Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Waiting For A Bus In Sydney: A Short Play

Sydney is a self-described "world class city" in which it is frequently impossible to move around. For instance, a Sydney Morning Herald headline from a week ago reads 'This is peak NSW': CBD streets closed after new Sydney tram breaks down.

There are many theories as to Sydney and its transport is as fucked as it is. One popular theory is "they've handed the entire state to private corporations and 'get rich quick'  developers' while massively defunding public infrastructure that you then flog off" are reasonably popular theories, as are "ARRGH JESUS FUCK YOU FUCKING PRICKS" (a quick poll from a random train station the other day).

In short, NSW in general is a strange combination of increasingly pure neoliberalism with ugly, sleazy nepotistic corruption overseen by incompetent gangsters.

Take for instance this totally true story that happened to me, that I have decided is best expressed in the form of a short play in a bid to "reach the masses", whose love for theatre is well-known. I hereby publish it below

I can't recall exactly where these events, but it was one of those places on the very outskirts civilised life. An isolated, nowhere land where dreams go to die and nightmares go shopping at Westfields. Which is all another way of saying it happened in "somewhere in Sydney".

The Bus Stop

[Carlo Sands waits at a bus stop somewhere in Sydney. There is no shelter, just one of those planks of wood stuck in the ground with a Sydney Buses logo sprayed on it. A small girl of about five approaches.]

SMALL GIRL: Hello sir, could I please borrow 50 cents?

CARLO: [looks at girl] Fuck off.

SMALL GIRL: If you give me 50 cents, sir, I’ll fuck off.

CARLO: [Looks at her, she stares back] Lucky for you I hate kids. [gives her a coin] Now fuck off.

SMALL GIRL: Thank you sir. I always keep a promise!

[She kicks him in the shins and runs off]

CARLO: Good! Ow.

[A man walks up as Carlo rubs his shin while looking down the road for a bus.]

MAN: Howyagoin there mate?

CARLO: [looks at him then back down the road, hand on shin] Bruised.

MAN: Let me guess, you had to pay 50 cents for the privilege?

CARLO: The little fucker got you too, did she?

MAN: She’s infamous round these parts. You’re not a local, clearly. No shin pads.

CARLO: You mean the little pigtailed princess violently assaults people all the fucking time? For cash? Why doesn’t someone deal with the little prick?

MAN: She’s the daughter of the local member. She’s got connections.

CARLO: What the fuck does she need 50 cents for then? Her family's fucking loaded.

MAN: The MP's a gambling man. Pokies. You can find him down the RSL most days losing our hard-earned taxes. When he runs out of coins, he sends his little princess out to do the rounds.

CARLO: Jesus Christ! Well, thank fuck I’m outta this hole. What time’s the bus come?

MAN: Bus? [Laughs] Mate, we haven’t seen a bus round these parts in years. That’s an antique you’re standing next to. Should be in a museum, but the council keeps it out for show.

CARLO: What the hell are you talking about? When’s the fucking bus come?

MAN: I told you, you’ll wait here for ever. You want my advice, you’d better start moving. You don’t want to get caught out here after dark.

CARLO: [Staring] You’re serious! Why has this shit hole got no fucking buses?

MAN: The MP's gambling debts. He acts in our name, so we gotta pay it back somehow. It’s only fair, they said. First thing they took was the buses.

CARLO: Oh, for god’s sake! Why don’t you boot the bastard out?

MAN: Oh c’mon! And let the other mob in? No one wins by replacing a mongrel with a street dog, that’s how we look at it ’round here.

CARLO: [looking down the street] But having no buses…

MAN: [looks at him carefully] You know, we used to have a few of your sort round here. Idealists. Most of them never did a day’s work in their lives, of course, but you had to admire them for their beliefs. But end of the day, you gotta play the game with the hand your dealt. If they’re selling oranges, no point dreaming up recipes for apple crumble.

CARLO: [turns to the man] Look, I’m not advocating a fucking insurrection! I’m not suggesting a free-love commune with magic mushroom handouts for the unemployed. All I’m saying is, this place needs some fucking buses!

MAN: [rubbing his chin, thinking] Hmmm… You could try walking to the next stop. Fair way though. And like I say, you don’t want to get caught out here after dark.

CARLO: What happens, someone head butts your elbow?

MAN: Very funny. Just take my advice. I’ve got better things to do than talk to arseholes. Have a good one.

[He walks away.]

CARLO: Good fucking christ.

[Looks at the app on his phone]

CARLO: [reads] Hmm, 4.10. The bus is pretty late. And my battery is about to go. [Looks at phone in frustration] And the battery's gone!

[A teenage boy walks past, headdown writing furiously on his phone.]


[Carlo walks right in front of the boy who, his path being blocked, reluctantly looks up.]

CARLO: Hey! [The boy looks up.] What time’s the bus come?

TEENAGE BOY: Bus? What’s a bus?

CARLO: Jesus Christ. Taxi. T-A-X-I. You fuckers heard of them out here?

[Teenage boy looks blank]

CARLO: Uber?

TEENAGE BOY: Yeah, haven't you got the app? [He puts his head back down and walks off]

CARLO: [calling after him] My phone's dead! Hey can I borrow yours! HEY! Fuck!

[He looks up to the sky.]

CARLO: And now it’s getting dark …

WOMAN: [from behind Carlo] Do you always talk to yourself?

CARLO: [turns around startled to see a smartly dressed woman with a sly smile] Jesus, I didn’t see you. You here for the bus? I’m told they don’t exist.

WOMAN: [smiles] Locals will tell you that. You just got to know where to find one.

CARLO: And where the fuck would that be?

WOMAN: Well, you’re in the wrong place for a start. Far too obvious. To catch yourself a bus out here, you’ve got to think creatively.

[A silent pause as Carlo looks at her blankly]

CARLO: Do you want to give me a hint?

WOMAN: And what’s in it for more me?

CARLO: I’ll fund your election campaign to kick out the corrupt bastard who gambled all your cash away.

WOMAN: You mean my husband? He’s done more than a few good things for this place you know. More than most people appreciate.

CARLO: Like what?!

WOMAN: He’s abolished waiting at bus stops. That’s why it’s so obvious you’re not from around here.

CARLO: Ok, just tell me where I can catch a fucking bus out of here so I never have to talk to one you asylum escapees ever again.

WOMAN: [points] Walk ten k’s that way.

CARLO: That’s not creative!

WOMAN: You couldn’t figure it out. I’d get moving, too, things can get nasty after dark.

CARLO: [looks in the direction she pointed, thinking reluctantly of the walk suggested] Why does everyone keep saying that? What happens after dark?

[No answer. He turns around but she’s gone.]

CARLO: Fucking nutters. [shuffles impatiently] I know how to make the fucking bus come. Light a fucking cigarette, never fucking fails.

[Carlo gets a cigarette from a packet in his pocket and tries to light up, with the lighter failing.]

OLD MAN: [from behind] Smoke a whole bloody packet, it wont help ya. Tried it myself plenty of times in the old days.

CARLO: Yeah? Well I figure, if it doesn’t bring the bus out of here, at least I’ll die quicker. Either way I win. [Lighter fails again] Fuck!

OLD MAN: I remember the day they abolished the buses. Smoked a whole bloody carton. Waited 48 hours before it kicked in and I realised: they’ve finally done it, the bastards. They’ve gone and abolished the bloody buses.

CARLO: Look, someone has obviously slipped a tab of acid into my schooner. I’ve got better things to do than hang around here talking to a community of outpatients. Now, I realise none of you are exactly the strongest beer on tap, but can someone tell me, please, how the Hell to get out of this god-forsaken, loon-ridden, shin-kicking, pokie-addicted busless shithole?!

OLD MAN: Well… [thoughtful pause] I can tell you what happens after it gets dark.

CARLO: I can’t believe I left my machete at home. Look, I don’t give two flying fucks what happens after it gets dark! Look around you, you useless, old, busless bastard, it is ALREADY FUCKING DARK! Well, you know what? Fuck it! I give up! If I’m stuck here — you do have a pub don’t you?

OLD MAN: Take the second right, one block down.

CARLO: Coz I need at least 10 beers just to fucking start!

[Carlo storms off. The old man passively watches him leave. He shrugs.]

OLD MAN: Kids. At least in my day, we had some buses.

[The old man wanders off. The bus arrives, turns out it just been running a few years late.]

At least, I assume that is how it ended. It was all a bit of a blur.

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Five Songs About This Godforsaken Hellhole of a So-Called Country

This fucking country. Over two centuries of capitalism and white supremacy, built on genocide, dispossession and huge lashings of cruelty to the lower ranks of society, white or not...and today it is a hellish mix of oppression and ecological catastrophe that has entirely undone tens of thousands of years of sensible, quality management.

Australia is a horror show. It is a nightmare in which most of NSW is on fire and an Aboriginal man is shot dead by cops in the Northern Territory and violence against women is at epidemic levels and there is no fucking water and the pubs are unspeakable too. 

All nightmares deserve a soundtrack. So here is a playlist of five songs that help sum this hellhole up. Sure it is one sided, dealing with the horror, not the positives that have generally come through struggle... But here in Sydney, I'm choking on too much smoke from unprecedented fires to  feel overly enthused about that right now. 


1) A Tale They Won't Believe -- Weddings Parties Anything

"And some fool muttered 'liberty or death'..."

It turns out the convict system when Britain first colonised this continent was really fucking brutal and it brutalised people and nowhere was it more extreme than the horrific penal colony in Macquarie Harbour in Van Dieman's Land (Tasmania, which is still pretty bleak by all accounts). Those sent to what was a living hell were the poor not just from England, but places like Ireland where the vast majority were dispossessed by English landlords, forced into "illegality" just to survive. 

One such Irishman was Alexander Pearce, who was sent to Macquarie Harbour in the early 19th Century for stealing half a dozen pairs of shoes. With a bunch of others, he somehow escaped... only to find themselves lost in the desolate wildness in which First Nations peoples with thousands of years of experience could survive, but a bunch of desperate, broken Europeans certainly could not. 

Soon, they turned to cannibalism... and a more fitting tale of utter degradation and degeneracy that accompanied the violent subjugation of this continent to the European invader I cannot imagine. Suffice to say, this macabre tale is a true story.

2) Boys in Town -- The Divinyls

"Get me out of here!" 

Australian men, young men in particular, are presented in this song as mediocre and menacing to young women in equal measures, with both factors behind the increasingly insistent and desperate cry of "Get me out of here!" Luckily that's not reality! LOL!

3) Damnation -- The Nation Blue

"These streets are screaming help me!"

This song is Australia x 1000. Written about small "company towns" in far flung places like rural Tasmania, its desperate scream about standing "on toxic ground" is matched by its furious demand we "burn this fucking town down". In this song, the "town" is an analogy for this whole goddamn system, and we need to burn this fucking system down, amirite comrades?

4) River of Tears -- Kev Carmody

'Two hundred years in the river of fear...'

This is another true story. It is about a police execution of an entirely innocent Aboriginal man David Gundy in Marrickville Sydney in 1989. Sure, the cops got off scot free, but luckily it was just a one off, if you exclude all the other murders by police, up to an including the extradjudicial exectuion of Kumanjayi Walker from the Yuendumu Community in the Northern Territory just fucking days ago.

5) Anthem -- Tiddas

 "Don't sing me your anthem when your anthem's absurd..."

What else is there to say. This song by First Nations folk trio Tiddas was released two decades ago, and since then has just gotten more relevant. It would be more controversial, too, released now. For instance, Weddings Parties Anything, who start this list, covering the song on Hey Hey It's Saturday in 1999. That is the most "middle Australia" inane "rock-no-boats" show imaginable. Imagine performing a song dedicated to absolutely spitting on the Australian national anthem on any TV show in Australia today. Hell, if it was on the ABC, they'd pull it and apologise profusely for not kissing the flag ten million times every 30 seconds.

Fuck this country.

Wednesday, November 06, 2019

Here are all the song titles for my country-folk singer-songwriter debut album

I am a singer-songwriter operating in the country genre, of the sort they tend to call "alt-country" these days, I guess, to distinguish it from the absurd nightmareish horror that passes for mainstream country -- though there is of course a growing rebellion in recent y ears, as there is every few years in country music, with the likes of Margo Price and Sturgill Simpson and Tyler Childers and many more reclaiming the genre...and me. Of course.

It may be objected by some that I have certain disadvantages in launching a country-folk singer-songwriter career in that I can neither sing nor write songs. Nor play any instrument. Nor have I ever shown the slightest aptitude for anything musical.

There are always those trying to drag you down. I prefer to focus on the positives, such as the fact I already have all the song titles worked out for my debut album of classic country songs about heart ache, alcoholism and a troubled relationship with God. I hearby release the titles for the world to see and await expressions of industry interest.


Too Much Booze Will Kill You (But So Will Not Enough)

Whiskey River Took My Soul (So I Drowned In It)

I Don't Believe in Death (But It Believes in Me)

I'm Still Drinking About You

Jesus Says He Loves Me (But I've Taken Out a Restraining Order)

Please Don't Save Me, Jesus

But Who'll Save Jesus (Coz It Won't Be Me)

I Kicked The Drinking Habit (But The Bastard Kicked Back)

Without You (I'm Drinking For Two)

An Alcoholic's Kiss (Always Tastes Minty)

Even My Beer Has Gone

I'm Sorry I Drank All Your Booze (But I'm Not Sorry I'm Drunk)

She's An Enigma (Wrapped in a Cliche)

The Grass Is Always Greener On Top (Below It's Just Dirt) 

The Past Is A Locked Door (And You Stole The Key)

Waiting Round To Drink

Desperados Waiting For The Pub To Open

Man In Black (With Slight Vomit Stains Down The Front)

I'd Walk The Line (But I'm A But Unsteady Right Now To Be Honest)

Hey God, Buy Me a Beer You Bastard

Bottles and Bibles (The Preacher's Been Drinking Again)*

Whiskey Whiskey Whiskey Whiskey Whiskey Why Did You Leave Me Whiskey Whiskey Where is My Whiskey

* This is a cover of a song by the great, young Kentucky-native country singer Tyler Childers.

...Now the preacher's been drinkin'
But it's hard not to do
Since she ran out the screen door
And swore they were through

Oh Lord, if you care, send a spirit down here
Cause the preacher's been drinkin' again...

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Leaked Transcript Of Donald Trump Sacking John Bolton

Donald Trump has sacked his National Security Adviser John Bolton, apparently over conflicting view on whether to bomb all things or just most things in the world. As one of the world's most famous whistleblowing sites, An Alcoholic's Guide To Modern Life has acquired a secretly record transcript of the meeting. In the interests of transparency, AAGTML publishes it below.


[The Oval Office, West Wing, The White House.]

DONALD TRUMP: [Speaking with mouth full] Wow this filet-o-fish is great. They're the best, I order them all the time, I make the best orders. Take a seat John, just move those filet-o-fish wrappers. Thanks for coming to this meeting, I hold the best meetings, they're great, people talk about them, they say "the president's meetings are great", I mean not in the fake news media, they hate greatness, but people know, they do, they come up to me and thank me for my service, they say I'm doing a great job. So I'm glad you came.

JOHN BOLTON: No problem, Mr President.

TRUMP: What was that? I can't hear you through that thing on your face. I gotta tell you John, your moustache is not great, it's not great at all, and I need my people to be, well not as great as me, but great.

BOLTON: I'm sorry Mr President.

TRUMP: OK don't worry about it, we can't all be great. [Into speaker phone] Can I get another filet-o-fish up here? With an extra filet? John, do you know why I called you here?

BOLTON: To discuss who to bomb.

TRUMP: John, I asked you to prepare a detailed briefing paper on the global geopolitical situation in relation to the strategic threats to blah blah blah something whatever. Now I got it here somewhere [sounds of rustling paper] sorry, it's got a little tartar sauce on it, but I had one of my people read it, they're great readers, the best. I only hire the best. They tell me it's got two words on it. It just says "bomb them!"

BOLTON: That's right Mr President.

TRUMP: John, you're my National Security Adviser. I ask you for advice. Your advice is always "Bomb them!"

BOLTON: That's right Mr President.

TRUMP: But bomb who?

BOLTON: Them, Mr President. Bomb them!

TRUMP: Who, Venezuela?

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: Iran? North Korea?

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: Japan?

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: Look John, I'd love to bomb Japan, my TV show ratings were terrible there, really terrible, they got terrible taste in TV, it'd be great. But my guys tell me we're allies. And my guys are great, the best.

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: What, bomb my guys? John you're not thinking straight. That facial hair can't help. Look, I'm with you. I love bombing things. And our bombs are great, we do the best bombings. Iran, their bombs are terrible, they're terrible bombers. The Saudis, they're alright, but they're our bombs. We sell them the bombs, we do the best deals on bombs. But John, I'm a businessman, I do deals, I do great deals, everyone says so. But you can't do deals with rubble, believe me I tried. It doesn't work.

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: John, my maths guys tell me, and I got the best maths guys, really, they tell me if I follow your advice I'll run out of bombs by next Tuesday. You can't reuse bombs, believe me I looked into it, they tell me you can't. And you can't make America great without bombs. I run out of bombs, they'll say look at Trump, he's got no bombs, he's weak, his terrible, he's the worst. No bombs at all. How will I fight the hurricanes?

BOLTON: Bomb them.

TRUMP: John, can I ask you a question?

BOLTON: Anything Mr President.

TRUMP: Can you shave off that stupid moustache?

BOLTON: Never.

TRUMP: You're fired. I can't have a guy working for me looking like a deformed walrus from some animal freak show! People will say "That Trump, he hangs out with the deformed walrus guy!" You're gone, get out of here.

BOLTON: It was my honour to serve you, Mr President. [Sounds of footsteps and a door closing]

TRUMP: [Calling] And don't bomb anything on your way out! This is my house! It's a great house, the best. What a stupid moustache. (Into speaker phone) Hey where's my filet-o-fish? I'm starving, I can't tweet on an empty stomach! Get me a 12 packer of McNuggets too. They're great, the best. And ask my guys again if they sure we can't bomb Japan?

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

For god's sake, just let the unemployed get as trashed as they fucking want

Of all the points raised by the federal government's latest bid to drug test welfare recipients, no one seems willing to say the obvious: for fuck's sake, just let the unemployed get munted!

Honestly, if you're not going to provide any fucking jobs (and there is one job for every 15 job seekers, and that's going on the understated official stats) and you also subject those without a job to well below poverty line incomes, then also subject them to a cruel bureaucracy that docks their shitty pay if they breath irregularly, then at the very fucking least let them pull a few fucking cones to cope.

Who are they actually hurting if somehow, out of their poverty pay, they manage to score?

Yet almost no one opposing drug testing welfare recipients dares raise this point.

It is all "oh people who are addicted need help, not punishment!" And yeah, the resources for people who need treatment for problematic drug use are severely lacking, and this is a scandal and an example of the hypocrisy of this government and emptiness of rhetoric about "dealing with drug addiction".

And yeah, testing such people if they are on payments, potentially cutting off their very meagre source of income, is a recipe for disaster as well as unspeakably cruel.

Details of the welfare testing bill. Image via 
@carlatreloar / twitter.
But there is a huge fact no one wants to talk about: the vast majority of people who use drugs, legal or illicit, whether they are employed or unemployed, do not have a "problem" that needs treating.

They just like to get off their fucking faces when the opportunity arises, and why the fuck not seeing as we are rapidly heading towards an ecoholocaust destroying the basis of the planet to sustain human civilisation?

Anyone who doesn't need to escape this reality in some way is probably a psychopath directly profiting from the destruction, and let's face it, those pricks surely have access to some very pure, high quality narcotics to abuse to their shrivelled, black hearts' content.

The poor, on the other hand, are just not allowed to have fun.

They are not allowed to escape the nightmare other, more powerful people, have built for them.

At very best they get to be "deserving victims", poor "addicts" who need saving.

What seems beyond the popular imagination is the idea that maybe they have the same fucking right to get out of their skulls from time to time as anyone else in this God forsaken "society".

When not talking about the poor addicts needing saving, opponents of drug testing welfare recipients like to point out the blindingly obvious: those on the dole can not afford to eat properly, much less buy drugs.

This, as opponents of drug testing point out, is proven by the testing of sewerage in Australian cities (which shows it is rich suburbs that actually use the most drugs, unsurprising as drugs actually cost money), and by the fact that when this was trialled in New Zealand, only 0.3% of welfare recipients tested in 2017/18 returned positive results.

But what no one else seems willing to say is that this is a fucking disgraceful state of affairs! This surely is as strong an argument as any to back the campaign to raise the rate of Newstart, so the unemployed can actually afford some drugs. This would be good for the  economy, as more money would flow to hard working small businesspeople such as local dealers.

Plus, if anyone deserves to get as wasted as humanly possible, it is the unemployed! It is poor bastards forced to deal with the dystopian "job network providers", who don't provide jobs but do specialising in torturing those laughingly called "job seekers" (despite their being fuck all jobs to seek) while taking huge hand outs of tax payers money.

That is, these "providers" bludge off the taxpayer (by more than $1.5 billion), which is the very thing those who hate the unemployed complain about most. This is ironic seeing as, by available evidence, no one hates the unemployed more than these "bludging of the tax payer" job network providers!

It's not easy trying to live on the dole. My housemate is on the dole, and I'm not saying he takes any opportunity to smoke himself into a total stupor. Hell no! He often bakes space cake as an alternative way to achieve oblivion.

And here we get to a further, but rarely raised, hypocrisy. Whether your "poison", as the kids say, is a legal and socially acceptable drug or not.

It should be obvious from the title of this blog that my preference is soaking my liver in non-medically recommended ways. But alcohol is hardly a "better" drug. It is just one that is socially acceptable, and legal as a result of pure historical chance.

I work in the area of harm reduction for people who use drugs. I work with people, and I mean as colleagues not "poor souls to be saved", who, for instance, are frequent users of ice, are former users of ice, and are sometimes users of ice. The same with heroin.

And the difference with this and my experience of working with people who frequently drink too much, who used to drink too much, and who sometimes drink too much is... nothing at all.  People can fuck themselves up with intoxicants, find some balance that works, actually be more functional due to some level.of use, and every other variant relating to intoxicants. Our society, from top to bottom, is riddled with unthinking hypocrisy about intoxicants.

So we have a double whammy of stigma and discrimination.

If you are poor, you are demonised. And if you use the "wrong" drugs, you are demonised, plus face potential legal threats. And if you do both, well may the Good Lord have mercy on your soul coz you are pretty fucking screwed.

For fuck's sake... just let the poor get wasted. If only because, whatever else, without their coping mechanism, they will probably get quite violent. And frankly, so they fucking should.

I only had a couple drinks last night 
And few good hits from an antler pipe
And I must admit, I had a few white lines 
And I don't know what all happened...
Ah, the West Virginia-bred saviour of country music Tyler Childers singing a song for our times. 

Monday, September 09, 2019

I Didn't Support Brexit Until I Read This Story About Trial By Combat Being Ruled Out By A Court

A depiction of trial by combat in Augsburg in 1409.
My political assessment, from Australia, of the whole "Brexit" thing has been to fall out of my chair laughing as the so-called "United" Kingdom rips itself apart in a display of slapstick comedy not seen on the world stage since... no, this particular act of national suicide is actually pretty unprecedented. 

Then I remember that there are real lives at stake and the most vulnerable -- the poorest and especially migrants -- are victims of this cruel farce. And I nod solemnly at how terrible it is. Then I burst out laughing again.

I'm sorry, it's objectively funny. It just is.

I mean we get to watch Boris Johnson be humiliated in ever more extreme ways every single day. And yes it's sad that huge numbers of people are getting screwed along the way, but honestly Ireland is kinda used to it by now and if you remove that tsunami of human misery from the equation, then you've got yourself some wholesome family entertainment called "Watch The Failing Toff Fall On His Face Again".

And look, I don't even like the European Union. It is a deeply undemocratic neoliberal torture house, as any Greek can tell you. I have zero love for it.

But responding with Brexit is like trying to get over a dose of the flu by injecting yourself with rabies.

And yes, here in Australia we are hardly in any position to laugh, having re-elected a government so insanely cruel, so avant garde with their torture regime, that Donald Trump shook his head in wonder and declared: "You're worse than I am!"  Like, really

But still.

My point is I have looked at Brexit with a kind of wonder usually reserved for winners of the Darwin Awards. It wasn't something I could understand in any rational way.

I mean come on! Britain... Britain!...whinging about sovereignty??? They colonised huge chunks of every single continent!

And democracy??? Every law has to pass an unelected upper house and be signed into law by a born-to-rule inbred German! It doesn't pass the "this is batshit insane" test.

Then I read one story that totally changed my perspective.

Before now, I never understood what true national oppression looked like. I could not grasp at how stifling and humiliating it is to have your culture, practised for centuries, squashed without a second thought by some overpaid bureaucrat in Brussels!

Not until I read the story about how some court had ruled that a decent English mechanic had his God given right as an Englishman to have his legal matters settled by the long-standing tradition of Trial By Combat ruled out by a court of law!!!

Trial By Combat, for those millennials too obsessed with which ever Kardashian they are following on Instagram to know, is a way of resolving a legal dispute by means of a fight to the death between the defendant (or any champion he or she appoints to represent them in the fight) and the prosecutor (or any champion they may chose to employ). 

It has been practised in the once proud nation of England ever since 1066!!! Banning it is truly political correctness gone made, by any definition!

And some pedants will say, but this was a ruling by a British court, and anyway, it was introduced by the Norman Conquest of England by a bunch of Frenchmen, and also trial by combat was widespread across Europe as part of the feudal order that was part of Germanic law, but that is not the point!

The point is everyone knows the snowflakes of the European Court of Human Rights hate tradition! The British court in question must have known, when they made their ruling, that the ECHR would rule it out, while everyone know they allow beheadings and suicide bombings to take place every day under Sharia Law! 

Just read this!

Mechanic Demanded Trial by Combat in Response to Parking Ticket

It’s safe to say that no one likes getting a ticket. But in England, a Suffolk mechanic, Leon Humphreys, then 60, took a next-level approach to challenging his $32 (£25) ticket in 2002, issued for failing to notify the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA) that his motorcycle was off the road.
Leon Humphreys demanded trial by combat, citing medieval precedent.
He “claimed he was entitled to ask the court to establish his guilt or innocence by allowing him to fight to the death against a champion nominated by the DVLA,” reported the Ipswich Star.

Humphreys, of Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, unemployed at the time, said that his choosing trial by combat meant he did not have to enter a plea of guilty or not guilty. However, the court decided to log his plea as “not guilty.” 
The defendant offered to take on a clerk from Swansea with “samurai swords, Gurkha knives or heavy hammers.” 
Humphreys told the media after his hearing: “I believe the right to trial by combat is still on the statute books. I can ask for it because the new Human Rights law gives ordinary people the right to use the law for their own purposes. I am willing to fight a champion put up by the DVLA if they want to accept my challenge – but they must remember it is a fight to the death.”
He continued: “The victor speaks in the name of God and justice so it is a reasonable enough way of sorting the matter out. I know I am in the right so I do not have anything to worry about. I am reasonably fit and not afraid of taking anyone on in a fight.”
WELL SPOKEN MR HUMPHREYS! GOD BLESS YOU FOR INSISTING ON YOUR RIGHT TO NATURAL JUSTICE!!! Shamefully, such a cry for justice was ignored, with the article noting: "Not only did the court disagree, but the magistrates fined him £200 with £100 costs."


'I don't need to read the papers or the tea leaves to understand. This world's been shaved by a drunken barber's hand...' You're singing our story, Slaid. 

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Yes, even dental industry spammers from New Jersey want a piece of this blog's action!

Photos via Advanced Dental Group of New Jersey.

Much has been written in praise of this blog, from "totally deranged rantings" to "deeply disturbing insights into the mind of a probable psychopath with substance abuse issues" all the way through to "hardly ever updated".

(And that's just from my mother HAHAHAHA no actually she just refuses to acknowledge my existence these days.)

This blog, if the mail I receive is any indication, is famed over the world as much for the quality of its contents as for its reach into key target communities for spammers ranging from supplement sellers (possibly driven my references to the Mighty Essendon Bombers?) to a disturbingly wide array of porn providers.

But finally, I've made it. Finally the dental industry in New Jersey has been forced to sit up and take notice! And they wanna piece of the Carlo Sands action!!!

Yes, I received in my inbox the following piece of correspondence that indicates beyond all doubt that appreciation of my world-shaping impact only grows.
Hey, Carlo! 
I am Andrea from Advanced Dental Group of Edgewater, I was searching for local bloggers in New Jersey where our business is located and I found your blog 
I'm writing this to you because I'd love to contribute a guest post to your site or if you find our site helpful to your audience you can add our link as an additional source of information to one of your posts that fits our nature of business. Here is our link: 
Please let me know if you’d be open to accepting guest posts. I will be glad to promote it (when live) on our social media profiles. 
Wow. It is always nice to be noticed and appreciated by your own locals, isn't it? I mean, sure I may live in Sydney and the closest I ever got to North America was an ill-fated trip to Venezuela in 2005 when I nearly died from e-coli until the Cuban doctors in the country as part of a solidarity exchange with the Hugo Chavez government gave me entirely free and high quality care after a private hospital had milked me for my travel insurance (but that's a whole other story).

But I've drunkenly sung along to Bruce Springsteen's "The River" more times than I can count, so I reckon I'm pretty much born-and-bred Jersey.

What makes this particular piece of correspondence so convincing is how it picks up on the essence of my, to be honest, only ever dental-related blog post -- the highlighted piece on how the frontman of the Irish Celtic-punk pioneers The Pogues, Shane MacGowan, got his famously terrible teeth fixed.

Sure, my post was a disturbed drunken rant about how MacGowan had betrayed everything he ever stood for by selling his soul to Big Teeth, as I like to call these dentistry QUACKS!

But still, somehow, in my uncalled for and frankly quite weird raging about MacGowan selling out, Andrea from the Advance Dental Group of Edgewater has detected, underneath all the bile, an actual fondness for dentistry. In New Jersey.

So please, if you ever find yourself in New Jersey and you've drunkenly smashed you teeth to smithereens like Shane MacGowan, consider giving these people a call. Tell them Carlo sent you, they're fans.

'I come from down in the valley, when mister when you're young, they bring you up to do like your daddy done...' The Boss sings the song of my people.