if to the manor born!?

Red carded the lot of them, and best just get the immortal Rowe out of the way early ...

... and while the pond was at it, the pond red-carded this unlikely pair, this peculiar reptile coupling..

The silly old French clock man took the bromancer bait, and went behind the reptile paywall to help them gee up some interest in their aged demographic, but it was a phoney war ... though perhaps a late-breaking infallible Pope could have helped ...

Now there's a sight to appeal to the bromancer, and but sadly in the pond's world, the French clock man was no match for a genuinely bemusing reptile offering, with ancient Troy deciding, in an astonishing EXCLUSIVE, that it was time to expose Whitlam's agenda for change.

Where was Troy when it mattered, in 1972? Make that a double red card, or sing along with ancient Troy that it's time for a change ...

But all this left the pond desperately short of material ... sure there was Charlie taking a cheap shot ...

That tweet with moving picture and sound was here, but that was yesterday and Coulter is so ancient Troy, which is to say so yesterday, though even she'd struggle to get back to 1972 ...

Meanwhile all the reptiles could offer was this mötley crüe ...

Poor Jack. The pond realises it had encouraged the reptiles to go the Dahl, but you're too late Jack, that was so yesterday, with Michelle Smith having covered the turf in The Conversation via Roald Dahl rewrites: rather than bowdlerising books on moral grounds we should help children to navigate history...

There were the usual comedy lowlights ...Donald Trump Jr. Gets Scathing Reminder Of His Father's 'Mental Competency'. But how many times can you say camera TV elephant?

There was nothing for it but to head to The Times in time for the anniversary ...

What astonishes the pond is the way that both the little Englander Murdochians and the lizards of Oz manage to ignore what Faux Noise and the GOP are up do, as if they weren't kissing cousins.

It was all there in Biden Went to Kyiv; DeSantis Went to Fox & Friends.

The pond regretted that it had wasted an infallible Pope, when it was all the more relevant today ...

And the pond would have been better off reading Cathy Young and getting to her closing par ...

Putin’s appearance before the federal assembly was accompanied by another mostly overlooked but remarkable bit of symbolism. On the same day, he issued a decree that awarded the honorary title of “Guards,” for “mass heroism and valor, endurance, and courage,” to the anti-aircraft missile brigade that supplied the Buk missile system that shot down Malaysia Airlines Flight MH-17. It is fitting way to mark the first anniversary of a war marked by a succession of war crimes.

Or perhaps ‘Putin’s Chef’ Leaks Grisly Corpse Photo in Public Betrayal of Kremlin.

So much for unity and modernity ... but the pond pressed on, ignoring Faux Noise,  the GOP,  MTG and the rest of the ratbags and their cheerleading complicity in war crimes ... as did Roger of The Times ...

A modernising device? What a peculiar use of the word "modern", as if only an improved killing machine might be "modern" and worth further modernising ...

Meanwhile, elsewhere, as above ...

...Then again, Putin’s Tuesday address was one big image problem. None of the expected horribles materialized: no announcement of a new round of mobilization, no formal declaration of war—let alone a call to a holy “people’s war” in which the entire population must make major sacrifice for victory—and no belligerent rhetoric with transparent allusions to a nuclear strike, as in Putin’s speech when announcing the “special operation” a year ago. (At the time, he warned that any country that dared to get in Russia’s way would see “such consequences as you have never before experienced in your history.”) Instead, there was tedium and copium: familiar talk about how the West had started the war and Russia was really trying to end it, about the evils of the supposed neo-Nazi regime in Ukraine, about the Kyiv Nazis’ atrocities against Russian-speaking people in Donbas, about the eternal anti-Russian perfidy of the West which had apparently plotted “to deprive Russia of these historical territories that are now called Ukraine” since the nineteenth century and the days of the Austro-Hungarian empire. There were also, as expected, references to Western decadence, only this time, instead of “parent number one and parent number two,” it was an alleged attempt to normalize pedophilia and promote the idea of a gender-neutral God.

On another Popular Politics program, expatriate Russian journalist Michael Naki argued that the most notable thing about Putin’s speech, at least its opening portion that dealt with the war, was how “whiny” and full of excuses it was: “He’s standing there like a schoolboy saying, ‘I’m not the bad guy, they’re the bad guys.’” This, Naki pointed out, is not the language of a leader who is winning. The only “wins” Putin was able to report were that the Russian economy had not contracted as much as experts had predicted despite the sanctions, and that the four Ukrainian regions annexed by Russia—the “People’s Republics” of Donetsk and Luhansk and the Zaporizhzhia and Kherson regions—had “made their choice” in last fall’s fake referenda and were with Russia to stay. Oh, and also: the Sea of Azov was once again Russia’s internal sea. (Hurray?)

Of course, to listen to Putin, one would never know that the city of Kherson had been retaken by Ukraine a little over a month after its “forever union” with Russia; or that, even as Putin spoke, Russian forces were shelling the city, killing six people and wounding many more—people who, according to Russia, are citizens of the Russian Federation.

The pond reluctantly returned to Roger of The Times ...

It's almost as if Roger of The Times wanted to coach Vlad the Impaler on how to do better ... but then it must be awkward being a kissing cousin of Faux Noise, just as Kevin is now a kissing cousin with MTG, and will love her to death, no matter what she says or does ...

Next thing you know there have to be columns headed US secession is a great idea — for Russia ... and Mitt joined the wars ... yet still Kevin loves his secessionist Putin-lover so ...

It seems the way the Murdochians keep company with secessionists and Putin lovers is just so much water under the bridge to Roger of The Times ...

After all that talking of a modernising Vlad the Impaler intent on a bigger war footing, he doesn't believe it himself?

Well there's time wasted that the pond will never get back. Should have stayed in the shallows with the Rock ...

Never mind, Rowson joined a few recent threads together ... and you can stick your modernising where the re-writes don't shine ...