I run parts of an old post to remind a devoted public to do what thieving Legislators refuse to do and that is to envisage a projected 180% electricity charge increase after privatization. When reality catches up with China, little used Queensland rail lines will stagnate after the permanent way falls apart.
“Funny how time flies, what with it being 21 years since a chap called Fitzgerald confirmed the findings of two Brisbane journalists on the greasing of the various Lurks and Perks Departments of the Executive Building. Wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly happen again, the sages mooted; Cabinet crooks would contain their activities to North Qld. towns and the dives of Fortitude Valley where the snow was always white and the slime-bags operated south of the Tweed.
So two Queensland bureaucrats are officially rebuked. Is the heat of deep shit rising dictating moves? I won’t weep for these two, except perhaps for the huge brown paper bag they’ll take with them as salve. Angry Italian citizens found an ideal use for butcher’s hooks when it came to dealing with top-level corruption, à la Mussolini. Executive crime is only a crime in Queensland when George Street Looters and Thugs feel threatened and avert their eyes when passing the Law Courts just down the road from Diddle Den.
When I first saw the prim and impeccably attired Fraser in a T.V. news story, he and Beattie had copped a spray of water from an irate protester at an event shoot. His look of utter horror said it all. His pretty suit had been abominated by the hoi polloi and I could imagine the tut-tutting as he flicked at his suit as the limo whisked his Eminence back to the Executive Building.
This was an unmitigated Beattie sniveller who had yet to attain the hallowed status he enjoys today. I thought to myself, “Hullo, if this is not being up your-self then I am a monkey’s uncle.” I checked the phrase ‘up yourself’ and what a surprise, I found a connection to ‘pompous’. I then thought, this bloke cares a trillion times more about his image than he possibly could about the filthy unwashed, and hey, I was right on the money again. He is selling us out. Did he think to ask South Australian electricity consumers what effect privatisation has had on their power bills?”
I Add a bit:
From a distance and without being actively involved, I saw a fair bit of the Fortitude Valley drama unfold before me which was later to be of interest to the Fitzgerald inquiry. One stand-out memory is that of the then unknown figures arriving after close of business at the Hacienda Hotel and settle around a table in the darkened and now quiet first floor, indistinct shadows silhouetted by low wattage bar lighting. It was conceded that these furtive figures were involved in a chicanery of sorts, but in the Valley in those days one’s curiosity was passing. The blurred shapes became, in the Supreme Court, Terry’s bagmen picking-up the infamous small, sweet-tasting fish while discussing whatever order of business the vast array of bent cops had to arrange.
The contempt for and the heavy treatment of black people in the Valley was common-place and accepted as normal police culture back then, and to offend or demean blacks in any way, a ritual “bloodying” and a policeman’s induction into their favourite team sport. That activity was for the amusement and the base satisfaction of lesser lights in the trick, and white people felt safer when the presence of the coppers natural enemy detracted attention from them. Hectoring, ridiculing and threatening soft targets like pensioners and the helpless is now our servers safe sport of choice while the use of common-sense in every-day decisions is not used and its practitioners derided and sent to Coventry by dim nincompoop who collude with reprehensible club biff boys to taint our old values.
It is given that any Queensland Cabinet is laden with own interest manipulators and criminals with a cultivated indifference to the personal concerns of citizens outside the club. This was none so evident than with the Hinze/Joh arrangement which gave a good idea of the depth of badness in the upper echelons of all Governments as reflected by the treatment of and the regard that Government employees have for the public. I call this the trickling pus effect.
Joh’s defence of his political skull-dudgery was to claim he cherry-picked the best bits from former Labor Premier, ‘Red Ted’ Theodore, famous for naughty mining dealing after going Federal, was abetted by his Qld. successor and got the flick from the Treasury bench. Then, as now, was little political talent to draw upon and Theodore’s rapid return to Cabinet caused Scullin’s shaky Government to crash. You can be a subdolous, swindling, gerrymandering Machiavellian in the Executive, but embarrass your compatriots by getting caught and you, sweetheart, have become a criminal.
I rail on about the present smug bunch, but that they are into the public till to lay their dynastic foundations is not news, so how could I, in all honesty and with my faculties working, feign surprise or give a rat’s rectum about a crime whose lengthy existence and commonality matches that of prostitution. The real issue griping me are the ploys and the effort their Housing Commission staff use to ensure I am always subject to cigarette smoke and to the petty vagaries of retributive public servants. There is a lot to be said later about directives coming from immature drugged and drunk shiny-pants: it must wait, any wanker has only one novel in him, goes the saying.
I refer to the obvious contempt my pleas for a fair go have been treated by those who have access to cooked client phantom files that don’t exist. These low-ranked Housing employee are tied I acknowledge, by having to follow instructions, or suffer black-balling by their own or much worse; experience the ostracising and the condemnation of a Brigadoon poker machine club whose appropriately sur-named contact in her fifth-column role, settles both her personal dislikes and the hates of her vindictive, one-eyed feeble manager, by relaying embellished reports belittling out of favour tenants to her Woodridge friends.
Neither she nor her colleague and friend Jane, a spokesperson of the acronymned sham tenant’s union, which, after deciphering from doublespeak, is unquestionably B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T. are Government employees. This permits their naming, and Government narks should be disabused of the notion their threats are other than that. Private companies and individuals who feel they have been slandered can instigate a civil writ.
I was attacked by my nut-job protagonist neighbour who got his pooooo friends around to intimidate me and left heart-broken and disappointed they could only find evidence to support my case. An appropriately sur-named office person with whom he is acquainted had her Woodridge friends issue me with a notice of eviction which couldn’t work, it being too much a civil matter. I was not expected to know the M.O. of these deceased vaginas or how, if it’s your lucky day, the law also protects the slow and the ugly.
The annual bogus tenant’s meeting was in the pipeline for April, 2009, I think it was. I was the only tenant not informed, but attended this farce to ask if a consideration for the non-smoking tenant might be considered such as lodgement in up-wind or eastern-most flats away from the direction and discomfort of spent cigarette smoke.
” Cigarette smokers would find that discriminatory.” She was not joking and explained her raison d’etre was to assist the mentally dim tenants economise on electricity. That answer went over the heads of her audience of course, but hers was an official view. Had the tenant “union” been Government affiliated, which of course, it couldn’t be, the related information that a week or so after this cosy little wet morning gathering, an Origin competitor’s salesman door-knocked every Housing Commission residence seeking their custom. But hey! This is Queensland where the CMC occupies space.
I then explained the attack by the next-door paranoid occupant who ran at me with discharging aerosol fly-spray causing distress to the larynx and esophagus areas and mentioned that had cctv been in operation, I might have had his ridiculous claims quickly dispatched. I would like to install closed circuit tv to spare me future distress, I told her.
” Can’t be permitted. Such an instrument invades his privacy.” she assured me. This stupidity used to be know as pushing shit uphill.
Queensland’s most prominent semi-literate, knowing the undoubted power and only option for her kind, got the job by snivelling to an influential and intimidating stand-over merchant with whom she later traveled and largessed at Queensland’s expense in the US of A. We forget such stuff at our peril. It was while they were lording it up in Arizona she realized that that States pedestrian pull-over powers could benefit her home games. Sucking, she knew and advocated, had it over substance and merit and to appease a simpering Pooooo Commissioner, gave him the nod to harass those whose physical profile and pensioner ugliness didn’t meet biased approval.
I settled-in in a backward, dismal and forgotten little town which suited my expectation of anonymity and solitude, hoping to apply myself to various lethargic and light cerebral pursuits. After all, one does eventually get the message that the dark chariot is ever ready. What my chagrin discovered was that on any day spent indoors, a thousand words insist on release and a down-town stroll an epistle.
To a healthy and active mind, life will deliver to it surprises of all sorts to its last day. The extent of hate and its use by Government agents and other seemingly informed people will share that trip. My awareness of hate and its preferred use and why it is so eagerly and earnestly applied will always be a wonder to me. All levels of Government encourage a disregard for commonsense and the Queensland Government Housing Dept. instinctively favors a dill’s word of malevolence and lies and worse, to that of a considerate thinking person, of whom, I imagine, they feel threatened in the company of goodness while the herd mentality of fellow troglodytes offer a comfort of sorts while exercising their in-built superiority.
In Brigadoon, her sheet-sniffing agents submit instructions, edicts and homily advice to the local, golly-gosh-good compliant weekly ‘newspaper.’ who drops this waffle in without query or edit. An American friend still laughs aloud at this bush paper’s hand-wringing report on the theft of a letter-box which had won local acclaim for its seventh placing in a happy letter-box competition. The Christmas glee that celebrating Works staff had around a plate of meat pies also won amusement.
The puerile material this (caring) oooooo sage submits is taken as gospel by the limited and easily impressed iq depleted reader range and compares favourably with the publication’s minus 100 IQ target audience and as such passes unnoticed into an unaware community as general and acceptable roughage. Of his biased and oft inaccurate moralising, an April, 2009 homily had two errors of fact in a four line paragraph and with that appalling dearth of accuracy, I would gladly assist any unfortunate citizen who was wrongly convicted by a prosecutor’s guesswork to redress perverted evidence.
For whom has this belles-lettres abandoned his ethics and intellect? Is he script-writing Police Academy 8 and became delusionally involved in the action? The Academy motto this time around could read, EUDCATE OUR POLICE. The charter of the Australian Civil Liberties insists that Australian political prisoners no longer be slotted, but this fellow, who honourably serves us, would know a bit about back-door political censorship and Doomadgee knee jobs.
His actions are predicated more by George Street pressure to stop uncomplimentary Brigadoon blog-sites, than by protecting dangerous psychiatric screw-balls from exposure. My stuff under Crikey’s management would get a thousand times the coverage this site can offer, while overseas news sites, always looking for new words, use my poor stuff to fill a hole. I feel for the lady who was taken aback at police indifference at her husband mouldering in the park, but she will soon wipe her poor little hands on her apron and lapse into an inconsolable despair.
Any Government employee deserving of his superannuation loves to invoke the Mental Health evaluation test, and a heresy inquisitor worth his salt will ensure the “troubled” target is goaded into an introduction to Sister Ratched’s white lab coats. The distraught victim is invariably an older citizen who has been denied natural courtesy and justice after unnecessary shop-staff rudeness or Government officiousness caused a disbelief of what had befallen him.
The unofficial word I have is that about 1,000 Australians are arbitrarily slotted annually, roughly the same number who die through misadventure while travelling overseas. The public only get to hear the juiciest bits of either area, ie the Oakey lady, the Croat incident. A Government engineered three week memory retention limit soon puts such knowledge in the toilet in any case.(except for me, Guv’mint arse-lickers.)
A pushy Gold Coast based pay channel hassled me for subscription which means they phoned me, my good and wise censor and honourable people-server. On the fourth occasion I gave her words that my Mum had never heard and was promised much wraith and the full force of the phone company and the law. I ever quiver as I await my dread fate. Understand the analogy, my good young chap? I didn’t force her to make annoying calls to me, and I don’t compel effete freaks to click on my sites and then run across the road to weep to an grandstanding blow-hard whose assurance of, ” Leave it to me, mate,” can’t be delivered.
Sixty kilometres out of Brisbane and 60 years into the past. Old saying holding good and true, more applicable today than in Joh’s era of thump stand-over cops defending the God-blessed National Party. A uninformed stand-over cop has expanded duties in present day Brigadoon, part of whose all-encompassing duties include supporting and protecting the multi-million dollar poker machine industry while guarding the Templum of Puer Diligo from an old-age pensioner’s criticism.
A tiny bit of mug’s money must be compulsory returned by poker machine bandits to the deprived kids of dunce parents who drop their entire week’s food money into the machines on pay night. The glossy brochures these rip-off joints send through the mail to portray themselves as gracious and benign benefactors of the needy is nothing but aggrandizement and false advertising, but the Anna Street censorship board cleared this material for postal distribution. After Adolf’s long-night burning of intellectual’s web-sites, my full attention should return from this time-wasting site to a much neglected general recording of events.
Salve the conscience for a miserable $250 a week; what munificence! To 80% of the contrite and cowed locals, their three monkey philosophy is a blessing which allows them to be pissed on with dignity. The sum returned is less than the weekly pension after rent. St. Mavis ‘s NLP Cromwellian side-winder also gets State protection and support, while under-valued Country Women’s Association and NLP volunteers maintain an old-fashioned stiff upper lip while being finger-pointed by their masters as incompetent floor rags, but that is their penance and they love it. Word-smith to the rescue, put down any sign of anti-establishment dissent.
Protect the stand-over tie-ins with service club’s direct line to Qld Housing, the aptly sur-named apologist for retarded members, her connection to a sham tenant union representative of whom, watch this space. Is decency a passé word and gone the way of manners and consideration for one’s fellows? In our town, the genre word, Oxymoron, has application to another interest group; it is not especially the preserve of the military yet they bed each other.
In NSW, ‘friendly fire,’ an old and trusted military trick knocks off a troublesome colleague. If the modest number of eight Queensland police employees daily being on the shit carpet, then 20 NSW coppers a day must find themselves in a similar spot. I expect the last words the fragged Bill Crew heard from behind were, “Come and get some.”
For adults to allow themselves to be told by a police oracle they were well behaved men and women is quite appalling and unacceptable and reflects the loss of independent thought and common-sense and is a deference to and an acceptance of stupidity by self-proclaimed prophets and seers. Such people are not recognised in their own country, goes the saying, but in Brigadoon we prostrate ourselves before self-important, role-playing idiots who insist on adulation as great thinkers and hero-models to be admired. Good people don’t need a Government nanny representative to lecture them on the difference between right and wrong.
Not too long ago, I would look askance and wonder at the anti-police comments of disgruntled adults who, without a whiff of criminal form, denounced them in general for their arbitrary and presumptuous manner, and I couldn’t agree with them then. Then and now. Times and dimensions. I am not swayed by anecdotal stories on any group or personalities. Since moving into this place fronting a convalescent home, I’ve copped years of vilification for my refusal to cower to the intimidatory tactics of the bully and will always act on my own decisions much to the disparagement of gaol-yard predators and Government stasi operatives.
My previous posting was a preamble to what eventually must emerge as an officially recorded log of grievances. A healthy and open society shouldn’t compel a citizen to be involved in bitter Government instigated and provoked pettiness and drivel; a lovingly embraced Housing Commission trait it seems, I am a private person not at all interested in big-noting. The Larreys of the world have that prerogative. If new-comers or established tenants choose to respond to niceness and manners with nastiness and spite I withdraw, if I can, from further interaction, yet the irritation won’t relinquish its hold. I am a shit magnet.
This accommodation precinct was promoted as a 55+ place of habitation. Currently, the gross and the loud-mouth and the trouble-making bully swagger about in a predatory manner, loud of mouth and demeanour, their low mentality a guarantee of official nurturing. The covert, mind-game bully, a far greater danger to the gentle who must make extraordinary efforts to combat the daily effects of confrontation. The latest Housing Commission scat foisted upon this precinct presented herself at 10 pm on Wednesday, March 17. Her son-in-law’s aging diesel truck left running the duration of the unloading amidst a bedlamite party atmosphere; a definite here we are, love us or hate us, the hell with you message being emitted.
Early the next morning, well before the light of dawn, a reassuring ‘pet talk’ started outside my work-station window. She can’t be all that bad, I erroneously reasoned. Autumn was nearing, days noticeably shortening with windows shut early to contain the warmth and to exclude toxins like cigarette smoke and carbon monoxide. An up-lifting and promising time of the year for Multiple Chemical Sensitively aware people. A feeling of impending good health, of making a full inhale without the risk of an instant head-ache while gasping for oxygen. The same feeling of expectancy, like a child’s anticipation of Santa’s presents, or with young adults, the first waves of road heat auguring the best possibilities of the day; welcome youthful pleasures. In old age, the prospect of the coming winter months affording some free-breathing nights engendering an extraordinary optimism, a new hope.
The behemoth was shovelling porridge into a gaping, blubbery hate-hole, as is her habit, she explained, when we made our first hesitant overture during which her cat’s peculiarities were raised, one of which was its running for home when a second party entered its sphere. She wanted pet hatches installed on the fly doors. Looks like you start off doing so and so, I suggested. ” You don’t do it like that.” she snapped. ” Sorry,” I told her, ” Can’t do it, well beyond my scope.”
Walking by her flat early the next day, my shit detector failed me when I stopped and exchanged hesitant chit-chat. A woman over the way who I offer a lift into town if our departure times mesh was leaving her abode when I made my usual offer. At this, the pushy cat woman demanded, ” I want to go into town too. Don’t forget to ask me,” she called after me as I quickly decamped the presence of this despicable cancer. As with her ignorant type, she might discover a contentment of sorts if she redirected energy to sane, kind-hearted and beneficial movements, and those around her might be spared a hateful environment.