Wow, what a huge couple of weeks in world events! On dictators, popes, Wanderers and... a BRAND NEW CONVERSATION FILM!

Well, what a huge few weeks it has been in world events!

It has truly been one dramatic development after another. Let's just start with March 5, when Venezuelan tyrant Hugo Chavez lost his final battle with cancer and is no doubt rotting in Hell for all of his terrible and well-documented crimes against humanity -- such as winning 15 elections in just 14 years, eradicating illiteracy and calling George Bush a war criminal.

I detail more of the terrible crimes in the most recent Carlo's Corner at Green Left Weekly. But be warned, it is pretty confronting stuff, so maybe don't read it while eating. Especially, if like the Wall Street Journal's Mary O'Grady, you cannot stomach what she refers to as "the mob", but who are also commonly known as "ordinary people". (It is always so *unsettling*, isn't it, when the mob vote for a politican and then the politican keeps his promises and enacts polices in their favour. It is *so* cheating to, like, take democracy *totally* literally and shit.)




Like all dictators,Chavez had a deep fear of his own people. Above, he is confronted by angry Venezuelan citizens protesting the spread of free education and health care. Below, Chavez tries to flee from steel workers furious the tyrant had nationalised their exploitative multinational steel giant boss and then signed a collective contract granting their demands.




And a new Pope! WE FINALLY HAVE A NEW POPE I WAS SO LOST WITHOUT ONE AND NOW THERE IS A NEW ONE AND HE HATES WOMEN AND GAYS AND EVERYTING! HE'S PERFECT!

Oh, sure he helped Argentina's fascist military dictatorship commits its crimes against humanity, but, I mean come on, who among us can honestly say we have not kidnapped and tortured the odd priest?

It is an intersting thing, though, the media coverage of all this. Pope Francis supports the poor and Chavez was a tyrant. *Such* a strong grasp of reality.




'Oh come on! We've all helped kidnap the odd priest!'


And, of course, news just doesn't get much bigger than the Western Sydney Wanderers smashing Melbourne Heart in Melbourne to win an A-League record of TEN GAMES IN A FUCKING ROW.

The win goes a long way to ensure they are premiers in the THEIR FIRST EVER FUCKING SEASON with less than half the players' wage bill than their uptown rivals Sydney "Bling" FC ("Bling" is not an insult I invented ... they actually CALLED THEMSELVES "BLING" AS A MARKETING PLOY), with a team made up mainly of cast offs from other teams and with fuck-all resources.




YES! WANDERERS!!! The players (above) and fans who travelled down from Sydney (below) celebrate in the rain after the Wanderers win a record 10 games straight in Melbourne on March 16.




But the without any doubt the biggest and most dramatic news of this month came on March 1 ... YES it was the day so many believed they woud never see, but after an *agonising* 20-months wait, the world was finally rewarded with the release of A NEW CONVERSATION FILM BY CARLO SANDS AND BEN!!!!

Following on from the glory that was the critically acclaimed blockbuster Conversation IV: This Time it's Sensual, myself and Ben finally caved to the ceaseless demands of our fans and produced the much anticiapted sequel Conversation V: The Return -- a heartwarming film based on the true story of Ben's leaving from and return to Sydney. CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!




The latest installment in the groundbreaking 'Conversation' film series tackles the big issues of loss and rediscovery in the journey of life. As one critic, called "Ben", movingly wrote: 'Watching this film is like squeezing a pimple of joy and getting the pus of happiness in your eye'.


Christ, I swear to God this is more excitement than anyone could be expected to bear. So... I know... why don't you relax and have a chuckle or two by watching my entry into the Five Minutes Live stand up comedy online video competition... all you have to do is sign in, watch it and =thejn click like if you like it... I am currently ahead, but it runs until September and if I am ahead in Septmeber I win FIVE FUCKING GRAND AND I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BU YOU A BEER I PROMISE YOU! TRUST ME!




'And nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all...' Wow, how wrong were Scottish band Del Amitri in this single from 1989?

Sometimes, dreams do come true!

You know, sometimes when you look around the world, everything can seem really fucking dark -- and not just at night.

The goddamn oceans are screwed, Europe's economy teeters in the balance over Greece's inevitable debt default with only the question of whether they can force the already poor and overworked Greek working class to carry the fucking can *again* and avoid potential immediate collapse so as to collapse a little bit later when all the cuts and austerity drive the Greek economy further into recession, and, in Australia, the level of public debate in recent times on refugees has been so hysterical it has made EDDIE FUCKING MCGUIRE seem a voice of reason.

Yes, Eddie "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire -- WELL FUCK YOU I ALREADY AM!" McGuire. Eddie "Western Sydney is Falafel Land" McGuire. Eddie "Let's Make Homophobic Jokes About Athletes at the Winter Olympics" McGuire.

Eddie THE FUCKING PRESIDENT OF COLLINGWOOD FUCKING FOOTBALL CLUB McGuire!!!

So insanely outrageous, so divorced from reality, so mindnumbingly racist is what passes for "discourse" in this godforsaken country over the "threat" of being "invaded" by a few hundred "boat people" each year, that it was actually left to McGuire to call for calm in a Herald Sun article against "the boring, predictable, racist-tinged appealing to the worst side of our nature and the rekindling of fear in the populace led by our politicians and news media".

McGuire said, in a startling and perhaps unprecedented recourse to actual facts in the Sun, that we don't need "scare-mongering tactics over an issue that for the year so far has seen fewer people arrive than sit on one morning train to Flinders St".

McGuire complaining about racist populism must be like hearing Goebells tell Hitler to "steady on, mate" because some of his anti-Jewish rhetoric seemed a bit extreme and what does he have against gypsies anyway?

But that is where this country is at. It is up to the president of *Collingwood* to call Australia out on racism.

Collingwood Football Club being the one whose former president, Alan McAlister, declared in 1993 that Aboriginal players were alright "as long as they conduct themselves like white people ... As long as they behave like human beings..."

That same year, it was the relentless racist abuse by Collingwood supporters against St Kilda Aboriginal player Nicky Winmar during a game that drove Winmar to run to the boundary line right in front of Collingwood supporters and, in a famous image, lift up his jumper and point defiantly at his black skin.

And it was Collingwood captain Tony Shaw who, in the aftermath of that incident, publically defended racist abuse as "part of the game".

This is what this fucking country has been reduced to. Lectures on racism from the president of Collingwood.

So, good news comes as a welcome relief and it doesn't get much better than a heartwarming tale of *another fucking royal wedding*.

Just when you thought every inbred parasite on the fucking planet lucky enough to not be French in the early 1790s had blown their broke nation's budget on stupid hats and champagne in some pointless feudalistic ritual, they found a nation far from broke for a brand new fairtytale.

And what a fairytale Monaco's royal wedding on July 2 was!

There cannot have been a dry eye in the tiny little statelet on the French Riviera as Prince Albert II wed South African swimmer Charlene Wittstock, now "Her Serene Highness the Princess of Monaco".

There is nothing like a tale of true love to improve the world's gloomy mood!

Becoming a princess is, as we all know, every little girl's ultimate dream! And the romantic story of Wittstock marrying her prince is a mighty blow to those cynics who think dreams don't come true!

On the spot, the London Telegraph's Henry Samuel sets the beautiful scene:

"The couple's glittering religious wedding drew crowds of thousands to the Mediterranean principality on Saturday and the guest list included a host of heads of state, European royals and stars of the fashion and sports world."

And the blushing bride all dressed in white?

Samuel continues:

"But sources cited by Le Journal du Dimanche said the former Charlene Wittstock, 33, tried to take refuge in her country's embassy in Paris when she went to the French capital in May to try on her wedding dress.

"Instead palace officials confiscated her passport and persuaded her to take part in the weekend's nuptials.

"Later that month she also tried to escape during the Monaco formula one grand prix, they alleged.

"Then, last week, she allegedly had her passport confiscated en route to Nice airport via the helicopter service that runs regularly between Monaco and France."




"Smile, darling!"




"Don't even *think* of jumping."



Even when on show before the entire world, the deep, heartfelt love they share shines through.


This is a tale of true love. The true love Monaco's 35,000-odd residents have for their tax-free status.

Monaco is a desperate little statelet that that exists as a tax haven for the mega-rich, but badly needs its ruling prince to produce a male heir or else the statelet will revert back to French rule -- and French tax rules.

But it seems their saviour, Charlene, was not happy by some recent news. Samuel refers to Monaco "policy advisers" who are said to have confirmed that the prince has fathered "two illegitimate children, one already born and one on the way".

But did not the princess-to-be not realise? Those kids, even if they *be* male, are *illegitimate*, born out of the sacred bonds of marriage, and therefore completely useless for the principality!

No, if Monaco is to continue being the tax-haven, grand-prix hosting paradise the mega-rich have come to love, they need a woman who has gone through a wedding to get knocked up as many times as takes for a baby boy to be born. By the prince, preferably.

Her Serene Highness may have had second thoughts about a loveless marriage of convenience to a middle-aged, balding, toad of a prince, but Monaco was not about to stand by and let such a fine breeding specimen escape...

And so they "persuaded" the rather desperate princess-to-be to go through with the marriage ... by foiling her three breaks for freedom and confiscating her passport.

No wonder they all look so happy in pictures of the crowds at the wedding. They fucking caught her before she escaped.

A forced marriage. How quaint! It is reassuring that in this day and age, there are *some* who still believe in tradition.

Now, Her Serene Highness needs merely concentrate on doing her royal duty...



"So, as soon as the ceremonies are over, we can begin our duty of trying to produce a male heir ... now come on, darling, don't cry in public."



"Fuck."



"Fuck."



"Oh FUCK!"



"Don't *you* even fucking *think* of touching me! What is it with Monaco and ugly middle-aged men?"

Seeing Princess Charlene on her big day in her white wedding dress really brings to mind...well, Billy Idol.


"It's a nice day for a white wedding..."

Oh for christ's sake, this is too much. On Spain, climate change, Estonia and being ignored by Cannes.

I blame society. I am watching the fucking world and all its reality TV stars and wondering just what the fuck is going on.

First of all, what the hell is wrong with the bloody Spaniards?

Seriously, every since May 15, all these fucking Spaniards have been out on the streets demanding a "new system" and taking over all of these plazas in the centre of cities and towns like they are public property or some shit. We are talking 60 or more of these fucking plazas.

Youth leading the way of course, all going on and on about "corporate domination" of politics and society and the need for something they call "real democracy!"

They especially don't like the fucking banks. Oh, the government had to "bail-out the banks" and there was a fucking debt crisis and there is "austerity" against ordinary people.

Well of course there fucking is. The banks can't bail themselves out -- they are all fucking broke. The money has to come from somewhere.

I mean, what do these idiots think would happen if we had no banks? Where would we keep our cash? I mean, you only have to look at how rich some Spaniards are -- they don't have enough mattresses to stuff their millions of euros under. It is just not practical.

I really cannot see why this is an excuse for thousands of young people to go stand in public squares and wave their hands in the air like fools.




Crazy Spaniards wave their hands in the air in Barcelona's Plaza Catalonia.


A lot of commentators have pointed to the role of the huge level of youth unemployment in this debacle -- which is running at an official rate of more than 40%.

No doubt they are right. The lazy gits have nothing better to do with their time than complain about the capitalist system that has given them *so much*.

And now it has spread to Greece.

The banks just don't need this shit, they have a government to run.

We all know who we can blame for putting the idea in their heads to take over public squares: the goddamn fucking Egyptians.

I warned this whole "Arab Spring" thing would end in tears. You just don't walk around bringing down governments *carefully installed by the Land of the Free* just because they torture you and enforce policies that cause widespread poverty.

Where the hell would this end? I dare say the destruction of Israel.



Thousands of Spaniards take over Madrid's Puerta del Sol square, oblivious to the fact the banks are too busy with the business of governing to deal with their petty complaints.


As if that is not enough, we have fucking a bunch of pricks running around going on and on about the threat of human-caused climate change. Some sort of mobilisation is planned around this on June 5.

In this context, it has been left to none other than the Catholic Archbishop of Sydney George Pell to *once more* express scepticism about climate change and whether it is human caused.

It is especially impressive as this is not a man usually renowned for his scepticism.

This is a man who believes the world was created 6000 years ago and that Jesus's mum was a virgin.

He believes that Jesus could turn water into wine and cure leprosy -- and what is more, that Jesus didn't even *patent* his fucking cure and flog it off to a pharmaceutical corporation like any sensible person would, but continued to administer it FOR FREE!

I always found that the least believable part of the New Testament.

Pell believes the world was created in six days by some invisible bloke who lives in the sky and he sent his only son to go and tell everyone the GOOD NEWS that if you believe this shit you get to enter paradise when you die and spend your time with everyone else who thinks the best way to spend a Sunday morning is listening to some old git like Pell tell you fairytales as opposed to BEING FAST ASLEEP till the hangover wears off.

And that when they, quite understandably, killed Jesus for insisting on sprouting this shit, he rose from the dead three days later and ascended to this paradise -- but fear not he is still in all of our hearts if we only let him in.

No doubt this accounts for the high rates of heart disease in so many predominantly Christian nations.

Through Pell's church you can even *to this day* day drink Jesus's blood and eat his flesh via magically transformed wine and wafers. It does not sound healthy.

Pell believes all this and *still* has the good sense to question the so-called evidence provided by the *entire* climate science community who keep insisting, in countless studies, that the situation is worsening and drastic action is needed.

You've got to admire him for that.

Perhaps even *more* to the point on this crucial topic is US Republican Congressman John Shimkus, who is seeking to chair the powerful House Energy Committee.

His take is quite simple. A November 10. 2010 Daily Mail article informs us that Shimkus "insists we shouldn't concerned about the planet being destroyed because God promised Noah it wouldn't happen again after the great flood".

"Speaking before a House Energy Subcommittee on Energy and Environment hearing in March, 2009, Shimkus quoted Chapter 8, Verse 22 of the Book of Genesis.

"He said: 'As long as the earth endures, seed time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, will never cease.'"

So let us not be concerned by the melting of the polar icecaps because God PROMISED!



Republican Congressman John Shimkus, who is seeking to chair the powerful House Energy Committee, explains we don't have to worry because God promised Noah we'd be alright.


All I can say is this is just as well, as the organisers of a June 5 national "climate action" marches are backing a government plan to deal with what is supposed to be the most serious threat humanity has ever faced by promoting a policy that -- thank christ -- will actually leave corporate power alone and lead to an emissions trading scheme.

You know, along the lines of the one in Europe that has not only failed to reduce carbon emissions but actually provided the rich with a new opportunity to generate more wealth through wild speculation and widespread fraud.

And this is badly needed, what with the whole subprime gig going belly up in the states back in '07.

I would have thought all this was bad enough, but no. We had to have a weekend, the one just past, that was missing the only fucking reason to actually have a fucking weekend in the first place.

Yes, in Round 10 of Australian Football League, the prime competition of the Greatest Game on this Godforsaken Planet. Essendon Football Club *did not even play*.

They had some sort of so-called "bye" -- and this after the travesty the week before when, through some sort of malicious conspiracy, the Bombers were beaten by *fucking Richmond*.

And as if that is not enough, I am stuck in Sydney in a fucking state whose main game is some sort of stupid sport I can't even *begin* to understand.

As far as I can see, from my brief time trying to watch this "sport", it involves two lines of lumps of beef running into each other, falling down, then repeating the process for 90 minutes.

I can't figure out who these fuckers are they find to play the game, but, going by appearances, they all seem to be pub bouncers. And god knows I hate bouncers -- what with their moralistic stances on "dress codes" and "states of intoxication".

And this is what they offer up as way of entertainment is this goddamn town.



Pub bouncers confront each other on a field.


And last Wednesday, I was told, they had some sort of "big game" on. I couldn't really figure out what it was all about, but someone told me they were going for Queensland.

I am not sure who Qld were playing against, but if they were playing Estonia again no doubt they made the right decision. Fucking Estonians.

People often ask me what the fuck I have against Estonia? They say surely it is just a discreet little place in Eastern Europe with one of the lower populations of any EU nation, reasonably high standard of living and, what is more (they always add) the highest levels of internet freedom in the world! What is my problem?

Let me just say this: If you should be approached by an Estonian who challenges you to a game of Ice Cricket, turn around and run away as fast as your legs will take you.

Yes, Ice Cricket. It is a real thing and the fucking Estonians are responsible for it. Estonia's claim to fame is to be the self-proclaimed Home of Ice Cricket.

This is *exactly* the kind of fucked up shit the Estonians *would* pull. Only the Estonians could invent such a thing.

What it is, should you have never heard of this monstrosity, is, basically, a game that is just like normal cricket only *much much colder*.

I am told the Maroons won on Wednesday and should it have been against Estonia I can only say *thank fucking christ*.




The fucking Estonians have a lot to answer for.


And yet, the horror *does not even end there*.

You will not believe this. It truly takes the fucking cake. But I swear to God it's true.

Conversation III: This Time It's Personal -- the latest film by Carlo Sands -- was *completely ignored* by the May 11-22 Cannes International Film Festival.

Not even a fucking invite to attend, let alone a fucking Palme d'Or or *any prize at all*. Not even a Lifetime Achievement Award.

It is just like Conversation I and Conversation II all over again.

And then, to make matters *even worse*, a further indignity on top of so many others, there was an *incident* involving Ben, world renowned as a co-writer of the Conversation series. Or "script assistant" as I prefer to call him, as it makes him sound less important.

The details are murky, but let's just say it involved a sudden decision by Ben mid-last week to go hitchhiking up the NSW coast.

Somehow, this got out of control when he ended up in Queensland at a Blues festival at Hell on Earth, also known as the Gold Coast.

This is where he was on Saturday morning, stood on the side of the road desperately seeking to flee the Gold Coast, when I received a text informing me: "Qld police really don't like the hitchhiker".

So I was a little surprised when three hours later Ben walked into the room in Sydney.

It seems a man of the law caught him in the act of requesting a lift from strangers. They don't like that of sort of thing up there, so Ben was duly fined $40 and driven to the airport with the heavily implied suggestion that he get the fuck out of the state ASAP.

Ben says he called in a few favours and promptly flew back to Sydney.

Now, no doubt you are thinking exactly what I thought when I heard this tale: how is it possible for some random cop on the beat to treat one so closely associated the Conversation films in such an atrocious way?

How did it come to be that such a person could be RUN OUT OF A FUCKING STATE?

I asked Ben whether he told the cop who he was. He said he was legally obliged to.

And he was *still* run out of Queensland! They truly are backwards, uncultured hicks up there.

It really is enough to drive a man to drink. Luckily, that is where I was *just* heading anyway.

(Speaking of which, check out the PayPal "Donate" button just on the right... getting drunk enough to write this shit is not cheap, but it is *so* important.)

You can view for yourself the artist achievement of Conversation III and the scale of the outrage perpetrated by Cannes and the Queensland cops.




Like A conversation: A short film on DrinkWise ads and ovaries and A Second Conversation: a short film on refugees and gaffer tape, Conversation III has been totally ignored by the film industry.

Good news and bad news

There is good news and there is bad news.

The bad news is the planet is looking pretty fucked if we don't take urgent action need to combat the climate crisis.

The good news is total eco-destruction will take Nickelback down with the rest of us.

Although knowing the planet's luck, members of Nickelback will prove tougher to kill than cochroaches and be the only living things to survive - and lead singer Chad Kroeger will wander the barren lands for eternity moaning about how the eco-holocaust is "how you remind me of what I really am" backed by the dullest, most irritating band ever to be manufactured by the Masters of Evil that call themselves a music industry.

In good news, my home town of Sydney did something worthwhile for the first time since thousands protested some reactionary, old git in a dress who calls himself the Pope and egged Devil Child Justin Bieber during a recent concert.



In bad news, they largely missed. In even worse news, they didn't throw grenades or even a targetted cruise missile.

In good news for the world of culture, Carlo Sands has moved into film-making and directed and co-wrote a groundbreaking film exploring some of life's most important issues.



In bad news, proving the empty, hollow and utterly corrupted nature of film business, I have yet to be awarded a fucking Oscar for this work of genius.

Seriously, this film - with a co-writing with Ben from "that night at the Courthouse" - has not yet recieved a single fucking award of any kind despite being released to the entire world on YouTube last fucking Saturday!

Some have said, "Hey Carlo, show some patience. The next Academy Awards are not till next year, give it some time."

But if the esteemed Academy had any fucking self-respect they would recall that ridiculous Oscar for Best Picture awarded to that pointless flick about some stupid fucking inbred royal who couldn't even string a fucking sentence together but was king coz of his birth and the fact his FUCKING NAZI older brother walked away from the gig to go live in the Caribbean and support Hitler, and they would immediately hand that fucking prize to Carlo Sands.

It would only be just and right. But no.

This is just like the whole Nobel Prize for Literature debacle all over again, with those fucking Swedes refusing to give me the award, despite my remarkable contribution to the field of poetry.

So I figured I had no choice but to create a sequel.



Even worse, there is more bad news. This second work of genius has also failed to secure any of the notable film industry awards. Not an Oscar, a Golden Globe, a Palme d'Or or even so much as a mention by the Australian Film Critics Association.

And don't get me started on the total silence being mantained on either of my works by The Panafrican Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougo and the Kansas City Film Critics Circle.

Not just that, but like so many sequels it has struggled to match the impact of the original - having at time of writing been viewed only 56 times, compared to the 105 views garnered by the original.

It was so outrageous I had no choice by to create my own award. And so, I am please to annouce, here on this blog, that the inaugural winner of the Annual Carlo Sands Award for Finest Use of the Phrase Fuckity in a Short Animation goes to ... Carlo Sands!!! For A Second Conversation: A Short Film on Refugees and Gaffer Tape.

In other news May 5 marks the 30th anniversay of the death of Bobby Sands, Honourable Member of the British Parliament for Fermanagh and South Tyrone.

Sands died in the British-run concentration camp called Long Kesh after 66 days on hunger strike, followed by nine other men, because the Thatcher government refused as a matter of principle to "cave into the demands of terrorists" and let the prisoners wear their own clothes or organise their own fitness regiment.

And while the bad news was the IRA missed Thatcher that time in Brighton, the good news is that walking bag of rancid shit can't have long to go.

The world being what it is, you take what you can get.



""The kind people, have a wonderful dream: Margaret on the guillotine.... when will you DIE?! When will you die? when will you die? when will you die? when will you die? ... Please die" The best bit is the way the song ends abruptly to sound of a falling guillotine. The worst bit is it was written in 1988 and we are still waiting...

In defence of the gutter

Well, it is there right under the big fucking slogan that reads: "An Alcoholic's Guide to Modern Life". A further statement. It reads: "We are in the gutter, but some of us enjoy it."

Now this statement, which I am told is a "play" on some sort of thing some prick called Oscar Wilde once said, was not actually something I personally came up with.

It was something that was once said about Carlo Sands by someone who, for reasons that escape me, calls herself "Amy".

The details of how it came to be said are a little hazy, but I believe it involved Canberra and a bad hangover.

And it is an accurate enough summary of the ideology, nay philosophy of Carlo Sands.

But I would, on reflection, go further and state: "We are all in a gutter but some of us DON'T EVEN FUCKING REALISE IT!"

No, some of us live in denial. Some of us think we can escape the gutter. And they think this is an easy task and one to be actively pursued.

The way you do this is you go some place to do your drinking, as we all must, that involves a greater wanker-per-head ratio than, say, some place with no one else there.

These places, for reasons that completely escape me, are usually full of people. And the way you can tell this is a place that its inhabitants think is above the gutter is, as well as the unseemly crowds, that the fucking beer costs more.

And sometimes, it even comes with a twist of some sort. Like if you hand over to the poor, overworked bastard behind the bar twice the cash for a standard beer, they'll kindly throw some fucking tabasco sauce into you beer for you.

You know, just for fucking kicks.

God knows why anyone would drink beer with tabasco fucking sauce in it, unless they were being force-fed it in Guantanamo Bay in the latest horrific torture technique invented by the Land of the Fucking Free as part of its bid to spread democracy one poor fucking tortured concentration camp prisoner at a time.

But apparently, the very possibility of ordering such a monstrosity, such a crime against humanity in blatant violation of the Geneva Conventions, is a sure sign you have taken a step out of the much-maligned gutter.

You know, as opposed to all those places that just serve fucking beer straight without the foresight of offering, for a just few extra hard earned dollars, a dollop of hot fucking sauce that renders your beer undrinkable.

And the worst thing about such places is they are never located anywhere fucking decent. By which I mean, located somewhere not overridden by fuckwits and wankers.

And yet, such places, in locations overridden with prats (to say nothing of very uptight bouncers) are considered, in some way, to be a step up from some dive in nowhere in particular.

That is, nowhere overrun by prats. Or, indeed, much in the way of anyone else.

And seriously, what is it with the bouncers in these areas? All you want is another fucking drink and you can't walk in to some place without being harassed by some meathead asking very impertinent questions, such as: "How much have you had tonight, mate?"

Ah, how about you mind your own fucking business is what you want to say. Or, clearly not enough as evidenced by the fact I am trying to walk into another fucking pub.

But you don't say that, because your chance of another drink is dependent on the goodwill of the giant slab of beef with an earpiece asking the question.

So you try and sound coherent and mumble something about "maybe a couple" and you get refused entry by the coked-up, steroid-ridden monstrosity who sees fit to judge your drug use.

That is the sort of neighbourhood where you find these "beer-with-tabasco-sauce" joints.

And, apparently, this is a step up from the gutter.

Well here is the thing. It really, really isn't. It is still the fucking gutter.

It is no less the gutter than some near-empty squalid pub with an old, drunken, redfaced Irishman behind the bar who insists on playing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" on repeat on the jukebox.

It is still the gutter, only with more wankers in your way.

You can't escape the gutter. Not by choosing a different joint to try and kill the pain of late monopoly capitalism in.

The gutter is where we live. It is the place we are assigned to by our benighted rulers. Who, by the way, also live in the gutter — only with much more expensive booze and better views.

Or, in the case of those puppets the rulers like to pretend are allowed to rule, in Canberra.

The gutter is life in this society.

And by all means "look at the stars", as that absinthe-drinking Irish bastard once said.

Which means, as Wilde himself spelled out in The Soul of Man Under Socialism, dare to imagine a different society is possible, one in which we are not enslaved to some form of degrading labour, not alienated, not subjected to the horrors of war, exploitation and Justin Bieber.

And by all means, organise to overthrow this fucking system that threatens total destruction of all life on Earth.

Carlo Sands is for that. Hell, I even started the important work of scoping out a potential wall to put the motherfuckers up against.

But, within this nightmare, it is all just a nightmare.

That is why people drink, no matter how many times the government, who are all fucking alcoholics, or the media, who are all fucking alcoholics, warn us about the dangers of alcohol abuse and come up with insane, laughable formulas about four or more standard drinks is binge drinking.

There is no "step up". There is no "better class of joint". There are only more expensive drinks and more wankers in your way at the bar.

What do you need from a pub? You need available booze and a place to sit and talk to a small group of people about shit to in a bid to forget about the nightmare that is the world.

And maybe play a game of pool.

The best thing a pub can be is close. That is the best characteristic a pub can have, after "cheap" and "not overridden with wankers".

The worst argument that can be made is that going to some joint located in the middle of some wanker-ridden suburb is it means you have "more of a social life".

Jesus fucking christ, you want a social life go see the fucking theatre. Go and watch the goddamn ballet. Get up at 6am on a Sunday morning to join a bushwalking society. Go to flower shows.

But if you just want a drink to relax and forget the world, then just go and have a fucking drink. And pick your company with care.

But do not engage in illusions, nay delusions about where you chose to do your drinking.

And if you must enter one of these hubs of wankery, of pratness — let's pick a place at random and say Newtown/Enmore — then it is much more enjoyable if you assault the place in the company of someone, let's call him "Ben", who has been drinking goon all afternoon and is staggering up the street to the pub dressed in a suit for no reason other than he has been drinking goon all afternoon and it seems a good idea.

And, in between some decent, coherent discussion on the relative prospects of the Bulldogs or Bombers in the 2011 Premiership Season, you have to try and convince him that stealing one of those big, moveable heaters is not wise, nor is it advisable to stop random passerbyers to ask whether they like to wear condoms or just shout out, to the beer garden, "Woopha!!!" every half-a-minute.

You get to test out important life-phrases such as "C'mon Ben, don't do that..." and "for christ's sake Ben, SHUT UP!".

And wonder in amazement at how long it takes before the bouncers make their way over to advise that leaving sooner, rather than later, may be in everyone's best interests.

And at the fact it took some bastard at a nearby table to rat Ben out to the bouncers after he hid an empty jug in some bushes to pick up on the way home — especially as he completely forgot he put it there anyway.

And that he scored a free glass when, after the bouncers' "time to leave" message, he staggered out of the premises with half a schooner in hand - only to find out later it got confiscated five metres down the street. But, anyhow, it didn’t matter as he had another stuffed in his inside suit pocket he had forgotten about but discovered to his surprise the next day.

If you must drink in these places, best approach it in such a way.

But ok. I mean, you know, what difference does it make? Drink where you fucking like. It doesn't matter, you know, just drink.

But don't pretend where you drink is any better than anywhere else. It is still just the gutter with some fucking booze on tap. And *that* is all that fucking matters.



"Nine-to-five is eating us alive, eating us alive. We're not kings, we are footsoldiers. We are walking the road to nowhere ... Is there any other place for us to go? Or is there even anywhere we know? No, no, no, no ..."