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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!
| 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!) |
