By Ross Sharp
July 13, 2016, ABC’s “7.30 Report” begins.
An interview with Wyatt Roy, the youngest person ever to be elected to Federal Parliament, and the youngest ever to leave it, having served a brief and undistinguished term doing eff-only-knows-what, and Roy is asked about the July 2nd Federal election that saw him pissed into political oblivion, and the Coalition of Reactionary Righteousness scrape back into power by a margin thinner than the wispy wisps on his chinny-chin-chin.
Roy responds with a squeak about the other side of politics, the Labor Party, and how its primary vote was the lowest recorded since the cessation of World War II, and how it’s not about him, it’s about them, what about them, not what about me, it isn’t fair, I’ve done my share, what about them? Leigh Sales, the host, has a giggly giggle at this, and it is at this point my mind wanders, my attention is lost, and I begin to muse on whether I should buy the 100cm Laibach belt, or the 110cm just in case I need a little extra breathing room and begin to fatten up some from all the cheap white cask wine I’ve been drinking of late.
Once upon a time, back in the day, there was a news and current affairs program on a Sunday morn where Laurie Oakes, a long-serving veteran of the Parliamentary press gallery and one of the very few, the miniscule few, deserving of a modicum of respect, would interview a political figure of the day, and do so for (wait for it) A WHOLE THIRTY MINUTES.
Oakes, an intelligent man and always well across his brief, was not inclined to suffer glib, facile answers from fools to questions of substance and, if he found himself in receipt of such answers, would oft maintain a bemused and quizzical silence whilst his subject would vainly attempt to fill the silence with all manner of limp verbal fappery and wind up looking a right horse’s arse.
Those were the days.
Now, in this, The Modern World, such programs and interview stylings have been replaced by infotainments hosted by fluffy people with fluffy smiles and fluffy hair who ask fluffy questions of political fluffballs who have no hesitation in revealing themselves to be horses arses, who’ve learned to live by hate and pain and whose lives have always been the same, and who happily don the mantle of horses arse as a badge of their individualism, their maverick spirit, their refusal to kowtow to “political correctness”, their outsider status, just saying what ordinary folk are a-thinkin’, doing what ordinary folk want a-doin’, freedom of speech and the right to have their opinion and force it down your throat until you gag and scream, “No! Stop! Please! Okay! Enough! I’ll suck! I’ll swallow! I’ll give your opinions credence and gravitas in the blessed name of all that is balance!”, and so we do come to a point where the ranks of our body politic and within our media play host to some of the dumbest, most ignorant, arrogant, loud-mouthed fencepost humping effwits that have ever been untimely spat from the womb of woman to walk upright on the face of this, our increasingly benighted earth.
That sentence has 203 words in it.
No, not the words in the sentence silly bugger, the f*ckwits.
There’s Eric Abetz, Stormfront’s favourite Nazi nephew, who, having maintained a strange and curious silence the eight-week election campaign (what is he doing in there, the neighbours wonder), has goose-stepped his way back into public view to talk about himself and Tony Abbott again and Tony Abbott and himself and will no doubt shortly progress to his favourite topics on how uppity niggers and faggots and women who fck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby are screwing up the planet for all the normal people, which is to say, the ones who hate uppity niggers and faggots and women who fck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby and have multiple accounts on Facebook under a variety of aliases so they can say as much all incognito like, a-hur-hur-hur.
Words, not f*ckwits. Silly buggers.
There’s Peter Dutton who scraped back into his position as Federal Minister for the Institutionalisation of Child Abuse by about a thousand something votes and subsequently blamed his close-call on “union thugs” and bikies ringin’ grandmas in the dead of night to scare the shit out of them about possible changes to Medicare, because bikies don’t bike no more, they just want to scare the shit out of yo’ granmama and pa and threaten to break their dentures and stab their pets if they don’t vote right.
There’s Kevin Andrews.
I don’t even want to go there, I’m tired.
The cream of the crop though, the pick of the box, and, like Peter Dutton, Barnaby Joyce and some silly prick whose name I couldn’t be bothered reminding myself of, all of them hailing from Queensland, Australia’s baby-rape-and-torture-p0rn white-trash-dick-pulling-pervert capital of the nation comes Pauline Hanson (again), a-screechin’ and a-screamin and a-hollerin’ ‘bout Muslims in her Vegemite, scientists who make shit up about the weather, uppity niggers and chinks, immigrants and refugees and effing faggots with their gay marriage thing that will send us all hurtling into Hell, and any other topic that may suddenly pop into her addled, empty head whenever a microphone or television camera is poked at her so she can wallow in the sound of her own strangulated voice for a bit. Again.
All of these individuals, these political outliers on the ragged edges of reality, are aided and abetted almost daily by their shouty-sulky-sooky-squealy counterparts in contemporary news media, print (what’s left of it) and electronic, who insist we engage, talk with, and not at, rather than immediately dismiss their rabidly unhinged, ignorant and uninformed fantasies and conspiracy theories with slurs, sneers, or, Heaven forfend, actual facts, reason, logic and other so-called “elitist”, “over-educated” intelligence-based nonsense.
In the scant couple weeks following the Australian federal election on July 2nd, Australian media and current affairs, and the mealy-mouthed clacking trash who inhabit same, have largely ignored issues of policy in favour of getting down and jiggy with alleged O!U!T!R!A!G!E!O!U!S offences against their own poor, oh-so-soft-and delicate souls, column after column after column and commentary expressing shock-horror at the crimes committed against their gentle good names whenever they invoke the “right” to an “opinion” or their right to “freedom of speech” to talk shit about uppity niggers, bitches, faggots and rag-heads and get called on it.
Starting with Steve Price, a walking, talking shrunken ball-sack with eyes like two pissholes in the snow, who makes his living sitting on a high-chair in a studio barking at people down a microphone, got his spoilt brat baby-elf self all wetly weepin’ when Guardian columnist Van Badham proffered the controversial suggestion to him on ABC’s “Q&A” that perhaps men, grown men, should not make “jokes” on air about drowning women they don’t like, women who have the audacity to speak, resulting in Price thundering that he would not have his diminutive person be “bullied” and pushed around by some “hysterical” bitch-whore like Badham while he was trying to interrupt her every second word on a subject and she most unreasonably refused to let him. The bitch.
Price, who has no talent or qualifications in life for anything other than barking at people down microphones on the radio, saw all this as most terribly, terribly unfair, and squealed like a miniature stuck-pig about it for the best part of a week after.
Van Badham, for her sins against middle-aged patriarchy, was subsequently inundated with all manner of abuse suggesting she be bashed, smashed, f*cked in the arse and carried about like a bowling ball, apparently perfectly reasonable suggestions according to those men, bastions of civility all, who comprise Price’s audience.
Almost immediately after this not-so-private tête-à-tête, like Musketeers to the rescue, and to defend the unassailable integrity of their poor little bruised and bullied pocket monkey, came a few other middle-aged white males (mostly) from Rupert’s Media Comic Kingdom, men who no doubt also pine fondly for the days when a man could slap a woman and tell her to stay slapped and like it, and you could have a schoolboy snigger about “grubby poofters” without the sky falling in, MANLY-MEN-OF-THE-WORL*D like Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt and Fluffy Rowan of Dean, the latter being someone who’s never let a fact go by without making it a fiction and vice-versa, and this shit did continue to constitute “news” for a further few days, until some other shit took its place.
This other shit came in the shape and form of the aforementioned Pauline Hanson, triumphant, resurgent, and back in Federal politics for God-only-knows how many years to scowl at us all again with that horribly familiar demented demeanour of a constipated lizard with a rusty pot-scourer on top.
Hanson’s shit did also fly on ABC’s “Q&A” on Monday, in all its trembly, tremulous, pent-up and pig-ignorant glory, and it’s been flying ever since, and shall no doubt keep flying for quite some time, column after column after column and commentary yet to come, all of it focused on (a) should the media engage with and consider Hanson’s views as “legitimate” concerns, or (b) should the media take pains to refute, argue with, and dismiss her concerns using reason, fact and logic, where (b) automatically defaults to (a) anyway, and everyone still winds up talking about the silly goose regardless.
Hanson, who proved on “Q&A” she wouldn’t know a Muslim if one was seated next to her, was joined and supported in denseness a day or two later by Sonia Kruger, another ageing Caucasian who co-hosts a “morning” program on a commercial television station which serves primarily as a vehicle for “infotainment” advertisements for weight-loss belts and Made-In-China plastic gadgets that will help you cook an egg and, quite frankly, if you need a fcking gadget beyond a saucepan or frypan to help you cook a fcking egg, could you kindly do the world and everyone in it a huge favour and throw yourself off the nearest f*cking cliff.
Kruger admitted she had a problem with Muslims too because mother children scary shit trucks planes trains and automobiles boom everybody dies close borders please whites only.
The Project’s Waleed Aly then hopped into the so-called “debate” saying Kruger wasn’t evil, she was just scared, scared of scary people with trucks and plains and trains and automobiles and scared for the future of “her” country, as opposed to my country or your country or the country of that bloke up the shops, and we should all show restraint and exercise forgiveness and be patient and strong and start engaging with all these prominent, white and wealthy outspoken racists who have multiple opportunities across all form of media to espouse their intolerant and dishonest views and invite them in for a cup of tea and some lamingtons, maybe even friandes, because some racists can be really nice people when you get to know them, and how we should start nodding our heads politely when they start bunging on about effing ragheads and uppity niggers and chinks and migrants and effing faggots rather than telling them to shut the eff up and get the fck out of the fcking house before justifiable homicide becomes a really attractive option.
Kruger’s comments (said she) were motivated by some creative typing from Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt she’d read, or glanced at, or had read to her, and if ever one needed proof that contemporary mainstream Australian media is an infinitely self-referential zombie-snake chewing on its own bleached and distended rectum, that’s it right there.
These people and their Vaudevillian Theatres of Cruelty, screw them, they are pricks and they are shit.
The likes of Price, Hanson and Bolt have now come to regard themselves as their own religious faiths, and to dare criticise, challenge, or confront their myopic stupidity is, in their minds, somewhat akin to fisting the Christ child, pissing in the holy water, throwing pigs’ heads at mosques, or insisting Auschwitz was nothing more than a holiday camp for wayward Jewish delinquents.
So enamoured are they of their own selves that, when the shit they dish out is dished back at them in any form, no matter how vicious, no matter how mild, they’re off like a bag of ha’penny bungers, like a fourteen year old boy fumbling its first sexual experience only to end up with nothing other than an embarrassing stain on his pants, and then saying, “Gee, maybe next time, eh?”, to which the girl (or boy) responds “Are you f*cking kidding me? I’m out of here, you should stick to masturbation, I think it’s more your style”, and they do stick to masturbation because it is their style, one hand fits all sizes, fapping, fapping, fapping …
Bolt, who now seems to consider himself Australia’s leading expert on race relations has even begun to lend his expertise to analysing the roots and causes of the current racial unrest and violence within the United States of Murder and what better person to clarify that for us all than a middle-aged White Australian Dutch immigrant who lives in Melbourne, works for a tabloid, writes books that few people want to buy, and whose idea of “research” is sitting on his arse doing internet, and who has now disappeared so far up himself he’s taken to posting photographs his “readers” send him of his book on deckchairs by the sea.
What. A. F*cking. Tosser.
A curious thing about the so-called “silent majority” on whose behalf Bolt and Hanson et al have so graciously anointed themselves spokespeople, is they are rarely silent as can be seen by the reaction Sydney’s Lord Gladstone hotel received when it announced its plans to host a “F*ck Pauline Hanson Day” on July 17th whose aim, shockingly, subversively, and in a let’s fly planes into buildings terrorist kind of fashion, was to “share some laughs in an all-inclusive, friendly environment for like-minded people who openly can’t stand the ridiculousness that is Pauline Hanson and her agenda”, eat chips and drink cocktails …
Freedom of Speech is all very well and good when it comes to illiterate and inarticulate backwoods white trash bumpkins from BumF*ck out Back of Nowhere, as long as the “speech” you wish to be “free” with accords with their own, otherwise they start in with the rape-you-with-a-stick and kill-your-children death threats.
The “restraint” and “patience” we are urged to display toward these squawking racist shit-stains would appear to be, not just a one-way-street, but a dead-end, and you are most likely to be the one who winds up dead at the end of it if you so much as dare take the piss, confront or legitimately criticise their inviolable Idols of Truth, Justice and Popular Fascism.
Speaking for myself, as I can speak for no other and have no desire to, I would rather engage my head with a brick wall than give these purling, tatchy, gurt chonnting, zower-sapped yerring trash the time of day, and if I were inclined to give them the time of day, I’d make damn sure it was the wrong time, just for the effing fun of it.
The type of ur-Fascism espoused by these racist numpties and the glumping thunderpricks of mainstream tabloid media does not, to paraphrase Michael Rosen, drape itself in fancy dress, it does not speak of militias, mass imprisonments, torture, persecution, it wants to be your friend and give you a house and a job and clean up the neighbourhood, it wants to Make Australia Great Again and shake your hand, and talk about the necessity of “tough measures” and “difficult” but necessary decisions in the name of stability, peace, prosperity, and protection from the blue-skinned, lizard-scaled, parrot-beaked half-breed mutants from beyond, the dark forces deviously plotting to soil the pure bloodline and seed of the Great Australian Aryan, so exemplified and amplified by the flunting jawbations of yawping hoofwankers like Price and Bolt and Hanson and other over-baked media cum-muffins for whom too much hysteria is never enough.
As one former editor of a major daily recently remarked, “Ten years ago, even five years ago, no-one would have reported the Sonia Kruger story. Not because we’d be trying to silence her; just because no-one thought that the random thoughts of TV celebrities could be considered news. It would be like making a headline from something an opinion columnist had written in your own, or another, newspaper “Opinion columnist has opinion””.
There are very few voices of considered sanity and opinion remaining within the ranks of our current body politic, within the fourth estate, their ranks thinning even as we speak, their replacements a tawdry gaggle of buzznacking grunts who, in lieu of reporting items of fact, now simply make shit up to fill the minds of fools whose morbid fear of intelligence, of the other, has now become a monster of appetites insatiable.
There’s Laura Tingle from the Australian Financial Review. Ross Gittins from Fairfax. Greg Jericho from The Guardian Australia. The occasional rare-as-hens-teeth appearance from George Megalogenis.
There’s Laurie Oakes, still going, still plugging away, and sometimes I do imagine him flipping through the “news” of the day, of the moment, and wondering to himself, gently pondering in quiet contemplation, perhaps even a manner of stupefied awe …
“What the f*ck ever happened to actual journalism?
Certain words in this post which may be unfamiliar to you are in fact words, and are taken from David Crystal‘s “The Disappearing Dictionary – A Treasury of Lost English Dialect Words”, a book I would encourage you to purchase.
When he’s not purchasing dictionaries of obscure English terms or training cats to live solely on a diet of meat pies and “buying their own bloody Resch’s!”, Ross Sharp regularly blogs on his own site: Smelly Tongues