Who woke me up?

I am afraid that I have been awoken from my hibernation by several events occurring contemporaneously. I may have continued to sleep through these events, but today happens to be INVASION DAY or AUSTRALIA DAY, depending upon your perspective.

Perhaps the most joyful of these events is the current push towards changing our Australian national anthem from Advance Australia Fair, which is a song with a background and overtones of “white Australia policy,” to one that to many of us more closely represents the history of Australia and our feeling of who we are. I refer, of course, to a song that, unlike Advance Australia Fair, of which most people can begrudgingly mumble half to three quarters of a stanza, can be sung by almost all Australians with great feeling in its entirety. The lyrics were composed by one of our loved and favourite heroes, Andrew Barton "Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941.) It is none other than Waltzing Matilda.

Australians have already expressed their support for Waltzing Matilda in a referendum.

An excellent coverage of the merits of Waltzing Matilda is given by Roger Clarke at

http://www.rogerclarke.com/WM/Anthem.html .

The second of these converging events is the suggestion by the television journalist, Ray Martin, that the Union Jack that presently enjoys a nice corner of the “real estate” of the Australian flag, should be replaced by the flag of our indigenous nations. Not only would the Australian flag then be aesthetically pleasing, but it would have great symbolic significance for the recognition of those peoples who were invaded over two centuries ago. The southern cross would still be there, but with enhanced meaning.

For discussion of this flag modification suggestion, see

http://www.news.com.au/national/change-the-flag-ray-martin/story-e6frfkvr-1225823087191 .

The third of the converging events, is that there is now a growing opinion that we should again consider the options relating to Australia becoming a republic. Of the three events, this one is the only one that poses difficult bureaucratic and legal hurdles to be overcome to facilitate its accomplishment.

We have already voted negatively on this topic at a referendum. However, our vote was not really a vote against the principle of becoming a republic. Rather, it is widely considered to have been a vote against the type of republic that was an immutable element of the referendum question. Many commentators have summed this up as “Australians want a republic, but they don’t want a USA-style republic.”

In order to resolve this question in the future, a fundamental question will need to be put by referendum. That question will be the simple question of “Do you agree that Australia should become a republic?” If that question is resolved in the affirmative, then a series of further questions will need to be put in one or more referenda to systematically define the type of republic that Australians want. All of this is eminently feasible, but will not, and cannot happen overnight.

If Australia should vote for republican status, then numerous bureaucratic and legal hurdles of no mean dimension, would need to be overcome. Australia is a federation of six sovereign states. At the present, these six states are all monarchical states, with the monarch of England at their heads. If no parallel action is taken with respect to the wishes of the citizens of each of these monarchical states, then a position could arise whereby Australia becomes a republic which is a federation of six monarchical states, or a republican federation of six states, some of which are themselves republican and some of which are monarchical.

It should be remembered that the Commonwealth of Australia exists by the grace of subscription of the six states. It is not the other way round. As it is, the Commonwealth may dissolve, but the states will remain.

In order to achieve the status of republic, there will need to be unanimity of intention and resolve from the Commonwealth and all of its constituent States. Australia can achieve this, but it will be neither rapid nor simple.

Battler

Ooh! It’s Bright Out Here!

Well, here it is on the first day of spring,2009, in the southern hemisphere.

Like all good polar bears, we have been conspicuous by our absence for the whole winter.

Affairs in Australia still go on with their uninterrupted stupidity, insensitivities and disregard for members of the public.

Now, we must test whether you, the readers of this cranky site, would like to go on being subjected to dogmatic ramblings and barrages of criticism by our trusty team of harping, hard-done-by authors.

What we would like you to do, is to post a short comment, using the “comment” facility below this article. In that comment, which may be as short as a word or two, or as long as one of our usual rants, signifying whether you would like this Blog to continue, or whether you would like it shut down, never to bother sensitive, caring individuals again.

It is up to you, dear readers! Let’s have it with both barrels.

Crankyfella

Should Priests Talk Religion?

Let us be frank with each other, as I do not want to make a Blog issue out of what I have to say.

We have all come to expect nothing but the most profound wisdom from our politicians. Their speeches in the parliamentary chambers, of which, there are more than enough in Australia, are indicative of members who are erudite and thoughtful. However, yesterday, we were treated to an enlightened discussion, the dazzling glow of which would send a blind person into writhings.

The subject under discussion in the Australian House of Representatives was the setting of carbon dioxide emission targets and the cancellation of an enquiry into alternative policy directions related to such emissions.

During the discussion, the learned government accused the dim-witted opposition of turning global climate change into a political issue. What a dreadful thing!

What on earth does the government think is an appropriate issue to be discussed in parliament? They are our elected representatives. They are what we call, in not too technical a turn, politicians. They represent us, the polity. We put them there to discuss issues that affect us all and which are proper issues to be discussed by politicians. Politicians are paid by us to represent us in a political arena, and there to discuss political issues and only political issues in a political manner.

Imagine a householder having called in a plumber to fix a broken water pipe. The plumber explains that some digging will be necessary, and that pipes may have to be replaced. Imagine the cerebral spinning in the plumber’s head if the householder were to say,”I’m sorry, but you just seem to be turning this into a plumbing issue.”

Imagine a patient going to a doctor, and having described a whole host of signs and symptoms. The doctor then discusses the possible diagnoses, implications and treatments. Imagine then, the poor doctor’s haste in contemplating seeking an appointment with one of his colleagues specialising in the field of psychiatry, when the patient admonishes with, “What are you on about? You are trying your hardest to medicalise my problem.”

It may be a crazy, mixed-up world, but it is still a world in which plumbers give plumbing opinions, doctors give medical opinions, and politicians should give political opinions.

Get Those Kids Off the Street

We are very fortunate in Australia to be governed by more politicians per voter than any other country on earth.

We are doubly fortunate in that all of our politicians are very intelligent and well educated. They are capable of insights and problem solving that most of us lower forms of old-fashioned emergers from the slimy pond of life could never even aspire to. Many of their decisions seem to be nothing short of sheer genius.

The latest contagious political thinking in the Land of Oz, is that the school leaving age should be elevated from fifteen years to seventeen years. The leaving age was, in New South Wales, set at fifteen years by the Public Education Act of 1880. The fifteen year mark seems to have worked reasonably well ever since. Of course, those young people who had the necessary ability, and who also had parents with the monetary wherewithal, could remain at school for another two or thee years in preparation for higher studies. Many students were quite content to leave school at fifteen years of age or shortly thereafter, to pursue careers in fields that ranged from requiring no further formal training right through to requiring higher technical or university training. Most of this further education was gained whilst the young people held down full-time jobs.

There were inequities in the old system. Some of the very brightest of students were not able to continue at school, let alone attend university or the like, because they were urgently required to assist in the support of their families, or because there simply were not sufficient family funds to support them through further studies without their earning of supplemental income. At the other end of the spectrum were the students from wealthy families, who either did not want to pursue further studies or who really did not have the requisite intellectual capacity to handle or benefit from further studies, but were kept at the educational grindstone for motives of family pride or family notions of social superiority.

The goals of the Public Education Act have worked quite well, overall. The school attendance years between the sixth and fifteenth birthdays represented a good compromise. They kept most children out of full-time labour and channeled them through the most difficult portions of pubescence.

The overwhelming majority of them entered the full-time workforce as literate, numerate and socially engaged individuals who were keen to become productive members of society.

When push comes to shove, there is really no need to have Year 10 to Year 12 classes at our secondary schools. Let our young people leave these super-parental institutions at approximately fifteen years of age, having completed a good basic educational curriculum, and receiving a testamur acknowledging their accomplishment. Put them out of the super-parental door, but make other free educational doors open to them. Let those who seek to pursue additional academic nourishment attend non-parental senior colleges for Year 10, Year 11 and Year 12, or, if they prefer, let them attend technical training institutions. As well, offer free university places to all Year 12 leavers, all technical training graduates, and all mature-age people. Allow people a considerable freedom to choose the path of productivity that most appeals to them. In this way, we can come to respect all contributors to our society regardless of the path that they have chosen. That way, we will have some hope of truly becoming the “clever nation” that our politicians have been urging.

Unfortunately, the current push by our politicians to introduce compulsory school attendance until the age of seventeen years, is not motivated by any carefully considered strategy to advance our “clever nationhood,” nor is the actual capacity of most of our politicians insightful or intelligent. Rather, their capacity is that which we have sadly come to expect of politicians; it is subterfuge, obfuscation and expediency.

The raising of the school leaving age to seventeen years is not designed to increase the cleverness of this country, and, indeed, it will not increase the cleverness of this country. What it is designed to do, and what it will no doubt achieve, is the protection of official unemployment statistics by the stroke-of-a-pen discounting of many of our sixteen and seventeen year old people.

Battler

My Left Foot; My Right Foot

Years ago, in another life, before tattoos appeared on every square inch of male and female flesh, I saw a well-tattooed man with black lettering on his feet. The lettering on the left foot was very appropriate. It was “MY LEFT FOOT.” The lettering on his right foot was different, but just as appropriate. It was “MY RIGHT FOOT.”

I pondered on this at the time, thinking that if the man were a genuine sufferer of word blindness (in which the sufferer cannot tell the left side from the right side) and if he were, or held the high ambition to be, a member of the armed forces and wanted to be able to step off on the left foot in unison with his comrades-at-arms, then it was a sad waste of time because when he would march, he would be wearing hefty boots and would not be able to see his clever bit of tattoo artistry.

Many years have too quickly slipped by since I witnessed that particular demonstration of futility. Despite this, the underlying thinking must have really caught on. Today happens to be Australia Day, which is a calendar label that doesn’t exactly endear itself to many of us that dwell on this smallest of continents or largest of islands (depending on whether we subscribe to the half full view of life, or the half empty view.) Anyhow, this day is rather deservedly despised by many of our indigenous citizens who feel that it excludes them, and that, like myself, feel that it would be more appropriately labelled “Invasion Day.”

This particular day of the year seems to act like a giant poultice applied to the Australian landscape. It seems to draw out of the boil of the earth, an enormous amount of people who probably don’t know their left feet from their right feet. This rather harsh judgement that I make is evidenced by the fact that man, woman and child have to make equally futile labellings. They label their bodies with Australian flags (white Australian flags, that is), they apply stick-on Australian flag tattoos to their arms, faces and bodies, they fly Australian flags from their mitts, from their cars and from their houses. They wear Australian flag hats, caps and even shoes. Some even picnic on Australian flag tablecloths spread on the park lawns.

Perhaps there is a variant of the word blindness ailment. Perhaps it is geographic blindness; the inability to tell whether you are at home or abroad.

Really, I think that I preferred the man who labelled his feet, to these modern-day exhibitionists who have to adorn their world with reminders of where they are at the moment. At least the foot man did not insult people by his labelling, and did not make many of his fellows feel excluded.

Unfortunately, the flag waving, wearing, hoisting mob may well be symptomatic of something far more sinister. Their actions could well be seen as outright declarations of jingoism, nationalism and ethnic arrogance. Many of us are old enough to remember where such thinking can lead a populace, and what it can incite them to do to others who do not share their world view. However, this article is not about Nazi uprisings, it is about marching in unison.

 

Battler

Polly Put the Kettle On

On 11 April 2008, our Australian Minister for Broadband and Everything Else Magical, Senator Stevie Conrod, made a big announcement that requested proposals for the roll-out and operation of a new, open access, high-speed, fibre-based broadband network. 

Since that announcement was made, I have had close to 3,000 cups of tea, and have tried many, many times to say “a new, open access, high-speed, fibre-based broadband network” ten times rapidly in succession. Now it has been suggested on numerous occasions, that I have such a marvellous gift of convoluted speech and obfuscation, that I should seek a career in the noble realm of politics. (Well, one cranky school teacher actually advised that on two different occasions.) However, I have not been able to get my tongue around that. Worse still, though, I have not been able to get my brain around it. 

There is an old saying that a week is a long time in politics. If that is so, then nine months is an enormous amount of time. In fact, it is long enough to incubate even a potential politician. Despite that passage of a seeming eternity, the good minister has not attempted to use any of the marvellous electronic media gadgetry to convey to us members of the public, just what it is that he had in mind when he made his call for proposals. 

Generally speaking, if a person calls for proposals, that person has, at the very least, some sort of model floating around in that grey matter that populates the cranium, which represents just what it is that is required, how it will work, and who will work it. Since, in all of that time, our good minister has not made it in any way clear just what it is that he is after, and what it will be all about, we must get just one tiny bit suspicious that he, himself, doesn’t actually know. If that is the case, then how are the proposal drafters supposed to know? Perhaps, the potential proposal producers are highly psychically gifted. Even an inveterate skeptic would be alarmed if the whole matter involved the blind leading the blind. 

The whole ambition is a mystery. One can take a guess at what is meant to be conveyed by any of the beautiful adjectives in the call-to-arms, but guesses they will remain until such time as the good minister gets a sudden burst of insight and a burning desire to clearly verbalise such insight. Just what does he mean when he says “open access?” Does he mean that when this thing, this marvellous piece of infrastructure, is actually built, it will be open to every wild Internet service provider with a six-gun in his hand, to jump on and run his service on the new thing, and charge us little members of the public fees, and thus make profit, at our expense, on the use of our own infrastructure? Would it be a certifiable psychiatric condition to think that perhaps the good minister means that every Aussie mum, dad, school kid,  business woman, adults of all shades and sizes, and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all will be able to use the thing for a nominal fee, or, dare I say it, for free? 

Meanwhile, we ignorant members of the great unwashed public continue to enter into one and two-year contracts with Internet service providers for access to services that are certainly not as well adjectivally endowed as the scheme that the minister announced. 

How many cups of tea will we have before the minister or the tea leaves gives us some hint of the future?

 

Crankyfella

Will Australia Have a Weak End?

Can you remember the song that went, “Everybody loves Saturday night”? 

Well then, can you remember when those words were meaningful and appropriate? 

I can! 

Sometimes, old-fashioned, even seemingly over-restrictive ways of doing things, turn out to have not been too bad, after all. 

Saturday night used to be a time when, irrespective of your age group, you could often mix socially with your friends and enjoy yourself. Most people did this, of course, without needing to resort to mind or mood altering drugs except nicotine and alcohol. Most single young folk did this without the crutch of either of those substances. 

People who worked in essential services, such as police, prisons, ambulance, hospitals and public transport, were required to work on weekends. However, with respectful rostering techniques, they were still able to have the equivalent of half of their weekends off. That was, and still is, a reasonable situation. The people who enter those fields, do so in full appreciation of the essential nature of their jobs. The people in these jobs used to be the exception. 

Most of the other workers enjoyed a full weekend off every weekend. They would knock off on Friday afternoon or evening, and only return to work on the following Monday. Even most of those who worked in retail shops, enjoyed a weekend extending from Saturday lunchtime to Monday morning. Some people who worked in food services were more akin to essential services workers. 

When a public holiday abutted a weekend, most workers enjoyed (and greatly appreciated) the extra day that made what was referred to as the “long weekend.” 

The important thing is, that the weekend was a time when families and friends could look forward to seeing each other and enjoying each other for a reasonable amount of time. Week days were for work, and the weekend was for play. 

One of the major differences in those days was the statutory regulation of trading hours. Retail trading and hotel bar services were quite restricted. Nowadays, of course, most things are de-regulated in terms of trading hours, or so liberally regulated that they are virtually 24-hour-per-day businesses. It is bad enough that with only a smidgen of knowledge, one can navigate between hotel bars virtually around the clock, but as well, most retail stores have long daily trading hours seven days per week, and some of them even open all the time. 

One major consequence of virtually open-ended trading hours, is that more and more workers are having to work at hours that restrict their normal social intercourse, and even consume their weekend hours to the point where they do not enjoy a true weekend. Worse still, it means that those workers, and their friends, whether or not their friends work other than Monday to Friday hours, are denied the opportunity to socialize and relax together. 

As with numerous other “social advances,” the liberalization and even de-regulation of trading hours has had unintended social consequences. Perhaps it is time that we swallowed our pride, shouted “enough is enough” and went back to the restriction of trading hours. After all, people have only one income to dispose of; they cannot spend without limit. 

If we do not remedy this situation, then the social consequences may be dreadful, and Australia may indeed head for a weak end.

 

Battler

I See the Light

That Old Year, 2008, was a bit of a fizzer, as we used to say of crackers that failed to go off with a bang, but rather, went “Pphhhsssstt.”

This New Year, 2009, is going to be a bobby dazzler. 

Whom are we kidding? 

Once again, the government of this colony that pretends to be a state, New South Wales, has set an inappropriate, ridiculous example to its citizens and to its youth. Last night, at 9 pm, and again at midnight, to usher in the New Year, our brilliant State Government funded fireworks displays to the tune of five million Aussie dollars in Sydney, alone. 

We saw five million Aussie dollars go up in smoke from the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge and other sites around the harbour. It was all the more insulting to have involved the dear old bridge, as it represents magnificent infrastructure built by the sweat and ingenuity of Aussie working men. It represents the era when seemingly impossible works were designed and doggedly brought to existence. It was a feat that we can never repeat, because we have lost too much will, and far too much expertise. 

Currently, the brightest of our brightest, those enlightened upholders of all things ethical, moral and good, our State parliamentarians, have proclaimed hard times, and have consequently put on indefinite hold, infrastructural works such as a passenger train line to service the people of the north-western region of the Greater Sydney Metropolitan Area. Other important infrastructural works that are in progress, have been slowed because of a shortage of money in the till from which progress payments are required to be paid. 

Our social institutions, such as hospitals, schools and universities are rapidly transmogrifying into shadows of their former operations. We are desperately short of doctors, nurses, and especially dentists, in our health system. We are emaciating former professions such as school teaching and university lecturing, and our police force is becoming a skeletal system comprising the few older, experienced people trying against the odds to lead a vast pack of newcomers who, despite their training, rapidly become disenchanted and abandon the job that they once thought would be socially valued, intellectually and ethically challenging and a reasonably well-paid career. 

Any one of these ailing, failing essential services of the State would have welcomed and put to good use, a cash injection of the five million Aussie dollars blatantly wasted in providing fleeting visual gratification for the very few who were able to attend the harbour fireworks sessions. Surely, the traditional joining of hands and singing Robbie Burns’ “Auld Lang Syne” was a cost-free and far more meaningful way to farewell the old year and usher in the new.

 

Crankyfella

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