•May 1st, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Due to an increasingly disproportionate sleep to energy ratio, cut-backs to the space-time budget, and a brief but ultimately crippling shortage of whisky, this blog is now defunct.

Further information, alternate interpretations, and the occasional re-hashing of old ideas can be found at:

FURIOUS EYE.

My only friend, the end.

•April 8th, 2012 • 1 Comment

Anyone who’s spent any time riding a long board around  – one with wheels, not one of those ones covered in sex wax – will be familiar with the moment when, sooner or later, you’re part way down a really big fuck-off hill, and you realise that if you don’t get off now, you’re not going to get off until the hill has run its course.

Sometimes that course ends in a nice long piece of flat ground, devoid of traffic, of pedestrians, and you cruise down to a speed at which you’re no longer trying really hard to unclench yourself from around that fist of terror that’s shoved itself in through your out door. Sometimes things wind up in a desperate sprint across a patch of ground – grass if you’re lucky – that’s moving significantly faster than your legs are capable of carrying you, followed by a few painful somersaults. Sometimes you just run straight into a brick wall, a cyclist, a knot of passersby, or the side of a moving vehicle. The point is, that once you hit that terminal velocity, you’ve got to ride things out, or you’re going to fuck yourself up, terminally.

It’s the perfect test of one’s reflexes. Mental reflexes. To be sure, it helps to be able to manoeuvre a highly unstable plank of wood at ball–shrinking speeds, but nanosecond decision-making is what saves. This whole scenario, from the moment of doubt, through the analysis of potential hazards and the likelihood of imminent quadriplegia, to the decision the get the fuck off your skateboard, takes place in about 0.003 seconds. If the brain’s on a bit of a lag, it’s over, the moment has passed, there’s fuck all you can do now.

Now, I’d love it if this was a good analogy for writing this blog, but really it’s been more like try to skate up that fucking hill. Have you ever tried that? It’s fucking excruciating. It takes at least three times the effort of just getting off and walking, and everybody stares at you thinking dickhead.

Sometimes you start something, and then you find yourself hurtling along, and you’ve got one of two choices: go with it, or get off. In either case you’ll probably end up a little bit broken, but at least if you went with it, there’d be an audience. There’s no point in fucking yourself up fantastically if there’s no one there to watch. That’s not to say that gathering an audience is necessarily gathering yourself supporters. It’s like the lunatic skating down a mountainside. Half the people who see it, are going to think fuck yeah! Legend. The others are going to stand there muttering fucking idiot. But they will stand there and watch.

Actually, come to think of it, there’s a third choice. You stay on the board but keep dragging a foot to slow yourself down. You like the idea, but you’re too afraid of the consequences, too apologetic for your display of daring, your exhibitionism, your opinions.

I have a habit of taking that kind of middle of the road approach, and as a result, the history of this blog is an archive of average; a mediocre bookshelf, with a few fucking brilliant volumes (if I do say so myself), but mostly filled with self-indulgent drivel, a collection of profane Mills & Boon novels.

So, that being the case, this is it; the end.

Like the title suggests, I’m putting up with the sound of my own voice, rather than screaming it out, all the way to the bottom of the hill. It’s time to go and do something different, to find a new hill, and keep my feet on the board and off the fucking road.

To be honest, I also feel like perhaps it’s time I stopped setting myself up for libel suits being so unkind. No, no, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there’ll be rants aplenty, and I’ll probably keep plastering cyberspace with anti-Abbottfucking-cunt propaganda, and bemoaning the mediocrity flung about by the likes of Dan Brown and Josh Pyke.

But you know, I’m not sure I have to name names and all that. Not that I think I’m spreading the vitriol very far, nor that I have any influence over anyone, at all. It’s just that, well, it’s not very fair to Mr Brown, or to Mr Pyke to direct it all at them personally. There are boring twats aplenty out there, and those guys are definitely not the most glaring examples – though certainly DB is one of the richest, so fuck him. And I know, I’m probably even someone’s very own boring twat. It’s a hard world out there for creative types, and the Brown/Pyke contingent are doing a lot better than most – and certainly a damn sight better than I.

You know, you’ve probably actually heard Josh Pyke’s name, and for someone operating in the Australian music industry, that’s fucking phenominal. I really should be nicer, and more congratulatory. And I would, if it wasn’t for that fact that his music makes me want to go out and find every guy in skinny jeans, a cardigan/low-cut t-shirt combo, and black rimmed glasses and punch them the fuck out.

But that’s not filling the world with love, and being supportive of difference, and… excuse me while I go and have a quick vomit…

Right, back.

Anyhoo, until I find somewhere new from whence to fill the world with words, some other lonely soapbox from which to spout my nonsense to an empty room, it’s been grand people.

Thanks for reading, both of you.

Catch you on the other side…

Ok, Ok, I’ll come back and give you directions when I work out where I’m going. I don’t like to be by myself…

 

Mr Rabbit, back between some poor girl’s legs.

•February 29th, 2012 • Leave a Comment

My pretty little head is near bursting with things to waffle on about at the moment, writers festivals and celebrity twitter followers and ascribing too much humanity to people who do monstrous things… or not, which apparently is the way to go. Empathy, it seems, is fucking dangerous.

Unfortunately for all (three) of you, my head is also bursting with the mashy remnants of malted and distilled barley, although it must be said, I am just now beginning to reach that point of equilibrium wherein the body, on the one hand, has recovered enough to start thinking that another wee dram might be quite nice, and on the other still feels poorly enough that it looks like a little tipple might be the only thing that will make things better. The result, in either case, is that you don’t get to listen to me rabbit on about any of the afore mentioned inanities.

Just on a little side note about rabbits, it was suggested to me earlier, when I’d made a previous comment about Mr Rabbit’s fucking cunthood, that he has neither the depth nor the warmth to be called a cunt. I thought that needed sharing. Unfortunately, despite the wit, it was not enough to convince me that there’s a more apt term than fucking cunt to describe Tony Abbott.

Anyhoo, back to the matter at hand, which is that my head’s not really in a state capable of writing anything very poignant (or even slightly witty) at present. Also, I have other commitments, writing ones, mainly to myself, to actually make some submission deadlines for a change, but some not also.

I’d like to say that if I don’t get my other shit done, I won’t get paid, but I won’t get paid anyway… but due to the dubious commitments to self, I am taking a break for a few weeks. Also because of an impending drive across the Nullarbor to Adelaide. I know right? The Nullarbor? Adelaide? What the fuck is wrong with me? Four and a half days days in a car with the wife and the parents, the people who, despite all that love and encouragement stuff, are the most apt to make one feel inadequate and irritable… mostly because it’s harder to get away with constant inebriation when stuck in a car with them, and when driving I guess.

Right then, I’m off. See you later on.

Oh, and there’s some changes coming round here soon. Probably before I get back. I might not even come back. I might just abandon the project altogether and go off and do something interesting, and worthwhile…

Walk the Fucking Plank, Josh Pyke.

•February 22nd, 2012 • Leave a Comment

It’s hot again. This is not unexpected, but it is fucking unpleasant. It’s breathless and sweaty, moist. Moist enough that every time you fart you have to wonder for a moment whether you just shat yourself. And it’s a quiet heat, everything beaten into a submissive silence, the obmutescence punctuated only by the occasional whine of a mosquito. This presents a dilemma: let the little fucker feed on you, or slap at it, movement enough to start off a whole new wave of perspiration?

Everything comes in waves; the heat of summer and the tentative approaches of the mosquito; the conservative backlash against marriage equality; the consumption of wine. Actually the wine is more like a tide, one that flows and rarely, if ever, ebbs. To a marginally lesser degree, the same thing could be said of all this castigation of music piracy.

There’s a constant drone going on in the background, the blathering of the recording industry. After a while it becomes part of the landscape, almost pleasant in it’s constancy, like the lapping against the shore of a dark sea of wine. But every now and then, like the roar of a breaking heat wave, the cry is raised anew, the hackneyed melody belted out by Josh Pyke, or some other two-bit monument to derivative mediocrity.

Thief! Thief! is the cry. You’re mocking all our hard work, you’re stealing our sales.

Far be it from me to downplay the toil that goes into an artist’s work, the long nights, the inclement attitudes to our livers, and the proverbial blood, sweat, and fucking tears, but I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between larceny and copyright infringement. That would be why one is called larceny, and the other is… not.

But pedantry aside, there’s no denying that copyright infringement is taking something without paying for it, and there’s also no denying that the creator of the work in question deserves to get paid for it… though, it has to be said, some artists deserve the pay a lot fucking less than others, but unfortunately a) pay-scales are rarely based on the talent of the artist as opposed to the talent of the marketing team, and b) a lot of people have absolutely fucking deplorable taste in music, which perpetuates not only the careers of talentless musical hacks, but the industry that supports them, feeds upon them, furthers the shrivelling of their naïve, wretched little souls.

Unfortunately for those inclined to occupy a soapbox as well as a stage, it’s really only the afore-mentioned recording industry cunts that have anything to whinge about. Now, musicians, you’ve probably heard this before, but at the risk of redundancy I’ll say it again:

Music piracy is. Not. Affecting. Your. Sales. There’s no more to be said.

Oh, Really? How many fucking studies, independent ones with no vested interests whatsoever, do you need to confirm this? They have been undertaken since way back in the Napster days.

You remember Napster right? Those pioneers of music piracy, that came and put an end to the halcyon days of Compact Discs, in which no one ever engaged in the illegal copying of music, in copyright infringement. Of course, they might have engaged in larceny, back when you could actually go into a shop and walk out with music in a physical format.

Now, certainly Josh Pyke might argue that the illegal copy of one of his albums I have represents a sale that he otherwise might have received the benefit of. And perhaps once in a while (for the sake of argument, and given it is Josh Pyke we’re talking about, let’s be generous and say maybe once in every 100,000,000 illegal copies of his work) someone might otherwise have actually gone out and bought the fucking thing.

The reality of the situation though, is that if I wanted to have a bit of a listen and see what he was like, I would have just found someone stupid enough to have bought one of his CDs and borrowed it. I would then have very quickly have burned it returned it, and forgotten it ever existed. The reason, the only reason, I still have it on my hard drive, is that I haven’t yet reached the point where I need that space to store something worthwhile.

Conversely, however, I have illegally copied countless albums that I have loved, loved! And the vast majority of those I have gone out and bought, because I completely believe in supporting (talented, worthwhile) artists who work their arses off to do what they love. Ok, so occasionally I have copied stuff I haven’t then gone out and bought. But I will rave about how good they are to anyone and everyone, and, well, fuck me if that isn’t doing an artist a service. No music man? Don’t agree? Ever legally borrowed a book from a public library that you have really liked and subsequently recommended it to someone? Did you pay for it? Then shut the fuck up.

The only reason, THE ONLY FUCKING REASON, anyone has a remotely legitimate to decry the copying and sharing of music, is because the are exploitative, corporate cocksucking, record industry cunt whose six or seven figure salary, cocaine sniffing, yachting lifestyle might be in jeopardy if they lose their stranglehold on the industry… which is what is liable to happen if they no longer control the movement of every little bit of music out there.

Like the glorious days of old, of open ocean and the snap of canvas in the wind, of salt spray and bowsprits carving the swell, the pirates of today are agents of freedom, allowing people to take what they will, to enjoy what is good, and to spread the wealth beyond the greedy fists of the plutocrats that would tell us all who is talented, what is hot, and which fucking albums to listen to.

Stop eating the Durian fruit.

•February 15th, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I have it on (very good?) authority, that my last post sucked. If you read it, and agree, I apologise. Also, fuck off.

Actually, to be precise, I believe the phrase was “your last post was crap”. So much so, apparently, it did not even deserve constructive criticism – which when applied to something that crap, by all accounts, is the height of pretentiousness. Fair enough. I’m not really sure that there is a great deal to be said about the thing. It is what it is – which, in case you didn’t get it, was a beginning-to-end list of search terms that have lead the unsuspecting down the path of burning their retinas with my vitriolic words, and singeing their noses with the stench of my (bull)shit. Yeah well, it was obvious to me too, but you know, sometimes people really need stuff spelt out for them.

Anyway, as I was saying, it is what it is, or was, or whatever, and potentially the deliverer of earlier blunt judgement was right, it might well be shit. Quite frankly my dears, I don’t give a darn. Which is not to say that at the time I took it meekly and shrugged. Of course not. I was in my fucking cups – the time when (unfortunately) I tend to be most reactionary. Unfortunate, because it is also the state in which I am least equipped to back up anything I have to say with reasoned arguments.

I do, however, stand by my assertion at the time, that “by the way, your last blog post was crap” casually thrown into an otherwise unrelated conversation is a bit, well, fucking rude. And potentially an indication of spoiling for a fight, but on that I can’t (or shouldn’t) really comment. I may have thought it the case at the time; I may even have been right; I may, of course, have been wrong, and I may, being in afore-mentioned cups, have been spoiling for one myself. I’d like to say I’m always a happy drunk, but…

In any case, and without doubt, my judgement then, and recollection now, are in no way to be trusted. I am pretty sure, however, I’ve got the offending statement correct. Probably. It doesn’t actually matter at this point. The sentiment is there, or was, and the point is that I am really not concerned by it.

I have reread the post, and am really not sure I agree with the appraisal. I certainly don’t think it’s up there with the most interesting, amusing, or poetical things I have produced. In fact I did not actually produce it, you did. I just re-punctuated it, and I did a much better fucking job of it than you lot did, I can assure you. Punctuation ain’t hard people. If you find yourself being constantly misinterpreted in print – and I can only assume at least half of you do – get a fucking book. Copy someone else’s punctuation. It’s probably correct… at least it’s probably correct if it was published prior to the e-book/every numbskull on the fucking planet is churning out an unedited heap of steaming shit/self-publishing revolution taking place. Yes, best get a real book to copy. Better yet, get a real book whose purpose is to teach you how to use those funny little marks and squiggles that tell the literate world how to fucking understand each other.

Alrighty then. Point was, is, that while I refuse to applaud to such bluntness… ok, ok, look, I know I am as blunt a cunt as anyone most of the time, but bludgeoning you with a misplaced apostrophe is not a comment on you personally. Telling someone that their writing is crap however, is, or at least it comes across that way… except in this case, when it’s actually a comment on what all of you wrote. My punctuation didn’t even feature in the review.

Now, I know that we writers are an awful sensitive bunch. We’re the delicate little flowers of the world, trod upon in our fragile youths; we are hidden away in lonely rooms struggling to give a glimpse into our beautiful, exquisitely painful little worlds; we fret about being exposed, about being misunderstood, about being understood, about being disliked…

Get over it. Or, as another indelicate friend of mine put it, ‘take your balls out of your purse sweetheart, and harden the fuck up’. If you are so desperately afraid of putting yourself out in the world, choose something else to do with yourself. Or keep doing it, but don’t put it out there, and don’t worry about it. But if you’re going to put it out there, stop taking it so fucking personally when someone says your stuff is crap. Maybe they’re right. Go back to your shit and look again and see for yourself. Be honest. And if it is, do something about it. If, on the other hand, you don’t agree, then don’t agree. It is your shit, do with it what you will. If you like it, be proud of it, and fuck detractors.

On the other hand, some of you cunts out there really ought to learn how to tear something to shreds with some compassion, not to mention style. If you’re going to do it, do it with reason, do it with wit, for the love of testicles, at least do it with some creative use of expletives. Especially professional critics, you moribund, talentless hacks. If you’re a professional, fucking be a professional, dissect things with panache. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

Criticism is good, it is necessary, it is the life blood of artistic growth. When someone tells me my shit stinks, and tells me why, my shit gets better. If you eat durian fruit and your farts clear the room, stop eating durian fruit. If people keep telling you your dialogue sucks, stop eating the durian fruit. Actually, if you eat that shit at all you’re a goat-fucking snake-penised god-cursed freak, and you’re writing will never get better as long as you keep it up… In fact, it’s probably too late for you already. That is some fucked up shit you’re putting in your mouth there you know.

But dietary blunders, and the benefits of criticism aside, remember you bloody fault-finders, mud-rakers and nitpickers, we are beautiful and unique snowflakes, stomping on us will just end up in a gutter full of slush… or maybe hard packed snow, ice, and you will slip on it, and fall into the road, and get hit by a fucking bus.

Search Term Doggerel

•February 8th, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Liberties have been taken with punctuation:

 

 

Miserable Cunt Scots.

Blahblahblahblahblahblah, almost.

Pubic hair donkeys fuck bent steel art.

Fuck hummer belly song.

The summation.

Art, when you feel something lying on the bed beside you, when you are drifting off to sleep, and there is nothing really.

There what?

There was movement at the station.

Who makes life difficult?

Reflection? On defining myself?

Gag reflex.

I love my life as a dickhead.

Words. Chastity. Blog. Secrets of afar. You can be handcuffed.

While in a holding cell, Nazi USSR pact breakdown.

Actually, in print it’s libel, Foxen.

Enduring ideas in art, bespectacled art. History, dickhead. Before diagnosing depression make sure you are not surrounded by assholes, defecation.

Quattuor Dies.

Arse in hand. Nihilistic Art, 2007. Fucking aggravating, the nihilist.

Blueflame Special, The Enduring Asylum.

Kafka. Fucking. Sucks.

Enduring.

Arts life as a dickhead. Fucking theme: enduring brain.

Before you diagnose William Gibson from Begbie, fuck ground.

Live my life as a dickhead, cock sucking in Perth.

Real Foods. Michael Grimm Foxen, overgrown penis.

Sucking William Gibson before you diagnose the reasons that art endures.

Surrounded, William Gibson relos swath. Narkish, despair.

.com emotional turmoil, elip. Art fle, Pint fle.

What did Willy Nelson say? Lovemachines? Miserable fucking Scots? What does the blue flame special refer to? Who the fuck? Wiggey Wiggey?

Michael Grimm Foxen charged for stuff abuse, please make sure you are not in fact surrounded by cunts. Blow Real Foods Michael Foxen, Michel Grimm Foxen, before you siagnose yourself with low self esteem, first make sure you are not, in fact, surrounded by arse.

Almost. Sweet Talk. Cum. Cock Suck, Perth, Yes? Tommy, proper fucked. Twinge of guilt? Hockey sluts, Dalai Lama.

On peak oil, Christpher Lambert: I deserve a reward.

Faith No More: Nazi-Soviet non-aggression.

Adages about guilt: proper fucked, proper fucked, Tommy Addams, that’s it.

Thing-smee acronym. Sucking corporate cock, fuck the Scots. Smee. Again. Goan and fuck yourself.

Mmmmmonica Bellucci, she mile fucking, man. Preconcieved art. Happy Heroin. Was Hank Moody using?

What? Kind of typewriter what?

The difference between enduring and putting up with something is defamation. Possibly. Impossible. Puzzle?

Michael Foxen. Michael Foxen. MICHAEL GRIMM FOXEN! Jason Aaron.

He’s going for distance, deserves a reward, quotes ‘enduring art’.

Scots are full of shit.

Amusing libel, not in print.

Smee again, go and fuck yourself, fuck scots, Thom Yorke, Michael Foxen, Real Foods, old fucking cunts, faith.

No More. Sometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually become the person fucking old mass: Michael Grimm Foxen.

Organic.

Michael Foxen: Love My Life As A Dickhead. Edinburgh.

Fuck Bob Dylan.

No gag reflex, cum. Procrastinatium.

Photos that make you feel like enduring Real Foods, William Gibson, low self esteem, donkeys fucking, Charlotte, fucking Scots, Edinburgh.

In print, it’s libel. Ideas? I deserve a reward, truth.

Blood, hand up arse, surrounded by asshole.

Smee again, miserable Scots.

Enduring Art. Gethin Lynes. Michael Foxen. Banalus.

Michael Foxen.

Michael Grimm Foxen.

 

 

Chastity. It’s fucking CHASTITY. Also, Bowel Movements.

•February 2nd, 2012 • 1 Comment

Ok, so generally, I am trying to be a little more regular – No, I’m not talking about my bowel movements, they’re fine thank you, and no, I’m not talking about frequency. What is it with people using regularity in place of frequency anyway? If we’re not careful here trendsetters, we’re going to permanently change the meaning of a word that was just fucking fine to begin with.

Don’t believe me? Just look at celibacy. All you fuckers use it to mean the abstinence from sex. And it’s true, if you look it up in the dictionary – even a reputable one, you know, like the fucking Oxford – it will confirm it. Which is completely ridiculous. Celibate used to mean unmarried. If you wanted to keep your pink parts in your pants, you were fucking chaste, not celibate. They’re not called bloody celibacy belts are they? Anyway, what the fuck was wrong with that arrangement? Two distinct words, two distinct meanings. Why do we now need those two words to mean the same thing, and have to use unmarried to mean unmarried? Fuck’s sake… no pun intended.

So, I’m talking about doing things (this blog thing specifically), more regularly… as in, at regular, probably equidistant, intervals. Like once a week. No less, no more. Really, no more. I have other shit to do you know; more important shit; like what I should be doing now; writing fiction. But I’m having a bit of a crap day, an Edinburgh day. Which is not to say that Edinburgh is crap, but that I’d really rather be there than here right now. I should probably stop writing stories about the place, I’m fucking bad enough with nostalgia at it is.

It is grey and dismal outside today. Unfortunately, being Perth, it’s also fuck-off hot, not that romantic European/Melbourne/Edinburgh kind of grey and dismal. Not even that stormy, wind-swept-ocean Sydney kind of grey. It’s just fucking uncomfortable. So instead of using my time productively, I just want to have a whinge. It’s no good having a whinge to the people at work – they’re public servants, they won’t understand the emo-nostalgic-poet frame of mind. And it’s no good having a private little whinge, I don’t want to fucking hear it. I’ve heard it all before. Quite frankly, I’m fucking sick to death of hearing it. I’d much rather subject you lot to it.

In fact… just saying that makes me feel better. I have been trying to up my blogging game a bit recently; actually get off my self-indulgent pedestal and write about something interesting, or vaguely interesting, or at least write about it in a borderline amusing fashion, even if the depth of my insight, analysis, or excitement is about that of a parking lot puddle. But the thought that you’ve just sat through several paragraphs of drivel, waiting for the pay-off you were sure was coming, only to find this horseshit… well… I feel remarkably better. Thanks.

Now, fuck off, I have things to write.

Pertinacity, Dogmatism and Palm Fronds.

•February 1st, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I step outside, sans sunglasses, into a hot wind. Sunlight pierces my skull like a marlinspike, brain pulsating behind my eyes like the black, rum-soaked heart of Old Salty, marooned on some god-forsaken patch of white sand that stays sickeningly still beneath his feet. I need a drink, something cool and fruity, something that smacks of palm trees and an ocean breeze, of the rhythmic rolling of waves on the shore, and perhaps a scantily clad island girl to fan me with a palm frond.

Instead, I am climbing a fucking concrete hill, surrounded by great fingers of steel and glass pointing at the heavens, a cautionary reminder of the inescapable malice of the sun. Like a panicked rabbit, I zigzag between patches of shade, desperate to escape the descending fiery jaws of death. The wind, a sweltering blast like the flatulence of the almighty, burns in my lungs, parches my throat. I struggle to draw breath, stopping at every shaded opportunity to recover.

There is something deeply inhuman, inhumane about living in this sort of climate. We might have long since evolved away from growing fur coats, but we are not meant to live in this fucking heat. I’m sorry Edinburgh, for all my past indiscretions. I will. Never. Complain. About. The. Cold. Again… ever…

I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time – wasted it really – lamenting, discussing and ranting about the realities of Westralia, the rampant boganism, the dire state of conservatism, the nannying of the populace, not to mention the fucking temperature. I’m not going to take it back, the place is still bloody hot and (largely) colonized by dickheads, but I am prepared to be a little more forgiving, a little less quick to defenestrate the entire population. I have realised something very important:

It is not their fault.

The West Australian brain is like an overcooked roast, a shrivelled little nugget of meat sitting in a scalding pan of its own rapidly thickening juices. There’s no discrimination here, it’s not just Westralians. Their seems to be this critical zone that vaguely straddles the tropic lines, some shifting, indefinable region in which there exists just the right meteorological conditions to fuck white people up. Anywhere you go where the heat rises above 36.5°C on a regular basis, the whiteys in residence will by-and-large be a herd of bigoted fucking morons. Perhaps it is merely that cooking things brings out their natural flavour.

At any rate, I know it’s true, because I myself am drifting in that direction. Not to say that I’m turning into a racist, I’m most certainly not, but as I’ve said afore, and frequently in recent times (i.e. since taking up residence in this fair, red-dusted state), I’m becoming [more of] an intolerant prick – it’s just that my particular brand of intolerance extends only so far as my happily sweating jingoist neighbours. And you can’t blame me. It’s the bloody weather.

By the same token, give these poor little Jim Crows a break. Come on now, I’ve got an air-conditioner, and while I am loathe to use it – being a concerned little tree hugger and all – the odd session, when the outside leaves 40° in its dusty wake, might just be able to stave off a flailing descent into the scowling morass of dogmatism. But the locals? They’re fucked… or perhaps baked is a better term. More accurate at least. They’ve been cooking their pretty little heads (and there’re some pretty ones here abouts I can tell you) their entire lives, for generations even.

So, in the name of charity, of compassion and empathy, I hereby claim to cease my disparagement of, and disdain for all (ok, most) things Westralian. I will not go so far as to say there is a general lack of intelligence around here, far from it, so when it comes down to it, I can really only applaud and respect the fact that so many clever people choose to remain here, knowing full well that for all their intelligence, they’re gonna turn into a fucking idiot in the long run.

That’s some pertinacious shit right there.

NB:

Look, in regards to the above, particularly the fourth paragraph, I am well aware of the fact that I tend to sit at home, with two cats, and an occasional wife, and write – and maybe now and then watch a bit of telly, or shoot things on the x-box, or twiddle my mandolin. What I don’t do, is go out of my way to go out and be social, and make friends, and find like-minded people who will no doubt dispel my narrow-minded attitudes toward Westralia.

I also don’t go to the beach enough.

And, in all honesty, until I do, I’m not for a moment going to cease my denigration of the place.

I do also, I’ll admit, have a tendency to frequently and bitterly bemoan wherever my current habitat happens to be, and then leave, and then spend the next several years in a state of desperate nostalgia about the place. So Westralia probably has that to look forward to.

And Those Who Are You Want To Further Debase…?

•January 25th, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The forecast said rain, but anyone with any shred of national pride knew it was bullshit. It never rains on the twenty-sixth of January, and quite frankly the Bureau of Meteorology is farkin un-Australian to even suggest it. The glittering expanse of Bate Bay is languid, glassy in the windless morning, the gentle swell lapping at the edge of the hot sand of Cronulla Beach.

The ever present knot of surfers sit on their boards, disappointed, and two men walk the length of the beach, back and forth. They are not locals, usually a dangerous proposition. It’s alright but, they look enough like locals – which is all that really matters – and they’re dispensing flags… for a fee, of course.

Somewhere they’ve managed to get their hands on nearly three hundred of the bloody things, and in the great Australian spirit of ingenuity, looking for an extra couple of bob, with flags in hand, they’re trawling Sydney’s Sutherland’s most Australian beach. [Proper Australian that is. None of this farkin bleeding-heart liberal, multicultural bullshit round here.] The flag-floggers are greeted like national farkin heroes, great white mobs of sheep, their necks getting redder beneath the sun by the minute, surround them, clamouring for their own little slice of patriotic heaven.

Now and then some brave, or stupid, soul, with the wrong shaped nose, or a tan that’s just a bit too bloody dark, wanders close, hoping to get their hands on their own little stick sporting its limp scrap of Australianness. The vicious glare of the sheep points them quickly in another direction. And a good thing too. Sheep might be farkin stupid, but there’s no denying they’re dangerous in numbers. It’s before midday though, and despite the heat and the glare of the sun, nobody has got real stuck in to the stubbies yet. Things are pretty relaxed… for the moment.

Off in the distance, the first trails of barbecue smoke are drifting up to hang in the suburban air. Give it another hour or so, and it’ll be a fully fledged haze, heavy with the nostalgic smell of overcooked meat, Australia’s contribution to world cuisine. It’s a heart warming scene, replete with white picket fences, and all the trappings of what makes this country great: VB, thongs, footy jerseys and eskies… Oh, and the flags.

Yeeeeewwwww! It’s farkin ‘straya day.

Or, as those of us who didn’t cry foul at last night’s academic suggestion that the rampant displaying of flags is a tell-tale sign of racism might call it: Invasion Day.

Many have been the filthy looks I’ve copped for the use of the moniker, a reaction I find endlessly amusing, given that the same people who don’t give a shit about the past (and continued) debasement of the country’s indigenous population, are the ones that cry loudest and longest about how we’re being invaded! By asylum seekers, by Asians, by Muslims… by pretty much everyone other than, say, the 10,000 odd Brits & Irish that stay illegally here every year… but that’s alright, at least they look like us.

“Racist?!?” is the cry. “Don’t farkin call me racist, just ‘cause I fly my flag, ‘cause I love my farkin country. You can’t tar everyone with the same brush, you know. Besides, everyone’s a bit racist. Everyone wants to see Australia as really Australian.”

Yeah, maybe everyone does, you fucking (yes, fucking, not farkin) red-neck, but my definition of what’s really Australian is a bloody continent away from what yours is, and mine’s got fuck all to do with what anyone looks like, or who they pray to, or don’t pray to, or what their anatomy consists of, or what they like doing with it, or who they like doing it with. Mine doesn’t need to be displayed on a fucking pennant.

On the other hand, maybe I am a little racist. I certainly find myself having a harder and harder time being in the presence of other Australians… or, rather, other white Australians. I know, I know, you can’t tar everyone with the same brush, and I don’t really, it’s just that, well, so many of us are such Dickheads.

Once upon a time I wandered about being incensed at the behaviour of the backpackers that crawled like plague-ridden rats through the gutters of Sydney’s beachside suburbs. There was even suggestion of making t-shirts that read: Fuck Off Back To Ibeefa. That, however, was prior to venturing into the world myself, and witnessing the great viral spread of Aussies overseas. Bugger the Brits, Australians are worse… shit, I was probably worse.

There’s nothing like broadening one’s horizons to change one’s attitudes and ideas. I wonder, however, if mine haven’t got a bit too broad. Not long before moving back to Oz, I saw Powderfinger play in Glasgow, and found myself wondering very seriously whether I actually wanted to be going “home” at all. I mean how many bare-chested, Essendon-Footy-Jersey-clad, Aussie-flag-draped wankers can you squeeze into one room? Not as many, apparently, as you can squeeze onto Cottesloe beach. Why the fuck would you need to try so hard to establish your Australianness? You’re at a fucking Powderfinger gig, there’s no one here but Australians. By the same token, why the fuck do you need to drape, shade, dry or tattoo yourself with a fucking Australian flag on Australia Day?

Given the number of people I know who have a great old time on Invasion Day, who get happily plastered, eat meat that’s been barbecued to within an inch of its life, drink fucking VB, or Carlton, or even bloody XXXX, who are Very. Clearly. Australian and quite rightly proud of it, but manage all of that without the need for bandying about the fucking flag, the only conclusion I can come to, is that you’re flying a flag because you’re (at least a little bit) fucking racist.

* Thanks to The Herd for the title:

“You’re not even from here in the first place,
And those who are you want to further debase.”

Encompassing Eons…

•January 18th, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Somewhere between lying down last night, and the alarm going off this morning, a truck came through the bedroom and ran me the fuck over. I should have been out on the piss. At least then there’d be a justifiable reason for feeling like I’ve been cast in lead. I am beginning to give credence to the notion that the body will demand you catch up on lost sleep eventually, even if it was months ago that you misplaced it…

Brain function is like a guttering candle flame, easily extinguishable. The way I’m feeling, it would be a blessing if somebody came and blew me out. The clutter on my desk has blended into a mess of colour, a blur from which stands out a fountain pen, a stained knife, and a rubber stamp that reads FUCK OFF. The screen before me is indistinct, unfocused. Perspective is skewed. It could be inches from my face or on the far side of the room, and who can tell the fucking difference? The drone of banal conversation fills the air, like the buzz of insects over summer grass, the breeze replaced by the hum of air-conditioning, the whir of the photocopier. It’s the modern fucking meadow, the quiet clearing amid the forest of steel and stone, bathed in fluorescent sunlight.

The gentle dozing, the half-sleep of ennui is broken by the harsh call of a telephone. I go through the motions, mouth bleeding out some incogitant drivel, subconscious regurgitating answers to the inanities of the legislative process, already retreating to the comfort of staring into space.

Like the clichéd world of childhood summers, endless afternoons spent lying in the grass, staring at the sun through closed eyelids, this place is extemporal; each heavy thud of the second hand encompassing eons: glaciers retreating; sea levels rising; clouds massing to block out the heavens; the darkened world freezing over; species evolve; extinction events rain down ruin upon the world; galaxies expand; planets collide; distant stars supernova…

There’s a multiplicity of coexistent cranial states it seems. Questions are met with a languid, heavy-lidded stare, mouth agape, slack-lipped. I am on the verge of drooling. And yet, I have just watched, passing before my sightless eyes, a universe take form, expand, and dwindle into nothing. There is clearly something going on in there. But nevertheless I sink back below the surface, the leaden waters of sleep closing inexorably over my head…

And then Director’s hand clamps down upon my shoulder.

“You alright there Gethin?”

“What? Um, yeah, fine mate…”