A Handful of Throttle

I am normally pretty quick at the business of solving problems, riddles and conundrums. I used to be renowned for being able to add three two-digit numbers together within 58.67 seconds. However, there is one mysterious phenomenon that has me completely stumped, baffled and bewildered.

The problem that has me beaten, is one of the great paradoxes of the engineering world. In this wonderful world of engineering feats that we now enjoy, things are being made smaller, more efficient and more environmentally friendly, but with what seems to be one notable exception. I refer to the motor cycle, and in particular, to the petrol fuelled motor bike with an internal combustion engine.

As far back as the 1920’s, Rolls-Royce were able to equip their cars with muffler systems that rendered their very sizable engines virtually silent. In modern times, car manufacturers such as Toyota, are able to achieve much the same effect. Anybody who has driven a modern Toyota Camry will probably confess to having tried to start an engine which was already going. My gripe is that the same engineering thoughtfulness is not generally being applied to the motor bike.

I make the reference a general one, but note that some motor bike manufacturers such as BMW and several manufacturers of lower priced bikes, take their muffling seriously. However, in general, irrespective of whether the motor cycle is a big chopper such as the Harley Davidson, with its big, slow revving engine, or a smaller machine such as a Kawasaki with its smaller, but higher revving engine, our ears are bombarded with noise that is many times that of the normal motor car. At one extreme, the noise is like that of a thousand fie crackers being let off every millisecond, and at the other extreme, it is like fifty million well trained mosquitoes in synchronicity.

Now, to get to the crux of my gripe, why is it that the stringent controls over car exhaust systems, including noise restrictions, are not applied to the destroyer of sound sleep, the interrupter of mediocre television programmes and the ridiculous and unsuccessful competitor of the lovely kookaburra in the game of tonally marking out a territorial claim, namely the mega-decibel motor bike?

Crankyfella

Everyone's a Guru

No matter where I go in dear old Oz, I find wizards, Aussie financial wizards.

Not only are our wonderful superannuation schemes run by wizards, but, indeed, almost every man, woman and child in the street is a self-professed wizard.

Our super-wizards (pun definitely intended) are the financial investment gurus who gamble with our money and are highly paid to do so. These gurus are so wonderful that they are highly paid when their gambling is paying off, and are still highly paid when their gambling takes our hard earned bread that we are legally obliged to invest, and throws it off some wind-swept ocean cliff. Many of these gurus, or fund managers, as some of them like to be euphemistically called, have not even been able to match the modest return of savings bank interest. Not only have they reaped a rich lifestyle at our expense, but they have also shrunk our life savings even more effectively than the Jivaroan people of the Amazon Basin were able to shrink heads.

Many of the victims of these people are also guilty of the same greedy practices, and have whittled away their own bread by either voluntarily giving more of it to the fund managers to play with, or by making their own investments in the stock market, with results that rival the genius of the fund managers.

I like to question both fund managers and men and women in the street who fancy themselves as the equivalent of the fund managing gurus. As it turns out, they are not the true equivalent of the fund manager. They differ on one teeny-weeny criterion. I ask them all just one salient question, and that is, “To what or whom does the official cash rate, as declared by the Reserve Bank of Australia, apply?”

Despite their overwhelming stupidity in relation to most things financial, the fund mismanaging gurus are able to give succinct and accurate responses to this monetary question. The man-in-the-street know-all of things financial misses out by a long country mile on this little monetary detail. Typical responses skirt around the subject in great diatribes but miss the essential focus, with the like of, “It’s to control inflation.” Unfortunately, I have had to conclude that such home-grown know-all gurus would not be the slightest match for the professional fund mismanaging guru. I think that they would be hard pressed to make half the losses with our hard earned bread that the professional guru is able to attain.

It is a pity that the man-in-the street does not comprehend that the Reserve Bank of Australia is our central bank, one of the functions of which is to lend money out to the established banks at the official cash rate, and that the banks when lending to customers, typically against a property mortgage, add their own profit margin to this rate to determine what the customer pays. The banks who borrow from the Reserve Bank of Australia and lend to members of the public (or to companies) are under no legal or contractually enforceable obligation to adjust any subsequent lending business to reflect changes that are promulgated by the Reserve bank in official cash rates.

Another pity is that we have mass media (including the ABC) that make no attempt to educate the public on such matters, but instead treat all of the viewers and readers as knowledgable whiz-kids, and thus re-inforce their baseless status as gurus.

Battler

Three Years Hard Labor

In the earlier parts of the twentieth century in New South Wales, a prisoner could be given a sentence that included hard labour. The sentence meant just that, and the prisoner would find himself swinging a sledge hammer during his confinement. By the middle of the twentieth century, sentences with hard labour were still imposed, but the hard labour during his confinement was not enforceable. Later in the twentieth century, the judicial option of sentencing to hard labour was removed as an anachronism.

For much of the twentieth century, many men were still actually employed as labourers. Many such men were employed as farm labourers, many were employed as building and road construction labourers, and many were still employed in true sweated labour in steel mills and the like. However, in New Soulth Wales, that has now long since passed. Most of the hard physical work has been taken over by an ever-growing range of machinery and robots. The majority of the great feats of infrastructure construction, the benefits of which we citizens now enjoy, were largely the products of men labouring with picks, shovels and riveting hammers. Road and dam construction was very largely done by men who swung implements, and men who used horses pulling drays, and earth scoops and the like. Such hard labour by free citizens is now also mostly anachronistic.

During the Great Depression of the late 1920’s and the 1930’s, the governments of the day made the same decision as our present governments in response to economic crisis. They decided to invest in infrastructure as one prong of the effort to keep men employed and to keep money circulating in order to lessen the disastrous impact of the depression. For instance, the New South Wales government introduced a massive programme of infrastructure development in the form of installing sewer mains. Men were employed in pick and shovel labour digging the trenches for the mains. This was “back breaking” work, especially for those men who did not have a labouring job history. The wage was the notorious “two bob a day” of dole money, and it was commonplace for foremen who were not satisfied with the effort of any man, to stand over him on the edge of the trench and flip the man two bob and sack him on the spot. As heart breaking and as back breaking as this system may have been, though, it was introduced in an era when true hard manual labour was still the order of the day, and was done by sometimes huge gangs of men. The construction of such infrastructure actually employed vast numbers.

Many of our federal politicians in present day Australia did not live through or in the Great Depression. Our esteemed leader, Kevvie Rudder, certainly was not alive at that time. However, they have, in their infinite wisdom, decided to follow the same strategy as their parliamentary forebears. They are to invest in infrastructure development. What a great employment opportunity this will afford the massive earth-moving machines, the great road laying contraptions and the huge automated railway line laying and adjusting gadgets. What wonderful continuity of employment these machines will be able to demonstrate in their job history summaries. I have nothing at all against significant development of infrastructure, as it is very sorely needed, but it will have a very insignificant impact on human employees. A few employees will benefit, some sub-contractors will benefit more, and the project development companies will financially benefit to an enormous degree. Infrastructure construction may have many public benefits, but the employment of large numbers of working citizens is not one of them.

In another stroke of anachronistic brilliance, the Commonwealth government, also decided on another prong for their rescue of a failing economy. Within the month, certain classes of recipients of Australian government assistance, such as aged pensioners, will receive $1,400 for a single person and $2,100 for a couple. This gratuity is said to be “a down payment before comprehensive reform of the pension system next year,” and prompted by the pensioners having demonstrated to the government that they are financially hard up. However, these gratuities were announced within, and as part of, the government’s package of moves to prop up the failing economy. It takes little imagination to see that the government’s reasoning was the following: economic crisis -- spending contracting -- government infusion of money needed to prop up spending -- which group of people is hard up and will therefore spend whatever they are given, quick smart and lively, the pensioners -- give the pensioners a hand-out -- thus money from government will rapidly circulate in the economy. What the government has failed to take into account, is that unlike them, the wise politicians, the poor pensioners are overwhelmingly of the mature years that survivors of the Great Depression enjoy. These pensioners have learnt, in direct exposure, or by instruction by their parents who learnt by direct exposure, the salient lessons of the Great Depression. One of the most critical of these lessons is, that if one receives a little nest-egg, one does not hurry out to the marketplace to spend it forthwith, but takes great care of it, and if earthly possible tucks it away safely in case things get much worse. In other words, in harsh times, it is highly unlikely that pensioners will squander their precious gifts.

Thus, the government move to spend on infrastructure, will benefit a few immediately in monetary terms, and the masses hardly at all, ever. The move to stimulate the economy through pensioner gifts, in monetary terms will in effect, benefit very few immediately, and the masses a very modest amount, but only later on when the economy improves, anyhow.

Battler

Directors in the Wrong Direction

The latest global financial crisis has many interesting facets. All of these can be boiled down to frailties of human morality.

Perhaps most facets can be boiled down to reveal a major ingredient of greed. Greed is inherent in any situation where one person wants more than another person. Greed becomes particularly ugly and pernicious when one person not only wants more than another person, but also considers that they are rightfully entitled to more than another person.

Some people consider that they deserve a greater share of the limited pie because they needed to study hard for years to fit them for top jobs and positions. They may well have studied diligently for years to achieve formal qualifications, but there are two dominant reasons why they were able to do so. The first is that they may have been born into better financial and property circumstances than some others that they consider lesser. The second is that they may have been born with a greater capacity, either physical or intellectual or both, than some others that they consider lesser. In either case, their endowment was a fortuitous event that did not result from their own doing.

Many directors of companies (or corporations, as they are referred to in many places around the globe) feel that they are superior beings who deserve more than the average worker in their organisations. This is particularly so for CEO’s (Chief Executive Officers) of large corporations. It has become sickeningly common to hear news items of corporate heads being paid annual bonuses that amount to what would equal the total average annual salaries of fifty to two hundred of their workers. Of course, if the comparison were made with workers in Third World countries, it would be equal to many thousands of workers.

Directors of companies, and CEO’s, owe their prime legal duties to the shareholders of their companies. It is their duty to maximize profits for their investors. Apart from this, they have a legal duty to act within the laws of the states and countries where their companies operate. They have no obligation over and above these duties, to act in consideration of their customers, the public good within their operating nations, or the local or global environment. Within the frameworks of the corporate legislations around the world, it is often greed that prevents them from taking seriously, any duty to these other areas.

Bearing in mind the financial turmoil that is now evident, together with the ecological turmoil that is now evident with respect to species becoming extinct or endangered, forests being denuded, and global climate change, perhaps it is time that global thinking was brought to bear on the legal duties of company or corporation heads. Generally speaking, corporation legislations have grown in a piecemeal, ad hoc fashion that has perpetuated the thinking of the industrial revolution. Such thinking, and the support for notions of rightful and deserved entitlement that form part of it, have now served their time and are, in many respects counter to the overall good and welfare of the publics of this planet.

If governments were to have their perceived duties focused upon the citizens of their nations, and the environments of their nations and of the globe, they could make a positive start to world betterment and equity by simply writing into their corporation legislations, a simple, legally enforceable hierarchy of duties for corporation directors, including CEO’s (who act as de facto directors, at least.) An example of such a hierarchy of duties would be: 1) a duty of care to the environment; 2) a duty to the public good of their state and/or country; and the world; 3) a duty of care to their employees; 4) a duty of care to their customers/clients/and consumers; and 5) a duty to the interests of their shareholders.

Crankyfella

Performing Seals

Have you ever wondered why fish and other marine creatures suffer cruel deaths as a result of their ingestion of, or entanglement in, plastic bags such as those supplied with every tuppence-ha’penny’s worth of stuff that is purchased at supermarkets and greengrocery shops?

The answer is pretty simple. Plastics, nowadays, are not made of bio-degradable cellulose materials. They are made mainly from petro-chemical by-products that have incredible tensile strength.

I happen to be a magnificent specimen of semi-senile manhood, with 20 centimetre biceps that make any well developed grasshopper that I come into contact with, admire me as though I were Arnie Squashanegger. I have even had young children see me on the beach and then run for cover behind their parents just because they think that I may be some supernatural alien being intent on tearing to minute shreds, anything that stands in my way.

Imagine, then, the frail and the weak, especially those of senior years (which is politically correct speech for “as old as the hills”) when they have tried unsuccessfully for three and a half hours to get the plastic wrapping off some of their junk mail so that they can definitively classify it as pure junk that should be disposed of. Not only do the expletives worsen in subject of reference and absolute frequency, but their blood pressure starts to head up toward the ceiling of the twenty-fifth floor. (Systolic blood pressure, that is the higher of the two readings, behaves in that way any time that we do isometric exercise, which is exercise with exertion but no motion.)

After such an episode, it is customary to have a cup of tea, a Bex, and a good lie down. However, that is where things take a turn for the seriously worse. The cup of tea requires a slosh of milk in it to make it soothing for some. Invariably in such circumstances, a fresh bottle of milk has to be opened. (This is an example of Murphy’s Law of Household Tragedy.) Of course, the milk bottle is not one of those lovely glass ones that we used to enjoy, complete with its crimped aluminium lid that even a reasonably cluey starling or magpie could open. Oh no, it is a plastic bottle with a series of temper-testing lids. The first of these is a plastic screw-on lid that is actually joined to a non-screw-on section for “security purposes.” Any lesser developed person than I must be driven to a near frenzy by these contraptions. Eventually, when that modern version of a chastity belt is removed, one is horrifyingly faced with the toughest keeper of purity of them all: the plasticised metallic stick-on lid with a little semi-circular tab that is meant to make its removal easy by lifting it and pulling it upwards and backwards at the same time. Whilst the victim is trying to settle down to enjoy the nice cup of tea, complete with its milk that had been labelled for recommended use before ten days after opening, the neighbours are considering calling the mental health team because of all the screams emanating from the victim’s residence.

Now I think that I have made my point, so I will not go into the medication bottles that are hermetically sealed with a heat-shrunken plastic sleeve around the neck of the bottle and extending over the top rim of the lid. I will purposely refrain from describing the necessary technique of getting a sharp and pointy knife into the sealing plastic in order to maim it to the extent that it can be pealed off. A complete description of this manoeuvre could prove to be off-putting to the thousands of youngsters who regularly read this blog. Any mention of the hand wounds and the gushing blood would probably be reckoned very distasteful. It will suffice to say that it is not a nice event for anyone to endure, especially if they are seeking blood pressure or angina medication as a result of their having opened, or attempted to open, a modern plastic milk bottle.


Crankyfella

A Vote of No Confidence

Our previously fearless political leaders have declared that we are currently in a worldwide financial crisis. Around the globe, they are urging an injection of public funds to boost confidence in the market, and are also urging members of the public to remain confident and to spend their hard earned money.

This so-called financial crisis actually represents capitalism failing. It is blatantly evident that the economies of nations are failing to the extent that they are capitalistic. Capitalism, of course, is an economic system in which there is private ownership of the means of production, and thus, a system in which private capitalists decide what is produced when and where.

Capitalism is now on the brink of displaying to the world that it is a paper tiger. It is a tiger that has no real teeth and relies on the acclamation of the masses to give it any semblance of a roar. In other words, it relies upon perceived confidence for it to sustain itself. When an economic system relies upon confidence, rather than on the direct needs and abilities of human beings, it must always run on a razor’s edge.

Politicians, and their hand-maidens, the economists, generally fail to see that the capitalist system is all smoke and mirrors, and is propped up (or puffed up, to be more appropriate) by a banking sector which is also all smoke and mirrors. The devotees of capitalism not only lack insight, but also make the fundamental error of reifying the economy and reifying the market. Both of these are mere concepts, or theoretical constructs. They are no more real than ideas of the Easter Bunny.

Australia is now caught up in efforts to prop up this mirage of a system by such moves as guaranteeing the funds of those who have made deposits into the mainstream banks. It is odd to note that a major member of this community of banks, is the Commonwealth Bank of Australia, which, until its privatization in the latter part of the 1900’s, was owned by the commonwealth in the fundamental meaning of the term; that is, it was owned by the citizens, or, if you like, it was owned by all of us. Not only was it ours, but our deposits were guaranteed by the government; that is, they were guaranteed by all of us.

Many of the deposits in the mainstream banks are the modest savings of good citizens heeding the call to carefully manage such funds. Now, though, our commonwealth government wants to give substantial aid to banks and financial businesses that lie outside the mainstream of banking. They want to spend such huge amounts to assist these organisations to qualify for governmental guarantees of the funds invested in them. Those funds are not the funds of the prudent man in the street. They are the funds of the gamblers. They are the funds of the greedy. Capitalism is based upon greed and its instrument, gambling. So, in effect, all of the bail-out moves of the commonwealth government are aimed, wittingly or unwittingly, at the support of greed and gambling.

Some of us have trodden this track before, when politicians, economists and pundits had just enough integrity left to be honest with themselves and others by calling the circumstances of the 1930’s not a recession, but a depression. Some who trod that track have actively and enthusiastically contributed to the factors that have been significant in the current mess. Others, who have not trodden that track might be stupid and lacking in insight, and might be arguably not as culpable.

Those who lived through, or just after, the Great Depression of the 1930’s, will be able to dredge their memory banks to re-instate valuable strategies of survival. Many of us do not have to dredge our memory banks, as the survival techniques are deeply ingrained in our psyches as a result of direct experience or as a result of our early socialisation.

It is unfortunate that our Australian governments, both federal and state, have not sufficiently learned the lessons of the Great Depression. They seem to believe that acceptable spending can be many multiples of income. It is also unfortunate that the executives of even our mainstream banks have not learned these lessons, as evidenced by their practice of lending out many times more funds than the amounts they hold as deposits. Still, such executives operate in a capitalistic mould, and therefore are duty bound to be greedy. Our politicians do not even have this dubious excuse.


Battler

Memo: Kevin Rudd/ Wayne Swan/ Treasury/ Reserve Bank of Australia

In the event that the global economy collapses and our Chinese lifeboat begins to leak like the Titanic, call in the clowns . Seriously, forget our great and powerful ally , ring the man with the top hat in the big top . In l933, during the Depression in Australia, the long established Wirths’ Circus, a national institution , outlined a plan to boost the sick economy.

Under the heading SAVE AUSTRALIA , the scheme was explained in a circus souvenir brochure. Oddly enough , the grand proposal depended on selling rice to the Chinese . Australia, it said, should borrow $70million from Britain and put the 500,000 unemployed on 100 acre irrigated farms in the Murrumbidgee River , especially in the Leeton and Griffith areas. It described Australia as the finest growing country in the world , especially for rice. It said our ‘mighty rivers”, running through four states , provided 3000 miles of watercourse . The longest fresh waters in the world, according to Lord Stonehaven, longer than both the Mississippi and Missouri by nearly 1000 miles.

Alas, much of that mighty waterway has gone down the gurgler. However, back in the Depression , Wirths’ Circus was convinced a massive expansion of irrigation to grow rice was the way out of the troubles. It cited the fact that in Moree , NSW, Chinese shopkeepers bought rice from Leeton for $40 a ton and exported it to China where it fetched $60 a ton . There was a massive market for rice in China, India, Japan , Java and Russia . Such a huge demand made rice more valuable than gold. This extravagant statement probably contributed to the ludicrous notion that Australia should be the food bowl of Asia .

The circus pointed out that Russian wheat farmers had damaged Australian producers in l931 when they sold wheat for one shilling (10 cents ) a bushel . By growing rice in Australia , Russia would become a customer, not a competitor , as it could not grow rice. To promote the rice proposal , Wirths’ advocated an advertising campaign featuring huge posters like ones used in Melbourne to promote the tour of Russian Cossack riders who performed in the circus .

The souvenir brochure contained another two pages headed BOOST AUSTRALIA with items supplied by the Australian National Travel Association. One pointed out the rice growing industry was extremely successful , the first commercial yield in l924-25, 16,140 bushels, proving to be far superior than the imported product. The l929-30 crop had risen to 2,000,000 bushels of paddy rice, producing about 39,000 tons, more than the local demand, about 25,000 tons. Dealing with the make up of our population, 6,500,000 , 97 per cent were of British stock , rapidly developing into a distinctive race- tall, strong and athletic . There were about 62,000 fullblood and l8,000 halfcastes (sic). Of these ,about 40,000 were said to be nomadic and still living in remote , unsettled areas of the interior and Northern Australia “in the primitive style of the Stone Age , using the firestick , stone knife and tomahawk.” Most of the remainder were employed on sheep and cattle stations , or on “ government supervised camps”.

On the sporting side , Australians could indulge in all kinds of activities, more intrepid ones doing a bit of pig-sticking, buffalo and crocodile shooting . Clearly, a massive rice growing project in Australia is now not on . But how about mung beans ? Around the time of NT moves for self government , when not one mung bean was grown in the Territory, a trade mission toured Asian countries asking if they would buy our produce , including invisible mung beans . Strange as it may seem, all countries replied in the affirmative . Somehow , the idea of a mung bean led recovery does not seem feasible , nor does it sound overly sexy .

Cyclops

The American Nightmare

Just as corrupt as its banking and investment system is America’s way of voting. Running about America at the present moment are “thousands” of lawyers challenging the right of millions of people to vote. This in the land held up as the champion of democracy. The Statue of Liberty must feel like sinking into the sea with shame. Having “stolen ” the last election by voting irregularities , Bush winning by 500 votes due to the good old cronies in Florida , the Republicans are at it again. Some of those being scrubbed off rolls entitling them to vote are soldiers daily risking their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan. The obscenity of this action is breathtaking.

Until there is a major overhaul of the American voting system the nation is in dire peril not from outside external terrorists but the fascists within who use money, legal chicanery and mobster tactics to keep themselves in power. The corrosive influence of money in US politics is beyond doubt. Ralph Nader colourfully said politicians adopt their normal position, down on knees, when approached by big business wanting anything put into legislation.

One of the suggestions being put forward for electoral reform is that impartial election officials conduct elections and the counting of all votes. That’s one tiny step which could see the US walking on the moon . It is also an open admission the present system is rotten to the core and does not serve the people. In other words, it is not democratic .

Cyclops

Space Invaders are Liquidating Us

Though fragile, my mother proudly says that she still has her marbles, reads a lot, takes an interest in politics and showers members of the family with free advice, causing young ones to roll their eyes.

Discussing the obvious looming Depression and dire warnings about the ramifications of global warming, she says the world is in a frightful mess. With a nervous laugh, she wondered if now was the time for aliens from outer space to come down and save the world. While I jollied mother along , I did not tell her that I know for certain that humanoid creatures from another galaxy are already here and, as repeatedly revealed by the X-File, are wiping out -not saving- inferior earthlings.

Due to their cunning ways , I am in the process of being obliterated , lost in space and erased from computer records. Don’t scoff. Read my coffee stained case history before it is scrubbed by malevolent aliens covering their devious tracks.

At the suggestion of a GP, I underwent an eye test at an optician’s , and rang for a follow up consultation. Certainly, come to the op shop. Arriving at reception , I was welcomed like one of the family, the computer was tapped . What is your name again ?... When were you here ?... Who did you see ?... What was the nature of the consultation on that occasion ? I had obviously been transported to another dimension. I did not exist .

Told to sit down , the bod who saw me in the first instance , emerged and had a close look at me, then darted back into his dark den. When he re-emerged , we had this rather strange conversation as if he could not remember my visit of two weeks ago. I repeated that I had been experiencing painful , needle-like jabs to the eyeballs. His solution : a squirt of el cheapo eye drops.

Returning from this expedition to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lost World , I decided to ring the local hospital to find out what had happened to my appointment to see a cardiac specialist . It was about three months since I first rang and had been told they would ring back . I gave my name…Clickety-click could be heard over the phone … Who ? I repeated my name …When did you first ring here ? I gave the date and name of the referring doctor who had faxed through my case . Clickety-click.

Did I have an appointment to see a gynaecologist ? Definitely not ! I am of the male gender and can produce overwhelming , but small , evidence to prove it . My daughter, however , had seen a gynaecologist. After this amazing exchange which left me wondering if I was Arthur or Martha, I eventually got an appointment. When I fronted the reception desk to see the heart doc a woman, mesmerised by the computer , possibly receiving invasion details from Planet Zog, tapped away, not acknowledging my presence.

Without making eye contact, she eventually asked for my name , which I supplied in a deep, manly voice. Clickety-click . Strangely enough , it did not take long to find me , no doubt due to the fact that I had established early in the piece that my fallopian tubes were firing on all cylinders like a NASA Saturn rocket.

As there was no Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy, I rejected the crapulous magazines on offer in the waiting room. However, when the ECG technician , who had been calling people out by their surname, hesitated and trumpeted my Christian name , I knew once more the aliens were at work .

You guessed it, I had undergone a christening in the waiting room baptismal font and, to my surprise, my surname was now my first name . Comparing notes with an old buddy who frequently has to visit or is rushed to the same hospital in an ambulance, he told me he carefully checks the name on all medication there as on several occasions they have tried to give him somebody else’s potent brew which could worsen his severe ailments , conditions which have brought him close to death on several times.

Kevin Rudd must be from another planet or has a million schoolkids on computers working out a green paper solution if he thinks he can straighten out the sick , creaking medical service of this nation which has been battered almost to death by Martians , under funding , ideology and base vested interests , not to mention those brave medicos scared to blow the whistle on dangerous situations which are evident to staff lower down the pecking and kicking order.

On my latest visit to the heart doctor, the same spaced out receptionist, looking suspiciously like a re-incarnation of Queen Nefertiti , due to extensive use of eyeliner , was transfixed by her computer screen . As expected , the doctor called me by my christian /surname. When I asked him what was the result of my ECG , he hit the computer. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickey-click. That’s strange , for some odd reason, it was not there. Further evidence that I was in the process of becoming a non-person , another H. G. Wells Invisible Man .

A knowing smirk on his face, the doctor told me to come back in a year’s time . Was he in league with those evil ones, armed with computers, taking over the troubled world ? Would I be turned into iodised salt long before the next appointment? Mum might still have her marbles, but I suspect I am losing mine, including the beaut Connie Agates made from fascinating imported moonstones.

Cyclops

Chinese Multi-Coloured Peril

Sympathetic towards Chairman Mao and his Great Leap Forward , I bought an early made in China axe , probably made from pig iron produced in those do- it- yourself blast furnaces which dotted the land . There was bright red paint on the blade. It proved to be awful axe – heavy and blunt , very so. Each chop reverberated through my body. A series of files failed to sharpen the cutting edge and , thankfully, the handle broke .

Years later , about the time of the Cultural Revolution, I bought a made in China hatchet to chop up a tree riddled with white ants. It had a yellow wooden handle, a nice feel and a sharp blade. Obviously part of the big hop forward. Several energetic blows and it broke, the blade spinning backwards , cutting my right arm .
When I examined the hatchet, I discovered that what looked like a metal wedge in the top of the handle was red paint. My uncouth comments about Chinese cutting tools would have filled three volumes about the size of the famous little Red Book .

Nursing my wound which became two permanent scars , I discussed Chinese axes with a handyman who said Chinese axes and other tools were junk that should not be allowed into the country. Buy Australian , British or American , he advised.

In recent times my wife bought a made in China electric stove and a top element suddenly burst into flame. Still covered by warranty , an electrician was called in and said it was the second stove in a week that burst into flames, which was odd.
As he tinkered away he drew our attention to the wiring , saying it could not be any thinner and implied that Australian standards were not being observed . Thereafter , we were never confident about the stove. Later , a member of the family had another made in China stove snugly fitted into a made over kitchen and said he was surprised at the amount of heat it put out and its likely impact on adjoining cupboards. He also commented on the thin wiring .

This morning I hear that a variety of vegetables imported from China are being examined to see if they have any toxic content.

When you read about the monstrous pollution of air, waterways , dog food, rice , baby milk, lollies and chocolates , there are strong grounds for concern . Are our regulatory agencies up to the task? Are we constantly being sold a Beijing Duck? The residents of Toowoomba , Queensland, rejected the idea of drinking recycled water . A recent Australian traveller to China who took in agricultural regions as well as the dazzling new cities, said his abiding memory of the country was the overpowering smell of human faeces. He has gone off tossed salads.

Cyclops

Let's Get Some Light On This

We are in an age when the population is growing exponentially. Correspondingly, the natural resources of the earth are being consumed at a record rate. More humans consume more, directly and indirectly. A component of this increased consumption is the greater use of electricity. Most of the electricity, at the moment, is generated by the production of heat from the burning of non-replenishable deposits of oil and coal.

One component of the consumption of electricity is the production of light. It is now a case of “Let there be light – flick- and there is light.”

Much of the world now uses light bulbs and light tubes with gay abandon, and Australia is no exception. We complain about the dwindling of natural resources, and we complain about the effects of greenhouse gasses including serious climate changes. We complain, and we run scared for future generations of humans and many other species, but we quite often fail to take elementary steps to ease the situation.

Many Aussies now are conscious of the electricity consumption ratings that are exhibited on household appliances, and are conscious that energy-saving light bulbs are a way to use less electricity per unit light fitting. However, we treat these devices in the way that we treat low-alcohol beer, whereby we allow ourselves to drink more to get to the same point of intoxication. We thus see the low-energy light bulb as a licence to use more light bulbs, to use more light bulbs at the same time. We also see it as a licence to leave unoccupied rooms brightly lit by these frugal inventions. We should be developing habits of personal light bulb parsimony. Further, we should be developing a culture, even a global culture (no pun intended) in which an important value is the conservation of electricity. If a light or other appliance is not in immediate use, switch it off.

The youth of today does not know what it is to enjoy darkness. At any hour of the night, even if their residence has no electric bulbs illuminated, the residence is not in darkness. Irrespective of the phase of the moon, no light needs to be switched on in order to walk comfortably about. The light of the city envelops all. Outside in the streets, the place is in semi-daylight because of all the lights that are left on, including street lights that are almost totally unnecessary.

Nowadays, though, we are not the only citizens. We now have “corporate citizens.” It tends to be forgotten, though, that these corporate citizens are incapable of flicking a light switch or even seeing where a light switch is. These things are done by ordinary citizens, ordinary people like you and me. The actions of corporate citizens are, in the final analysis, the actions of living, breathing human beings.

However, corporate citizens differ from ordinary citizens in that they comprise many ordinary individuals and quite often have a sub-culture that differs in various ways from the broader culture in which it is imbedded, either wholly or partly. Many of these corporate citizens have head offices that occupy whole sky-scraper buildings or significant portions of them. In many ways, they mirror the strengths and frailties of their individual human members. They can be forgetful, wasteful, “egotistic” and arrogant.

When one visits a major central business district such as that of Sydney, one is struck by the glow of the place. There are lots of very tall and very large buildings, most of which are lit up at night like some sort of childhood-dream fairyland. The workers who populated them during the day, have all departed for home or drinking tavern, and only a handful of shift-working cleaners remain within their glowing intestines. Whole acres of their surfaces are alight and sending out their signals for all to see for many miles (or kilometres, if you are up with the times.) They shout out to the world, “Look at me. Aren’t I gorgeous; aren’t I just the most beautiful and attractive corporate citizen that you ever laid your lustful eyes upon! My architect was Little Lord Fauntelroy. Do you like my lights?”

Just think of the amount of electricity that could be saved if all companies mandated that their unused lights should be switched to darkness.

Crankyfella

Who'll Start the Bidding?

Come on you New South Welshmen (and Welshwomen, just to observe the ridiculous political correctness.) Come on, now, don’t just stand there. You’ve all been registered as bidders and you all have your cards. Lift up those cards and start bidding. If you take the bull by the horns and flash your bidding card, you are highly likely to pick up a real bargain, here today.

As you prepare yourselves to start bidding rationally, let me again remind you of what is on offer. Here, today, for auction, with no reserve price, yes, you heard correctly, ladies and gentlemen, with no reserve price, we have a complete State Parliamentary Labor Party. There is something in there for everyone. No matter what your taste, it can be satiated by this lot. Clever historians have already predicted that this particular group will go down in history and will be the subject of at least ten books and fifty doctoral theses. Children in the year 2100 AD will sit around in their hermetically sealed cocoons that they need for protection against the unbearable ultra-violet radiation and the extremes of weather that will be upon them as a result of dillbrains such as you see in this lot, and will laugh at the top of their poor little asthmatic lungs at the doings of the very same dillbrains and their ilk.

With this lot, ladies and gentlemen of this once proud-enough-to-limp-by State, you get lock, stock and barrel. On this lot of specimens whom I would call freaks except for the fact that my mother made me promise that I would never sling off at those less fortunate than myself, I believe that the RSPCA has agreed that no charges will be pressed if the buyer fails to give nourishment and sustenance to these creatures. In fact, the RSPCA, I believe, has offered the opinion that the sooner the poor creatures fade away to absolute zero, the better it will be for the remaining species of this State.

Look at them, now, you who will be bidders, and see what a potential bargain they could represent. Imagine the long queues, six abreast, stretching three times around the showground, waiting to catch a glimpse of these whatchamacallems for a sum certain in money. They would be treated to an hilarious fantasy of bullies picking on Superman would-be’s-if-they-could-be who would be correctly attired with their underpants on the outside, but would have forgotten to don the other garments under their underpants. Your showground business would run in admirable smoothness, with your accounts being overseen by absolutely unskilled but very conscientious financial know-alls. Although the freaks may well be starving, they would have their very own built-in health guru who knows nothing about health but is expert in making inane statements. The head representative of this lot would keep the others in line for you by the judicious use of his cricket bat that he took home with him when the others refused to play cricket according to the rules if vigaro. Never a day would go by, ladies and gentlemen, when you were not treated to some new, unique form of odd behaviour from these poor souls.

Come on, now bidders, hold your bidder identification cards proudly up high and start calling your bids.

Ah, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I have an opening bid. What was your bid, madam? No, I’m sorry, madam, sixpence is not an acceptable bid. Those little silver things went out at the time when some of our creatures in the lot were just failing kindergarten. Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, kindly bid in decimal currency.

Is that a bid there, sir? Yes, we are off and rolling. The bidding has been opened at ten cents. I have ten cents. I have ten cents. Yes, I have ten cents. Who’ll offer a bit of sensibility and start the real bidding rolling? Yes, the bidding is now with you, sir, in the Paisley shirt at the back. Twenty cents, I have twenty cents, let me hear those raises on twenty cents. Twenty cents I have from Paisley shirt. Yes, twenty cents I have. Come on bidders, let me hear you. Twenty cents I have. From here on, I will accept increases of one cent. Twenty cents I have. Who will make it twenty-one cents? Twenty cents I have. Twenty cents I have. Are there any increases on twenty cents? Do I hear twenty-one cents? At twenty cents, is there any further bid? At twenty cents once. Come on, ladies and gentlemen, I have twenty cents once. Twenty cents twice! This is the bargain of a lifetime, bidders, the bargain of a lifetime. I have twenty cents twice. Twenty cents twice! Twenty cents three times, sold! Sold to the Paisley shirt at the rear for twenty cents. Come forward, please sir, and complete the paperwork. You will, of course, under the conditions of sale, have to remove this riff-raff lot from here before sundown.

Some people will buy anything at auction!


Crankyfella

Dancing the Pride of Errors

How many university degrees in music would a fair dinkum Aussie battler need to be able to fathom the messy dance routine that goes under the description of present-day Aussie politics?

At the Commonwealth level, we were promised a whole newly choreographed routine, a new era in Federal-State politics and relations. Our Prime Minister, Hairpin Rudd, selected his dancing partner, Julia Killhard, from all of the pretty girls on the side benches of the house, and promised us that they would dance a dance that had never been danced before. Unfortunately, we, and I assume they, are still waiting for the band master to wave his baton and kick the music along. After all, it is not much fun dancing without music, and, for that matter, it is not much fun watching even a lovely young couple dancing without music.

Hairpin and Julia promised us faithfully that not only they would be dancing this wonderful new step, but so also would be all of the handsome couples from the States. It was to be a ball reminiscent of the balls of old such as the Euabalong Ball where everybody was a winner when they drew the lucky door tickets out of a fur-felt hat made from genuine Aussie rabbits that had migrated from the Old Dart and had done very well, indeed, in the new country.

The dashing young Commonwealth couple must be sorely disappointed as they flick their heads over their shoulders in a pseudo-tango pose, to see that there is none of the State samba exponents behind them, or anywhere else to be seen in the refurbished barn.

If only such a thing as a telegram boy still existed, he could take one of his telegrams to the Federal foxtrotters to inform them that there is a plague besetting the State stations, and that this is preventing the samba exponents from joining in the fun of the dance, to say nothing of a few swigs of bombo down behind the hall when the gala affair is over.

In New South Wales, the sociable and outgoing (well, certainly outgoing) leader of the lads, Morris Dilemma, publically declared in no uncertain terms that if the boys in the band were not going to play his style of music, then he certainly was not going to dance, and they could have their ball without him. Fortunately, young Nothing Rees put up his hand and offered to take the place of Morris on the dance floor, even though the State could not afford to even hire a nice suit for him to wear, since their credit rating was not all that secure. With a sweeping bow, he proposed that the house special, Caramel Tebbutt, might join him as his special partner. They would arrive late at the barn, but that would be better than not arriving at all.

Over in West Aussie, that great, rambling country lad of a State that tries its best to keep us all in tea and tucker, a most unruly fracas was going full pelt. No girls had shown any interest at all in going to the ball. As a consequence, all sorts of unseemly smooching started, in a sort of pig-in-the-middle love triangle. The Liberal leader, with not a liberal bone in his body, Colon Burnitt, started to woo the Nationals’ Bendon Gills. Overcome with jealousy, the Labor leader, with not a laboured bone in his body, Alan Chippy, took it upon himself to offer the poor, innocent Bendon Gills a much larger bouquet to wear if only he would go to the ball with him. Who knows with whom he will go to the ball or if he will deign to go to the ball at all?

Perhaps the ball will be drawn to a premature halt by Hairpin and Julia, because the band master has failed to achieve his performance indicators.

Battler

Cop This

I have complained many times, that the sportsmanship has virtually evaporated from Olympic events. That is so, but it is more so in modern day cricket and football. The football codes in Australia are the most shocking examples, as they combine the dissolution of sportsmanship with thuggery.

The governance of the various sports in Australia is a prime example of the failure of “self-regulation.” Typically, whenever a section of Australian society comes under threat of being regulated by one of the levels of government, it is characterized by barrages of shivers running up the spines of those involved in the section. To avoid such a situation, the section then advances the idea that it would be better for all if the industry (as sections like to be euphemistically called) formulated its own code (sometimes a code of ethics, sometimes a code of conduct) and then administer compliance with the code “in house.”

The various forms of football in Australia have elevated self-regulation to an art form. As with most sports, there is an established set of rules that stipulate how the game should be played and scored, and stipulating behaviours that are unacceptable and that may result in penalties being awarded during or after a game. In these body contact sports, many of the transgressions of the rules of the game involve behaviour that not only breaches these rules, but breaches the laws of the land. The various administration bodies of these sports have succeeded in having these transgressions dealt with “in house” by self-appointed tribunals that can deal out sanctions. Such sanctions usually take the form of the player being banned from playing for a given number of matches.

As sport in Australia is perceived as a very important part of communal life and conversation by many, so the players, especially in the higher grades, become important influences in the lives of many followers and spectators. They also become very important role models for younger followers and younger long-term aspirants. Consequently, their on-field behaviour affects not only other players, mainly their opponents, but also members of the public, including youngsters.

All major fixtures of football, as with other major sporting fixtures, are required to have a police presence. These games are often televised, and therefore they have a complete visual record. Many of the transgressions of the rules of the game also constitute assault, or even assault occasioning actual bodily harm. If an assault occurs elsewhere in the community and is not witnessed by police, then successful prosecution for such an offence relies heavily upon the willingness of the assaulted or witnesses to testify. If such an incident occurring elsewhere in the community is witnessed by police, then the police are obliged to take action, irrespective of the willingness of potential testifiers. In a football stadium, there are police witnesses, and, as already stated, generally a video recording which can also be used in evidence.

Rather than having an “in house” tribunal impose a game loss or disqualification penalty on a player who assaults another on the field, the witnessing police should intervene in the game and remove the offending player where appropriate, or institute later criminal action against the player where further examination of the recorded evidence is appropriate.

Let us call a spade a spade. Let us label criminal assault as a criminal offence. Let us demonstrate in no uncertain terms to youngsters, especially, that such behaviour is not only unacceptable, but also criminal. That way, upstanding players could truly become sporting heroes, and sportsmanship could be revitalised.


Crankyfella

A Job of Work

For those readers who were relieved that I had not put finger to keyboard button for a long time, and were taking bets that I had disappeared from this mortal plane, let me disappoint you by announcing that I am back on the job. Unfortunately, I contracted a dreadful, exotic respiratory bug from some of the papal pilgrims that otherwise brought much joy to Old Sydney Town recently. During the latter period of my partial recovery, I have been very busy, indeed, ensuring that I do not, even accidentally, watch any of the televised events from the Beijing Olympics. Olympic events just serve to make me an even crankier old Aussie.

I have let my enfeebled mind wander and ponder over the merits and demerits of the Olympics for some time now, and have come to the conclusion that the Olympics died when the rules were changed to allow professional competitors. By “professional,” I do not mean those who have undertaken an intensive course of education, observe a code of ethics, and then practice their chosen calling by the observation of a strict fiduciary relationship with their clients. No, no, no, I simply mean that they perform in their chosen field, which they consider sport, for a monetary reward. In other words, I mean those who do it as a job.

This transformation of sport into jobs is evidenced in most of the interviews with participants when asked about their attitudes to protesting about the treatment by the host nation, China, of Tibet and Tibetans. The typical response is, “We are not involved in that. We are just over here to do a job, and we are going to get on with it. Our job is to bring back medals.”

In fact, it would appear that their “job” is to promote themselves as products; to escalate their value as sporting commodities on the open market. What a perversion this represents of the term, “sporting.”

Let us lament the passing of Olympic “sport,” “sporting,” “sportsmanship” and “being a good sport.” They all died when the strict requirement of amateur status was abandoned.

For all the rhetoric about the phantom of the “level playing field,” how can such a thing ever exist when full-time, often very highly paid competitors from affluent, developed countries compete against those from poor, often war-torn, developing countries whose representatives often consider themselves fortunate if they can afford a pair of shoes of any description for use in their events. Well, I suppose that the argument must go that competitors from under-privileged nations simply lack the initiative and drive necessary for them to succeed in “the job.”

What a pity it is that we cannot bring back to sport the joy of the activity, the helping of others less fortunate, the forging of new friendships, the appreciation of the efforts of others and the recognition of others as having a love and interest in common.

I would like to see a proliferation of jobs for our Olympians. However, I do not mean the occupational sort; I mean good, swift left-hook jobs into the midriffs of any competitors who prattle on about being over there to do a job.

Crankyfella

Crook Infection Control

Much is currently being said about the risk of contracting an infection, sometimes deadly, in our hospitals. The latest statistic says some 200,00 people in 12 months caught an infection while being treated in the health system. What is alarming about this figure is that medical experts agree the toll could be easily halved if staff just washed their hands more often. This is tantamount to basic potty training hygiene drummed into young children. When it comes to health professionals , surely they are more alert, vigilant and meticulous in handling vulnerable patients. If not, why not? My casual observations and experiences in hospitals has resulted in a feeling of disquiet about cleanliness and vermin control . Recently I visited a family member in a private hospital attached to a public hospital , the latter with a bad reputation for infections. The inside of the window in the room had numerous greasy looking smears , the sun revealing spore- like patches which did not look like penicillin factories. The nearby small waiting room alcove had an offensive odour , dust was visible and there was a pile of tattered magazines which seemingly dated from Gutenberg press days , no doubt thumped by by countless people and a grand repository of potential infection.

In the same private hospital was a specialist's office where my wife went. As I waited for her , I glanced about the room and, having once done large office cleaning , glanced into corners and along ledges. During several visits , the same tell -tale scraps of paper and fluff were visible banked up in corners.

When my mother was rushed into a Brisbane public hospital , the family , from various states, kept vigil , often spending long hours in the wating room , the lights turned low at night, enabling people to snooze. But once the lights were dimmed, out came fleet - footed cockroaches from beneath the water cooler. A woman yelped on seeing a midnight marauder and her partner jumped to his feet and chased it about the room trying to stomp on it before it made the safety of the cooler. He failed . One night, my head against the wall, my eyes heavy, something fell on my hair and I was bitten on the scalp. This critter , not a cockie, moved faster than Phar lap when I brushed it from my hair and disappeared under the cooler.

When going to another Queensland hospital to have my plumbing looked at, along with a brigade of other leaky old sods, my name was called and I was ushered into a small room. Eventually, the urologist hurried in , covered from head to foot as if prepared for an operation. A few basic questions , the mobile phone rang , the specialist apologised and dashed off to the theatre. On returning , our truncated conversation resumed but was again curtailed by another call back to the theatre. All that tooing and froing must have raised the possibility of transporting infections . I was advised to make another appointment.

An old mate of mine who is in and out of hospitals has developed a monstrous infection in the shape of a large boil which refuses to respond. He dreads each visit to hospital because of the questionable hygiene standards he has witnessed.

I may sound liket that whacky Dr House , but I have this wild theory that the work stations where doctors and nurses spend an inordinate amount of time, filling our endless paperwork, gazing at monitors, pounding on keyboards and sucking nervously at pens is a happy hunting ground for infections. Running swabs through these flight decks , I believe, would reveal the source of much collatoral damage . Then there are carpets , an undoubted source of infections and mutations

Cyclops

Arresting Cardiac Arrest

It is highly desirable that the medical profession , perhaps with a nudge from the Federal Government , develops a more responsive policy in handling cardiac patients. Some time ago the heart attack victim , Richard Carleton, a 60 Minutes reporter who underwent a bypass , did a show about his Sydney hospital which believed in a more rapid response to cardiac cases . This approach has obviously not spread throughout the public hospitals. In recent times there was a disconcerting report that the Townsville Public Hospital, which serves a large part of north Queensland , had closed its cardiac department because of what was described as the "toxic atmosphere " between members of that unit. A vision of fear and loathing among staff in an operating theatre is scary . In my case, involving a bypass in a public hospital after a helicopter evacuation, I was sent home for two months , eventually given an angiogram , sent home , called back for another angiogram , told to stay in bed for two weeks and variously told I was going to have a triple by-pass and a quadruple bypass. When I was wheeled into a dark room with blinding bright light , an alien in a mask appeared out of the gloom , grabbed my leg and demanded, "Who shaved your body ?" Eh? What a strange question. Before I sank into oblivion, I got out the fact that I had been the tonsorial artist. Then , probably sounding like Minnie Mouse or a drunken chipmunk, I tried to explain that a new wardsman,who looked like Merv Hughes, too shy to do the job, had thrust a recycled razor into my hand and told me to follow the instructions on a cardboard figure dangling from a doorknob in the linen room. As my eyesight is not the best and the razor clogged frequently , it seems I did not emerge as Mr Smooth. Nobody checked to see that I had been properly depiled. As luck would have it ,I did not make it to the Pearly gates , even though I saw the shimmering white lights at the end of the flight tunnel. Therefore , it would seem that sinners with legs like a hairy Yeti are no allowed on Cloud Nine. Finally coming to, I became aware that there was a shortage of wheelchairs to take patients into the ward. I finally scored one with a flat tyre which gyrated like a battered Woolworth's supermarket trolley , and had a bumpy ride to Hell with a drip on a stand which tugging at my leg. I say Hell advisedly because three TV sets played nonstop,two with screaming advertisements. The third , perched above the bed of a comatose patient next to me, was on some channel specialising in Disney like shows, another of my pet hates. The operation cut on my leg ran from my ankle almost to the groin . It must have been the hairy leg and bushy groin that made the surgeons lose their way in the undergrowth. Tuther day, I contacted a cardiac clinic in another hospital in another part of Australia , for a follow up heart check due to rising blood pressure and a pain or two . The receptionist put me on hold ; canned music played over the phone: the thumping beat of the James Bond tune, Live and Let Die. Not quite the right tune for old blokes with dicky tickers. I have been waiting for six weeks for notice of an appointment. My private GP shook his head and muttered,"Public hospitals!"

CYCLOPS

Watts the Problem?

The Land of Oz has just had the Riot Act read by a most capable professor, Boss CarNo.

With the rest of the world, we are entangled in a climate change mess. This mess is the result of natural processes that have affected global climatic fluctuations over very broad periods of time, and of the interaction of human society with the global environment over a relatively narrow period of time. Deleterious effects of the human contribution to this mess mostly flow from the highly excessive production of carbon dioxide and other carbon compounds. High quantities of these compounds interfere with the protective layer of ozone that surrounds our planet at high altitude. When intact, that layer protects us from bombardment by dangerous levels of ultra-violet radiation which can have profound direct effects on our individual health and well-being and on the temperature of the surface regions of the planet in which humans dwell and feed.

With the exception of plants, which can produce food by the process of photosynthesis, whereby carbon dioxide, in the presence of chlorophyll and sunshine, is converted to sugar and oxygen, all species undergo only respiration, whereby they burn substances in the presence of oxygen to produce heat and carbon dioxide. Even plants undergo respiration during the dark hours of the day, but overall, they can produce more oxygen during the day than they produce carbon dioxide during the night. The plants are undoubtedly our friends. We must protect them and nurture them.

More important to the enrichment of our air with oxygen, are the oceans of the world. They, too, are our friends, and must be protected and nurtured.

The fact that the animals of the world, including us humans, are giving off carbon dioxide just by being animals, is significant enough, but we humans compound this situation by an enormous factor by virtue of our industrialization. This phenomenon has grown to problem proportions mainly over the last two centuries. Industrialization allows us to produce an enormous quantity and variety of consumer goods. Hereby lies most of our problem. Industrialization uses enormous amounts of energy. No matter how that energy is derived, it has mostly involved the production of heat by the burning of carbon compound substances (that is, organic substances) such as coal, oil and trees. Thus, industrialization has required energy production or energy transformation, and has yielded carbon dioxide along with its consumer products. However, the problem does not end there. Most of the humans on this planet utilize these products, and such utilization, in turn, requires energy input and consequently an indirect consumption of energy that has given off carbon dioxide in its production. We thus produce carbon dioxide in manufacturing goods, and we produce carbon dioxide in using them.

Technologies are already available to produce energy by harnessing renewable sources such as wind power, solar power and tidal power, none of which produce carbon dioxide as a by-product. Unfortunately, we have been collectively loathe to embrace these technologies. Despite the fact that these technologies will take time and vast expense to replace the current prevailing technologies, we must grasp the nettle and do so with the utmost urgency. Professor Boss NoCar has stressed this urgency in his report, and we must listen to him and obey.

The Good Professor has focused on the question of the introduction of an Australian carbon trading scheme. Basically, such a scheme involves the selling of carbon licences to businesses to limit the amount of carbon dioxide that their pursuits can be responsible for producing, and to “tax” such licences on a quantum basis. Companies will be able to buy and sell these licences in a type of carbon trading exchange similar to a stock exchange. The “taxes” so derived would be directed to the development and introduction of non-carbon-producing technologies. He correctly points out that all levels of our society from governments to manufacturing industries to servicing industries to individual people, must be involved in this fundamental revision of our activity.

People are already complaining that we “battlers” will have these “taxes” passed on to us by industries and companies, and that we will thus be the bearers of the “burden” of this radical move. The ultimate consumer has always been the bearer of whatever costs are involved in the production of those goods and services that we choose to consume. Irrespective of the political economy involved, be it capitalism or socialism, the consumer has always borne the cost in one way or another.

However, there is a way out for us “battlers” or anyone else, for that matter. The answer is simple: CURTAIL CONSUMING !

Let us examine very carefully which electrical appliances we think that we need to purchase and run. Let us examine very carefully our modes of transport. Are our feet and bicycles cheaper to run (with a smaller carbon footprint) than sedans and four-wheel drives? Can we substitute healthier fruits and vegetables for meats, chickens and fish that we need to cook? Are the cigarettes, wines and beers really necessary? Can we follow the example of our grandparents and plant our back yards out with fruit trees and vegetables? Even if we live in apartments, can we plant some vegetables in window boxes or verandah boxes? Do we really need to go to Venezuela next year? Can we wear this year’s clothes and shoes until they wear out? The list of tactics goes on and on.

Let us show our Aussie nation and the rest of the world, that we Aussie Battlers, to no small degree, can control our own planetary destiny.

Battler

Bully for You

Most of us probably experienced the odd bully during our schooldays. Some of us would even have had the experience of having some kid who was a foot (by that, I mean approximately thirty centimeters) taller than us, coming up to us in the playground and demanding our treasured peanut butter sandwich or our rare sultana cupcake, backed up by the threat that “My farver’s a policeman, an’ he’ll get you, uvverwise.”

Usually, this sort of bully grew out of this attitude to life when one or all of the following things happened: 1) somewhere along the line you became a foot taller than them; 2) you came to the defiant stance that their father could do nothing to you if you were in the right; 3) they came to the realization that their father was not going to use his position to bail them out on ill-founded trivialities; 4) a few quick left hooks to the snozzle made them re-think their tactic; or 5) they just grew up into socially responsible young adults.

The sad part is that not all bullies grow out of it, and not all older bullies started their bullying careers as young bullies. Some older bullies develop their tactics because they become greedy, avaricious or power hungry. Others develop their bullying stances because of some developing delusion that they are somehow smarter and more powerful than anyone else and/or that their own particular brand of god has, in his or her wisdom, personally invested in them an inviolable right to supremacy.

We’ve all had the misfortune to see the results that adult bullies have reeked. History has filled its pages with such fiends. In more modern times, we have had Winston Churchill, Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Idi Amin and Pol Pot, just to mention a few. In present times, we have had the southern hemisphere tainted. This southern hemisphere, which was always ranked in the top two hemispheres of this great planet, has been stained by the likes of Augusto Pinochet and Robert Mugabe.

Not all stains upon our great hemisphere, though, come from world renowned despotic bullies, and some of the stains are locally produced. As an example, we have the current case of two elected representatives taking on the mantel of political priests who have been ordained to command their flocks to obey their orders that have been ratified by godly processes, and to punish disobedience by having transgressors banished from their shelters against the fiery ravages of hell. At great fear of having my tongue excised from my ugly, but still serviceable head, I name these two bullies as Jack FellaBoxer and Belittler Genuflect.

It behoves all of us cranky Aussies, whether we be old cranks or young cranks, to carefully watch the developments flowing from the alleged bullying tactics of this pair. It is important to do so for numerous reasons, three of which are: to nip in the bud, another potentially dangerous political rampage by elected representatives; to shout loudly and clearly the message that we will not tolerate liars, thugs and bullies in our parliaments; and to afford justice to the victimised staff of the Goanna Night Club.

Our schools, our communities, our parliaments and our world need no bullies.

Crankyfella

Let's Play Doctors and Nurses

Flattered (and bewildered) as I was to receive an invitation to be a regular cranky old woman, I’m not always like this you know. I try to be happy, serene and content. But it’s sometimes very hard not to scream with frustration.

I recently had surgery on a little finger that was never going to get any better without intervention, and the admitting sister asked me a lot of questions. I patiently responded, although I had answered all these questions on a sheet of paper which I mailed to the hospital a couple of weeks before. Then I answered them again the day before, when someone from the hospital rang for pre-op checks. So all of my responses had been recorded at least twice. But they’re trying to ensure no errors, so I went through the answers for the 3rd time, and reached the stage where I had a giddy set of colourful bands on my RIGHT wrist: a white bracelet giving my name and other personal details; a red bracelet saying ALLERGIC TO MORPHINE and a vivid orange bracelet saying NO BLOOD OR OTHER PROCEDURES ON RIGHT ARM.

I could see this might cause a problem since the surgery was on my left hand and the other would be more convenient, but she assured me they could use my leg for their procedures, and then promptly put a blood pressure cuff on my right arm. I removed it, stared at her, pointed at the orange bracelet and said gently, No, no procedures on this arm, remember? Oh, she said, I forgot. She forgot? We had had a long conversation about it, she had selected a bracelet to warn the doctors, and then promptly forgot.

Now I read that good old Dr Kevin Mudd wants nurses to take over some of the work of doctors to ease the burden of the medicos. Sorry? We don’t have enough doctors? Let us train some more. Let’s choose the best of the nurses and put them through medical school to qualify as doctors, and then, hmmm, this is the hard bit, we’d have to PAY them as doctors.

Don’t get me wrong here, I march every time nurses fight for more pay. They are among the kindest, most thoughtful, careful, caring and patient people I have ever met, and they are much better at giving injections than any doctor. But they are not doctors, and they are not qualified to take on medical evaluation, diagnosis, and prescribing of medicines. I know many of them are capable, but until they have qualified as medical doctors I cannot rely on them. I won’t rely on them. And they won’t diagnose me.


Ana Thema

The Bitter End

Yesterday, I’d had a pretty AOK day for one of my cranky disposition. I’d played with my PC for a while and leanrt how to handle PDF documents. My only genuine complaint was that I had a headache that had been worsening over the previous couple of weeks.

After a nice meal, I watched the highlights of the ARL on my TV for a bit and then put on a stimulating DVD about the KGB and their atrocities. However, the headache worked itself to fever pitch. I felt like both ends of my head were meeting in the middle. In an attempt to offer sympathy, my wife suggested that it might be PMT.

This morning, I’d had enough. I decided that I would take me off to my GP. That would have been simple enough, but I needed some cash to pay him with. So I limped, with my head between my hands, down to the main street. I needed an ATM, but found myself hardly able to decide between two of them; one with the NAB and the other with the CBA. I painfully chose the CBA in the end, because I used to be a shareholder back in the good old days when it belonged to the commonwealth. An MSS guard standing nearby thought that I was robbing the stupid machine, but did not persist when I explained that I was just banging my head against the screen for relief from my headache.

Eventually, I obtained the wad of notes necessary to pay my GP, who, like so many of them, charges like a wounded bull. As I stuffed the cash into my pocket, A close neighbour saw me and said, “What’s wrong, Crank, you look RS!” I explained about my headache, in between groans, and told him that I was off to see my GP who had only recently given me an ECG and sent me for an MRI when the headache was only a pup of the mongrel that it now was. I excused myself, saying that I was off to catch a SRA train for two stations, if only I could manage it.

“Don’t waste your time going to a GP,” he says, “He’ll only want to put you on an NSAID and see you again in a month.” I thought that there was probably merit in what he was saying, especially since he had a lot to do with doctors as he was a TPI as a result of WWII injuries. “Tell you what,” he continued, “why don’t you do as I do, and go straight to the ED at the local hospital. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

So, like some sort of insipid sheep, I hopped into his BMW, and after only a short pit-stop at the BP service station, we lobbed up to the ED at the hospital. I only had to wait four hours to be triaged by an RN, and another seven hours to be seen by a JRMO who took my BP, gave me a PR examination, and sent off some blood for PSA, FBC, ESR, UEC and LFT’s. When the results came back, he deliberated like a learned judge and then declared that he was stumped. So, he asked the RMO to have a gander at me. The RMO promptly ordered an urgent CT scan, and within a few short hours, he, too, went into deliberative mode and then threw up his hands, saying, “I’ll need to get the VMO to see you.”

The VMO was as clever as his title was grandiose. He stepped into the semi-private becurtained cubicle, and within one microsecond, exclaimed, “I know what’s wrong with you! I was just reading about cases like you this AM in the BMJ. You’ve got ANTS.” “Ants,” retorted my good self, “I haven’t been troubled with ants since I bought a four gallon drum of DDT.”

“ANTS,” he repeated with the look of a Nobel Prize winner on his physiognomy. “ANTS, Acronym Neurological Torment Syndrome!”

Simultaneously, I felt an exacerbation of my headache, but also a profound sense of relief. This VMO, this erudite student of the trivial, had been able to put a name to my condition.

“Thank you very much indeed, Doctor,” I gushed, “You’re either a genius or you’ve got fantastic ESP.”

Crankyfella

The Writing is on the Wall

Almost everyone over the decrepit age of thirty years grizzles about a particular style of artistic effort by those younger than themselves.

Some people who are very well heeled, pay very big bickies to travel to remote areas to see examples of wall and cave paintings that have endured for centuries or even millennia. Upon their return to their urban dwellings, these people are often the first to decry the brilliant examples of wall, floor, window, fence and carriage art that will, in its own right, be marvelled at in millennia to come as the defining expression of twentieth and twenty-first centuries culture.

What was it that urged ancient man (man in the common gender, that is) to relax after an exhausting day of hunting whatever animal happened to be in culinary fashion, or gathering whatever fruit or seed happened to be trying to secure its own existence on the planet at the time, and make his or her mark on the world with some pigment or other? What ran through the minds that dwelled in tired and weary bodies to express themselves by making marks on the valued refuges that were their homes and social gathering places?

The driving force of such ancient expressions was no doubt the same as the driving force that impels our present-day young folk to take to the walls and other physical components of their built environment with paints and brushes and more recently, preferentially with paints of all hues that are available in aerosol form in conveniently portable spray cans. That force, that single force is that of the artist who wishes to express an idea of beauty or a notion that is best communicated by graphic means. Some artists express their souls by music, some by sculpture, some by poetry, some by literature, some by photography and some by making pigmented marks or representations on portable pieces of canvas, wood or bark. Many of our young artists feel the need to express themselves by spraying paints on fixtures such as fences and sides of buildings, or upon mobile but hardly portable structures such as railway carriages. Their canvas may be different, and the subjects of their works may be different, but they aim for artistic release just the same as all of the other artists who have gone before them.

Many more traditional artists of the past and present have strived or are striving to convey messages to their publics (all of those people who will view their works immediately or even millennia into the future) which are perhaps unacceptable, grotesque, sacrilegious, or perverted at the time of their actual expression. Our young graffiti artists are no different. Some of their expressions are highly idiosyncratic and cryptic, but the strength of the motivation for their expression is enormous. For many young graffiti artists, their message is so powerful and compelling that they are willing to take great physical risks to their lives and limbs in the execution of their works. Some of the artists are actually willing to run legal risks and imprisonment risks in order to satisfy the profound urges of their insightful souls.

Unlike most of their contemporary fellow artists working in other media, our young graffiti artists eschew the attractions of monetary recompense for their works. They do not pervert their calling by sullying their souls with the evil cash nexus. They maintain purity of purpose. As well, they eschew personal fame and acclamation by doing their artistic efforts mostly during the dark, unwitnessed hours and by ethically restraining themselves from gracing their works with their signatures which might potentially make some art dealer very rich at some future time.

Our graffiti artists are often despised and cursed by most, but are actually our unsung heroes who selflessly make their colourful contributions to enrich our culture at no monetary charge to us as viewers. Let us all take time in our busy, conservative lives, to pay tribute and thanks to our graffiti artists, our cultural warriors.

Battler

No Strings Attached

Every time I apply for a job, be it part-time or full-time, and by a miracle of fate, I actually get to the interview stage (which, once upon a time was the only stage) I am told that I am not suitable for the job because I don’t have the required IT skills, or because I don’t have a post-graduate degree in office management or a diploma in virtual reality relationships.

I am not completely stupid. I know that these lame brained rejection excuses are only rationalisations by secretly directed human relations specialists (who once would have been called staff clerks.) I know, and fully appreciate that they are certainly not rejecting me because of my grey hair, or my wrinkled skin, or because of my unfortunate diminution of lean muscle mass, or even because of my odd but well concealed lapses of memory for names of prime ministers or the interviewer’s company. I know the real reason!

After many pre-sleep hours of detailed consideration, I finally stumbled onto the real reason for my unreasonable rejections. The real reason is that I had been wearing the laces of my brand-name joggers carefully tied into bows with meticulous equality of the lengths of the loops and end strands. I had purchased these brand-name joggers specifically to add a touch of carefree youthfulness to my very best safari suit that I reserved for job interview situations. That was a big mistake.

In order to rectify my mistake, I have been practising walking around, and bounding up stairs, with my laces completely undone and flinging in great arcs around my joggers and ankles. I have cracked the code of conspicuous youthfulness.

Unfortunately, this has exposed yet another covert plot of discrimination against those of senior calendar years: the infantalisation of those of us who are unfortunate enough to have had purely accidental trips over our shoe laces and have ended up in public hospital orthopaedic wards!

Battler

Stifficate Watfour

Yesterday afternoon, I was meant to have a wonderful day out on the foreshores of Sydney Harbour.

After an enjoyable perambulation to Bennelong Point, where I pondered on the fantastic abilities of Bennelong himself, that remarkable indigenous leader of early colonial times, I felt the call of nature. So, I did what I was wont to do, and headed for the facility at Circular Quay that is run as a service to the public and at public expense.

Upon arrival at that august alimentary adjustment post, I headed for the entrance passage like a milk cart horse heading for its chaff bin. Alas, I had not put one foot into that passageway when an official-looking man in a sloppy-looking uniform, drew me to a quick halt whilst he sat on a tall stool behind his newly installed lectern. “Certificate!” he demanded. “Certificate?” queried I. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Trouser Fly Technology to go in there,” says he. “But I don’t have a Certificate 1 in anything,” I explain, “and all I want to do is a good old-fashioned bowel movement.”

“Sorry, sir,” he said in a voice of authority and loud enough for even a concentrating busker to note in detail, “but no appropriate Certificate 1, 2, 3 or 4, and you can’t enter. You only need a Certificate 1 at this stage, but from next 22 September, you will need a Certificate 4 in Genital and Perineal Hygiene as a condition of entry.”

“Look,” I pleaded, “I now rather urgently need a bog. On the way down here, I had set my mind on it and now there is no turning back. I know what to do once I get into one of those cubicles. My mother taught me at a very early age by grasping me from behind around both thighs and holding me out over an enamel pot whilst extolling me to do big jobbies.”

“Sorry, sir, standards are standards,” he pontificated.

“Well,” says I, “I’ll take my business elsewhere.” Little did he know, but I had another part-time private cubicle in a very clean building in Martin Place. So, I strode off to the bus stop.

“You beaut!” I said to myself as a 399 bus pulled up immediately. I dunked my pensioner ticket in the impersonal ticket inspection machine, but “Certificate, please sir,” came from the driver. “What, what, what,” I stammered. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Bus Step Safety before I can let you travel,” politely came from the same driver.

Two hours of tap dancing on the spot later, I did an uncertificated number two at home.

What fool or tribe of fools dreamed up all of these certificates that are now mandatory for performing functions that we old fashioned simpletons and our forebears have always been able to carry out without problems, risks, mishaps or law suits?

Methinks it is time for those of us with a trace of sensibility left in our souls to follow Dylan Thomas’ imperative to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Crankyfella

A Tinfull of Daylight

When I was a schoolboy battler, I had a beaut money box that was shaped and looked like the Commonwealth Bank building in Martin Place, Sydney. Incidentally, that was when we, the people, owned the Commonwealth Bank, and two-way traffic used to go up and down Martin Place.

Every Tuesday, at primary school, we used to be able to operate our bank accounts. We could open accounts, make deposits and make withdrawals, with the headmaster acting as the teller. Upon opening an account, we received a free one of these money boxes, and if we filled it, we could take it to school or the bank, deposit its contents, and receive a free replacement money box. I used the money box to house any spare pennies, ha’pennies and threepences that I might have. When family finances would allow, I was able to deposit the odd sixpence at school and then swell with pride when I saw the entry in my fabric-paper covered passbook. At one stage, my balance actually reached ₤2-2s-6d (two pounds, two shillings and sixpence.) This gave me a reserve against which I could draw, on special occasions, to buy little novelty gifts for my family members.

Now, even in primary school, I did not consider it rocket science (even though I had never heard the term, “rocket science”) that savings were something that you put aside in a safe place at times when you had a surplus (even if a very modest surplus) so that they could be drawn on at later times of scarcity or special need.

In adult years, I have been the unwilling, kicking and screaming victim of the greatest hoax ever perpetrated against a population, and especially against the sub-population to which I, personally, belong. That sub-population is the 25% of us who are “night people.” We prefer to go to bed a bit later and sleep in, in the morning. The other 75%, of course, are “early risers.” I do not represent them in this argument. However, the logic of what I have to say applies to all. The great hoax, to which I refer, is none other than the Great Daylight Savings Hoax.

The half-wits who dreamed up this hoax, forgot to dream up a mystical daylight hours money box. Even if they had thought of this in passing, they still did not dream up a way of truly putting daylight time into this money box and a way of making withdrawals of some or all of these daylight hours in times of scarcity or urgent need of daylight.

What did the half-wits do; they compelled people who did not have a morning surplus, to displace some of their daylight onto the afternoon which already had a surplus. This way, they deprived us “night people” of a decent night’s sleep, because the business day had already begun by the time we were trying to wipe the sleep sand out of the corners of our eyes. “But, but, but, you’ll have time to have a round of golf before tea,” they argued. Well, I don’t play golf; I can’t afford it, and in any case, even if I could afford it, it would still be a gross waste of time. So, why would any reasonable person with at least three neurons to rub together, want to save daylight from one period just to completely waste it and squander it thoughtlessly in another period. That is not the way that savings work!

If that were not bad enough, the half-wits committed another crime against humanity in the process. Well, by humanity, I mean the sub-population of us (no, this is a different sub-population, but sometimes the two overlap) who are what the politically correct buffoons like to label “pigmentally challenged.” By that, I mean that even if we spent 106 hours per day in the “saved up” daylight and sunshine, we would never get a tan. We don’t want or need extra daylight hours, no matter where they are stolen from. What we need is less daylight, so that we can walk the streets like everyone else and have the security of not getting sunburnt.

Daylight savings half-wits can rot in hell, where there is permanent, total, non-interruptable daylight.

Battler