Whiskey, Duels To The Death, Abs And Bushranging: The Carlo And Leslie ASIO File Dialogues Pt 4

Well, I finally got my fourth installment of my ASIO files today. Once more it appears to me sitting in a pub with Leslie. This is getting ridiculous, I swear I’ve done other things in recent years.

Anyway, you probably need to read the first three installments coz otherwise you'll be totally lost as this series is a really complex, with many characters whose stories intertwine as the tale unfolds and features lots of plot twists and you wouldn't want to be lost because then what would you have to talk about tomorrow at work? HUH? Enjoy it because there is only one more to come.

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A glass of whiskey. In a pub.

[10.47AM, THURSDAY [REDACTED], CARLO AT [REDACTED] HOTEL LOOKING MORE DISHEVELED THAN USUAL AFTER THE REVELRY OF PART THREE. LESLIE JOINS HIM 15 MINUTES LATER.]

LESLIE: [chewing] Hmmm … You know, croissants are awesome. They're basically made of butter, but then you put more butter on them! And you can't put too much on! No matter how much you put on, you can keep adding more! They're like a bardis.

CARLO: That’s nice. I bought you a whiskey. Here, drink this lovely glass of the “water of life” as it translates from Irish!

LESLIE: You… bought me a drink?

CARLO: Yes! I have a stiff whiskey for you right here! Christ man, you don't drink it I will, poison or no... ah... or NO poison as there ISN'T any poison in it! HAHAHA! Just drink the fucking whiskey.

LESLIE: You’re still bitter about this whole “me winning the duel to the death” thing aren’t you?

CARLO: No! Of course not! Jesus! Hell, OK ... thank fuck I’ve accumulated a tolerance to all major poisons over the years … [skulls the whiskey]. That hit the spot.

LESLIE: Where did you even get the money for that whiskey?

CARLO: Oh, I ... borrowed it. By the way you might want to avoid the gents for a bit, it’s a little ... bloody in there.

LESLIE: You know, I’ve put up with a lot over many millennia, but trying to poison a friend is a bit rough.

CARLO: FRIEND? YOU FUCKING BEAT ME IN A DUEL TO THE DEATH!

LESLIE: You know, I’ve actually had people question whether you’re truly dead. It's quite insulting, because it is very poor form to claim victory in a duel on a questionable outcome. If there’s one thing that we both agree on, it’s the need to maintain the fundamental dignity of a duel.

CARLO: And that all duels must be carried out without pants. The two essentials.

LESLIE: Absolutely. What are you doing?

CARLO: What? Just admiring my abs.

LESLIE: You have abs?

CARLO: Of course I do! They’re as hard as a bag of marshmallows! I’ve spent a heaps of other people's money on beer to get them this way. This stomach is a work of art! I’m going into business to sell my secrets to the perfect belly.

LESLIE: You’re advertising now? Implausible testimonials and claims that “you too can achieve these amazing results” by following Dr Sands' exclusive program? No one can possibly believe you can achieve your impressive results without some serious hard work.

CARLO: I don’t offer instant overnight success! I always tell people, you gotta work at it, you gotta constantly be drinking beer, eating crap food, sitting down seven-days-a-week, 52-weeks-a-year, 10-years-a-decade, 10-decades-a-century-or-until-the-liver-fails. Don't expect that you can do it a couple of days and the rest of the week be out there at the gym, eating fucking tofu and necking mineral water! I say “THIS IS SERIOUS! SO GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING MONEY!”

LESLIE: Speaking of daylight robbery, I was just reading an article about old Moondyne Joe. You remember, the bushranger? I’m surprised nobody's made the connection between you and Moondyne. Like, they think he just ended up that insane on his own?

CARLO: Moondyne Joe? Western Australia's best known bushranger?

LESLIE: Yeah.

CARLO: Born poor in Cornwall, became a petty criminal who was transported to Australia in 1852 where he took up bushranging and became famous for his many escapes from jail?

LESLIE: Yeah. Ol' Joey.

CARLO: Never heard of him. [hissing] FOR FUCK’S SAKE THIS IS A PUBLIC PLACE!

LESLIE: Oh, yeah sorry.

CARLO: Anyway, I was on a surfing holiday in Hawaii at the time. [hissing] FUCK man… SHUT UP!

LESLIE: Yes… [starts humming a random tune in a bid to nochalantly change the topic] Hey, have you ever been singing to yourself, and then you get so irritated you call the cops on you to shut yourself up?


CARLO: You’re not drunk enough. Otherwise you'd be pushing yourself shouting “come on you bastard, you know the words COME ON! [singing badly]‘I MET MY LOVE BY THE GASWORKS WALL, DREAMED A DREAM BY THE OLD...’” then you’d pass out. That’s how I do it. Here, I'll show you...


[REST OF FILE REDACTED.]





‘I’ll chop you down, like an old dead tree...’ Fucking poetry! Stay tuned for the final, fifth installment!

Five Great Christmas Songs...

Christmas is one of those things you can't actually stop, so you might as well write decent songs about it. I gotta say, though, as we are on the topic, my Christmas came early -- on December 23 when the whole of Wanderland was jumping and singing as the Western Sydney Wanderers demolished the Central Coast Mariners, who had the sheer *gall* to beat us in last season's grand final.

The *true* meaning of Christmas! Wanderers players celebrate with the fans after their 2-0 defeat of the Mariners! Check out Shinji Ono's hat! Christmas is red and black!



But you know, not everyone was at Wanderland in Parramatta on Monday night to experience such GLORY so here are five Christmas songs I think are worth fucking hearing. I'd say "The Top Five Christmas Songs Of All Time That You Really Must Hear Right Now!", or some other shit, but FUCKING BUZZFEED HAS KILLED THE LIST! THIS YEAR, THE LIST HAS JUMPED THE SHARK AND THE SHARK JUMPED UP AND ATE THE LIST!!!

So I will simply call this "Five Great Christmas Songs" and you can do with that what you will. Here they are as a YouTube play list.

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Five Great Christmas Songs

5) Merry Christmas From the Family -- Robert Earl Keen



"Mom got drunk and Dad got drunk ..." Texas country singer Robert Earl Keen's tale of a gloriously drunken, messy family Christmas.



4) Grateful for Christmas -- Hayes Carll



"I wish I had a drink or maybe a dozen ..." Writing a sweet Christmas song without making it unbearably saccharine is a really hard task. It takes a songwriter and performer of the quality of Hayes Carll -- *another* Texas country singer -- to pull it off.



3) Shit Christmas Without You -- The Mighty Stef



"Sometimes love don't do the things you want it to..." The Mighty Stef is a severely -- even tragically -- underrated bluesy folksy rocking powerhouse, and this song introduces heartache, lost love and a nostalgic romanticism to the festive season. It also references song 1) in this list.



2) Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis -- Tom Waits



"Hey Charlie, I'm pregnant..." Continuing with the nostalgic romanticism, here is a great live version of Tom Waits' classic from 1978's Blue Valentine. From that great opening line to its killer final line (which I won't quote in case you've never heard it before), it is a blinder. In other Tom Waits Christmas news, here is a song by Roy Ivy that parodies a latter-day Waits style of song called "A Tom Waits Christmas".



1) Fairytale of New York -- The Pogues



"It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank..." What can be said about this asides from the indisputable fact it is not just the best Christmas song ever, but one of the best songs of all time full stop? Very little, so here is a different version by the great Irish folk singer Christy Moore.

Thousands are sailing... a song for our times. RIP Phil Chevron

'And I never even got so far that they could change my name...'


I break my long silence on this godforsaken blog to post that song, due to the tragic news today that its writer, The Pogues' Phil Chevron, lost his long battle with cancer, aged just 56.

I mean seriously what kind of fucking godforsaken world is this when Phil Chevron is taken from us yet Robin Thicke lives? A severely fucked-up world is the answer. A severely fucked up world indeed.

I am extremely glad I had the immense pleasure of seeing the pretty much "classic" Pogues line up in Sydney last year. It was an amazing night, I couldn't believe my eyes -- there on stage was these legendary figures from another, glorious era, who created an entire new genre of their own. And Phil Chevron stepped up to sing "Thousands Are Sailing" while Shane McGowan staggered off stage to refill his drink.

I put the full words to "Thousands Are Sailing" below, coz it is not just a great song, but fucking goddamn poetry. And its story of forced emigration -- specifically about Irish emigration to America -- is just really fucking relevant. And the tragic dying trying to reach safety is really fucking relevant, from the horrific death of 363 (at last count) who died trying to reach Italy to the goddamn hellhole of *THIS* so-called country where the authorities make of point of letting asylum seekers die.

SO FUCK YOU TONY ABBOTT, FUCK ALL THE RACIST POLITICIANS WHO KILL THE DESPERATE MAY YOU ALL ROT IN THE DEEPEST, DARKEST, HOTTEST RECESSES OF HELL! NOW JUST READ PHIL'S WORDS COZ THEY ARE GREAT!


Thousands are sailing

The island it is silent now
But the ghosts still haunt the waves
And the torch lights up a famished man
Who fortune could not save

Did you work upon the railroad
Did you rid the streets of crime
Were your dollars from the White House
Were they from the five and dime

Did the old songs taunt or cheer you
And did they still make you cry
Did you count the months and years
Or did your teardrops quickly dry

Ah, no, says he, ‘twas not to be
On a coffin ship I came here
And I never even got so far
That they could change my name

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
To a land of opportunity
That some of them will never see
Fortune prevailing
Across the western ocean
Their bellies full
Their spirits free
They’ll break the chains of poverty
And they’ll dance

In Manhattan’s desert twilight
In the death of afternoon
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway
Like the first man on the moon

And “the blackbird” broke the silence
As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps
I danced up and down the street

Then we said goodnight to Broadway
Giving it our best regards
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen
Dear old times square’s favorite bard

Then we raised a glass to JFK
And a dozen more besides
When I got back to my empty room
I suppose I must have cried

Thousands are sailing
Again across the ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Postcards we’re mailing
Of sky-blue skies and oceans
From rooms the daylight never sees
Where lights don’t glow on christmas trees
But we dance to the music
And we dance

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Where e’er we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies
And we dance





'The island it is silent now, but the ghosts still haunt the waves ' Phil Chevron sings his song.

RAISE A BEER, YOU GODDAMN BASTARDS.

'May the judged be their judges when they rot down in hell' -- Fuck you Maggie

What the media should do, of course, is take all their editorials and op eds about a world famous politican who has died -- with their "authoritarian" and "tyrant" descriptors and their tales of economic destruction and class hatred and rising corruption and society breakdown and support for dictators -- and just do a simple find/replace, removing "Hugo Chavez" and inserting "Margaret Thatcher". Just to save some time.

The two leaders, one who died on March 5 the other on April 8, left rather different legacies -- one, for helping the poor, at home and overseas. The other for waging war on the poor, at home and overseas.

One of these two leaders' deaths sparked widespread mourning, the other street parties. Check out these images and see if you can guess which one was the "tyrant"...

HUGO CHAVEZ DIES



Hundreds of thousands of people accompany Hugo Chavez's coffin onthe streets of Caracas



Venezuela's streets were scenes of outpourings of grief.




Real News report on mourning for Chavez in Venezuela and beyond


MARGARET THATCHER DIES:



Celebrations break out in Glasgow's Green Square after news of Thatcher's death.



Thousands gather outside Belfast's City Hall to celebrate news of Thatcher's death.



A street party in Liverpool with fireworks -- to mark the death of a leader who tried her hardest to destroy the city.


So a murderer and torturer, who denounced Nelson Mandela, befriended the worst dictators like Chile's General Pinochet and gave Pol Pot a helping hand has finally fucked off to Hell.

The corporate media are eulogising her and expressing "disgust" at those who have the gall to be happy at the demise of their greatest tormentor.

But even when they might feel obliged to give some nod of recognition to the savage class war Thatcher waged across Britain, there is one aspect likely to be largely ignored -- on top of Thatcher's infamous assistance to pro-Western dictators all over the world, there was Thatcher's policies of murder and torture in the cause of deepening British control over the six counties in Ireland's north.

It is well known that -- on top of the torture and abuses in prisons and the campaign of killings and repression in Ireland's north -- Thatcher's refusal to compromise in the case of the hunger strike by republican prisoners in the infamous Long Kesh camp lead directly to the death of 10 men.

Under Thatcher, the policies of repression against the Irish struggle extended onto mainland Britain, with the gross violation of the rights of Irish people living in England that included the framing by means of torture of innocent people for bombings they had nothing to do with.

Censorship is a sign of a guilty regime -- the truth cannot be allowed out. And so the censorship in Thatcher's Britain on "the Irish question" went to absurd lengths -- Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams' voice was even banned from being broadcast. But it was not just Adams' voice -- a song by a popular band that dared deal with the topic was banned from public broadcast and a TV performance of the song was pulled from the air.

The song was The Pogues "Streets of Sorrow/Birmingham Six". Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan is now better known as an irredeemable drunk, but his lyircs savaged the British state crimes against the Irish people -- in Ireland and Britain. It campaigned for freedom for the Birmingham Six and Guildford Four -- framed for bombings they didn't commit, both before Thatcher came to power, but whose suffering continued under her government while attempts to get out truth were censored.




Thatcher's regime was one that could not even bear to hear about its own crimes in a song...





...There were six men in Birmingham
In Guildford there's four
That were picked up and tortured
And framed by the law
And the filth got promotion
But they're still doing time
For being Irish in the wrong place
And at the wrong time

In Ireland they'll put you away in the Maze
In England they'll keep you for seven long days
God help you if ever you're caught on these shores
The coppers need someone
And they walk through that door

You'll be counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a lonely hell
Round the yard and the stinking cell
From wall to wall, and back again

A curse on the judges, the coppers and screws
Who tortured the innocent, wrongly accused
For the price of promotion
And justice to sell
May the judged be their judges when they rot down in hell...

May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds
And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads
While over in Ireland eight more men lie dead
Kicked down and shot in the back of the head ...





'Five simple things we asked of them, five simple things denied. But Thatcher would not compromise...'




Scenes of jubilation in celebration at Thatcher's death on Falls Road in Belfast. You can hear the banging of bin lids -- a highly symbolic gesture as the banging of bin lids was used on Falls Road (and other places in the nationalist community) to announce the death of each of hte 10 young men Margaret Thatcher let starve to death in 1981.


SO HAVE A FUCKING DRINK COZ OUR VICTORIES ARE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN... BUT WE ARE STILL HERE AND MAGGIE THATCHER IS NOT!!!

The right response when the fuckers try and stop you enjoying a drink

We live in a pretty fucked up world. The brutal imperialist war on Afghanistan and Pakistan continues unabated by remote control, the rulers of the world have decided to ignore the dire warnings and to allow ongoing ecological destruction, and new statistics suggest the most influential person online is the devil child himself: Justin Fucking Bieber.

And, in the face of all of this, the approach of those that rule us seems to be to make it as difficult as possible to cope with the horrors of their system by enjoying a fucking drink or twelve. Just to really torture us.

Hell, as well as proposals in some states to raise the drinking age to 21, the Northern Territory has gone ahead and banned the sale of cask wine in quantities of more than two litres!

This is going too far - the four litre goonbag is part of the goddamned national culture. Poor old Tom Angrove, the inventor of goon who sadly passed away last March aged 92, will be rolling in his fucking grave.

If you can't get a four litre cask of the red-coloured goon for about ten bucks, then what the hell is this godforsaken country about? What the fuck are highschoolers and uni students meant to fucking do? At the very least, it is going to require return trips to the goddamn bottlo.

Well, take heart fellow liver destroyers, at this inspiring tale of resistance by prisoners in a British jail.

All the poor fuckers were trying to do is what people have been doing the world over as a new year rolled in: drinking to forget what a fucked-up year it was and to forget how fucked-up the next one will inevitably be too.

An AFP article, entitled Buildings razed in British prison riot, tells the heroic story:

LONDON: Specialist police have quelled a riot at a British prison after inmates set buildings alight when staff tried to breathalyse some of the 200 prisoners amid fears alcohol had been smuggled in on New Year's Day.

Authorities are investigating the day-long rampage involving about 40 inmates which began early on Saturday at Ford open prison near Arundel, in Sussex in south-east England.

Several buildings were burnt to the ground and police in body armour and firefighters were called in. Television pictures showed flames leaping from several buildings at the 1960s-era prison.

And why shouldn't the poor bastards be allowed a fucking drink? Or is getting pissed only for the rich and privileged in Britain, as suggested by a recent study showing high income earners drink the most?

Carlo Sands says good on the prisoners! That is how you fucking do it. We need more of this.

I personally witnessed a smaller version of this type of resistance a week or so ago when I was on the the first floor balcony of the Newtown pub Kelly's at about 3.30am. The pub security guy had been trying to put a downer on people's alcohol-fuelled fun when one young guy from a table of drunks got up and bravely started singing Bohemien Rhapsody as loud as he could.

Inspired, from every table on the balcony people rose as one to join him in his stand - as the security man raced out in a panic, despairing as he tried to put down the Queen Rebellion.

It was a small gesture, perhaps, but it shows the collective power of a group of drunken strangers when they decide to unite, stand as one and shout "Mama just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead!"

It would, of course, been much better had they been singing The Pogues, but you take your inspiration where you find it.



"And in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout, but they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out. They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains, so you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again". The Pogues "Sick Bed of Cuchulainn" would have been a better choice for drunken rebellion, but, in a world as fucked up as this one, you take your inspiration where you find it.

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.