Butch buffs' buffet

AS it feels morally obliged to do, week after week, the Silly has once again published some of Butch Carlton's deeper thoughts. This may be a case of "do unto others", as there can be no scribbly editorial units in Fairfax World Headquarters who have not wondered what they will be doing with themselves when the receivers chase everyone out of the building. Perhaps, if they continue to provide a forum for a failed radio host, karma will kick in and their own coming days of even greater irrelevance and mounting financial stress will be mitigated by the indulgent charity of some as-yet-unknown philanthropist. Well, it's a theory, and just as valid as the notion that Silly readers arise of a weekend morn eager to bathe in the spleen of the otherwise unemployed.

The matter of where they will get their fix when the Silly is shuttered is pressing. But there is hope of relief, as it has long seemed that Butch's columns are written not with the ink of coherence but as a consequence of inscribing random thoughts on little bits of paper and plucking them in no particular order from a hat. If buffs were to collect his columns and slice and dice them, they could assemble fresh doses of Butchalalia every single day of the week.

To demonstrate that there would be no erosion of tone and substance from such a method, The Professor has this very morning taken today's offering and re-arranged the paragraphs in random order. It even works for the headline. See if you can tell the amalgam from the original:

Magnificent When A Guard Drops Her PM

From now on, disabled Australians and their families will find their burdens lighter, their hopes brighter. In this turbulent political year, Gillard somehow discovered in us what Abraham Lincoln so memorably described as "the better angels of our nature".

"Great morning tea with Snake Gully Shire councillors," they say. "Very much looking forward to tonight's dinner and folkloric performance to welcome the visiting Archimandrite of Antioch." Often there is a grainy photo of the happy knees-up.

I speak with authority. The north shore's bosky woods and grassy glades were my childhood playground. I attained high rank as a leader of the Seagull Patrol in the 1st Lindfield Scout Troop, and I was a prefect at Barker College (until an unfortunate Muck-Up Day incident saw me drummed out of that band of brothers). I nearly rolled an MGA 1600 on Eastern Arterial Road, Killara, in 1964. Later, my two elder children grew up in Turramurra. So, although politically I am a class traitor and I've moved thankfully away, I still claim cred …

Imagine my surprise when legions of the Twitterati reported back that, not long ago, Devine herself had upset the punters by accusing a gay tweeter of "rogering gerbils". It's a funny old world, as dear Lady Thatcher used to say.

How churlish. It was that spirit - or lack of it - which led the opposition Whip Warren Entsch to deny a pair to a Labor MP wanting to go home to Sydney on Thursday to care for her sick child. Politics, politics, always politics. Entsch was eventually persuaded to back off, but not before he had sniffed that: ''People's obligation in the first instance is to be in this Parliament.''

But, deary me, the place has changed. When I was living there some 20 years ago, a local matron knocked on the front door one evening, blue-rinse awry, fear in her eyes, panic in her voice. Concerned, I invited her in.

''The people who've gathered here today from around the country to witness this debate know what this means,'' she croaked.

It's when she drops her guard that she's magnificent. Humanity, passion and decency shine through. So it was on Wednesday, when she introduced the DisabilityCare bill to Parliament in a tide of emotion, tears welling, voice choking. Between sobs she spoke well and her words deserve to be remembered:

"Mr Carlton, you're in the media - there's something you should know," she quavered. "We must do something. The Chinese have moved into the street!”

Those gathered did not include the opposition, where the green leather benches were shamefully empty. Yes, the Coalition and its leader support national disability insurance; but in an election year it would not do to be too enthusiastic about a Labor reform, apparently.

Julia Gillard is so much better when not trying. Stuck behind a lectern, droning away at some boilerplate speech cranked out by her office gnomes, she is cold and remote, more than a bit prissy. Groping for prime ministerial gravitas, she comes across all head girl on speech day.

A fortnight in, the Twitterverse continues to reveal its mysteries to me. There was something of a spat between myself and the News Ltd columnist Miranda Devine a week ago when I tweeted a joke about her claim that she'd been "embedded" with the riot squad.

That done, we turn to a more fundamental question Australians must confront: where and what is Sydney's north shore? This has been bothering Herald readers, or some of them, on the letters page all week.

Prime ministers are ever conscious of their place in history. Gillard has been viciously assailed by her enemies, not least by those in her own party. Few prime ministers have been so abused, not even Gough and Malcolm back in the days of rage.

The most prolific of all is @Colvinius, who is Mark Colvin, host of ABC radio's PM. He scours the world's media and digests it for his 35,000 followers. The funniest I've encountered is the Melbourne writer and comedian, @benpobjie, who rattles off a fusillade of one-liners.

''DisabilityCare Australia starts in seven weeks, and there will be no turning back.''

Politicians tweet about the good works they perform, keen to tell the world of their dutiful attendance at worthy civic functions and obscure ethnic frolics. @Malcolm_Turnbull and @KRuddMP are assiduous at this, as you would expect.

The north shore begins at Boundary Street, Roseville. It runs up the Pacific Highway and the railway line to Wahroonga and not a metre more. The posher side stops two kilometres east of the line, but most definitely does not include St Ives. People west of the line get in, but only if they're within a kilometre of their local station. And that's that.

It was obvious, tacky and silly, I admit. I took it down and apologised. Shocked, The Australian put me on page three last Saturday, and her Melbourne colleague Andrew Bolt, the Rinehart Cowboy, went nuts as well.

But the future will acknowledge her commitment of the nation to care for its disabled is a towering Labor landmark on the road to social justice, in every way as significant as the basic wage, the aged pension, the 40-hour week, Medicare and Mabo. And take a bow, Bill Shorten, for bolting the policy together.

But the absolute trump is @ShockJockCoach. I haven't a clue who that might be but, as the name suggests, each morning he or she tweets a running commentary on the wretched excesses of Alan Jones and Ray Hadley. It's not just hilarious ; it's a great national service.

Here is the correct answer, which I never tire of giving: if you have to ask, you've got no business being there. They don't want you in Warrawee and Turramurra, Pymble and Roseville. You can christen your children Hamish and Sophie and book them into Knox and Abbotsleigh; you can acquire the mandatory golden retriever, and the Volvo XC90, and the Federation bungalow with the tennis court, but still they'll see through you. Honestly, you'd be happier in Frenchs Forest.

There you go, Butch buffs. It's as easy as a former Slater & Gordon union lawyer.

 


 

Phew, that's a relief!

Who says media organisations devote themselves only to bad news?

As the above revelation was first published last October, somehow going unnoticed at the time, much thanks is owed to Fairfax's Ladies Pages for thoughtfully combing its archives and installing a retro-link in today's homepage. That's the thing about quality journalism: it endures.

And thanks also to Providence for the happy coincidence of the writer's family name. If Ms Clementine's surname had been, say, Apple instead Ford, an essay setting out to demolish the theory that vaginas are iPods would have made no sense whatsoever.

A poultry sum, taxpayers, for talent such as this

BEYOND Melbourne, where the silly things footballers do tend to be remembered for longer than their follies warrant, few will recall The Adventures of Little Boris, a short film that caused quite a stir in 2009.  Without wanting to be a spoiler for those keen to view the YouTube video, the plot follows the amorous progress of a rubber chicken as it woos, seduces and drives a van over a plump beauty from the freezer cabinet. While poorly shot, the film does have some redeeming social value, as Boris sets a fine example by wearing a condom throughout his every carnal encounter, albeit on his head.

Alas for North Melbourne’s pocket-camera auteurs, safe-sex advocacy did not save them from the wrath of those who take offence for a living. While Andrew Demetriou and the AFL’s other old women clucked and scolded and went to great pains to let everyone know they recognised the video as a metaphor for sporting society’s institutionalised oppression of women, the entire team was fined a five-figure sum and the cash donated to some noisy feminists. Hard though it is to credit, Age reporterette Samantha Lane won a major journalism award for her scoop, which sheds more light on major journalism awards than does the video on the sex lives of chooks, rubber or otherwise.

Four years on and one can only feel sorry for the poor Kangaroos and their emptied wallets. If only they had thought to persuade their critics that footballers are transgressive artists they might have split a very generous cheque from the Australia Council, which yesterday welcomed its new CEO, Tony Grybowski. Appointed by Minister Tony Burke, Grybowski would almost certainly have lauded Little Boris as a creation worthy of generous public support, for such is the conclusion to be drawn from the $38,000 awarded one year after the Little Boris outrage to Linda Dement, who will use it for the

“creative development of an audio-visual performance responding to live data capture from an all-girl roller derby game.”

No doubt it will make compelling viewing.

A professional arts administrator – did Raphael or Turner have one of those? – Grybowski was on the panel that approved Dement’s hand-out, so one assumes he thoroughly appreciates her oeuvre, which she is very keen to flash. Respectable readers should abandon this post right here, as the images below make Little Boris seem rather tame by comparison.

(A considerable amount of empty blog space now follows. This will allow the sensitive to depart before being confronted by the who and what their taxes are supporting.)

Porking not your bag? Well, what about an act of loving intimacy with a skinned rabbit and companion Coke bottle?

While citizens unversed in the modern aesthetic may not recognise high art when they see it, all will understand the meaning of this:

$75.3 million

That is extra funding awarded to the Australian Council in Wayne Swan’s latest act of ledger-demain.

Do you think Grybowski and pals can spend all that cash before September 14? If they are in the mood to try, the North Melbourne Football Club might overcome its former regrets and set to work on Boris The Sequel: Duck, Duck, Goose.

For those who cannot get enough of Ms Dement, her folio is here. Fun with Porky and Bugs is part of the pictorial sequence to be inspected by visiting her site and clicking on the image reproduced below.

Something went wrong

THEN

NOW

The second is a rather long video, but the bearded porker explaining why suicide bombers are the bees knees and why jihad must be taken to the West is well worth hearing. It starts at around 1:33:30

These are our new New Australians.

She's earned her crust

Attention, schoolchildren! Here is your guide to throwing sandwiches at our Prime Minister:

Not a pork german sandwich because she might take it as a command to have an affair with the Deutsch ambassador, who is probably a married man and therefore fair game.

Same with jerk pork, as the PM has enough recent follies on her mind without needing to be reminded of that home-wrecking fling with Craig Emerson.

Never a hundreds and thousands sandwich, because that would prompt unpleasant memories of the buttery words that accompanied so much waste for so little value. Also, it would bring to mind the sale price of a certain property in Kerr Street and the open questions concerning power-of-attorney forms, not to mention where all that stolen money came from.

Nothing on a baguette either, because the “ette” suffix is a sexist differentiation and might inspire the national embarrassment of another prime ministerial diatribe, this time devoted to the alleged misogyny of bakers.

Chicken? Nah… a reminder of that wonderful new ad.

Fish? Well flounder would certainly be appropriate, but not salmon, which develop very big noses, reveal themselves to be thoroughly red (with a bit of green about the gills) and die very soon thereafter, flapping impotently all the while. Also, salmon breed.

Doesn’t leave much, does it, except for a big, unfilled loaf? At least that will inspire happy thoughts of what Tim has not been up to over recent years

Ruby spurns the sausage

Ruby Hamad, one of the staples in Fairfax's Ladies Pages, is also a regular at The Drum, which should come as no surprise. When Young Chip has finished the ironing, goodbye kisses have been exchanged and the man of the house departs for work -- arriving late, one assumes, as The Drum now features fewer daily testaments to the dubious benefits of degrees in feminist studies, enviro-alarmism and abnormal psychology than before -- he must settle into his desk with Dearest's doorstep admonition still ringing in his ears. ".....and don't you forget to get the Geritol on the way home, after you've given the sisterhood a good airing...."

What is a young squire to do but as his queen has bid? Hence obnoxious inanities like this one, which may keep Young Chip in the good books at home, but must surely test even Mark Scott's indulgent standards. On second thought, given that Scott has no standards for what constitutes good use of public monies, probably not:

The growing attachment to the Anzac Legend is another manifestation of this fear of changing demography. The celebration of Anzac Day has moved well beyond the solemn remembrance of the wasted lives of exploited soldiers and into an idolisation of this mythical Australia where things were simpler, better, and a whole lot whiter.

As such, the diggers of old have become unwitting mouthpieces from beyond the grave, who killed and died for whatever people imagine the "real" Australia is. Recall that infamous tweet from the Australian Christian Lobby's Jim Wallace two years ago, "Just hope that as we remember Servicemen and women today we remember the Australia they fought for - wasn't gay marriage and Islamic!"

In as much as humans resist change, we are often powerless against it. Australia's racial demography will be what it is as we become more diverse than ever. The Jim Wallaces and racist bus passengers can either come along for the ride or be left behind in that mythical Australia they romanticise, but that never really was.

Worth noting is that this offensive nonsense is published under the headline, "Thriving diversity should be embraced, not feared". In Hamad's re-making of Australia, those of us happy our ancestors, old or more recent, came here for better lives get short shrift in favour of, well, militant vegan feminists keen to rabbit on about the Sexual Politics of Meat.Hamad writes:

Eating animals acts as mirror and representation of patriarchal values. …If meat is a symbol of male dominance then the presence of meat proclaims the disempowering of women.

Got that? If not, more of Hamad's thinking is available for contemplation. Her instant identification with a headless chook is rather revealing.

A cold spoon perhaps?

We have many reasons to be grateful for the mining boom, but the attention it has brought to what may be the nation's most amusing place name is surely high on the list.

Australians all, let us celebrate Koolyanobbing, where it does indeed appear to be very hot.