The Queen is dead boys, and it's so lonely on a limb...

So I broke into the Palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said: "Eh, I know you, and you cannot sing"
I said: "that's nothing - you should hear me play piano"

No fucking clue what the Hell is going on at Buckingham Palace*, although I assume some announcement in a couple of hours is on its way. It could be anything. Prince Philip could be dead, or the Queen's favourite corgi or maybe the Queen herself .

(Yes I know the media said the emergency meeting was CALLED by the Queen, but honestly I think she has people to do that for her. I know if I was a reigning monarch, the very first thing I'd do is rule that under no circumstances would I be required to have ANYTHING to do with ANY meeting EVER again.

(And as for the old racist Prince Philip, I just hope it wasn't the heartbreak caused by Malcolm Turnbull taking back that knighthood Tony Abbott gave the guy. If it is, I think British security should be on high alert at the funeral for a rogue Abbott wielding a sword determined to "knight" the corpse before its buried once and for all.)

All I know is, it sounds like as good an occasion as any for this Smiths track, in which, over a typically awesome guitar playing by the genius that is Johnny Marr, Morrissey does what he does best: combine genuinely witty lyrics with a seemingly bottomless self-pity.

* Update: Apparently the announcement is just that Prince Philip will be performing even less duties in the interests of the public. Like how is that even possible? And who is in charge of official racist abuse now?



Farewell to this land's cheerless marches
Hemmed in like a boar between arches
Her very Lowness with her head in a sling
I'm truly sorry but it sounds like a wonderful thing

I say Charles don't you ever crave
To appear on the front of the Daily Mail
Dressed in your Mother's bridal veil?

And so I checked all the registered historical facts
And I was shocked into shame to discover
How I'm the 18th pale descendent
Of some old queen or other

Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?
Oh has the world changed, or have I changed?
Some nine year old tough who peddles drugs
I swear to God, I swear I never even knew what drugs were

So I broke into the Palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said: "Eh, I know you, and you cannot sing"
I said: "that's nothing - you should hear me play piano"

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But when you are tied to your mother's apron
No-one talks about castration

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
Like love and law and poverty
These are the things that kill me

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But the rain that flattens my hair
These are the things that kill me

Passed the pub that saps your body
And the church who'll snatch your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb

Pass the pub that wrecks your body
And the church, all they want is your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb

Life is very long, when you're lonely

A Dalziel and Pascoe Episode: A Summary

Anyone who knows me, like really knows me, knows two things:

1) I love murder mysteries of all sorts
2) I am completely up-to-date in all fields of popular culture.

And so, given this, I decided to provide an entirely accurate, all-purpose episode summary of every Dalziel and Pascoe episode ever made! And only 10 years after the series wound up!

A Dalziel and Pascoe Episode: A Summary

It is bleak in Yorkshire and the working-class streets of Wetherton, with their dull brick walls and faded curtains, seem grim. A dead body found in the local reservoir is even grimmer.

Dalziel and Pascoe arrive at the crime scene. Dalziel is grumpy because he has been woken up early after drinking too much whisky. Pascoe is already rolling his eyes and sighing at his superior's antics.

But when the dead body turns out to be directly related to Dalziel's past, things get murky. Dalziel is shaken, but refuses to speak about the case from two decades earlier, when he was suspected of corruption/investigated for police brutality/in love with a key suspect.

His behaviour becomes more and more erratic, driving Pascoe to despair. Finally, Pascoe confronts Dalziel and tells him: "I'm trying to help you here, Andy!"

Dalziel, hurt that by his friend's seeming lack of trust, growls furiously and storms out. He goes home to get drunk and mope miserably on his couch.

They eventually catch the murderer, but it is clear to all that the real crime here is what Thatcher did to the north.

It also turns out that Dalziel was above reproach all along. Pascoe apologises and they go to the pub to drink and mend their wounded friendship.

All men have secrets and here is mine
So let it be known
For we have been through hell and high tide
I think I can rely on you...
And yet you start to recoil
Heavy words are so lightly thrown
But still I'd leap in front of a flying bullet for you
So, what difference does it make?

Andy Dalziel might play this song to Peter Pascoe, or vice versa, if either of them where the sort to play The Smiths.

Andrew Bolt On His 'Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name'

The world mocks.

Andrew Bolt has written a sustained defence of Tony Abbott that is being mocked by the small-minded and hateful twitterati as a "love letter", with all the teenage sniggering that suggests ("Andrew and Tony sitting in a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G!") in ways that are arguably borderline homophobic. Which is not just petty but a little distasteful, as we all know they really don't like that kinda thing.

It is sad to see. And all because Andrew, unable to take all the hurtful things everyone has been saying about the great man any longer, pens an ode to Tony called "The Loss Of PM Abbott A Time Of Sorrow".

In it, he pours his heart out about the pain he feels over the loss of "one of the finest human beings to be Prime Minister". And just because he knighted Prince Philip, ate a raw onion and sought to dismantle the social safety net in the most extreme agenda of kicking the shit out of the poor seen since the days of the Hungry Mile in the Great Depression!

"You’ll laugh that I can write this massive praise of him when almost everyone else is horse-laughing," Andrew writes, in one of the rare examples of accuracy in his columns. For Andrew, poor Tony "seemed too moral for the job" -- a fact definitely missed by the rest of us.

Perhaps it was missed especially by the asylum seeker children Tony held in isolated prison camps subjected to systematic abuse. But really, I think we all should put our hands up and admit "moral" is not the first word that comes to mind when thinking of former PM Abbott.

The world does not understand.

Tony "led the world’s defiance of deadly Russian strongman Vladimir Putin", says Andrew, defying cynics who dare suggest the only thing his much-ridiculed threat to "shirtfront Putin" led the world into was hysterics.

And he was kind! "Ask my children how gentle he was when he called around." See! Tony loved children! Not the ones on Manus Island and Nauru obviously... but Aussie children, obviously!

Andrew has his criticisms, sure -- who wouldn't? Largely that Tony just refused to lower himself to the level of his dirty rotten opponents.

"I could have shaken the silly bugger, who played politics like it was cricket when everyone else was cage fighting," Andrew writes in possibly the only known example of anyone accusing Tony Abbott of not being enough of brawler.

Just too good for this world is our Andrew's Tony.

I guess the rest of us just don't know the real Tony, only having the well-documented public record of his constant brutal brawling in defence of what can only be called a hate-filled agenda to go by.

But Andrew enlightens us: "Those I love best are people of honour, warmth and kindness. Tony Abbott is one such man..."

In case you hadn't guessed, Andrew is really upset. "Sorry to sound so melodramatic," he writes. No need to apologise, mate! You just sound heartfelt and Christ knows there is too little of such passion in this cruel world!

Sure, much of the cruelty in the world comes from politicians like your beloved and their media defenders like yourself, who was found guilty of violating the Racial Discrimination Act for some of the most hate-filled commentary this hardly hate-free nation has seen ... but all you can do is speak from your broken little heart.

'Tell me more, Tony, you're so wise!.

Sadly, speaking from his heart has brought predictable ridicule down on Andrew's head -- and even utter bemusement and wondering if he has been living on Mars or perhaps taken magic mushrooms every day since Abbott became PM two years ago.

But I have it on good authority that Andrew will not take such mockery lying down and plans a moving speech at the start of this week's Bolt Report to answer his critics.

Below is a leaked copy of the planned speech. Sure it owes a little to Oscar Wilde's famous court room defence of "the love that dare not speak its name", but then few have been as terribly persecuted and misunderstood as Oscar Wilde than has Andrew Bolt -- who was also subjected to an unfair and cruel court case that found him guilty of race hate.

While Oscar was sentenced to two years hard labour, Andrew has been subjected to heading up a weekly TV show and writing a major column in the most widely read paper in the country.

Well... put aside all your prejudices about the man. I challenge anyone to read Andrew's speech with dry eyes.

* * *

What is the "Love that dare not speak its name"?

"The Love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of a Murdoch columnist for a conservative politician as there was between Murdoch’s Sun and Margaret Thatcher, such as Milton Friedman made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the writings of Goebbels and Rand.

It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of policy documents like those of the IPA and Sydney Institute, and those blog posts of mine, such as they are.

It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the "Love that dare not speak its name," and on account of it I am placed where I am now, with even my usually loyal blog commentators wondering what the fuck I’ve been smoking.

It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is ideological, and it repeatedly exists between an hard right political thug and a writer found guilty of spreading race hate, when the propagandist has ideology, and the politician has all the fight, hate and promise of high office before him. 

That it should be so the world does not understand. The world mocks at it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it, or at least, on national TV.

How can they look into my eyes
And still they don't believe me
How can they hear me say those words
And still they don't believe me
And if they don't believe me now
Will they ever believe me?
And if they don't believe me now
Will they ever believe me?

The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies
A plundering desire for love

It's OK Andrew! Morrissey believes you! Morrissey understands!

On Redheads, Cycling And The Welsh: The Carlo And Leslie ASIO File Part 2

Yes it is what you have ALL been waiting for, without consciously knowing you were -- I have received the SECOND installment of my ASIO files, which I dutifully publish below, believing, as I do, in the principle of full transparency.

You should read the FIRST post on this, otherwise you simply won't have any clue what is going on. It follows directly on and it seems to me these security pricks have some sort of fetish with recording me in a pub with a bastard called "Leslie". Christ only knows why.

* * *

A pub.

[10.12AM, TUESDAY [DATE REDACTED] CARLO ARRIVES AGAIN AT THE [REDACTED] HOTEL JUST AFTER OPENING AND SITS WITH LESLIE AND STARTS DRINKING.]

CARLO: [sighs] Jesus.

LESLIE: Legal system bringing you down?

CARLO: Did you know they make you wear pants in court?

LESLIE: So I hear.

CARLO: Fucking fascism.

LESLIE: Your court case. It’s not the “killing redheads” thing again is it?

CARLO: Oh, no.

LESLIE: Coz they can’t usually survive in the environs north of Melbourne any way. And those redheads that do make it to adulthood have to stay indoors and move about through sewers.

CARLO: Sure that’s not vampires?

LESLIE: No, they are similar only vampires are more fundamentally moral. I should know, my own brother is beset with the redhead malady so I’ve always had to stay sharp and keep on top of their behaviours.

CARLO: YOU’RE RELATED TO ONE???

LESLIE: Yeah. So there's the whole thing where I carry the abomination in my blood too, but refuse to succumb. Like Blade.

CARLO: That’s some heavy shit, man. It’s such a controversial topic. Did you know some people actually consider it racist to kill a redhead?

LESLIE: That’s political correctness gone mad.

CARLO: I won't even kill them these days. It’s an OHS thing. You get all that infected blood on you and it takes forever to scrub off. It’s not like normal blood, it clings to the skin, like a worse-smalling napalm. I tell local councils they gotta do their own cleansing operations.

LESLIE: Fair enough too. Shit, what’s the time? I gotta get home to watch the Tour de France.

CARLO: The WHAT???

LESLIE: The cycling.

[pause]

CARLO: I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO NEVER MENTION THAT TWO-WHEELED DEVIL SPORT EVER AGAIN!

LESLIE: Yeah but that’s only coz you still can’t do it.

CARLO: I TOOK ALL THE SAME DRUGS AS LANCE ARMSTRONG! ALL THAT HAPPENED WAS I FELL OFF MY BIKE!

LESLIE: You shouldn’t have mixed it with all that red wine.

CARLO: That is where I usually go wrong with drugs. The point is WHERE IS MY BEER? YESTERDAY YOU PROMISED ME A FUCKING BEER!

LESLIE: Yeah, but ... the thing is..

CARLO: WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?

LESLIE: I’m broke. I can’t afford beer. I just said that to shut you up. Now I really gotta get home for the cycling...

CARLO: THIS IS JUST LIKE THE SIEGE OF TROY ALL OVER AGAIN!!!

LESLIE: No, come on … the siege of Troy is a very sensitive issue for me.

CARLO: Oh “come on Carlo, go invade Troy!” you said. “There is this girl named Helen held captive and she is the most beautiful woman ever,” you said. “I swear she's the one! Please Carlo, go and liberate her and I’ll BUY YOU A BEER!” you said. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO BUILD THAT GIANT WOODEN HORSE!

LESLIE: Yeah well, I couldn’t have known she’d go running back to Menelaus. Never seemed a happy marriage. Still, it really didn’t help that the few times I got Helen alone, you invariably burst in shouting “where is my fucking beer!”

CARLO: What a great question! WHERE IS MY FUCKING BEER, RICHMOND?!

LESLIE: I was depressed by the Helen thing! It was a hard time for me! I dedicated myself to wearing black and listening to The Smiths, but black wasn't in fashion and The Smiths weren’t invented until 1983. It was a really hard few thousand years.

CARLO: WHERE. THE FUCK. IS. MY. BEER.

LESLIE: I can’t afford it.

CARLO: YOU LIED TO ME AGAIN!

LESLIE: How about tomorrow?

CARLO: Tomorrow?

LESLIE: Yeah, meet me here tomorrow and I’ll definitely buy you a beer.

CARLO: You’ll DEFINITELY buy me a beer tomorrow?

LESLIE: Absolutely. I'm off to watch the cycling. You coming?

CARLO: No, I think I’ll stay here, wait till that bastard at the next table turns his back, then nick his beer.

[LESLIE LEAVES. CARLO SPENDS THE REST OF THE DAY STEALING OTHER PEOPLE’S BEERS WHEN THEY ARE NOT LOOKING AND EVENTUALLY GETS THROWN OUT FOR A DRUNKEN RENDITION OF “DIRTY OLD TOWN”.]




'I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour...' He's singin' Leslie's song. STAY TUNED FOR MORE!