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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?
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| 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! |
posted by: True Believer (reply)
post date: 01.12.05 (7:48 pm)
I assume you will now be turning your attention to duck-related charities, Mark?
You've got to get out of the house. Fair dinkum, a week or two banged up in there with those sprogs and Head is going to lose it badly.
Not to mention the effects on Gut, Pancreas, and the newly consulted 'Shit'. Which I hope you will then have sorted.
Just don't blame me if I don't monitor this unsavoury process!
posted by: Mark's Jocks (reply)
post date: 01.12.05 (8:30 pm)
How about inviting your nuts as well? Sorry- only one can turn up, the other's on extended sick leave.
posted by: Sarah (reply)
post date: 01.20.06 (1:32 am)
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