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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.)
Chicks are forever hurling themselves at me (did you know Rachel Ward has a shrine to me in her bedroom?). But if you're not so lucky with the opposite sex, you might want to have a squizz at the sites below. For every sign-up, an orphaned duck finds a new home.
Here are some other sites you might want to have a perve at:
Lest any Tory bastard say that because I'm a socialist I'm entirely against earning a few extra bob, here's a link to the world's largest online classified ad service.
Below is a Seppo outfit. (But it's not bad, apparently.)
Click here to buy posters!
(You never know. They might even have one of me!)
Are you majorly shat off about something? Chockas with existential angst? Or do you just want to talk to someone you know cares big time? Then send your "Dear Mark" letter to: arselicker-kicker at loveable.com (Donations are not mandatory, but they are appreciated.)
 Web Hosting & Domain Registration |
Remember that duck guy I was telling you about? Yeah, well, he's asked me to put a list of traffic exchanges up on my blog.
The bloke's a bit of a dipstick, but considering all the good work he's done for my beaky brothers, I said yes.
Here they are:
Traffic Swarm
Web Biz Insider
Clicks Matrix
Traffic Project
Clickin' Fingers
Pro Hits Plus
Stock Traffic
Funny Farm Traffic
Hit Safari
Traffic Roundup
Weblog Directory - Directory of blogs from all around the world.
Click here to make money doing online surveys!
| Rinna's been sinning |
| 06.30.04 (7:52 pm) [edit] |
|
Speaking of being inclusive: You might want to include Rinna's blog if you haven't already. She's one of my millions of adoring sheila fans - from way up there in the Northern Territory. From the Top End, she is. And as you'll see on her blog, she has one, too! Go, you little Aussie ripper! |
| Inclusive bastard |
| 06.30.04 (7:21 pm) [edit] |
|
Many of my enemies constantly repeat that I'm a hypocrite; some kind of prejudiced reactionary in a socialist's clothing. They point to that incident with the ethnic cabbie and my labelling of that skanky 'ho as a "skanky 'ho". Then they crow: "Latham is a yobbo, an ocker; a throwback to a bygone era!" But I'm not like that at all. I'm probably the most inclusive, progressive and tolerant bastard you'll find anywhere in Oz! And one of the groups I tolerate most enthusiastically is our bonzer homosexual community. (Unlike the conga line, who are just a bunch of homophobic poofs, let's face it.) And the gay community knows this. Which is why they've nominated me as a champion of their champion cause. Sure, I went along with the Arselicker's ban on gay marriage. That was realpolitik, but. And clearly, the gays know and understand this. (They're a very sensitive, artistic bunch who are heavily into interior decorating, after all. And they've been able to apply that sensitivity to the whole political paradigm and accept my reasons without the slightest malice.) So, I say to the gays of Oz: You're a top bunch of blokes, chicks and trannies. You're all my mates, fair dinkum. (But that's not an invitation to lob at my joint and totally redesign my life, okay?) |
| More on Desert Head |
| 06.29.04 (9:21 pm) [edit] |
|
It was a good day down in Wollongong with Peter Garrett. He's not such a bad bloke, and I reckon he will continue to be an asset. Still looks a tad uncomfortable in a suit, but. Nonetheless, the locals liked him. See the spunkrat shaking his hand in the snap? She went straight to him. Hardly talked to me! Actually, that happened a couple more times with other babes later in the day. Granted, he could have just been jagging the few local sheilas that happened to like his music. But if it wasn't just luck and he seriously starts to white ant my female fan base - well, he might just find his smooth run getting a little bit bumpy, if you know what I mean... |
| Another example... |
| 06.28.04 (7:52 pm) [edit] |
|
Speaking of my amazing ability to inspire people, here's another example. (True Believer: I was going to mention this at some stage. But thanks anyway for the link.) Seems my top plan to read to sprogs has inspired Mem Fox's sprog (who's all grown up now - and how!) to enter politics and be part of my bonzer party. As the story states: She said she finds Mr Latham "very inspirational" and that he's a "great part of why I'm running". Warms the cockles of my heart that does (and vice versa). I'll tell you, this chick is a fox alright. And she can read me a bedtime story any time she likes! (Although not one of her Mum's offerings. I'm thinking of books more along these lines. Hell, I'll even act out the parts with her if she wants...) |
| New jokes from New Blokes |
| 06.25.04 (9:58 pm) [edit] |
|
Just below I said that I was the definitive "New Bloke". I know that some of the people who read this might be backward-looking conservatives who aren't exactly au fait with the term, so I'll just link to this pearler of a piece which contains as good a definition as any. (It's by that sharp-minded bastard Hugh Mackay, who's got an even firmer grip on the Ozeitgeist than yours truly.) As you'll see in the piece (the relevant stuff is at the arse end of the column) the term usually refers to blokes in their twenties. Sure, I'm twice their age. But I've always been like this, and therefore decades ahead of my time. The most apposite bloody part is this: The New Bloke is no wimp but he is no male chauvinist either, though he gets a laugh out of pretending to be: mock chauvinism is one of his party tricks and he enjoys satirising his unenlightened comrades. Now that nails me in a bloody nutshell! Like, remember when I called that hackette a "skanky 'ho"? Rupert's rotties were all foaming at the mouth, howling and yelping that I was being misogynous! But they didn't twig to the hip, tongue-in-cheek nature of the jibe. The more feminist sheilas in the press, however, and those in the Labor Party - who are not only empowered as all get out, but also ironic as buggery - knew exactly where I was coming from. Which is exactly why they remained silent. Those unsophisticated Tory pricks. They'll just never get a handle on fucking subtlety, now will they? The cunts. |
| Just jealous |
| 06.25.04 (9:27 pm) [edit] |
|
Not only are Tories shit-scared of my bonzer ideas, they're also packing death that I'm so in touch with my feminine side. Chicks love me 'cause I've pulled off the near-impossible: I remain a top bloke, while simultaneously being sensitive to their needs and not afraid to sook up when appropriate, like in chick flicks and stuff. I am the very definition of the New Bloke, in fact. And the Tories, still stuck in those stultifying gender codes of yore, just can't hack it. Here, the Mad Monk gets all het up about my bloke norks. He's derisively dubbed me "Dr Man Boobs", but really, he's just jealous. He wishes he had a pair of his own, the macho ponce! Oh, and the stuff he says about me chowing down on junk food and therefore being a hypocrite? Yeah, well, I have been known to wolf down the odd chip-sanger, but it's always been in the interests of improving the nation's health. See, I've been courageously filling my guts with junk food for years to see what sort of effect it would have on my metabolism. I've been meaning to put all the findings in a book, actually. But I found out recently that some Seppo called Morgan Spurlock nicked my idea. Came up with this rather successful little doco. (Suppose you could say he "stole my chunder"!) So unfortunately the project is now redundant and my bonzer tome will never see the light of day. |
| Re: I knew it! |
| 06.22.04 (1:35 am) [edit] |
|
That little weeping session I had earlier was a real ball-tearer, fair dinkum. There's nothing like a good sookfest to bloody revivify you. About the only thing that comes close is a root, let's face it. By the way, some readers may think it's odd that I should be such an advocate of uninhibited lachrymosity - what with my public reputation as a bovver boy and all (thanks a shitload, Rupert!). But really, I'm just a big softie. Repressed types like the Arselicker see it as a sign of weakness. But I reckon it's a sign of strength: I am strong enough to feel vulnerable; to show I bloody care! And on that subject: After said crying session, I had to go and change my shirt, right. See, I'd sooked up so heavily, I'd drenched the bastard. And what do you know, I notice that my left man-boob (not ashamed of that either) was looking a tad heftier than normal. I also noticed some white fluid seeping from my nipple! I thought: Well, fuck me - I'M LACTATING! But on closer inspection I realised I just had an infected follicle. Still, the episode got me thinking. And I came up with a veritable shitload of bonzer new policy ideas. I'll keep you all informed of how these develop... |
| I knew it! |
| 06.21.04 (7:36 pm) [edit] |
|
I've always felt that I had my hand right on the collective pulse of the bonzer people of this pearler of a nation, and that feeling has just been proved right yet again. Have a squizz at these poll results. The thing I like most about them is that they show that most of my fellow Aussies thought Dubya was being a right turd by snarking at my top plan to get the troops back. They're saying, "Butt-out Yank-boy! Stick it up yer arse, Arse!" Makes me damn proud to be an Aussie. Damn proud! Fuck, I'm so proud I think I'm going to have to go and sook up... |
| The "incident" |
| 06.20.04 (7:07 pm) [edit] |
|
Considering all the raucous crowing that came from Rupert's roosters when they heard about my dispute with that shonky cabbie, I knew they'd eventually get around to digging up this bit of dirt from my past. What they didn't find out - thank fuck - was something a tad more scandalous. (I'll 'fess up on this blog because I've realised that since every hack in Oz believes it's some kind of parody by an out-of-work comedian I can say anything I like without any deletrious consequences whatsofuckingever.) So, re this "incident": I didn't just tell the umpire where to go. There was another, rather more vigorous dispute with one of the players in the pub after the game. I won't go into details, but suffice to say he ended up very much worse for wear. Although a newbie to the political scene, I had by that stage gained the guardianship of the bloke I now proudly call Dad. He pulled a few strings here and there. The cops obligingly "lost" the evidence (a badly soiled cricket bat). Finally, a deal was struck to buy the victim's silence and keep him stocked up with colostomy bags for life. I still feel deep remorse about what happened. The fact that the bloke continues to vote Labor - and even wheelchairs down to his local polling place to help out on election day - makes it still harder to bear. The subsequent, ongoing drain on the public purse continues to haunt my conscience big time. But compared to the obscene amounts of money given out to bloodsucking Tories on a regular basis it's prettywell fuck-all, so I consider it to be an honourable use of taxpayers' money. |
| "Freudian" my arse |
| 06.14.04 (6:39 pm) [edit] |
|
Below, serial commenter True Believer accuses me of excessive Freudianism in relation to my posts about eels, trains and Desert Head. Sorry, True, can't pay that one. My mum doesn't look at all like Peter Garrett (or a train for that matter). And as Freud himself once wrote: "Sometimes an eel is just a cigar." |
| Re: Eels 'n' Oils |
| 06.14.04 (7:37 am) [edit] |
|
Hey, remember how I deduced that Peter Garrett looks like a moray because of all that time he spent campaigning to save the Great Barrier Reef? Well, it seems the process works both ways. Here's an eel whose contact with Desert Head has turned him into a committed environmentalist. Bloody hell. I don't know whether to be deeply touched or scared shitless! I mean, if he can do this to fish just unconsciously then think of what he could do to the Labor Party if he sets his mind to it! I'm keeping a very close eye on this cunt I can assure you. |
| Re: Re: Plan B |
| 06.13.04 (6:31 pm) [edit] |
|
A commenter called GB-Cobber has thankfully given me the answer to the Tim Freedman mystery. Here it is. Do I feel like a cockhead or what! |
| Eels 'n' Oils |
| 06.13.04 (5:59 pm) [edit] |
|
A few days ago True Believer said that Peter Garrett "looks more like a moray eel than any human has the right to". Shit, you bloody nailed it there, True. And quite frankly, that analogy is so spot-on it's been haunting me the whole time. Like, I had a gabfest and some brekky just this morning with the party faithful (including Desert Head). I wolfed back my share pronto, because I was worried Garrett's fugly bonce might just dart out from nowhere and snatch it from my hand (you know - like what they do to divers in those National Geographic docos). I kept looking at him and thinking: Fuck - hope he's not our "Achilles Eel". ( Hey, maybe it was worth seeing that swords and sandals flick last night after all!) And why is he so bloody eely in any case? Being a champion of old growth forest and its unique fauna, you'd think he might look more like a bilby, or maybe even a funnelweb spider. This whole paradox was really bugging the shit out of me. Then suddenly I had the answer: He's been campaigning to save the Great Barrier Reef for ages. That joint is Moray Central, fair dinkum! But then later on at the same gabfest I saw Michael Costa. He's even eelier than Garrett. I thought, what the fuck has public transport got to do with finless fish? But then I finally twigged. Which I suppose would make him less of a moray than an electric one! And still on the subject of eels and politics: Don't you reckon Mussolini was a dead ringer for the NSW Transport Minister? He was so damn eely, I reckon if he were alive today he could easily fill in for Costa and absolutely no one would notice! (Actually, it could even be a good thing, considering the disgraceful state of Sydney's railways, and Eel Duce's famous commitment to punctuality!) |
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| Bloody Greeks |
| 06.13.04 (5:14 pm) [edit] |
|
Feeling a tad weary from my ongoing battle with the Arselicker and his army of sly pricks, I went in search of inspiration. Lobbed at that new blockbuster Troy with my other half Janine, which I was sure would have some top pointers on how to wage war against an implacable foe. But I didn't learn much. Agamemnon and his mates ran a pretty shoddy outfit. And their tactics were chaotic to say the least - probably due to all that plonk they knocked back in their tents every night. Fair dinkum, if that's the way the Greeks organise a military campaign, then the Olympics are going to be an utter clusterfuck! Still, the Trojans weren't the sharpest pencils in the box, either. I mean, they fell for that wooden horse shit. Suckers! Didn't they know the story? I learned it in bloody primary school... Still, they do make a top range of frangers. Can't be too harsh on them. |
| Re: Plan B |
| 06.10.04 (5:49 pm) [edit] |
|
Curious as to why Dad was in favour of this Freedman fellow, I endeavoured to find out about an hour ago. True Believer had just left a comment explaining that he was "against pokies" so I thought that might have had something to do with it. But when I called Dad and mentioned this he said, "Son, glad to hear it. But that's got absolutely nothing to do with it." "So why the blessing, Dad?" "Simple. He had the good grace to name his band after me." "Is that all?" I asked, a tad let down. "Yes. That's all." Bloody hell. It seemed so odd. It's so vain, so egotistical. Just so unlike Dad. I mean, that would be like yours truly acting in an imperious, undemocratic and elitist manner. Can you ever imagine that happening? Anyway, I was curious about this band Dad spoke of. Googled for about twenty minutes, but no luck! Bit bloody weird, I thought. I mean, how can they be famous, but not be on Google? Or maybe their obscurity is what makes them so cool amongst the youth demographic... Anyway, it's really done my head in. So I ask you, bonzer readers: Do any of you know anything at all about a band called The Goughs? |
| Plan B |
| 06.10.04 (2:38 am) [edit] |
|
Desert Head is looking more and more like a liability with every passing hour. Still, I'll keep up appearances publicly. But just in case the whole venture becomes a total bloody quagmire - which it may well do - I've got another plan up my (rolled-up) sleeve. See, being the clever prick I am, when we had that gabfest during which we chose Garrett, I said, "Any other musical whippersnappers that might be into it, if Pete gives us the thumbs down?" My young, funky and mostly female advisors said that a young crooner called Tim Freedman - whom I'd never heard of before then - might be the go. They played some of his music at the meeting. A bit nancy-esque for my liking. Still, he's got a few years on Desert Head - not to mention shitloads more hair! (Oh, and Dad likes him, too. I haven't the foggiest why, but.) So if all else fails I'll be on the blower to him pronto. |
| Seeing the bastard through! |
| 06.09.04 (5:06 pm) [edit] |
|
G'day people. You've probably already sussed that I'm severely regretting the plan to install old Desert Head. As I wrote here just recently, he was never my first choice anyway. And now the skank and bile are out to get me, big time. The Tories are beside themselves with glee. Here's Piers Clackerman having a fine old gloat. So why don't I just burn the Midnight Oiler? Well, imagine if I did at this late stage. That would be another perfect example of flip-flopping wouldn't it? They'd be even happier then. Damned if I'm going to let that happen. I'm not going to cut and run. That's not what a true blue Aussie does in a time of crisis. To pull out of the decision now would be disastrous! |
| Showbiz |
| 06.07.04 (5:43 pm) [edit] |
|
Well, the invitation to Garrett is well and truly out there. He'd have to have bloody rocks in his head to refuse. And speaking of which: it's not a very pretty sight now is it? I mean, if that popped up in front of you in the middle of the night you'd pack your dacks sure as shit! He'd give this prick a run for his mummy in the horror stakes, now wouldn't he? Remember when I said politics was "showbiz for ugly people"? Yeah, well I'm definitely putting that little maxim into action here. The guy is certainly in showbiz and about as butt-fugly as they come. Still, he's got nothing on Laurie Brereton in that regard. His bonce resembled not so much a hatful of arseholes, as a whole bloody millinery full of them. Which got me thinking: Why is the member for Kingsford Smith always such a fugly prick? Weird isn't it? It's kind of like the Victorian Premier-Blocked Nose Syndrome; or the Chick-Chunkiness Socialism Correlation - both of which I have written about on this blog before. One day I'll have a whole book of these observations, you know. |
| Aussie forces get the nod |
| 06.07.04 (3:00 am) [edit] |
|
G'day people. I assume you've all heard about our latest (potential) recruit. Yielding to pressure from my advisors, I have tacitly endorsed the bloke. But really, he wasn't my first choice. See, at a recent gabfest many on the lefter, leafier fringes of Labor kept telling me that if I really wanted to get the young 'uns on side I needed someone with his (or her, or his/her, or its) finger (or stump, or paw, or claw) on the youth pulse; someone with a high media profile and an aura of "funkiness" - or at least "righteous cool" - and hopefully a musical background to boot. My zillions of intricately interwoven dendrites zapped instantly into action, and I had the perfect candidate in a matter of bloody nanoseconds: this guy! Before my advisors could even gasp at the sheer brilliance and audacity of the choice, I was already dialling the number of his agent in LA. "Woah, Mark!" my cohorts yelled in unison. "Let's think about this." We had a bit of a debate. These were the most socialist of my fellow travellers, remember, so everyone's voice had to be heard. The consensus was that while the idea was generally shit-hot and bonzer, Mr Loaf had three things going against him: He was an old cunt, a Seppo, and - worst of all - his name would alienate the vegan demographic, big time. The only way they might consider him would be if he changed it to "Soy Sausage". Of course, this was out of the question. The great man would never agree to that. So, we settled on Garrett instead (who looks just like a soy sausage when you think about it!). |
| More media bias |
| 06.05.04 (2:45 am) [edit] |
|
It's obvious that almost every hack in the country wants my guts for garters. But now I've discovered that other roosters in the media are also baying for my blood. If I say something, they have a go at me. If I say buggerall, they have a go at me for that too! My gripe? I just did a Google ego search - well, more of a humility search, since I'm such a modest bastard and all - and discovered that Ninemsn is running a poll on yours truly, asking: "Is Mark Latham risking the US alliance?" Bloody hell. It was the Arse who had a go at me, remember, not the other way around. So why isn't the poll asking, "Do you think Dubya is a total cockhead, or what?" (Or words to that effect.) I'll tell you why: 'cause Dubya's mate Gatesy owns the joint, that's why, so whatever I do they'll try to nail me. I reckon Carmen would call that "blaming the victim". And the poll result? A thousand more Aussies said "yes" than "no"! I bet Dubya got all his little minions to ring in and tip the result. Suckhole. |
| Why I was silent |
| 06.04.04 (7:06 pm) [edit] |
|
Some of the bonzer readers of my blog may be wondering why I didn't arc up publicly at those extremely un-fucking-presidential comments about my shit-hot troops home policy being "disastrous". The reason? Well, even though the fair dinkum people of this pearler of a nation are well known to enjoy a bit of colourful language, the words that come to mind whenever I think of Dubya (aka the Arse) are so colourful as to be almost bloody psychedelic, and I think that even they may be a tad offended. (The people that is, not the words... Well, except maybe the word "offended", which can be offended, because it is... But fuck it, you know what I'm on about.) Anyway, don't worry that I didn't arc up. You can rest assured that if I ever saw Dubya in the street or a pub, I'd deck the cunt - and his mate Arnie, too! Gutless Seppo turds. |
| Fruit |
| 06.01.04 (6:02 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, that furore over Harry (not so) Quick's bloody apples was a cack, eh! I mean, why the kerfuffle? You'll find a Tasmanian fruit on the floor of Parliament House every bloody day. And no one bats an eyelid. However, this one's not so much a "pink lady" as a "green bloke". Am I a funny cunt or what? |
