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About this blog:

This is the place for the real Mark Latham; the Mark Latham who toiled his clacker off in grinding poverty to become dux of his school; the Mark Latham who built his own ladder of opportunity, then scaled it himself with buggerall help from anybody else (er, except full-on legend and mentor Gough Whitlam - Dad, I love ya!); the Mark Latham who is mad as hell, and isn't gonna take it anymore - particularly from the Yanks and their pop-cultural, celluloid imperialism!

So, to all my readers from all over the joint: If you want to know the watered-down, official, media-friendly "Latham Lite" then watch me on the box, read about me in the press, go to the ALP website, etc. But if you want to know what I'm really thinking and feeling then keep coming back here, alright?

And please give a few bob if you can spare it. (It's for the ducks, not me.)

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Thank fuck for that!
01.18.05 (4:44 pm)   [edit]
Mate, what a load off. I finally did what I knew was right.

Like, I'd more or less decided to quit a few days back. (See below.) That all changed when Pancreas did a shit-hot job of convincing me he could hack it.

But then Head lobbed into the picture again and had a calm, quiet word in my ear. (Pretty easy, considering his possie.) After that I realised that Pancreas was just big-noting after all. So I reconsidered again. (And don't call it a flip-flop or I'll deck you, alright!)

Still, I was dithering wasn't I? Finally it was Heart who got me to bite the bullet. Bloody Heart, of all people!

Like, up to then he'd been blubbering like a bastard over the whole tsunami thing. But he stopped that for a while, and went all quiet. Then he spoke his piece.

Seems he'd had a bit of an epiphany, because I've never heard the cunt being so articulate. He skipped a beat to get my attention and said these words; words that I will never forget:

"Mark, mate, don't be so hard on yourself. You gave it your best shot. And that's all bloody anyone can do, let's face it. After that it's all in the hands of God. (And I repeat: that's God, not Gough, okay!)

"If I've learned anything over this past year - particularly with this bastard tsunami disaster, and, closer to home, all these dramas with Pancreas - it's that life is fucking fragile, mate.

"Fucking fragile as.

"So, you've just go to be true to what's really important. And what's that? Well, der! It's your sprogs. It's your other half. It's the rest of the Latham-Lacey clan.

"They love you, mate. And you love them. So don't let the bastards down.

"You know what to do."

And I did. And I did it. So it's done...

Sure, I feel sad. I'll miss the thrill of the fight. But I won't miss the pressure, or those cockheads across the floor, or the roosters in the ranks.

No way. They can go fuck themselves. They're all arselickers, after all.

So, see you round all you top blokes and chicks. And keep your arseholes behind you, eh!

I'm off to get a life.

 
My little Olympian
01.13.05 (2:26 am)   [edit]
Yeah, I know, you're all saying, "What the fuck's going on, Mark? You say one thing on this blog, then go and do something entirely different!"

Well, there's a perfectly rational explanation as usual...

See, only a few hours ago I was working on my speech along the lines of what I'd written below. Pancreas was sleeping soundly, getting the only peace he's had for yonks.

Then just as I'm putting the final touches on the final draft he wakes up. Gets on the blower to Head and says, "What's Mark up to?"

So Head gives him the low-down and what does he do? He goes spacko, doesn't he!

He says, "Mate, don't quit on account on me. You could eat three chip sangers a day for a year and I'd still be going. (Sure, I'd be feeling pretty shithouse, but I could still deliver the goods.)"

Then he cops this bastard pang right in his guts, and he doubles over in pain. But what do you know, he's still battling!

Clutching his tiny midriff he continues: "So Mark, mate. If you think I can't hack it you're wrong. Because I fucken can."

Then another pang hits him - BANG!

"Oh FUCK... I've got to sit down." And he does. "But don't worry, I'll survive. So, just do what... what you think is right, mate. Oh, you CUUUUUNT!"

Mate, I was inspired. Inspired as.

So I took a leaf out of Pancreas' little book. Penned my statement in ten seconds flat. And the rest is history.

Yep, it's back to work after Oz Day.

So if you've got a problem with that, then have the balls to lob at my office.

And. I'll. Deck. You.

(And Pancreas reckons he will too.)

 
My inner conflict... and final decision
01.12.05 (6:10 pm)   [edit]
It's pretty obvious that most comment posters to this blog are just wankerheads out to white ant my confidence big time. But every now and then one of them says something that - although usually way off - still sheds some apposite light on my condition - albeit in a quasi-contiguous kind of way. (Fuck knows how they do it; they're not the sharpest pencils in the box. I suppose it's just that even a busted clock is right twice a day...)

But anyway, re this, the Blue Deceiver wrote below (re my recent ruminations on whether to continue with the gig or not):

"I'd include your Gut, Head and Heart in any discussion if I were you. They seem to be running your existence right now."


Well, funny you should say that, Bluey. Because said organs were present at said discussions, and did make many valuable contributions.

Basically, what happened was this:

I'd yacked with Janine and the sprogs and they more or less said: "Whatever you reckon, Mark. That's what we reckon. What do you reckon?"

Then the quack lobbed to give his opinion. At the time, Pancreas was only semi-conscious due to the bastard inflammation and all the medicine I'd guzzled to cure him. Heart was basically out of the picture, sooking up big time. Not only was he still devastated by the tsunami catastrophe (see below) he was also deeply hurt that everybody in the country reckons he wasn't! (Thanks a shitload, hacks.)

So, while Heart was howling away, the quack was yabbering on about how I should cut out the chip sangers. "If you keep eating such starchy, oily food," he said, "then before long your pancreas will be toast!"

Head, ever the comedian, chimed in with, "Oh no! Don't do that, Mark. Gut will probably try to eat that too."

This pushed Gut (who is no friend of Head at the best of times) over the edge, and he was brimming so much I started belching up a storm.

See, the whole chip sanger thing has been like a running sore between the two for ages. Gut just loves them. They are both his fuel and his "ballast". For Gut, a world without chip sangers would be like a world without love for Cupid.

But Head is no fan, because he reckons they cloud his thinking. He's forever saying, "Gut, can't you eat something a tad less bloody stodgy? And go easy on the salt would you mate? And if you're not going to use low fat oil for the chips, then can you at least use brown bread instead of white, and butter instead of lard? I mean, for fuck's sake!"

But this only makes matters worse. Gut just gets all bloody-gutted and digs in even more.

Anyway, this whole conflict kind of came to a head (and a gut!) just yesterday. Basically Gut challenged Head to a fight and was yelling, "Come on, right now. Outside. I'll deck you, you bastard!"

Needless to say Pancreas was just doubled up in pain. But the feisty little fellow managed to lift his head up from his pillow and plead with them both.

"Come on guys. PLEASE! Stop this. For... my... sake..." Then he just collapsed - out cold.

Finally, Gut and Head took pity on him. They knew that if he carked completely, they'd never get over it - nor would I. (I mean, I am greater than the some of my body parts. But still, I need all the ones I can keep in the hurly burly of politics, eh!)

They decided to make peace - or at least a few compromises. And with the atmosphere a shitload less tumultuous - and a quorum present - a few things were agreed on:

This internal conflict had really taken its toll and needed to be sorted out once and for all - however long it took. Pancreas really needed a good, long rest. Then there was all that external conflict with the roosters in the ranks. This could only ever exacerbate the internal conflict, and would continue for as long as I kept the top job.

So, the final decision?

I will quit as Leader.

This is what I'll announce tomorrow. (Although I'll have to reword my reasons a tad and make them more bloody media-friendly, of course.)

So, just remember you read it here first, eh?

My plans? Well, I'll just hang around in the background for as long as it takes. And I will make another run when all this shit is sorted.

It wasn't time for me this time. But next time it will be, eh!

 
Considering my political future...
01.11.05 (5:44 pm)   [edit]
Yep, that's right. I'm "considering my political future". Mulling it all over with the other half, the sprogs and the quack.

And all these skulking hacks and more than a few rabid roosters in the ranks are on tenterhooks wondering what the fuck I'm going to do.

Mate, they're really asking for it, they are.

So come Friday I might just announce that I'm... considering my political future.

What do you reckon, eh? Would that be a ball-tearing pisser or what!

Jeez I'm a funny cunt.

 
My public statement
01.11.05 (5:14 am)   [edit]
Fair dinkum, I'm really starting to arc up about this controversy about my alleged slackness re the tsunami disaster.

Like, now the hacks are claiming that I said fuck-all on the matter.

But scroll down and you'll see my public statement. (Actually a couple of them, on New Year's Day and a bit later - and both more eloquent and thorough than what Bonsai came up with. All he did was say a few words and write a bloody cheque! He's the slackarse if anyone is.)

But of course, I should have known. A blog entry doesn't qualify as a "public statement" in the tightarsed, Torified world of Canberra. No, you've got to lob outside some joint and wait for the hacks to start busily buzzing around you like blowies around a sheep's arse. Then they poke their mics up your nostrils, you give them a sound-bite, and they all fuck off to file their reports.

The Arselicker loves that. And so do they.

I don't, but. Which is why they're all telling porkies about me.

Cunts.

 
Planning required
01.08.05 (9:30 pm)   [edit]
Fair dinkum, things are looking a little tenuous around here. I think the poor buggers who run the joint are having server trouble or something, becasue my blog keeps bloody disappearing!

I am fond of this home on the web. But just in case things become utterly, irretrievably cuntoxicated, I've set up another home at Blogspot. The URL is: markl1.blogspot.com.

Make a note of the address will you? If you can't lob here, that's where you'll find me.

 
Jennifer Hawkins, the chickgeist, and me...
01.03.05 (7:36 pm)   [edit]
I've always had a finger - if not my whole hand - on the pulse (or zeitgeist) of this bonzer nation. I've long known, for instance, that I was destined to become PM. (Okay, not this time. But one day I will, sure as shit!)

I've also always had like a sixth sense about sheilas. You know, how their minds operate, where their spiritual aspirations lie... what gets their rocks off.

I call this the chickgeist. And I can read it as accurately as Google reads the zeitgeist.

And like, sometimes both these geistological indexes illustrate exactly the same bloody thing!

Don't believe me? Well, read on...

Like, remember the time I met Jennifer Hawkins? My chickgeistometer was telling me in no uncertain terms that she wanted me, big time.

And now, Google concurs with that assessment.

Yep, she wants to be by my side so bloody desperately that she's actually lobbed right next to me in Google's zeitgeist search results for 2004! Have a look, we're both number ten in the Aussie section!

Mate, it's spooky as.

 
Bloody bewildered still
01.02.05 (7:27 pm)   [edit]
Mate, I'm still shaken to my core by this bloody Indian Ocean catastrophe. I'm having nightmares and shit - no shit!

The big problem for me is there's no one to blame. See, if I could arc up about something tangible, then I'd feel better. But this time it's just nature isn't it? What do I do, punch a tree's leaves out? Rugby tackle a wombat? Headbutt a fucking swan?

No way. So all that rage just goes inward. It's REALLY shitting me off.

Of course, the more paranoid among us do know who to blame. Some of Bob Brown-nose's acolytes are already whispering that the Seppos were behind it. You know, saying that there was some kind of conspiracy. But that's crap.

Like, fair enough, when there's a shitload of rain, or a gale like Satan's farts blowing, I often suspect the Yanks. Cunts are always full of piss and wind aren't they? That would be just their style...

But this? No way. Not even ten nukes going off under the seabed could have produced something like this. The Frogs have been blasting the shit out of the Pacific for yonks. Hasn't caused even so much as a pissy little shorebreak, has it?

Anyway, I suppose I should stop worrying and just get on with the gig. I do have more immediate concerns to deal with - for instance the resurgance of Kim Beazley as a threat to my leadership.

But I still can't focus for the life of me! Like, Big Kim could jump up on the Speaker's dais and do a bloody great belly flop right on top of me for all I care, and I'd still be brimming about this tsunami thing.

Fucking obsessed, I am...

 
Portents of doom for your truly?
01.01.05 (6:12 pm)   [edit]
Here we go. I've just discovered that 2005 is the Year of the Rooster.

It's got me worried, fair dinkum. I mean, does this also have some specific significance for me? Will that crowing cocknuckle Stephen Conroy usurp my leadership and completely buggerize the soul of our once great party with his eggheaded analysis and chicken-shit policies?

Mate, I dread to think.

Still, if the Chows have nailed it, and I'm destined to be out of the picture then it's not all bad. At least it means a Conroy-led Labor will win the gig in 2007. And that will be a vast improvement on the years from 1996 up to then, which could well be called the Decade of the Rat.



 
Sombre as
12.31.04 (5:52 pm)   [edit]
G'day again.

Apologies for being a real slackarse and not posting for several days. But to be honest I was utterly stonkered from my bastard year, and of course recovering from all the recent revelry.

Like, we in the Latham-Lacey clan aren't too tightarsed about observing the Chrissie ritual, but we do like to pig out and guzzle the grog big time, that's for sure.

And that we most certainly did! When you've had a whole turkey stuffed with chip-sangers then downed it with a slab of Toohey's, well you need a bit of time to recover don't you?

But I'm also recovering from the still unfolding news of this tsunami catastrophe.

Mate, how fucking cuntoxicated is this? It's really knocked me for six, fair dinkum.

I mean, I thought I had a shit-house time of late. But these poor bastards?

Bloody hell.

Like, lately I've just been wandering around the joint trying to wrap my bonce around the titanic scale of the carnage - with little success, I might add.

I'm finding it hard to arc up about anything. Even imagining the Arselicker doesn't put me in a fighting mood. Recently I saw Lexie Downer on the teev. He was quacking on about the relief effort and how bonzer the response has been from the citizens of Oz. Normally, even a glimpse of that poncy, puffy little mug would make me want to punch out the screen. But this time all I could do was mutter, "Yeah, top effort... And good on you, Lexie."

Some people reckon I'm a force of nature. But right now the force of nature is transforming me. It's made me feel quite bloody sombre, I can assure you.

So to all the poor bastards hit by the quake and tsunamis: I really hope and pray that this year turns around for you big time. I'll certainly be doing my bit to try to make that happen.

And to all the Aussies reading this: Have a bonzer 2005! Dig deep, and just keep on keeping on. You're a truly top bunch of blokes and chicks, fair dinkum.

 
Peckerheads with poison pencils
12.22.04 (5:45 pm)   [edit]
Fair dinkum, I've put up with shitloads of abuse this year. And I find it pretty easy to shrug off most of it. But the stuff that riles me the most is crap from cartoonists. Fuck! They shit me so bad I always use the cartoon pages as dunny paper.

Like, they reckon that invoking parliamentary privilege is a coward's castle. But drawing pictures of people is worse, I reckon.

They are so full of hate these people. And being such an affectionate bastard myself, I find this quite bloody upsetting.

I mean, steal a squizz at this interview with a couple of them.

This one chick called Fiona Katauskas says of yours truly:

And from a cartoonist's point of view, he has the most magnificent head. He's got this tremendous domed forehead and this chin and that sort of pudgy nose, and his whole physical presence is an incredibly enjoyable one to play around with.


Mate, that shits me big time.

Sure, I've got a fairly hefty bonce (literally, that is, not figuratively). But it's for a reason. That "tremendous domed forehead" she finds so bloody hilarious houses one of the most high-powered, souped-up cerebellums in the entire southern hemisphere!

Actually, I always thought it looked pretty damned good. (And I'm sure Rachel Ward and Toni Collette would agree.)

But since Katauskas was so ready to pass judgement on my appearance, I thought I'd see what she looks like. Did a Google image search for her name, didn't I?

And I came up with this:

Babe, you are certainly no oil painting yourself - more of a piss-weak watercolour! And you know what they say about people in glass houses, don't you?

They shouldn't draw pictures of pollies.

Have fun playing with your giant banana, Fiona.

Cow.

 
Andrew Bartlett's lucky strike
12.18.04 (11:30 pm)   [edit]
You know how Andrew Bartlett is on a hunger strike for the poor pricks in Baxter detention centre? Yeah, well when I first heard about it I thought, here we go... The bloke's fallen off the wagon big time, raided the cellars again and is now on a ginormous fucking bender!

But then I saw the cunt on TV. He was sober as. And he looked fantastic. Mate, he could have been one of those "after" photos on that that Extreme Make-Over show.

And I thought, shit, wouldn't it be great if all the porky pollies in Canberra - all presently chowing down on shitloads of fine food at your expense - were required to go on a Bartlettian crash diet? (I'd do my bit by making sure there was no waste - you know, by guzzling all the spare nosh.)

Mate, wouldn't that be tops, eh? Politics would be showbiz for spunky people then.

 
I am a bronzed Aussie
12.16.04 (4:50 pm)   [edit]
Readers of this blog will know that I have endured a hell of a lot this year. Fair dinkum, it's been a veritable shit-storm of bad luck.

I was recently applying my super-charged frontal lobe to the task of finding an apposite metaphor for this utterly cuntoxicated condition. And although my bonce possesses truly awesome computing power, the attempt produced the sad harvest of absolutely fuck-all.

Then I turned on the TV and saw the perfect image: a bronzed Aussie in monster Hawaiian surf!

Yep, the barrels are bigger than ever, hodad. And hell-men from all over the joint are heading to Oahu to do battle with these radical smoking cylinders, dude.

Fair dinkum, these are some seriously humungous bomboras. And moondoggies need truly cowabungian cohones to tame them.

The challenge is not unlike the one facing yours truly in Canberra.

Cop an optic of this pic.

Mate, if 2004 were a wave, then I'd be a dead ringer for that poor prick, sure as shit.

But there'd be one big difference: He's going to eat it, big time. But I'm going to land on my board again at the bottom and keep on surfing!

Just you wait and see...

 
"Scrotum party"
12.13.04 (5:24 pm)   [edit]
Mate, I'm getting really worried about some of the people who lob here, you know.

Like, I just had a perve at my stats, and noticed that some prick arrived via a Google search for "scrotum party".

Mate, what the fuck's going on inside that little bonce of yours?

Also, I'm a tad mystified by Google. Don't you think that the number one result for the search would be here?

These roosters are the ultimate scrotum party. Everything they do is a balls-up!

 
The C-word
12.13.04 (4:57 pm)   [edit]
Here we go. One of Rupert's rotties has decided to beat up a story about my annual festive season card.

Cop an optic of it. It sucks up to the Arselicker big time, freely quoting his disdain for my "politically correct" decision to be coy about Chrissie.

Mate, what's wrong with being considerate of diversity? Like, I welcome Muslims and that, and so I don't want to offend them. (I mean, I've already suffered a kind of metaphorical jihad from within the party from the likes of Stephen Conroy, so I don't want to cop a bloody real one, now do I?)

Mate, the sniggering is just so typical of those Tories. They are just so fucking insensitive.

I can think of another C-word which accurately describes the skulking hack who penned this poison piece.

I think you know what it is.

 
Deja spew!
12.07.04 (5:23 pm)   [edit]
Bloody hell!

Things are going from shithouse, to even shithouser!

Sally Robbins is in the news again.

Oh, fuck.

Now, that may sound irrelevant to most people. But it's a truly bloody ominous type-situation for yours truly, fair dinkum.

Cop an optic of the two posts "My little Olympian" and "A bloody microcosm" and you'll see what I mean.

Get it? My pancreas and Robbins share a spookily synchrodipitous bond.

Like, yonks back, high priests and juju men would perve at gooey goat guts to get a handle on what was going down. They'd read the entrails to know the news. But now, for me, it's the other way around!

If Robbins is being re-traumatised by the media spotlight, well that's like having some Nazi quack do a bit of ad hoc surgery on my guts - sans fucking anaesthetic (excuse the French).

Oh, shit. I can feel my pancreas arcing up already. And my stomach is none too happy about it... Best not to think about it.

If I hurl all over the Speaker of the House any time soon, you'll know why.

 
White ants
12.05.04 (4:37 pm)   [edit]
This gig just gets harder and harder, fair dinkum.

Like, just when I'm most in need of support, bloody Bob McMullan starts slyly sewing seeds of doubt about my capacity to lead doesn't he?

Thankfully, I still have some people on my side. Here's Warren Snowdon putting a good word in for yours truly.

Spot on Wazza, McMullan is a white ant. I couldn't have put it better myself.

And not only does he act like a white ant, the googly-eyed little dipstick looks just like one too!

Add this to the fact that Peter Garrett is a dead ringer for a moray eel and the party is chockas with roosters, it feels like I'm leading a fucking menagerie more than a political party.

Fair dinkum, it's like an ark floating atop an endless flood of bile and bullshit.

Noah mate, I know just how you feel!

(Still, it won't become a disaster of Bliblical proportions. See, I can always get the divine guidance I need to ensure my political survival. Thank Gough for that, eh!)

 
Feathers fly
11.30.04 (6:54 pm)   [edit]
This turkey Piers Clackerman - who has been called a penguin in the past (by Mike Carlton, if I remember correctly) - has outdone himself with this latest squawk:

The federal ALP has now made itself the target for a raft of political birdwatchers. These twitchers have their binoculars scanning for sightings of the lame ducks, dead parrots and, of course, roosters, which make up the ALP aviary.


Piers, mate, even though it's crap, I'll still rate your little effort there as the ne-plus fucking ultra of avian-themed sprays at yours truly thus far. And feel free to invent more. Go crazy, and see if you can top yourself with your next rant. (Even better, why not just top yourself full stop?)

But if you do go spacko with the bird-words again, mate, I'll say one thing: lay off the ducks, alright! Poor little buggers deserve better than to be used as symbols of political ineffectuality.

I mean, fuck! As if they don't have it tough enough already.

 
Rooster eats crow
11.28.04 (12:48 am)   [edit]
Well I'll be!

That leaky little dipstick Stephen Conroy has decided to pre-empt my planned dressing down with a bit of weekend grovelling.

Bummer. I was quite looking forward to that chance to reassert my leadership. (And I'm a tad shat off that he wrongfooted me, to be honest.)

I'll have to be quicker off the mark next time. I tell you, if any of the backbenchers decide to do a Conroy and start white-anting my leadership down the track, then I'm going to forgive the pricks before they get a chance to apologize.

That will really fuck with their heads won't it?

Fair dinkum, they won't know what hit them.

 
Burning too much midnight oil?
11.27.04 (6:23 pm)   [edit]
Everyone's banging on about how I'm a liability for Labor. But what about Peter Garrett?

Bloody wuss expires in the surf at Maroubra, doesn't he!

Ever since I was convinced to recruit this poncy celeb by my advisors (most of whom have pissed off by now, the gutless pricks!) I had major misgivings.

I tell you, I'm going to have a word with him on Monday - just like I plan to do with that white-anting rooster Stephen Conroy.

I'll say, Pete, mate, you've got to learn that in politics, unconsciousness is death.

And if he passes out again I'll deck the cunt.

 
I'm here to stay!
11.25.04 (5:40 pm)   [edit]
Fair dinkum, I'm getting majorly shat off with all these predictions about my imminent political demise.

Like, here, Michael Costello (who I'm sure shares the bastard genes of his knobheaded namesake) attempts a bit of Pythonesque whackiness with a piece describing yours truly as a
dead parrot
.

Memo to Mike: Mate, I'm the funny cunt. I'll do the gags, alright? (Also it's pretty ironic that you're calling me a deceased bird considering your a bloody rooster. And you're parroting the sketch...)

But anyway, the rant is far-out fucking bizarre, fair dinkum.

Take this bit:

And it has emerged from careful analysis of public and private polling that Latham seems to have a politically terminal problem with women, who simply find him scary.


How wrong is that? What about all that gushing from arty babes like Rachel Ward and Toni Collette?

If focus group research shows that sheilas find me "scary" there's a perfectly rational explanation: They're just struggling with their own libidistical desires. The mere mention of my name makes them hot and bothered big time, but they don't dare admit it in public. So they end up getting all trembly and that.

Remember Jennifer Hawkins and her slip up? (See "Skirt", here.) It's like that - but on a pan-national scale.

The rant includes a shitload of other crap which I won't bother responding to.

But to his basic charge that I am a liability I'll say this: If my character had anything to do with our loss, it's only because the public didn't get to know the real me.

Give it time, and Aussies will realise I'm a real fun guy with an infectious personality. I'll grow on them, and get right under their skin eventually.

Just you wait and see...



 
Me sexist? - Mark Two
11.21.04 (5:00 am)   [edit]
Mate, people think that I' ve had an easy run with the press. But that's a crock, fair dinkum.

Like, they're always white-anting me. Accusing me of sexism, and that. Just because I called some hack a "skanky ho" and played a vid called Freaks of Nature at a Paki-nosh knees-up for my in-laws I'm supposed to be some sort of throwback to another era.

Well, steal a squizz at this little article. In particular this bit:

The Prime Minister said in Chile yesterday that if the Opposition Leader wanted to demonstrate "the warmth of his embrace", the first test was the unfair dismissal legislation. "If it's not a warm embrace, he won't win the girl," he said.


Mate, if that's not a phallocentric fucking image I'm the Arselicker's arse, fair dinkum.

So why aren't you arcing up about that then? You scum-sucking, mud-fucking hacks, you.

 
Me sexist?
11.15.04 (4:30 pm)   [edit]
Now that the new Speaker's been chosen, isn't it interesting that this hack would mention that I called Bronwyn Bishop "Scary Spice" a few days ago? (Rupert's rotties: yapping about the past, as usual.)

And there'd be no doubt that Tories would take it as more evidence that I'm a sexist prick. But actually I was being most restrained - almost complimentary - with that appellation.

I really wanted to call her "The Galloping Gorgon", 'cause she's a dead ringer for Medusa, mate, and she eats boiled bloke for brekky!

(Actually, on second thoughts, she's too scary to be a gorgon. Gorgon's have got snakes for hair right? Yeah, well, Bronny's serpents would be packing death to know they'd ended up on a bonce as fugly as hers. They'd all slither away quick smart, sure as shit!)

So, you can imagine what she does for trouser snakes.

Ugh.

Just thinking about her gives me a giant soft-on, fair dinkum.

 
Sheilas and the law
11.14.04 (4:04 pm)   [edit]
Here we go. Miranda Devine-Inspiration arcs up about the fact that Karen Ellis didn't get four years in deep lock for shagging her student.

Mate, this chick needs some serious attitudinal reconstruction. (Devine, that is. Not Ellis.)

Like I was yacking to some of the feminist sheilas in the party about this and they summed up the situation (or "paradigm" as they put it) pretty bloody well:

Like, the whole legal system is dominated by Tory blokes ("the patriarchy") and they all hate sheilas, big time.

Since chicks have been oppressed by these misogynist cunts for yonks, it's time they were cut a bit of slack.

Hence the seemingly leniant sentencing of babes you see so often.

And anyway, sheilas are incapable of doing anything wrong - even when they do. (Unless they are conservative. Because then they are in league with the patriarchy.)

Yep, it's a shit-hot argument as far as I'm concerned.

So, this Ellis chick got a fair sentence. I mean the stress of the trial was punishment enough, wasn't it? You know what women are like. Can't handle pressure.

And let's face it, the whole thing's pretty sad, don't you reckon? I mean, it's a bloody tragedy she's a rock spider, because she's a total hornbag, fair dinkum.

(I tell you, if she ever wants to do her hundred hours of community service - or whatever her punishment is - then she can do it at my office. Then she wouldn't just be getting a "slap on the wrist" but some "slap and tickle" as well! Only problem is, I might have to dress up as a school-boy to catch her eye.)

 
"Gravitas"
11.07.04 (5:08 pm)   [edit]
Mate, these hacks. Fuck but they shit me.

They're still wheeling out the old line that I'm a liability who blew the election for Labor. And that I am in "denial".

Piss off peckerheads! I AM NOT IN DENIAL, OKAY?

If anything they are in denial; denial that Howard nicked the gig off me with his plethora of porkies.

They reckon that I'm unofficially "on notice" and that I'm history unless I prove I have "gravitas".

Mate, "gravitas" is my middle name. Fair dinkum, I've got shitloads of the stuff. So have my fists - which some of them might be introduced to before long...

As will a poncy prick called Sir David Smith. He was the skulking little sook who announced Dad's bastard dismissal all those years ago. Now he's found a bit of time between handkerchief waving lessons to have a white-anting whinge about The Great Man.

Typical Tory - always thinking about the past.

Dad and I never do that.