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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!
| My wife is a bloke magnet |
| 09.29.04 (9:30 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, it's a truly shit-hot feeling to be thought of as a balls-to-the-wall sexual icon, but there is a downside: the erotic gaze of the public has widened a tad to include my other half! We're starting to become this glam couple. It's kind of like a Bogie and Bacall type situation. And just as Bacall had a shitload of male fans - some of whom were just plain creepy - Janine has too. But worse, a lot of these blokes are worse than creepy - they are Australian TV journalists. Have a squizz at this story describing the phenomenon. It actually includes the phrase "a seduced Laurie Oakes". Ugh. Mate, that's one far-out fucking fugly image that one, isn't it? You could easily lose your lunch over that. And it's not just nauseating. It's also bloody galling. I mean, these cunts are all supposed to be covering what I say, but instead of that they're gushing about Janine. I mean, don't get me wrong. She's a top sort, and empowered as all get out. But I'm the bloody Leader of the Opposition, not her! I mean, pull your fucking heads in hacks and stop gawking. Do your job. And if any one of you even so much as thinks about laying a greasy paw on any part of my wife's anatomy I'll deck the fucking lot of you! Fuck I'm angry. |
| I am a chick magnet |
| 09.29.04 (8:55 am) [edit] |
|
Hey, cop an optic of this survey of comparative sex appeal amongst the pollies of Oz. Turns out it's not just Bob Brown-nose who reckons I've got a "refreshing package". Seems eight out of every ten spunky Aussie sheilas do too! And speaking of noses, this result would have to put me in the babe-pulling league of old Cyrano "fuck nose" de Bergerac. And I don't even have a "fuck nose"... So what is my secret? I know, but do you lot? What do you reckon, eh? Any suggestions? |
| Kicked its ring! |
| 09.29.04 (7:46 am) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, I'm feeling bonzer as. My speech today was a true blue ball-tearer, no doubt about it. Did you like my odsters' policy? Mate, it brought the fucking house down. I reckon there wasn't a dry eye - or incontinence pad, for that matter - in the whole joint. Classic moments aplenty, there were. Like, see when I lobbed, and I gave Dad a big bear hug? Oh, mate, how moving was that! Speaking of Dad, and oldsterism: My love of the Great Man was the main motivation for all those promises about bonzer free health care. Like, he is pushing ninety, so he will probably be jumping the twig in the not-too-distant. Considering what he's done for this country (as we all know his legacy is still being felt today - and not just in the form of yours truly) I reckon the very least I could do is offer him a free quack, drip and fart sack. Of course the party faithful were all practically pulling themselves over the launch. Good to know. (Unlike you know who I don't have any sly wannabes skulking around behind me waiting to nab my gig as Leader.) But still, I am a bit worried about some of the effusive praise from other quarters. Like Bob Brown-nose for instance. Ever since that time I lobbed in the Styx I've always been worried that his interest in me was more personal than political. And this quote from the above story is confirmation: Greens leader Bob Brown says there is a freshness about Mr Latham's package, which will win points with the electorate. Mate when I get those kind of compliments from the likes of Rachel Ward or Toni Collette I couldn't be more chuffed. But from Brown-nose? Ugh! I mean I'm a tolerant and inclusive bastard, sure as shit. But I'm not that tolerant and inclusive, if you get my meaning... |
| Ivan update on the last post |
| 09.28.04 (4:11 pm) [edit] |
|
How's this for synchrodipity! Just as I was writing a post about my bonzer ability to introspect, the Blue Deceiver lobbed a link in to try and prove the opposite. It's a story about an interview I had with some crow-eating nancy boy that she reckons illustrates a distinct lack of self-awareness. Well, it fucking doesn't, Bluey. But what it does show is your termite-esque agenda to sabotage my quest for the Lodge. And if you are a member of my bonzer party, as you have claimed, then you must obviously be deeply at odds about being one. (Either that or you're a mole planted by the Arselicker.) In any case, Bluey, you won't have a gig for much longer. The noose is tightening. We're this close to finding out who you are. Have a nice day... fucking NOT! |
| Ivan overactive imagination |
| 09.28.04 (3:42 pm) [edit] |
|
Predictably, cybertoffs are going spacko over my little slip of the tongue yesterday. They'll try to make out that it shows I'm some kind of a disorganised dork with a garbled mind, and therefore not ready to run the country. But really, it's just my id whopping his head up to say g'day again. Regular readers will know that I had a similar episode related to my spag-bol craving just recently. But this time the Freudian forces producing said slip-up were a tad more complex. I wasn't merely confusing Molloy with Milat. Like, I have given the dipstick my support (although that may change - I'll see how things go). But knowing what damage that photo might do to us electorally, I was mightily shat off to say the least. And I was just secretly wishing that Milat was still at large, so he could get rid of the prick. If Molloy just disappeared off the face of the earth only to be discovered half-eaten by weevils in a shallow bush grave after the election I'd be a shitload less stressed, fair dinkum... So, how's that for self-awareness, eh? Could the Arselicker crank out such apposite auto-analysis? Prick wouldn't know if his arse was on fire, let alone what's going on in his own subconscious. |
| Snied, from the inside |
| 09.27.04 (5:03 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, how's this for full-on irony. This pompous cocknuckle Gerard Henderson reckons I'm an "insider": Latham raised the insider/outsider dichotomy in his 2002 Menzies Lecture in London and it is reprinted in his book From the Suburbs, launched by Whitlam in May last year. This thinking was a product of the time before Latham became Labor leader in December. The surprise is that he has decided to restate this position - or ideology - in the election campaign, now that he holds the very insider position of alternative prime minister. Mate, you can fucking talk. Like every member of the suckholati this rooster is an utimate insider: a spoilt toff with his sneering bonce whopped right up his own perfumed clacker! Gerard, mate, did you ever work 18 hours a day collecting barfed-in schooners in a suburban pub? Well I did. Fuck, you've probably never even lobbed in one. (A pub, that is, not a barfed-in schooner.) Why? Because you're too scared to get your stamp collection stained with spilled beer; packing death that some thong-wearing westie sheila might nick your silk hanky and splort a big gooey green boogie in it; sweating up a storm over the prospect of having your treasured Stradivarian glockenspiel requisitioned by a pack of brickies' labourers who'll use it to bash out a shit-hot rendition of Working Class Man, aren't you, Gerard, eh? Eh? Cunt. I mean ferfuck'ssake, why should I even have to defend myself on this point? Who could be more of an outsider than yours truly? Look up "outsider" in the dictionary and there's a picture of me there. (Er, well, actually there isn't. Dictionaries are compiled by insiders, that's why. Sly pricks. It's part of their master plan to make me look like an insider too...) Sure, I've been acting a tad insiderish lately. Insiders have owned the political sphere for so long that even your fellow outsiders don't trust you if you don't. So I'm mimicking their ponce-arian parlance in all public appearances for now. But I do it be-fucking-grudgingly, that's for sure. And it causes me a shitload of angst, fair dinkum. But all those who truly know the real me - Dad, Janine, that Paki restaurateur among others - have no doubt that I am always on the outside. They know that I'm a bloke who firmly believes there's no downside to getting your backside trackside, that the westside is the best side. Which is why I proudly say: Battlers, I'm on your side! |
| Rupert's rooster crows a crock |
| 09.26.04 (4:15 pm) [edit] |
|
If any bastard reckons that the meeja is entirely on my side, cop an optic of this Arselickian suck job. Fair dinkum, if that's not a partisan puff-piece I'm Jennifer Hawkins' G-string (which I wouldn't mind being, as a matter of fact!). Just because Bonsai has rolled out the pork barrel, big time, this rooster Shanahan reckons the "pressure's back on my shoulders". But like, when was the pressure ever off my shoulders? I mean, look at all the shit I've been through these last few months, much of it hurled by Shanahan's ponce-arian peers! Fair dinkum, sometimes I feel like that poor Ancient Greek prick Syphilis, who was ordered by the gods to roll that bloody great ball of hardened horse shit from the Aegean stables up that humungous hill. Then every time he reached the top, it'd roll down the bottom again! (No wonder they named that bastard venereal disease after him. Poor prick's life was poxy as.) Although one day this sorry situation will work to my advantage - just you watch. The Arselicker's going to be standing at the bottom, busily gloating away at me with all his toff-hack lickspittles in attendance and said bog-boulder is going to catch them unawares and flatten the lot of them! So keep hurling it, Tories and toffs. Keep piling on the pressure. I can handle it no worries. "Pressure" is my middle name. |
| Yucks |
| 09.25.04 (12:55 am) [edit] |
|
Hey, remember when I said I was a funny prick, and that's why I'd be a much better PM than that no-cack zone called Bonsai? Yeah, well, amazing as it may seem, a hack has actually concurred on this. Have a squizz here. This George Megalogolopolous bloke has scored my line about not being the spawn of Darth as the best crack of the campaign! Fuck, but you nailed it there, mate. Although, it must be said it wasn't a real gut-buster - which is what I usually crank out. No, it was more of a rib-tickler, this one, or maybe even a chin-stroker. Still, that just shows my yuckestrian versatility, now doesn't it? And on the subject of gags I've got another one for you. But be warned: it's a real bladder-burster this one - arguably a dak-packer - so I'd recommend that you go and have a slash and/or a crap before you read it... Okay, ready? Here goes: Question: Why was that poncy Frog prick Cyrano de Bergerac such a legend with the sheilas? Answer: Fuck nose. Get it? "Fuck nose." Mate, what a pisser. I made that up just this morn. It's a classic isn't it? I tell you, those poncy plonkers on The Panel would have to toil for bloody yonks to come up with something as fucking funny as that now wouldn't they? "Fuck nose." Ha! What a pearler. |
| I am a freak of nature |
| 09.20.04 (9:32 pm) [edit] |
Full-time white-anter "True Believer" - who's identity remains a mystery (although I do have my hunches - one of them being that she might just be the main squeeze of that fucknuckle fantasist Sam Bargshoon) is interested in the balls-to-the-wall erotic opus FON: I ask you once again, Mark. Where can one view/purchase Freaks of Nature (without being arrested). It sounds very educational to me. Well, Bluey that's quite a coincidence you should ask. See, I have actually considered doing just such a thing. And I went Googling for info about where one could get hold of this much-maligned masterwork. I thought, maybe they've whopped it on DVD, or you could download it? My search returned diddly, so I ordered a couple of my staff to look into it. After a fortnight's ferretting, they too came up with fuck-all. But in the last few days they had a break-through, and discovered some very interesting facts that were relayed to me only an hour ago: Soon after its release some particularly stroppy Seppo Bible bashers started arcing up about its contents. They said that their outrage was due to the film's inclusion of "crimes against nature". But the truth was rather different: it turned out that one of its stars was the bastard son of a much admired televangelist. They managed to lure a team of shit-hot silks from the lawsuit-happy Church of Scientology, who succeeded in having the film banned outright. All copies in circulation were recalled and destroyed. However, somehow one of them made it all the way to Oz, and was shown on the bucks night that I mentioned below. I was so moved by the film, that I was happy to hand over the two grand in cold hard cash (thanks Dad) that the promoter asked for on the night. So it seems that I have a rather valuable cultural artefact in my possession. With this in mind I have now put it in a very safe place. And absolutely no cunt will ever get hold of it. I promise you. So there's your answer Bluey: Neither you, nor anybody else will get to experience this chthonian ball-tearer; this ne-plus fucking ultra of atavistic art. Which is a pity - because it's not just educational; it's edifying as all get out. In fact, it's had more to do with forming my character than just about anything else - even more than that other cinematic masterwork Apocalypse Now. And I say to all those interested in the mysterious workings of the Mark Latham mind: To know me, you must know Freaks. But you will never get the chance now will you? Eat shit and die, suckers! |
| Toff-hack hurls shitball |
| 09.17.04 (4:32 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, I'm really getting close to the end of my tether with these toff-hacks and their endless attacks on my character. Have a squizz at this Christopher Pearson gargle about yours truly: He yanks out all the old skeletons and gives them another loud rattle. Of course he doesn't forget to mention the now notorious Freaks of Nature episode. Okay, so I've denied it outright - mainly on the advice of Carmen and some of the other feminist sheilas in my party. But readers of this blog will know that yes, it is true, I did get my Paki mate to whop the vid in, and play it in front of my tight-arsed in-laws. But in no way was it a malicious act. Far from it. It was actually a cry from the heart; a desperate attempt to get those snobby Bible thumpers to accept me for who I was - not who they thought I was supposed to be. See, in many ways I felt like I was the Elephant Man. (By the way that's not David Lynch's eponymous hero, but the Elephant Man in Freaks. As you can imagine this bloke's resemblance to said herbivore was not so much an epidermal phenomenon - it was more trouser related.) This poor bastard had a truly shitty life - except when it came to sheilas who were hanging out for it big time - and was actually quite a tragic, misunderstood character. When I first saw the film at that buck's night, I thought: Fuck! That's me, in a nutshell! Which is why I played his most heart rending scene in that Paki restaurant. I'm sure you know it. It's just before Elephant Man goes the rodfest with Octopus Woman: Voice trembling with emotion he says, "Okay you can have your 'trunk calls' if you must - all eight of them." Then he adds, between sobs, "But remember this, Occie: I'm not just a sex machine with an enormous schlong. I AM ALSO A HUMAN BEING!" Mate, even just writing about it now I'm choking back the tears. So back in the restaurant I was saying much the same thing to Gabbie's olds - well, metaphorically at least. It was basically: "Accept me you cunts - ferfuck'ssake! You may think I have no bloody couth whatsoever. But deep down I'm a top bloke, fair dinkum." What the fuck was wrong with that? And now the likes of Christopher Pearson take that very vulnerable moment, smear it in shit and hurl it right back at me. Mate, it's not just unfair, it's cruel as. Fair dinkum, I'm so shat off I don't know whether to sook up or deck somebody. |
| A bloody microcosm! |
| 09.16.04 (5:56 pm) [edit] |
|
Things are starting to get a bit spooky, fair dinkum. Like, you know how I said that my pancreas was like Sally Robbins? Well, I was kind of half-joking-but-semi-seri ous when I said it then. But recent gastronomically oriented events have caused me to repeat the claim. Only this time I'm dinkum, fair dinkum. Like, as I wrote a day or two back, I've been hanging out big time for a full-on growl on some spag-bol, right. Yeah, well I succumbed, didn't I? In one ginormous guzzle, I would've knocked back half the spag in Sicily, I reckon! Felt truly bonzer for a little while. But then, about ten minutes later, disaster struck. Pancreas - who I thought had mended completely - chucked a major tanty. I was doubled up in pain for a good minute or two. Then thankfully, the pain subsided as quickly as it came. But that wasn't the end of the matter. Bloody Gut decided to arc up didn't he? "You can't trust Pancreas... Get the little wuss removed... Why the fuck should we have to deal with such an unreliable team-mate!" Rah, rah, rah... on and fucking on he went. Then what do you know but last night I read about Sally Robbins copping this bitch-slap from one of her team-mates. How creepy is that? It's like my innards are in some spookily synchronistic allignment with these sheilas, or something. I have written before of the deeply empathetic and spiritual bond I have with chicks generally. (You know, the man-boobs and all that.) Maybe this is an extension of it? Fuck knows. Well, if it is I'm praying the violence doesn't escalate. What if one of them king hits Robbins, or even bloody shoots her? If that happens I'll probably just cark it right in the middle of Question Time. I hope they get some shit-hot counselling, and pronto. I've got more than enough on my plate without this to worry about as well! Sometime it's a real bastard being me, fair dinkum. |
| Suits |
| 09.14.04 (5:23 pm) [edit] |
|
Here we go. Splatts has been arcing up about me having a tailored suit. Since when did being a battler also mean you have to be a scruffy cunt? Hey Splatts, if you're not careful I'll tailor a suit just for you - a bloody law suit. I bet it'll be the first time you've ever been covered in silk... Elitist suckhole. |
| Blairhead goes out to lunch |
| 09.14.04 (4:39 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, could these bloody toff-hacks be any more way off if they tried? The Dancing Blair has just posted a shitload of links in which I use the phrase "spaghetti bowl". He thinks it constitutes evidence of inarticularity on my part. The truth, as always, is completely different. See, I've always loved chowing down on a carb-rich meal. And spag-bol has always been one of my favourite dishes. (It's a very close second to the great Aussie chip-sanger, as a matter of fact.) But after my well-publicised bout with the bastard pancreatitis, I've had to steer clear of such stodgy fare. Still, the deep longing for a full-on pig-out has been grumbling away in the subconscious. That's why it's resurfaced in my rhetoric a tad more often than usual. Now that's the truth of the matter. Mate, you may think it's a cack to dub me "Pasta Werriwa". But as usual your analysis is pasta joke. |
| My unpindownability |
| 09.13.04 (5:30 pm) [edit] |
|
I've been meaning to comment on this arty effort for a few days but quite frankly I've been flat out like a lizard drinking and haven't gotten around to it. But anyway, have a look here. This is yet another example of how my endless complexity just bamboozles the fuck out of Tory cunts. Like, Weevilpundit is trying to present me as some kind of unreconstructed Stalinist. But the truth is, the full-on lefties hate me almost as much as the toffs do! Mate, I wouldn't even wipe my arse with your Photoshopped phulmination. That said, Dad just bloody loves it. He's even had it enlarged and framed, and whopped it above his mantelpiece! Never intended that to happen now did you Mantis-man? Phuckhead. |
| Wrong priorities |
| 09.11.04 (5:25 pm) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, the sheer shallowness of some of the sad sacks out there in computerland never ceases to amaze (and often depress) me. Like, I just had a perve at my stats, right. And I noticed that one of the visitors came by way of a search: "Jennifer+Hawkins+bum". How tragic is that? Here we are, on the cusp of the most crucial election we've had in yonks and this arse-obsessed fucknuckle is Googling for the latest news on Miss Universe's rear end! I mean, sure, it's a fine piece of work. If there was ever an Arse Hall of Fame, hers would be in it, sure as shit! And like many red-blooded Aussie blokes, I did manage to whop an old tape in the box and record that catwalk catastrophe for my own personal enjoyment. (Though, it wasn't all good. The vid I used turned out to be Freaks of Nature didn't it? Taped over the best bit, didn't I? You know, the part where the bearded lady with three norks does it with the double-dicked midget on a moving moped. Bummer! That was my favourite part...) But let's face it, Hawkins' tush isn't running for PM, like I am, is it? And just as well, because I think it would render me speechless if we ever had a debate! Which reminds me: I've got one with the Arselicker tonight, and I've done buggerall preparation. Better start swotting, eh? |
| Sheilas |
| 09.11.04 (5:06 pm) [edit] |
|
So the latest poll says that "women desert Latham". Bullshit! They're just playing hard to get. |
| The (middle) way to go! |
| 09.07.04 (6:19 pm) [edit] |
|
I have written before of my devotion to that shit-hot philosopher Siddhartha. Though a tad tubby, he was a sage-like bastard sure as shit! I often use his pearlers of wisdom to guide me through dilemmas both personal and political. Here's the latest example of my bonzerly Buddhistical approach in action. See, I kept both the feminists and the pro-family crowd happy with my tax package! Now, could the Arselicker pull that one off? Or anyone else for that matter? Not bloody likely. In fact I don't even reckon the Buddha himself could have done it. (And not just cause he carked yonks back, and is now inhabiting the body some little sparrow sitting on his own statue! No, even if he were alive today he wouldn't able to suss out the workings of the feminist mind. But being a lifelong member of the Labor Party, I've finally come to understand this heretofore unsolved mystery.) When I get elected as PM I'll use it to solve this whole terrorism caper. I'll simultaneously kick al-Qaeda's collective clacker, and still have the troops home by Chrissie. Just you wait and see... |
| Dads |
| 09.05.04 (3:47 am) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, I had a shit-hot day today with the sprogs and the other half. Even the presence of a few loathsome hacks in my backyard couldn't ruin it. And I had to have them there, anyway. What better day to announce my mentoring policy than Father's Day? Just as Dad was a father to me (and that is me in the snap, by the way) I reckon I'm a father to all those poor mentorless young blokes out there in Oz, fair dinkum. And re that: Toffs continue to carp about me not living up to standards I demand of others. Like, they're always trying to make me look like I'm some sort of primitive, couthless yobbo-cunt, with an ockeristic view of babes, hornbags and sheilas. How is he going to politically mentor young blokes, they say, when he himself shows appalling, ungentlemanly behaviour, particularly towards the opposite sex? But the truth is, there's bloody no-one who's more attitudinally reconstructed than I am, fair dinkum. I'll give you an example: Like, you know when that Jennifer Hawkins sheila was giving me the eye the other day? Yeah, well when we were sitting next to each other, I was stunned by the sheer perfection of her tanned pins. She kept kind of brushing her left one against mine, nonchalantly flicking her dress back and forth to expose more of her thigh. And fuck me but what did I see? Her left stocking was torn! Mate, I was hanging out to cop a feel like you wouldn't believe! If I had I could have dined off that story for yonks. I mean, it's one thing to touch the nylon-covered thigh of Miss Universe - but her bare flesh? It was a very different kind of "ladder of opportunity", this one! But did I seize the day and cop the feel? No, I bloody-well didn't, did I. I showed restraint. I showed reserve. I showed respect. In short, I showed all the things that my foes say I don't have. So, I say to the charge that I am inadequate as a decent male role model: Not guilty, Your Honour! So go fuck yourselves you skulking Tory suckholes. |
| Skirt |
| 09.03.04 (10:18 am) [edit] |
|
Fair dinkum, my awesome chick-pulling power continues to amaze me. Like, only two days back, I lobbed for the welcome back bash for our bonzer athletes, and had a quick chin-wag to our own Miss Universe. I knew there and then she was hot for it. Mate, she was giving me the eye like it was nobody's business! Now look what happens: She trips on her dress and flashes her pert bum-cheeks for all the world to see! Meeting yours truly has clearly left for the poor spunk seriously weak at the knees. |