Saturday, December 26, 2009

Boxing Day

The sun in the room dies like a fly; slow and twitching.

And the nothing happens very slowly. And the clothes still in the washing machine dry at about the same pace. And apathy and melancholy fight an heroic battle-to-the-death for your attention.

And alcohol receptors want to be fed and all you've done so far is give the hangover a slight dent. And your stomach performs tricks and eats itself like some sort of canabilistic clown.

And, quite clearly, you've been reading too much Raymond Chandler and listening to too much Tom Waits, at the same fucking time. And so you're lost in Santa Monica while stuck in Summer Hill.

And the Australians are about 3 for 300 odd at the close of play. But they got Ponting on the drive, caught at second slip. They'll be happy about that.

Boxing Day. It's all fun and games till someone runs out of goon.

Monday, December 07, 2009

Jarvis Cocker is coming (pun intended): thoughts on some Pulp songs

The ’90s. If you can remember the ’90s you were probably there. I mean, that is a pretty good indication you were and I got no reason to call you a liar.

Of course, it is possible you had false memories implanted by some evil government body as part of some sort of depraved brainwashing experiment.

Regardless, if you remember the 90s you will remember Britpop.

It was one of those media-invented fads that took a range of English bands reasonably popular around roughly the mid-90s that, to one degree or another, played some sort of variety of catchy indie pop and/or rock music (sometimes with heavy overtones/outright plagiarism from British bands of the 60s and 70s) and invented a grab-all term to describe them.

This was all bound up with attempts by British “New Labour”, along with the media, to create a strange myth called “Cool Britania” on which to ride into government so they could slash the remnants of Britain’s welfare state and invade a country or two — like in the old days.

Some of Britpop was forgettable, some not bad, a lot of it compares rather favourably to the even less original, tired hackneyed sounds being vomited from the radio these days.

And some of it was Pulp.

In short, to summarise, Jarvis Cocker, former Pulp lead singer, is a fucking legend and he is playing in Sydney tonight and Carlo Sands is going to fucking see him.

Pulp were the greatest band tarred with the Britpop brush. A combination of irresistible indie pop with Cocker’s highly stylised dramatics, utterly unique dance moves, and largely sordid (and frankly often disturbing) lyrics

No one else came close.

In Pulp, Cocker told dramatic, deeply felt first-person stories of ordinary people trying to survive life in late monopoly in its the death throes.

Which is to say, the lanky, bespectacled art-school-style attired Cocker sung about sex and drugs.

Especially sex.

To which he added angst.

No one has ever combined such lustfulness with such angst over the consequences who was not an ordained Catholic priest or perhaps Morrissey.

All coated in a highly ironic wit and performed with *those* dance moves.

Since Pulp’s demise, Cocker has released two solo albums. On the most recent, Further Complications, Cocker simplifies his lyrical style.

That is, he drops all the messy broader background and social commentary stuff and gets straight to the heart of the matter: sex.

It is an album of rock songs about a middle-aged man and his relationship to sex.

With classic Jarvis lyrics, like: “I met her in the museum of paleontology. And I make no bones about it. If you're looking for a dinosaur, I know a specimen whose interest is undoubted.” (“Leftovers”)

And, “Well, if every relationship is a two-way street, I have been screwing in the backseat while you drive”. (“I never said I was deep” — well, he didn’t)

Yes. Jarvis’s latest effort deals with the topic less as “sex as a metaphor for class society and the inherent alienation of the working class in late monopoly capitalism”, and more “I'm a middle-aged man, what else do you expect?”.

“Leftovers” goes on to make the point clearly: “I wanna love you whilst we both still have flesh upon our bones. Before we both become extinct.”

So before enjoying a live show featuring songs dealing with that sort of raw lust and sexual desperation combined with some truly stunning dance moves, I thought I would look back on on Cocker’s days with Pulp, and ask what was the best song?

My aim was to offer choices, with commentary, divided according to album. I planned stick to picking two or three songs from the three key Pulp albums, 1994’s His’n’Hers, 1995’s Different Class, and 1997’s This is Hardcore.

But I have run out of time. So I will post this with two songs from His’n’Hers.

This is the most appropriate — as it is really the songs I found time to talk about that truly capture the depth of angst-ridden lust that he has made the centre of his new album.

I will save for another time my commentary on sex-as-a-metaphor-for-class-struggle in Different Class, and sex-as-a-metaphor-for-emptiness-of-fame-and-success in This is Hardcore.

His ’n’ Hers

This is the album, from 1994, that started to make Pulp’s name in Britain, and not without reason. A brilliant combination of catchy pop tunes with often savage lyrics by Jarvis on the society around him (especially, but definitely not exclusively, in the minutia of the bedroom), it clears that path for the breakthrough Different Class.

Babies: “Well it happened years ago”. A classic teenage tale. And we have all been there. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy goes to girl’s home.

Discovers girl’s older sister has boys in her room. Hides in the wardrobe to spy.

Boy gets caught and “has to get it on”. Boy gets sprung with older sister by younger sister. Loses younger sister. Which is a shame because boy’s feelings toward younger sister are: “I want to take you home, I want to give you children.”

Now, who among us can honestly say we have not experienced the exact same thing?. Those who claim it, I declare liars!

The key to the song is the contrast between the somewhat sordid lyrics of teenage lust and confusion with the amazingly brilliant, catchy pop tune.

I mean, if Jarvis was to just read those lyrics spoken word, it would be pretty fucking creepy... And so it is.

Key lyric: “I know you wont believe it’s true, but I went with her coz she looked like you!”

Watch it here.

Do You Remember the First Time?: “Do you remember the first time? I can’t remember the worst time.” No prizes will be handed out for guessing the what he is on about.

Here, Jarvis introduces what is a recurring theme in some later songs, an affair with a married, or otherwise accounted for, woman.

Again, what might be somewhat tacky is made by its contrast to the sublime pop tune it is put to. The tune works to undercut, and is ironically contracted with, the growing bitterness of the lyrics.

Cocker starts out ironically disdainful at the mundaneness of the married life of the woman he is seeing, but a sense of despair at the emptiness of the affair and his own life grows through the song.

It starts with this put down on her main relationship: “You say you got to go home, coz he’s sitting on his own again this evening. And I know you're gonna let him bore your pants off again. Oh now it's half past eight — you'll be late.”

And by the end of the second verse, Cocker has switched to a bitter envy: “Well, at least there is someone there that you can talk to. And you never have to face up to the night on your own. Jesus, it must be great to be straight.”

This shift from a stand-offish irony and to deeply felt bitterness is a Cocker trademark, later perfected in “Common People”.

Key lyric:“Now I don’t care if you screw him. Just as long as you save a piece for me.”

Watch it here.

* * *

Now I must go and see Jarvis Cocker live. I will offer you this below. It isn’t about sex. But it does give a pretty good introduction to his stylish dance moves.

Carlo Sands will be up the front tonight shouting “Play ‘Eye of a Tiger’ and do that dance!”

Friday, December 04, 2009

Damn right, aresholes: Goldman Sachs bankers arm themselves in fear of uprising

It seems the corporate elite are getting a little scared.

It isn’t hard to imagine why.

They do, after all, run a world in which ordinary people face all-life-on-Earth-threatening climate change, severe global poverty and inequality and Tony Abbott.

I want to say that Carlo Sands tried to warn the fuckers. I tried to offer them the honourable way out.

“Jump!”, I said. “You have no option.”

Yet, with a small number of honourable exceptions, few chose that option.

Well, what choice do the rest of us have but to take the issue into our own hands?

Would the liberal ideals of the French revolution have lasted if the queen, as a living symbol of the barely toppled feudal tyranny powerful forces that sought to restore, did not lose her head?

Could the slavery that helped make the United States into the wealthiest nation in human history have ever been abolished except through winning a war?

Can any Australian ever forgive themselves for not assassinating Daryl Sommers before the ever-present threat of a Hey Hey its Saturday comeback became a reality?

History’s lesson is clear. Power is never ceded peacefully. Arseholes never leave the stage of their own accord. You give ’em an inch and they host racist blackface sketches on prime time TV.

These are things the mega-rich motherfuckers are more than aware of. And the financial oligarchy is taking action.

Yes, Boingboing have broken the story of execs at Goldman Sachs (the “vampire squid on the face of humanity”), arming themselves in fear of a violent uprising, in a post entitled “Goldman Sachs bankers ready themselves to kill peasants in the inevitable uprising”

* * *

Bloomberg columnist Alice Schroeder reports that Goldman Sachs vampires are loading up on handguns to defend themselves against popular uprising:

“I just wrote my first reference for a gun permit”, said a friend, who told me of swearing to the good character of a Goldman Sachs Group Inc. banker who applied to the local police for a permit to buy a pistol.

The banker had told this friend of mine that senior Goldman people have loaded up on firearms and are now equipped to defend themselves if there is a populist uprising against the bank.

* * *

If there is an uprising, indeed.

The answer is clear. We make our move ASAP, before the fuckers get even more prepared.

Carlo Sands is ready. Are you?

“This is a stick up. Our freedom or your life.” Carlo Sands says it’s time to kick in the township rebellion.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Cooking with Conehead

I have written on Conehead the Barbituate’s woes in his ongoing struggle to kill the pain of late monopoly capitalism with the help of an illicit plant.

Well, Conehead’s troubles have worsened, he tells me, due to a somewhat uptight neighbour complaining about the smell of the smoke from his bedroom window.

As a result, we have Conehead’s latest sent to this blog, posted as a comment to the post on drug dealers inspired by his less-than-enterprising Man.

As these comments were educative and instructive, I have posted them in full below.

Of course, Carlo Sands does not encourage using this information for anything but academic studies. I've said it before and I'll say it again, abuse of the demon weed is known to lead to terrible scourge of swimming addiction.

If you *must* make this recipe, Carlo Sands advises you to use the non-THC variety of of the demon weed to avoid the pitfalls of a terrible addiction.

* * *

conehead the barbiturate said:

Cooking with Conehead

½kg self raising flour
125g cocoa
¾kg sugar
½kg butter
½oz Indian hemp [important for flavour]
3 cups water
4 eggs

1. mix flour, sugar & cocoa
2. chop up hemp
3. melt butter
4. cook hemp in butter on low heat till butter goes green
5. mix hemp and butter with flour, sugar & cocoa [HINT: do not strain hemp out of butter. to do so detracts from the subtle flavour.]
6. add eggs
7. mix some more
8. stick in greased baking tin and put in oven at 180°C for an hour.
9. use bamboo skewer to see if its ready. if nothing sticks to skewer take out of oven.
10. if stuff does stick to skewer, take it out of oven anyway because you can’t be fucked waiting to see how its turned out.
11. panic when liquiddy uncooked stuff in the middle starts pouring out everywhere. Try and get all the uncooked stuff back in baking tin and stick it back in oven.
12. In the process of following step 11, eat lots more than you were planning to as you stop bits of it falling on the floor.
13. get really shitfaced because you've eaten half the cake, forget how much you've eaten so you think its really strong, give small bits to your friends telling them they'll get really shitfaced [HINT: if you don't have any friends, anyone around will do].
14. wonder why the people you've given bits to aren't as trashed as you are & seem a bit disappointed.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

At last, an example of sanity in a truly mad world

The world plunges faster and deeper into climate chaos (to such a degree that, today, Sydney feels like Adelaide and that is never a good thing).

The disastrous Afghan war sinks deeper into a bloody mess with the only ideas that seems to have occurred to the occupiers being to send more soldiers they don’t have and spread the war to Pakistan.

The CEOs of the big investment houses have started giving themselves seven, eight and nine figure bonuses once more, while millions of citizens of the world’s richest country go hungry and the United Nations sends in investigator who reports gross abuse of millions of homeless.

Bon Jovi score a number one record in the US.

People are upset because Rove McManus quits TV.

I could go on. It is indisputable. The slide into barbarism is all around us.

But finally, there is a ray of light.

Amid all the insanity, bloodshed and impending apocalypse, something sane happened. Something right. Something that makes perfect sense and is as it should be.

Johnny Depp has been voted the Sexiest Man Alive in the 2009 People magazine poll.

In case you think that would just be automatic, last year the award went to Hugh Jackman. For christ’s sake.

“Finally, something sane in the papers.” For the first time since he won the Sexiest Man Alive award in 2003, Johnny Depp finds something in the news that is neither insane, infuriating nor bloodcurdling.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

I suspect this could be computer generated

I am always looking for correspondence from the great legion of fans of this blog, or indeed any acknowledgment at all from anyone that this blog exists.

So I was over-the-moon to revieve an email from someone wanting to share links!

Yet, and yet, I cannot help feeling this might be computer generated.

I don't know this for sure, and possibly I am just being unnecessarily paranoid. Possibly Shiela, spelled wrong (and I do love bad spelling) is genuinely a real fan of the blog.

But there is something about it... Well, unkind readers, you can judge for yourself:

This is Shiela from

We stumbled on your blog while searching for substance abuse related information. I understand that your website is realted to this topic. We operate the largest website featuring more than 30,000+ websites and blogs. Our site averages 200,000+ uniques visitors. As a kind note We have featured your site at We would be grateful if you could add the following details to your blogs main page.

Looking forward for your confirmation.

I, of course, am thrilled to be linked from, although I am not familiar with their work. I am more of a Modern Drunkard Magazine sort of a guy.

Still a friend of Carlo Sands willing to link to his blog from their site is a friend of mine.

That is my criterion in fact.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Never forget, never forgive: Castle reminds us fleetingly of what we could be watching

An episode in the second season of the US TV show Castle, which stars Nathan Fillion who formerly stared as Captain Malcom Reynolds on Joss Whedon’s Firefly, has made an in-joke reference to the late Whedon series cancelled by Fox before it completed its first season.

This is a cruel move that brings back painful memories.

The 21st century has already seen some truly great crimes against humanity: the invasion and occupation of Iraq at the cost of a million dead; Sri Lanka’s ongoing genocide of the Tamil people; and Shannon Noll’s recording career are three that come to mind.

But what the Fox Network did to Joss Whedon's brilliant, groundbreaking “space western” TV series Firefly is surely a contender for top spot.

They cancelled it after only 14 episodes of the first season had been produced, with only 11 screened.

This was after badly undermining the show, screening episodes out of order and forcing a new first episode to be written after disliking the pilot.

The feature-length pilot was of course one of the truly great episodes ever produced for television. It was beautifully shot, capturing the colour, feel and breadth of its highly original setting — the outer-rim of civilised space done Wild-West-style.

It packed a remarkable amount of information, introduced a wide cast of characters with their drama and tension driving the plot, told a multifaceted story the product of a remarkable imagination, and did so at a cracking pace littered with brilliant one-liners.

Fox executives hated it.

The fuckers sabotaged the show then dumped it.

Poor ratings were blamed for the series cancellation. Yet DVD sales of the aborted series were through the roof and the show, despite its forcibly short run, is regularly voted the best sci-fi show ever.

But Fox saw little value in it and had no interest in giving it the appropriate treatment for TV success. It was much cheaper and easier for them to churn out another reality TV show.

That was bad enough.

But it was not the first time Fox had killed.

In an act of presumably unintended irony, Fox announced it was dropping Whedon’s show Angel just as season five was investigating the question of whether it was possible to work within an evil corporation and still do good.

As a result, the final episode of the season and series understandably ended on the somewhat bleak note — concluding “No, not really” in a somewhat bloody, if heroic, conclusion.

Of course, season five was easily the best Angel season. If there is one thing a Fox executive cannot stand it is quality. It makes them uneasy.

And now, Fox seems determined to kill again. Like a serial killer, Fox has in its sights another potential victim that fits its profile: Joss Whedon's latest show Dollhouse.

Dollhouse has at least fared better than Firely. Not only did it make it through season one, it was even reluctantly granted a second run.

Now, the news is it is very likely to be its last, with Fox pulling the show for the entire of November.

The result of this killing spree is the actors are forced to turn their tricks in shows of far less quality.

Fillion is a class act and, in some ways, it is good to see him as Richard Castle in yet another inevitable variation of the police/detective murder drama.

Yet, while his charisma raises the show above the 100,000 other slight variations on the same theme, it exists as a permanent reminder of what could, and should, have been.

In Australia, Channel Seven seem determined to torment Whedon fans by showing Castle as well as Bones — the yet another variation on the murder drama featuring the former star of Angel, David Boreanaz.

In a particular act of cruelty that should prompt an amendment to the Geneva Conventions, it has been known to run them straight after each other.

If Dollhouse, which has never even screened on free-to-air TV in Australia, is finally cancelled, we can confidently expect Channel Seven to bombard us with prime-time repeats of Dollhouse star Eliza Dushku’s Tru Calling — a less memorable venture for someone so talented, to be polite about it.

In the episode of Castle with the Firefly in-joke, Richard Castle dresses up for Halloween in his ol’ captain Mal outfit.

There is a half-minute scene in which he tries to explain and defend the outfit to his teenage daughter.

Castle's annoying brat of a kid, supposed to ingratiating in that horrific stomach-churning way US TV shows imagine to be cute, asks: “Don’t you think it is time you moved on?”

Fillon/Castle/Reynolds speaks for us all with is to-the point reply: “But I like it!”

“Didn’t you wear that, like, five years ago?”

Fillion is amusing in the scene, but is it too soon? At what point does it become acceptable to joke about such an atrocity?

For my part, the actions of Fox executives raises series questions about the sort of society we live in.

The social-economic structures are, to my mind, utterly condemned by the treatment of Joss Whedon. No further proof is needed of late monopoly capitalism’s terminal decline.

These are the things by which a society is judged, and one with any decency would throw as much cash at Joss Whedon as it could possibly spare and shout: “Go away an entertain us!”

Unfortunately, in this society, “entertainment” is left in the hands of the likes of Fox executives. In other words, the lowest form of human life — an even greater symbol of moral bankruptcy of the capitalist “entertainment industry” than Kyle Sandliands.

There are some things that can never be forgiven.

Go about your daily lives of continuing to cancel Joss Whedon shows, Fox network executives, but Carlo Sands is watching you.

And one day, justice will be served.

“What did y’all order a dead guy for?” A quote from a Fox executive in a meeting in the not-to-distant future.

“I'm right there with you.” A quote from said Fox executives’ meeting about unlimited funding for any project Joss Whedon decides is appropriate after a persuasive presentation by Carlo Sands.

Monday, October 19, 2009

‘The bulls set us an example’: transcript of Lateline interview with controversial National Party Senator

I swear to God I saw this the other night on Lateline.

I had never heard of any Senator Ernest Smythe, but I was quite impressed with his ability to outdo in the logic stakes none less than Christian fundamnetalist Family First Senator Stephen Fielding. Senator Fielding, of course, is a a climate change sceptic who nonetheless mananged to blame divorce as a cause of global warming.

I believe the Dylaneqsue Mr Tony Jones handled him very well, as usual.


MR JONES: We have with us tonight Ernest Smythe, the National Party Senator for Queensland. He joins us via satellite from his cattle farm in Werethafukami, which is located about 600 kilometres north-west of Idunno. An outspoken MP, a loose cannon his enemies say, he is undeniably popular with the hardline wing of the Nationals, many of whom view current leader, Barnaby Joyce, as far too liberal. Thanks for speaking with us, Mr Smythe.

SENATOR SMYTHE: Always a pleasure, Tony.

MR JONES: You have built a reputation as being very outspoken on a number of controversial issues of the day...

SENATOR SMYTHE: Out here, in the bush, we speak our minds. We say what we mean, Tony, and we don't care who we offend. That's how it is out here, that's how this country was built. You find the salt of the earth out here.

MR JONES: And some people.

SENATOR SMYTHE: Some people, yeah. Not too many. It is a tough life out here, most young people prefer to get as far away as they can the minute they get their drivers licence. We breed 'em tough out here. For some reason they then leave.

MR JONES: You have been very outspoken in your opposition to the “hot-button” issue of same-sex marriage. What is your opposition to allowing two people of the same sex, who love each other, having their relationship granted equal legal standing with a marriage between a man and a woman?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Well, I'll tell you something you learn when you spend your life out here, on a farm. It's a tough life but it’s full of lessons. Tough lessons, lessons maybe those in the cities don't learn. I'll tell you a lesson you learn very early out here: that is ... what was the question?

MR JONES: Same-sex marriage.

SENATOR SMYTHE: Right, well you learn something about that on a farm. For instance, we breed cows. Now, if you want to breed a cow, you don't put two bulls together. That's one of the tough lessons you learn out here. You take the road of trying to mate two bulls, you're screwed. [Said off to one side] Isn't that right love? Two bulls wont get you a cow? Sorry, that's my wife, June. She agrees. Two bulls are useless.

MR JONES: Okay, well...

SENATOR SMYTHE: You don't see that sort of a thing on a farm. Growing up round these parts, you don't have a mardi gras. You just don't see it. You don't see two bulls asking to get married. You don't see two bulls play around about together. No, well, there was that time, [to the side] when was that love? Last month.

MR JONES: Two bulls...

SENATOR SMYTHE: Two bulls last month, yeah, it was ah, Jack and... [looks to the side questiongly] oh Jack, yeah that's right. We caught Jack and Jack. We call all our bulls Jack, much easier that way. They were up to, well you know.

MR JONES: Right, so..

SENATOR SMYTHE: It was unfortunate. But you know the thing is, Tony, they didn't then ask to get married.

MR JONES: They didn't?

SENATOR SMYTHE: No. I can't say I personally approve of their activities, but say what you will about Jack and Jack, at least they don't go around seeking to wreck the sacred institution of marriage. Jack and Jack are not trying to destroy the very pillar of family life, on which this nation was built.

MR JONES: Okay, well how about the times when your bulls do mate with your cows. It could be said with the same logic, surely, that this too is destroying the institution of the family if all of this mating occurs outside of marriage?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Absolutely Tony. We always marry our bulls and cows before mating. We like to do things properly out here. Maybe that’s old-fashioned, maybe we seem like hicks to the trendy inner-city set sipping lattes. Maybe they find that a bit strange...

MR JONES: Marrying your bulls and cows?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Quite possibly they do, I don't know. And frankly, Tony, I don't care. We don't apologise for standing by the values that built this country, for which the Anzacs died.

MR JONES: I assume you would expect the bulls and cows to follow their marriage vows. But presumably, in order to run an economically viable farm, you can't afford to allow one bull to only mate with one cow?

SENATOR SMYTHE: That is a problem and the bovine species are not that different in this sense from humans. They too are born in sin. It is in their nature. A bull has no desire to only mate with one cow and the cows don't seem bothered about what else a bull gets up to. This is not unlike many people these days, unfortunately, and, like in our society, this causes many social problems.

MR JONES: Such as?

SENATOR SMYTHE: The divorce rate is shocking. It is a tragedy, but we can't allow our stock to live in sin. So once the marriage has occurred and the mating done, we have no choice but to perform a divorce so a new marriage, and new mating, can take place. The bull has no thought for the sacred institution of marriage, unfortunately, so the process repeats itself many times.

It is a sad fact but true: the divorce rate out here is very high. It is a tough life.

MR JONES: So to summarise, Senator, this is why you oppose same-sex marriage?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Yes. I think the example of Jack and Jack is very instructive. Whatever their weaknesses, whatever their sins, they know that God made Adam and Eve not Jack and Jack and they respect that.

MR JONES: If I may more on, now, to another major issue in which you hold outspoken views. You have caused a lot of controversy with your repeated insistence that there is no such thing as global warming. How do you make such a claim in the face of overwhelming evidence from the scientific community?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Global warming is a conspiracy theory. That’s not a popular thing to say. It’s not politically correct. But out here we call things as we see them. It is a hoax. It has no basis whatsoever in science.

MR JONES: But, surely, as a farmer you would be well aware of the long-lasting drought rural areas have been suffering. How do you respond to those scientists that have linked this with climate change?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Homosexuality.

MR JONES: I'm sorry?

SENATOR SMYTHE: The one answer most of the scientific community refuse to investigate, in the middle of all their talk about “scientific evidence”, is that the drought is punishment from God for the rise in homosexual activity.

That’s a tough call, but is hard to blame Him. It is getting out of control.

MR JONES: Right, well...

SENATOR SMYTHE: I've tried to tell Jack and Jack. I tried to explain to them that they’re only hurting themselves. For whatever momentary pleasure they get out of their perverted activities, they’re only denying themselves the green grass they need to eat.

But like so many humans, they refuse to look at the reality, at the cold hard facts. Rather than face up to our sins, we prefer to invent fairytales about “global warming”. That is much easier for people to believe in.

MR JONES: People find it easier to believe in human-induced global warming than drought being a punishment from God for homosexuality?

SENATOR SMYTHE: Exactly. The scientific community are very closed-minded. They refuse to even consider the alternatives. I have not found a single so-called climate scientist willing to debate me on the topic of homosexuality versus human-induced global warming.

MR JONES: Well, unfortunately, I think that is all we have time for. Thanks, again Senator, for that illuminating conversation and we hope …

SEANTOR SMYTHE: [to the side] What’s that? Shit! [to camera, getting up] Sorry, Tony, I am going to have to … it’s Jack and Jack again. [to the side] Get the hose love — we can’t afford another year of drought, not with our bills. [Walks off]

MR JONES: That was Ernest Smyth, National Party Senator for Queensland, from his farm at Werethafukami.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Orwell belatedly recognised (or the Nobel Peace Prize — just like the Grammys only bloodier)

Well it’s that time of the year again, when the world stops and waits with bated breath to discover who a committee of Norwegian people have decided to honour with the Nobel Peace Prize.

This year, they made a seemingly brave choice.

The distinguished committee has gone for a literary reference — a somewhat unsubtle acknowlegement of the works of George Orwell.

As the panel on literature is left in the safe hands of the Swedes, we can only assume this sideways foray into the field is a swipe at the Norwegians hated Scandinavian rivals — who never saw fit to give Orwell his due in his day.

Of course, the Norwegians fail to realise the Swedes were talkin' Orwell before the author was even born.

War is peace, indeed. It has been the case from the beginning.

The Nobel Peace Prize, after all, is named after Alfred Nobel, the renowned 19th century Swedish arms manufacturer.

In fact, the Norwegians themselves have been making the ironic point for years — without anyone appearing to have gotten the reference. So they keep atryin’.

In 1919, the “peace prize” was won by then-US president Woodrow Wilson — whose thoroughly Orwellian commitment to peace involved him taking a reluctant USA into the pointless, mass slaughter of World War One just two years earlier.

1973 was the year for possibly the greatest acknowledgment to Orwell's celebrated concept of “double-speak” — in which a totalitarian regime insists, in his nightmare novel 1984, that “War is Peace”.

The winner that year was Henry Kissinger.

Then-US secretary of state, Kissinger was one of the truly great war criminals of the 20th Century — a century that featured so many top mass murdering names.

Among his many unpeaceful acts, Kissinger was an architect of the Vietnam War (and the bombing of Cambodia, which helped pave the way for the Khmer Rouge to seize power).

And Kissinger famously helped organise the 1973 Chilean military coup that brought the dictator Pinochet to power.

Kissinger uttered the immortal line about the elected left-wing government he helped bury under the corpses of tens of thousands: “I don't see why we need to stand by and allow a country to go communist because of the irresponsibility of its own people.

“The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.”

Never, I have always believed with good reason drawn from personal experience, trust a Chilean.

In that, I am entirely with the former US secretary of state, as well as the Bolivians.

But should legitimate mistrust ever be allowed to degenerate into barbaric and unseemly mass slaughter?

I fear I must draw a line.

Kissinger, of course, also gave Indonesian dictator Suharto the green light to invade to invade East Timor in 1975.

Before Indonesian occupation, supported and armed by the West, finally left in 1999, around one third of the population had died.

Suharto had come to power in October 1965 in a military coup coordinated with the US embassy. (That old joke — “Why has there never been a military coup in the US? Because Washington has no US embassy.”)

In the aftermath of the coup, one of the 20th century’s great mass murders occurred. As many as half a million members of the Indonesian Communist Party, suspected members, suspected sympathisers, and general leftists and suspected leftists, were butchered.

The Australian PM of the day, Harold Holt, said with glee about Indonesia in a speech to a dinner party in New York, as the bodies were still being buried: “With 500,000 to 1 million Communist sympathisers knocked off, I think it safe to assume a reorientation has taken place.”

It is a truly severe tragedy that Holt disappeared while swimming a little over a year later.

This most unfortunate circumstance no doubt is the sole reason Holt was not, justly, awarded Australia’s first and only Nobel Peace Prize in recognition of his humanitarian spirit.

I still, to this day, do not see why the Norwegians could not have granted it to him posthumously.

And here we are in 2009, and the Norwegians are as canny and sharp as ever.

In keeping with an understanding of peace that only a prize named after a man whose fortune was made selling things that explode in order to rip human flesh apart could uphold, this year’s prize has been won by the leader of the nation with the largest stockpile of weapons of mass destruction.

A leader of a nation actively using the weapons on civilians in three countries, while happily supplying them for a profit for active use in a number of others.

Yes, US President Barack Obama is the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Some cynics and/or communist agents (just because the Berlin Wall fell 20 years ago doesn't mean the Laos People's Democratic Republic does not have its agents working to undermine the Free World) suggest there is something odd in this choice.

It is true that in Obama, the hopes of millions of ordinary people desperate for change and an end to his predecessor’s policies of war are embodied.

It is also true that this is a peace prize handed to a man not just overseeing, but escalating an actual war.

It is a bold choice. Even when they handed Kissinger his award, it was for the Paris peace accords that recognised that, more or less, the US had lost the Vietnam War.

Kissinger was at least being rewarded for losing a war.

Obama, on the other hand, is yet to even be defeated. And, by the looks of Afghanistan, it isn't as if the Norwegians would have had to wait that long.

There is not much peaceful about Afghanistan. The 2009 Nobel Peace Prize winner has sent more US troops that his predecessor.

There is increasingly little peaceful about Pakistan either, to which Obama, in a stroke of military genius akin to Kissinger’s brainwave that the way to win Vietnam was to invade Cambodia, has decided to extend the Afghan war.

It makes perfect sense. The Afghan war is being lost, the solution is to start more war next door in a nation more populous.

I try this technique all the time. Horribly drunk after far too many beers, I solve the problem by following each further beer with whiskey chasers.

The results for me are about the same as for the US Empire — pain, tears and stained carpets.

It may well be true, as Spinoza said, that peace is more than the absence of war.

But it is usually considered that an absence of war is, at the very least, a precondition for peace.

Life is more than breathing oxygen, but try it without the fucking stuff and sees how you go.

Drunkeness is more than one beer too, but you can’t reach the nirvana state with only iced water.

The US-led occupation forces was, presumably, working for peace when the US Airforce, as it has repeatedly throughout the war now in its ninth year, bombed a gathering of civilians killing more than 100 in September. And in May. And this month.

Such stories actually occur week in and week out.

No doubt Obama is working for peace when pilotless drones, controlled from a bunker thousands of kilometres way, bomb a Pakistani village that the Taliban have long fled.

No doubt the Obama administration is also working for peace in Honduras. Certainly no one can doubt that, in endless state department press releases, the administration is claiming it is.

In Honduras, the elected president Manuel Zelaya annoyed the hell out of US corporations by raising the minimum wage by 60%.

Not long after, he was kidnapped in his pyjamas, bundled into a place and exiled to Costa Rica.

This act being carried out by a military in which every officer is trained by the US School of the Americas.

The head of the military (and coup) is so keen he graduated from the SOA twice.

Zelaya was flown out of the country from the US military base in Tegucigalpaa.

Despite a public response of, “Hey! Guys! C’mon that’s not nice”, the US continues to train Honduran military officers.

And, claims by state department press releases notwithstanding, has still not cut off the large majority of its aid to the regime.

The military Obama refuses to cut ties with is right now killing and torturing unarmed civilians demanding the president they elected be returned.

In case Latin America didn't get the hint, straight after the coup occurred, it was announced that there would be five new US military bases in Colombia.

Colombia is the third largest recipient of US military aid, which it uses to further world peace by killing civilians pretending they are guerrillas.

It also is home to the highest rate of assassination of trade unionists each year of any other nation. In fact, some 60% of the world total occurs in Colombia.

Of course, the biggest recipient of US military aid is Israel, of which Obama is such an outspoken supporter.

Standard rhetoric about the need for a peace deal, contained in the same state department press releases circulated for the last 15 years, notwithstanding, this continues under Obama without any risk.

Enabling, of course, Israel to commit crimes against humanity.

Whatever the intention of those inscrutable Scandinavians, it does appear that, to win a Nobel Peace Prize, no actual talent in the field of peace is required. The very opposite seems rewarded.

Not unlike the Grammys really.

And, if we look it at it, we must admit: the Obama administration’s contribution to world peace is not really all that different to multi-Grammy winner Mariah Carey’s contribution to music.

Their effects on their respective fields are, in fact, strikingly similar.

And I do find listening to Mariah Carey enables me to feel, in a small way, something of what it must be like to be a prisoner held indefinitely without charge in the US-run Bagrahm prison in Afghanistan.

Those lucky enough to have trialled the services available to a prisoner in both Bagrahm and Guantanamo say they prefer Guantanamo.

Obama made the high-profile pledge to close Guantanamo. Bagrahm, continues unhindered in its torture policy.

And Orwell is at last rewarded with a belated Nobel Prize.

“When you left I lost a part of me, it's still so hard to believe. Come back baby,
'cause we belong together”. This Grammy-winning song’s contribution to the field of music is similar to Barack Obama’s to world peace.

Thursday, October 01, 2009

Who’s really waging the war on drugs?

In my last post I highlighted my good friend Conehead the Barbiturate’s serious drug problem. Which, as Conehead has always maintained, is his dealer.

Well, it seems his experience is not unique.

The following, from entitled “My dealer — my anti-drug”, is so perfect an account of Conehead’s Man as to raise serious questions about the possibility Yankee potheads spying on innocent Sydneysiders.

“Darryl, if I come over and give you money for weed, are you gonna shot at my car?”. It is possible all drug dealers in the world are in fact cleverly placed state narcotics agents working quietly at the grassroots to disprove the commonly-held belief that the “war on drugs” has been a total failure.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

For drug abusers, it's tough all over

Well, it’s tough all over that’s for sure. Those of us who seek intoxication as a means of coping with the horrors of late monopoly capitalism are not having an easy time of it.

This blog has gone out of its way to highlight and expose the crypto-prohitionist policies being pushed against drinkers.

It keeps getting worse. A recent article in the Rupert Murdoch-owned Australian proved just how difficult it is getting for drinkers. The article was entitled “Drinking at work over, bar shouting”.

Reporting on a truly shocking violation of workers’ rights, at and after work, the article begins: “A shoutafter work may be on the way out, as health authorities try to recruit big-brother bosses to curtail staff drinking habits.”

On the job

In particular the bastards are worried about drinking “on the job” and how it may be cutting into profit margins. “The bill for lost productivity through hangovers and sickies, staff turnover and early retirement due to alcohol use is calculated at $5.6 billion a year.”

This is despite the fact, I am pretty sure although I may have to look up the relevant sections, that “getting pissed at work” is recognised as a fundamental right in the International Labour Organisation’s conventions.

Even if it is not formally codified in ILO conventions, it is a fundamental aspect of the culture of Australian working people.

And attempting to deny a peoples their culture is, according many sources, a form of genocide.

In defending our right to drink and work, we are resisting genocide.

But what do the bosses care? Profits before people, yet again.

The article notes: “The report suggests that alcohol-related issues be incorporated in industrial awards, and in occupational health and safety laws.”

Yes! Damn right. It should be incorporated. But not in the way this right-wing corporate-owned paper, with its mind only at the profit margin whatever the social cost, no doubt means.

The right to drink, indeed the responsibility of the employer to provide an adequate supply of alcohol at all times, should be incorporated into industrial awards and occupational health and safety laws.

I can tell you, in my experience, sobriety is a very serious occupational health risk. You do all kinds of crazy shit sober — to say nothing of dangerous.

And the statistics are extremely worrying. The article reports that only “44 per cent of the Australian workforce drinks above the safe level recommended by the National Health and Research Council, ‘at least occasionally’.”

Only 44%! No wonder this country is in such a fucking mess.

There needs to be combination of appropriate legislation to ensure access to alcohol is available at workplaces, at the expense of the employers, and an educational campaign aimed at changing the disturbing culture of sobriety that exists.

It is about defending a way of life. Don’t let previous generations have sacrificed their livers in vain! Fight for your rights to be drunk at, and after, work!

Demon weed

But it has been brought to my attention that it is not just drinkers. In fact, it is sometimes worth remembering that we liver-abusers have it comparatively easy.

My good friend Conehead the Barbiturate made a comment on my painful post on the betrayal by Ben Cousins a couple of weeks back about the horrors of seeking pot in Sydney.

Now I have made my views on the demon weed pretty clear.

My main concern is the undeniable link between what many believe to be an innocent partaking in a relatively “soft” drug and the serious problems associated with that blight on society: swimming addiction.

Few knew of the close links until the tragic case of Michael Phelps was revealed earlier this year.

Having said that, it is not automatic. Some people manage to smoke pot at a quite high rate for a relatively long period of time and never ever even enter a pool.

Certainly, I can say in all honesty that I have never seen Conehead swimming, or anywhere near a pool, or indeed — and this is the crucial question — in a pair of speedos.

So, who am I to judge?

I try and not be judgmental in these matters. Unless you refuse all intoxicants, in which case there is something quite seriously wrong with you.

As a matter of principle, I refuse to trust any individual who finds it capable of navigating the barbarism that is modern life completely and totally straight.

So I hereby highlight Conehead’s sad and frightening story of seeking access to marijuana in Sydney. A warning to all of us not to take the crypto-prohibitionist booze push too lightly!

Conehead writes:

*** If Ben Cousins is a drug addict, it’s because he doesn’t live in Sydney.

Seriously, a little bit of weed shouldn’t be too hard to find but its impossible to get in this fucking city! Most so-called dealers are in desperate need of the basic principles of the market economy.

The only people showing any entrepreneurship are the kids selling little bags of grass on dark street corners which, when examined in the light, turn out to be just that: grass.

And while I admire this spirit of commercial creativety, I wouldn’t mind exchanging my money for something that actually gets me stoned.

Contact a so-called dealer in this place and the response is generally to meet them in the middle of the night, where if you're lucky they’ll have a single, very overpriced, deal.

If they had the slightest understanding of capitalism, they’d at least be willing to sell you as many of these small, overpriced deals as you’re willing to buy.

But no, its fucking RATIONED!

Yours totally not in drug abuse

Conehead ***

My heart breaks reading this, it really does. I know just how long Conehead has to wait in seedy inner-city pubs before his Man will show up with these small over-priced deals. Out of a sense of personal sacrifice, I will often wait with him, with nothing but beer after beer for comfort.

The first thing Conehead learned was that he always had to wait. To help Conehead the Barbiturate out, email Carlo at

Thursday, August 27, 2009

A lovely day

I had a lovely day today. A really great day. The sun was out in a shining, clear blue sky.

True, it is August and this is perhaps a little disturbing, but there is no reason for impending doom to impinge on a pleasant summer day in August in the southern hemisphere.

So, having nothing pressing today, I figured, hell, why not spend a lovely, pleasant day wandering through Newtown? Because I really felt like nothing more on this sunny blue-skied day than getting really fucking angry at all the wankers.

With the warm sun on my face, I stood admiring that park they have there. I forget its name, but it is opposite the Courthouse. That being how I navigate myself through the wide-world, by means of pub-landmarks.

I looked at the park, the green grass, the smattering of trees, so appealing in the sunshine. I thought to myself, how lovely would it be just to go and sit under one of those trees and while away the hours peacefully reading. What paradise!

Then I turned and looked at the Courthouse Hotel.

You can imagine what went through my mind. If you imagined it was “Jesus Christ, the pub’s open early”, you’d be right.

Of course, had you actually been there, which I happen to know for a fact you fucking weren’t, you may well have said: “What the fuck are you talking about Carlo? It is 10.45am! The fucking Courthouse has been open since 10!”

Well, obviously, I know that now. I subsequently made a point of checking its opening times. And if I had actually known this at 10am this morning, then my day would have been ever better.

So I made my way into the premises and ordered myself a schooner of God’s Own Urine (sold under the commercial label of VB).

Exactly what happened with the rest of the day I couldn’t tell you for sure. My memories are few indeed.

All I know is I woke up here, in front of this computer, and decided I had better tell you all straight away what a lovely day it is I have been having.

If you were in the vicinity of Newtown today, and I believe I was mostly frequenting King Street, and you happened to come across Carlo Sands, then I would like to offer a pre-emptive apology and a request as to whether you know the whereabouts of my pants.

I do have one recollection. I entered Gould’s Books for reasons unknown. While browsing innocently, I managed to knock over one of those random piles of books Bob Gould sees fit to leave lying around.

Stooping to repair the damage, I was asked by a man who I can only assume worked there: “Was there anything in particular you wanted?”

Well, yes, actually. I wanted not to have knocked over a large pile of fucking books. It is quite embarrassing and now I feel obliged to pick the fucking things up again. But its too fucking late to do anything about it now, isn’t it, you fucking strange Gould-slave person?

On my way out, I did try to steal Bob Gould’s pants. I remember I didn’t get very far, which, all things considered, is really for the best. Carlo Sands has very few standards, but even I draw the line at wearing Mr Gould’s trousers.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Reading Raymond Chandler then going to a lecture by a wiseguy

I have been reading Raymond Chandler, the genius hard-boiled detective novelist whose stories centre on hard-boiled, hard drinking P.I. Philip Marlowe.

Maybe this affected my mood as I went to a lecture at Sydney University on the evening of Tuesday, August 11 with some Latin American academic talking about the state of democracy in the region.


What I will say is every word below happened exactly as I describe it.


I walked through Victoria Park to make my way to the lecture. A ceaseless gaggle of Sydney University students passed by going the other way, fleeing their beloved campus for the day.

It isn’t that I don’t trust your average student at this illustrious institution, but I felt a hell of a lot better feeling the grip of my Colt .32.

It was only 5.30 in the evening but already the sun was making a hasty retreat. It was although it decided it had had enough of the day. I can’t say I blamed it.

I got to the rough area where the building was supposed to be. For a campus with so many buildings, they sure work hard to hide the one you want.

There was a security guard leaning against the wall of one of them, standing impassively smoking a cigarette. I approached and asked him if he knew where the New Law Building was.

He glanced at me impassively and blew some smoke. “What’s it worth to you?”

I resisted the urge to remove my Colt. 32 from its place where only dames that cause trouble and cops that do the same ever search. Instead, I said “Maybe I gotta fiver I’ve been itching to give away to charity.”

He looked at me impassively and blew some smoke. Then he pointed at a building right in front of us and said “There”.

I pealed off a note that he took impassively. “You want me to draw you a map?”

Walking off, I turned. “Nah, I wouldn’t want you to strain something.”

He shrugged impassively and blew some smoke.

I found the room I was looking for and soon wished I hadn’t.

The lecture was by some ageing intellectual wiseguy. Spent too long in the ivory towers of the world, to judge by the introduction he was given.

He was supposed to speak for half an hour. An hour into his dull and frankly counterrevolutionary spiel my Colt .32 started to itch.

I resisted the urge. Some things aren’t worth the trouble they bring.

But there is only so much guff about uppity populists upsetting democratic balances by changing constitutions to perpetuate themselves in power a guy can take. As he droned on I made my way past political science students staring at the old guy impassively and went outside. I lit a cigarette and stood there thinking some.

By the time I crushed the butt, I was thinking you can’t let some wiseguy spread his objectively counterrevolutionary and pro-imperialist garbage like that and just let him get away with it. I made my way back.

He was still talking to his endless supply of graphs proving every leftist government in the region put in power by mass movements of the impoverished who shed blood for the honour scoring the lowest on every indicator except the only ones that matters – poverty reduction and popular participation.

Those two didn’t make into his not brief presentation.

Finally, to the noticeable relief of the room, he ground to halt. I stood up the back and lit a cigarette.

The chair asked for questions. I obliged and raised my hand.

Cigarette dangling from my lips, I asked the ivory tower boy: “So what about inequality and the exclusion of the poor majorities? You think that might have something to do with all these constitutions that keep changing?”

He looked me straight in the eye with a cold hard stare that suggested maybe I didn’t want to be asking too many questions about the conditions of the oppressed. Then he started to waffle as only a lifetime academic a decade or two passed a dignified retirement can manage.

Finally the meeting had the mercy and common decency to end. I stood outside as Sydney Uni students impassively filed passed. I tried to hand out leaflets for a Latin America Solidarity Fiesta on that Saturday.

We had an agreement. I agreed to try and give the students leaflets, they agreed to refuse to take them.

The odd student broke ranks and took one. Sydney University students can be impertinent like that.

I got talking to a guy I know called Alejandro and even sold him a Green Left Weekly. He comes from a middle-class Venezuelan family and supports Chavez. This caused a split among his family and friends on account of some of them quite liking the corrupt, venal, coup-plotting fascists in the Venezuelan opposition.

Alejandro was in the minority. A minority of one.

We shared our mutual views of the presentation we had just witnessed. We mutually agree on exactly where the academic could shove his right-wing views on the “rule of law” and the “need for counter-balances” to stop the impoverished working people having too much say about their state of exploitation.

Then I lit a cigarette and made my way to the train station to catch my inevitably late-running train. I had other things on my mind.

I picked up a six pack on the way home. No Boags Draft. I was forced to drink Tasmania Bitter, cursing the injustices the world seemed intent of heaping on me.

Then I spent the night smoking my mind with cigarettes and songs that I was picking. Sorry, that's Johnny Cash.

"The beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad so I have one more for dessert". Neither Johnny Cash nor this song really relate in any way to the rest of the post.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

Ben Cousins is a god damn, no good drug addict

It has taken me a full week to be able to write this post. Seven days of hurt and pain too intense to express.

I feel sadness and a sense of deep betrayal.

Finally, I feel capable of putting my feelings into words: Ben Cousins is a god damn, no good drug addict.

Now, many readers will no doubt chastise me, with a sense of bemusement, that I am a little behind the times.

Other, more dedicated readers of this blog, may, with equal bemusement, accuse me of hypocrisy — or at least a short and somewhat fickle memory.

And, yes, it is true. Back in 2007, when the entire world seemed to be leaping on top of and ripping at the flesh of the Aussie Rules super star for his confessed drug problem, Carlo Sands stood up and courageously defended him.

And I stood almost entirely alone, asides from some mealy-mouthed clown called Stuart Munckton who said it was all disgustingly hypocritical, but refused to unconditionally defend Ben Cousins’ right to wreck himself whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted and with whatever substances he exercised his free will to destroy himself with.

Only Carlo Sands had the principles and courage to take such a clear-cut stand.

All this is true.

And it is true I argued that Cousins’ “only crime is generating bad publicity for the AFL via the vulture-media — threatening the AFL's ‘brand’ (read: corporate sponsorship)”.

It is true I wrote on the media’s cynical exploitation of Cousins’ troubles: “Let's be clear — this means profits for them as they voyeristically pick over every aspect of Cousins' personal life that can be sold as seedy, troubled and down right fascinating ... A lot of headlines, a lot of readers and a lot of advertising cash.”

And, yes, it is also completely true that I publicly urged him not to cave into pressure, but to front the show trial at which the AFL predictably banned him from playing for a year and proudly paraphrase Oscar Wilde’s famous trial speech with a passionate defence of “The love of the drug that dare not speak its name”.


But that was before last Sunday.

Everything I have done for Ben Cousins — and much of it remains unreported — only makes his betrayal worse.

What happened was this: The Mighty Essendon Bombers, on the very edge of the final eight in the last gasp of the AFL season, rock up to play the Richmond Football Club. The Tigers having languishing on the ladder somewhere between the bottom and very close to the bottom all season.

Essendon needed to win this game to ensure we stayed in the eight. Not only that, but more or less the entire world fully expected them to. Those four points belonged to the Essendon Football Club.

And yet they lost. By less than a goal. Five points.

And who should star in this upset, with a arguably best on ground performance collecting 31 possessions in the midfield?

One Benjamin Cousins.

It is clear he is back on the crystal meth. It is a fucking disgrace.

The fucking drug cheat. After all I did for him.

And, while we are on the topic of Richmond beating Essendon last week, what the fuck ever happened to “tanking?”

“Tanking” is the highly controversial, alleged practice by teams late in an AFL season that are near the bottom of the ladder of deliberately seeking to lose in order to receive a higher draft pick on the following season. Under AFL rules, the 16th team gets first pick, the 15th second etc.

No one has ever been able to exactly prove the practice exists.

Critics of the “tanking” theory raise how difficult it would be to ask your 22 players to go out on the field and deliberately play badly, much less for the coaching staff to coordinate such a thing.

They raise the pride players have in their game, the competitive instinct, the desire to do their best and so on and so forth.

I have a simpler explanation.

Maybe those teams at the bottom of the ladder accused in the latter part of an AFL season of tanking actually keep losing, not through any conscious design, but simply because they are really shit.

This seems the most likely explanation to me. They are just crap teams. They can’t play the fucking game. Their players suck.

They couldn’t win a wrestling match/spelling bee combo with a dyslexic dwarf.

After all, that is why they are at the bottom of the ladder in the first place. They lost most times they took to the field in the first half of the season, why should anyone expect things to be different in the second?

This strikes me as the most likely way to explain the apparently stunning phenomenon of teams at the bottom of the ladder continuing their losing streaks.

And speaking of teams at the bottom of the ladder, Essendon’s game against the West Coast Eagles in now underway. What is more, The Eagles are somehow in front.

If Essendon somehow lose this match, drugs will most certainly be involved — whether performance enhancing on the Eagles side, or a massive binge the night before by Essendon players complacent about what should be a walk over.

Hell, even the Fremantle Dockers beat the Eagles last week.

But back to Ben Cousins. The only thing I have to add is to say that I loved that man like a brother.

"Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain." AFL super star and renowned drug abuser Ben Cousins has broken this bloggers heart

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Are you drinking with me Jesus?

It seems you can't do anything without some bastard ripping you off.

I wrote a, frankly, quite brilliant poem about drinking with Jesus and demanding he buy me booze, and a good friend has brought to me attention that no sooner do I post it than those motherfuckers Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon rip me off with their own song about getting pissed by Our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

That said, I wholeheartedly approve of the song. I gave up trying to pick the best lyrics to highlight so here are the lyrics in full:

I saw you sittin' there
I was tryin' not to stare
I wasn't sure if it was you
I didn't know just what to do

Are you drinkin' with me Jesus
I can't see you very clear
Are you drinkin' with me Jesus
Would you buy a friend a beer

As I nestled on my barstool
I felt your warmness within
I looked down at my pants
That wasn't warmness
I wet myself again

Does your head pound, Jesus
As hung over you do rise
How does paradise look, Jesus
Through holy bloodshot eyes

Should we take a cab home Jesus
Shit, man, we can hoof it from here
I know you can walk on the water
But can you walk on this much beer

“How does paradise look, Jesus/Through holy bloodshot eyes” — Only God knows if Jesus will be sober for the Final Battle between Good and Evil.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Buy me a beer, Lord

Anyone who knows me can affirm I am fundamentally a creative, artist creature. The heart of a poet beats deep inside of Carlo Sands.

Long-time readers of this blog will know, this is not the first poem I have chosen to publish — to bare my soul before the world.

I feel the "I WILL KILL YOU NOW FUCK OFF AND GET ME A DRINK — a poem" has never received the critical acclaim it deserves.

It is often said that a true artistic genius has to die before they are recognised. But, as I have aleady explained, I died on October 31, 2008 and I have the Facebook quiz "When will you die" as my death certificate.

Still, I await in vain for the accolades that this epic is overdue.

Not to be deterred by lack of recognition I have faced even in death, I hereby publish a more recent work.

As the few who truly know me can attest, I am also quite spiritual.

All of us have a chance, an opportunity and, some may say, even a duty to develop and nurture our own personal relationship with Jesus Christ, Our Saviour.

I was moved to put down my own thoughts and feelings on the profound relationship I personally enjoy with our Lord Above in the form of a poem.

Plus, I happen to be quite broke right now. We are told that Jesus loves us, and I thought now would be a good time to cash that cheque.

Plus, it's His shout.

* * *

Buy Me a Beer Lord
— a poem by Carlo Sands

Oh, God

Get me a beer, Lord
I've sick of the world
hand me a beer, Lord
coz I've sick of it all

Oh, God

Could you buy me a beer, Lord?
I hate everything
Buy us a beer, Lord
actually, second thoughts, make mine a gin

Oh God

Buy me a beer, Lord
I am hard up right now
Get us a beer while you're there, Lord
anyway, it's your fucking shout

Thank Christ!

Thank you, Lord
for this amber gift
Now with your offering of love,
I'm going to get pissed

Yeah thanks heaps, Lord
for your alcoholic gift
now leave me alone, Lord
so I can get pissed

Thursday, June 18, 2009

A reply to a reader on Eurovision II

I have taken my time, but I have finally drafted my reply to Ms Emily Boots on the question of Eurovision.

I replied to Ms Boots original comment.

She replied.

Now, I have finally provided my long-awaited answer.

Ms Boots writes:

Dear Mr Sands,

Let me say that I was devastated to hear of your death and was forced to take refuge in a bottle of chilled Stolypin (rum being so 20th Century) and said Stoly being a tribute of sorts to the upcoming you-know-what (which hopefully has not been marred by the Georgian acts of aggression).

I confess to great disappointment in your failure to tell me exactly how to watch the Eurovision contest (assuming it occurs--- we need to watch closely the entrants from the Ukraine, Latvia and Estonia, who are rumoured to be planning to sing 'We don't wanna put in' as part of the CIA-Mossad campaign of disruption).

However, I am prepared to give you a bit of leeway, given your state of health (death being generally considered a bad sign). You can redeem yourself in my (bloodshot) eyes if you can pass on to me some information to which you seem privy: you claim to know where I am (your reference to rum), which is something I have been trying figure out for a while now.

Meanwhile, I will create a google alert for 'The Death of Carlo Sands: the Sequel' so I can be the first in my neighbourhood (wherever that is) to know about upcoming events. Idle gossip (the worst kind) has tapped Johnny Depp for a key role, but we've been disappointed before.


emily boots (definitely my true name, more or less)

Carlo Sands replies:

Dear Emily More or Less,

Firstly, I wish to offer my sincere thanks at your condolences for my most unfortunate passing. You be surprised at how hard such sympathy has been to come by.

I had always been of the belief that it is the worst possible manners to speak ill of the dead. Alas… it appears little store is placed these days on such common human decencies.

I must, of course, apologise for the sizable time lapse between your comment and my reply.

My only excuse is I have only just, more or less, finished the drinking binge I embarked upon in celebration over the results of Eurovision 2009.

It is not so much the precise winner, which was Norway as it goes. I did, of course, say the Scandinavian countries were a reasonable bet.

No, the real victory lies in the fact that finally decisive action was taken against the absolute disgrace of blocs of nations voting for each other.

A new system of voting was enacted, after concerns about, as the source of all knowledge Wikipedia put it “some broadcasters' continued complaints about politically charged, neighbourly and diaspora voting”.

It was clear the situation was untenable. explained: “The perception of biased voting has led to a decline in reputation of the Eurovision Song Contest in Western Europe as a fair music competition and led Sir Terry Wogan to resign as the UK commentator after almost four decades of coverage.”

Sir Terry Wogan!
What a loss to the Eurovision competition.

In response to this outrage, a new system was introduced for 2009. Under the new arrangement, 50% of the votes in a final round were determined by the popular vote, via the method of televoting. The remaining 50% will be allocated by a properly selected national jury.

Of course, some may raise questions about a weakening of the popular vote. Is this truly democratic?

Let me say this: until the fucking masses learn to use their votes with a bit of responsibility, then such measures shall remain necessary.

That may controversial to some of the more anarchist-minded ultra-radical readers of this blog, but reality bears this out.

Of course, I take personal credit for this development.

I exposed it in my brilliant piece of investigative journalism in the lead up to Eurovision 2008. I exposed, ruthlessly, the shocking abuse of the profound Leninist principle of the right of all nations to self-determination purely in order to secure more Eurovision votes.

This, if I may say so, is exactly the sort of investigative journalism, and commitment to the truth at all cost, that is so sadly lacking from the modern corporate media.

So I take Norway’s victory as a personal vindication of my position. Someone needed the courage to stand up, whatever the cost, and state the truth.

And history will record that that person was Carlo Sands.

So, I hope that you will forgive me a month or two of celebratory drinking, which may have affected the pace of my correspondence.

As to the question of where you are. Let me answer that in a profoundly philosophical sense: in my experience you are you where you want to be. That is why I find myself so often in the pub.

(Though, I may add, not so much the Shannon — readers of the blog should stay tuned for that explosive story.)

yours as ever,

Carlo Sands (deceased)

PS: At to the possibility of Johnny Depp appearing in "The Death of Carlo Sands: The Sequel", I could not comment. Our relationship of late has been somewhat rocky. But I feel consrtained from saying more.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

Shane MacGowan gets his teeth fixed??? First sign of the coming Armageddon?

I never thought such a day would come.

I mean, this is one crazy, mixed up world — that no one can deny.

But there has always been a constant. One thing on which we could hold on to. Something solid in this ever-changing world.

Something that represented all that was good, decent and worth holding on to as we slide further and further towards the abyss of barbarism.

Shane MacGowan's teeth.

Comrade MacGowan's teeth were a symbol of everything right in the world. A rebellion against all that was false, manufactured, artificially smooth.

A permanent defence of permanent drunkenness — years of abuse of intoxicants created those teeth! They were an achievement, a life well lived!

Of course, it should be added than an apparently decisive moment came when he allegedly broke his set badly after an all-day drinking session that ended with him tripping over a pile of bricks.

But such a gain is not just the product of one day's work. You spend your life drunk, sooner or later you will trip over a pile of bricks and create a mouth to be proud of!

But, it pains me to say, no more.

No, Shane MacGowan has turned his back on everything he once stood for.

He has gotten his chompers fixed.

Yes, this is how he spent the money he eared from a recent tour with a re-grouped Pogues.

This raises serious ethical questions.

Did those Pogues fans forking out hard-earned cash to go and see the original Pogues line up, with MacGowan out front once more, know this is how the tour's profits would be spent?

Did they know that they would be complicit in MacGowan betraying everything he once stood for?

That he would bugger off to fucking Spain to fill the bank account of some overpaid tooth quack to fix him up with some new-fangled fangs?

Well check it out. Here is Shane as we knew and loved him.

And here he is after his cosmetic surgery.

You see how he has caved in to the demands to submit to the dominant body image? See how smooth and conventionally handsome he now looks?

Oh the shame of it all.

I firmly belief that this is the first sign of the coming Armageddon.

And I will say this: if it turns out that Comrade MacGowan has started attending AA meetings, then the final battle between good and evil will have begun.

If this is the case, I trust all readers of this blog will find themselves in the front line — broken whiskey bottle in hand.

'I'll chop you down like an old dead tree...' A good example of Shane MacGowan's teeth in the pre-Armageddon days, before we were over-taken by the all-encompassing battle between the forces of Good and Evil.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

The fucking bastards! Being ‘noticeably drunk’ is not a crime! It is a legitimate lifestyle choice!

Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I am, to say the least, slow to anger.

Generally speaking, I am pretty laid back. Little bothers me.

Carlo “Serenity” Sands — that’s me to a tea. It sure takes a hell of a lot to get me worked up.

I have always taken as my touchstone the advice offered by my good friend V. I. Lenin of how to proceed when faced with people who disagree with your historically correct analysis and prescription: “Patiently explain.”

But even “Carlo the Calm” (as I am popularly known) has his limits.

Sometimes, something occurs so blatantly outrageous and unjust, such a violation of what any decent person holds dear to their heart as the very essence of humanity, that, I, yes even I, get really fucking angry.

What could possibly upset the equilibrium of such a profoundly balanced human being as Carlo Sands?

I can barely bring myself to type these words. Tears of anger and sorrow roll down my cheeks.

The NSW government has launched yet another crack down on drinkers.

In it's latest assault on our fundamental rights, NSW police (famous the world over for their sobriety) have been given increased powers to tackle the scourge of alcohol consumption.

The law has been changed so that the point at which police can arrest you has been lowered from being “seriously drunk” to “noticeably drunk”.

Now, the original law was bad enough.

I mean, who the fuck wastes their time drinking if they are not aiming to get seriously drunk?

What the fuck is the point? If you are not going to take your drinking seriously, get out of the fucking way at the bar!

But noticeably drunk???

For christ sake, do these lunatics think people consume alcohol because they have run out of Bushall teabags?

Why the fuck would anyone waste their time and hard-earned cash drinking booze if the effects were not even noticeable?

If you can't notice the effects after a drinking session, you haven't been doing it right. You need to get back there and fucking drink some more!

Let's just look at the potential consequences of implementing a law that makes it a crime to be “noticeably drunk” in Australia:

Parliament would be emptied by the constabulary. All journalists would be rounded up and interned. English backpackers would face mass arrest. Footballers of all codes would be pre-emptively detained.

Now, I know what you are thinking: sounds pretty fucking good.

Yes! But because they are all noticeably arseholes!

Booze has nothing to do with it.

You want to pass a law declaring it a crime to be seriously, or even noticeably, an arsehole in public, then you've got my vote. The above mentioned groups would all be rounded up and hauled away, for the undoubted betterment of humanity.

But leave the great mass of us honest drinkers alone.

Let's just think about some of the consequences of this new law a bit more. If it was applied consistently, across the board, there could be disastrous consequences.

For one, The Shannon would never be open — what with bar manager Paddy's endless cycle of arrests and court appearances.

Every 15-year-old in a park on a Friday night with a bag of goon would end up in jail — just for taking it upon themselves to go out and learn some of life's important lessons.

In short, as my protest placard intends to read, Australia is noticeably drunk.

Apply this law across the board, and all of civilised life in this god-forsaken island would ground to a halt.

And surely our benighted rulers are not that stupid?

That is, could it be that actually this outrageous law is not intended to be applied to all, or even the overwhelming majority, of NSW citizens?

Well, some cynics have suggested such an interpretation.

Yes, it seems that this law is, in fact, just yet another way for the upholders of law and order to kick the most downtrodden even harder.

Thalia Anthony, a law lecturer at Sydney University, pointed out: “New laws giving police the power to move on people who are slurring their words will cement a long tradition of criminalising Aboriginal people for public order offences.”

Anthony explained: “History shows indigenous people are most likely to be caught by this type of legislation and incarcerated for the mere appearance of intoxication.

“The move-on laws have the peculiar flavour of targeting people who are not committing a crime or even suspected of committing a crime. They are activated where people are deemed drunk.”

Such outrageous laws are not unprecedented, and neither is their consequences, Anthony said. ”The discriminatory policing of drunk Aboriginal people is blatant. Indigenous people are 42 times more likely than other Australians to be in custody for public drunkenness.

“In 2005 the Australian Institute of Criminology identified public drunkenness as a key issue relating to police custody. In October 2002 it found that of those detained by police there were 17 times more Aborigines than all other groups.”

Anthony concluded: “Through its move-on slurring powers, the NSW Government has provided another back-door means for incarcerating drunk Aboriginal people ... It is another sad attempt to criminalise indigenous behaviour rather than criminal activity.”

So that is the story, eh?

What a bunch of racist scum. And to think, they would use booze as their weapon to attack a people already largely destroyed by ongoing colonisation. Such an innocent thing used to such evil ends.

But I say, we don't have to accept this.

The Indigenous people have never stopped resisting. They have never ceded sovereignty over this land, and they continue to raise their demands for justice.

I say we follow their example.

I hearby call for a campaign of mass resistance to these patently ridiculous, outrageous, absurd and outright racist law.

I call for a mass civil disobedience in a Day of Drunken Disorder throughout the state — bring it to its knees.

Personally, I hearby pledge, as an act of protest, to be noticeably drunk at all times until this law is repealed.

Being noticeable drunk is not a crime, it is a legitimate lifestyle choice.

In the worlds of Chicago-based band Bondo : “Fuck you I'm drunk, fuck you I'm drunk! And I'm gonna be drunk till the next time I'm drunk!”