Department Of Housing. (Beaudesert Area)


Was pleased the Indonesian authorities refused to be swayed by arguments for a soft landing for the big-shot 14 y.o. smart-arse who boasted of having a massage after buying dope in Bali. This rising arse-hole will be defended as the best little kid in Christendom. I have in mind impure brothers, both swill, off-spring of shit-parent milk deliverers whose path this kid might have followed, and who should have ended their lives being pulped in a commercial sausage-making machine. This newest refuse, an accomplished hoodlum at age 14 replicated them and six years of hard with weekly lashings as a reminder of why he was slotted, wouldn’t have been too bad an outcome.

This story was plucked from the “A Letter From Les” site.
Well before the computer came along to compliment the great wisdom of man, I had accumulated a fair bit of ballast. Cheap hard-back reprints of the classics became poor-mans collector’s pieces in the early sixties, and my sets are packed away awaiting a like-minded receiver or a genuine donee of such stuff. Kin, typically, aren’t much help. When a practicing member of the 1st estate, acting like a possessed ascetic, or in the style of his elder brother, a true abstinent, rejected outright the idea he take care of a century old, ten volume encyclopedia.

A loud thought at the time that the few remaining relics of working-class ancestors might interest future generations didn’t cut any ice. Another fellow, once a knock-around sort of chap, would take a certain object off my hands, he offered, if I sign some legal bullshit absolving he and his family from damages should that object come to grief while in their ownership. What with the quaintly named con-man, Beamish-White giving me a hard time, it has slowly dawned on me that given such crass pricks as relatives, I must have ran over more than one Chinaman in my time. These relatives, unless I suffer a comprehension problem, have a reason for hating, after all they know me much more intimately than do immature and illiterate Queensland Housing silly fillies.

It was not an unexpected response with handed down and family photos getting the finger two decades before. I am too selfish for my own good for wanting a happy result for what was once the centrepiece of our parents limited library, a curiosity admittedly, which never got anywhere near the number of ‘hits’ as did the Arthur Mee Children’s encyclopedia.

My appreciation and thanks to David for taking custody of this and a few other small tomes and regret losing touch with his Mum, a letter-writing devotee, who asked the fate of the popular well used and tattered Arthur Mee Children’s Encyclopedia. Its attraction to the kids of that era probably led to the trivia craze of a few decades later, passé nowadays what with the P.C. taking over. Most of us have to answer for our misdeeds, and I wasn’t at all happy to admit my folly in not checking a caravan’s roof until it was far too late.

Our parents encouraged ‘quiet times’ during which we sat at the dining-room table, well-worn lead-pencils and scarce pieces of stationary our tools, the smart one of the day lording it over the other whoever got the pencil-top eraser. War-time austerity it was called and notwithstanding one’s material worth, we were in the same boat when it came to commodities. Funny the things you remember; when an accidental on purpose, bump to my elbow made a scrawl across the page, I was quick to report its cause to the intended receiver, Aunty Maggie, who with Uncle Bill, were popular Mundubbera cream producers at the time.

Aunty Mill laughingly retold that story on gatherings that thinned as memories of the second world war receded. A child’s farm experiences ! Pushing a flanged-wheeled flat-top loaded with cans of separated milk up milled timber tracks to condemned pigs a favourite, a far greater preference to the Doppelganger Hornsby. The farm’s party-line phone number, an un-forgettable 4U. Was much later I learnt the farm was our ‘safe’ home, to which we were shipped when imminent Japanese occupation seemed possible. A false belief that a remote spot would save western kids from mutilation by bayonet. The nips much preferred stringing their prone victims above quick-growing bamboo and watch the fun as bellies were pierced. In the dry inland, the slitty-eyes would resort to another favourite in which rats in a tin were affixed to the victim’s stomach.

I reckon Dave’s Mum, the letter-writing devotee would have been happy with herself had she utilized the document part of the p.c. I persevered with elementary stuff like getting a page up despite the strong advice of two ‘instructors’ that watching tv might be my technical limit. Will send her an old-fashioned letter to test the waters.

The need to work and eat, to play up and be ‘normal’ pushed writing to the back-seat, but with retirement, its genesis reborn and given another span of life. Since those times, letter writing became a dark art and its followers censured by the finger-pointers for being different to the herd. And so, with my embracing of the computer a couple of years ago, I began this nondescript little blog, “A Letter From Les,” simply to sate my limited literacy skills.

I’ve never denied my dimness, but unhelpful attitudes always astonish me when confronted by them, and this morning when I heard how the deaths of many local horses, about twenty I believe, is now looked upon as suspicious. Many hard to explain and diabolical things happen in this area and vengeance crimes against animals surprises few locals; it’s happening in the most appropriate place and where at my late stage of life, discovered how hate and personal vendettas are an accepted nay, an expected part of surviving in a Schouten/Hillhouse vendetta-driven Housing Department.

One morning a couple of weeks ago, I was momentarily stunned to find my bedroom or north-facing fly door was on fixed lock. This can happen only by using the key on either side and I don’t sleepwalk. Had a fire or an emergency occurred necessitating a hurried exit, I would never have realized I was locked in. I’ve lived with acts like this since trained eviction tenants, Woodward and the diseased Hidee intensified their hopeless little mind games, Departmentally stasi approved bullying stunts, condoned, approved and encouraged by Schoutens/Hillhouse.

There are some 60 files on Queensland Housing and QBuild operations in my computer, their rorting actually of little concern to me. I am much more concerned how accepted freedoms been gradually removed from Queensland public housing tenants by nanny state Sister Ratchets. My plan is to clean out a disorganized document library and make an on-going working file on the neglected sub-domain, “Comment On Queensland.”

From here onwards begins my “working file.” Names used are not known, simply plucked from imagination. Should they coincide with and offend another, an apology!


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 forced, loud-mouthed ‘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 xxxxxxxxxxxx decent people. A feeling of impending good health, of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 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 third 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 demanded of 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.

My place of abode is in an unfenced Government flat precinct on Beaudesert’s northern outskirts. Most long-term locals assume the 1950 circa army camp buildings are part of the Wongaburra Convalescent Home and its inhabitants their sedated, tamed inmates. While the assumption is not correct, it isn’t totally wrong either. From a distance, we are the average unpretentious and drab, end of life, uneducated, boring working class yobbos, a microcosm of suburbia worldwide but yuck, over fifty-five and old; an age well beyond the tolerance expectations of Bligh’s crooked own-interest Housing fiddlers.

The mental home analogy is on-track at least. Woodridge Area Housing Staff collude with the local police-friendly, crime-soft RSL for a covert and seamless take-over of this precinct to accommodate their profusion of brain-dead. The aptly and delightfully sur-named Victoria, a long-time rsl flunky and NLP yes-girl maintains a fawning two-way relationship with Housing acquaintances for them to better facilitate the quick transfer of nut-jobs to 220-226 Brisbane Street.

Housing Commission areas are the fiefdoms of public servant megalomaniacs who, having found their vocation now wish to establish and develop their dominance and hone their manipulative skills. Spawned in the storm-water drains of impoverished areas of Inala and Woodridge and generally culturally deprived, these single-celled leeches manipulate their needy, working class clients and get snarky indeed on those who oppose Government stupidity and the Housing cretins who thrive on it. But we pay!

I remain the eternal optimist and enjoyed the morning walk along a main road to get the paper until I became carbon monoxide winded. The then immediate upwind neighbour, Ryan, used aerosol air-freshener as a universal house cleaner in lieu of water and vacuüm cleaner and my request to ease off alerted him to my problem. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXZ Thank you again, indifferent and lazy Queensland Health(?) bludgers. The XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX led to an intolerance to spent cigarette smoke and the beginning of the Queensland Housing Department’s war of attrition against me. My guess is the Government’s white-washing to maintain its tidy front of shop image, had their Housing Department instinctively go into protective, disclaimer mode, by discrediting my charactorXXXXXXXXXXXX any legal claims that I, a XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx as a plaintiff.

A daily journal kept in a computer can be altered to suit the occasion and in law its content isn’t worth a pinch of shit, a fact I never forgot after my late partner’s hand written notes delivered us a win against prominent thoroughbred horse thief and common fraud, Barrie Rogers and his drug dependent daughter, Sally. The law accepts that a running, handwritten diary is near enough impossible to doctor. My notes contain date and times of phone calls from the strident Housing nose-picker, Kimberley, and an extraordinary visit by Housing stand-over message boy, Terry O’Brien delivering threats under instruction of his Woodridge controllers; threats that they wouldn’t dare make on hard copy. Times and car registrations, gender and other relevant information is noted when actual data is difficult to obtain.

The fore-mentioned Ryan, was a devoted garbage nazi who once moved me, in my great alarm to call him a three word expletive. It came about one pre-dawn moonless garbage day when, en route to get the paper from the early opening service station, I was about to deposit my small bag of refuse when he boomed from his darkened doorway, ” Filling up me bin, are ya.”? He awaits hidden, he had explained in an earlier confrontation, to surprise and frighten the crows away by beating on the veranda rail or fly door even while the morn was very dark. His fellow tenants were loathe to complain for fear of reprisal eviction notices.

I objected to his unusual behaviour and he replied he would sue his Department friend on to me. A day or two later, he proved his word and the apparent misandrist, Schoutens, with a male colleague called on me without notice. She heard me out and declared Ryan’s longer tenancy was proof positive of his lamb-like innocence. Her male companion was taken aback by this kangaroo court justice.

The hard done by Ryan moved to his recently deceased mother’s flat in the same precinct ostensibly because of its telephone plug, but it was on a whim to avoid my presence and was granted instantly by biased Housing staff. Every attempt I’ve made for a move to escape motor vehicle, industrial and cigarette smoke toxins are met with demands for a doctor’s certificate to justify such a move. Ryan’s level of credulity intrigued me from the beginning and his myriad peccadillo made a novella.

The very offensive Bruce was next to occupy No. 6. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped on to railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items. The general unrest with his hygiene shortcomings and their possible flow-on consequences led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a female staff member privately admonished me for my intolerance as Bruce was, she stressed, a relatively new tenant and I could have been more sympathetic to his needs.

For a Qld. public servant, her co-chair was unusually enlightened, an outsider amongst the ruffians, drug users and drunks and was probably sent to Coventry and then to Quilpie for telling the sanctimonious Bruce and his new best genteel friend, Ryan that their cussing complaints paled into insignificance when compared to that emanating from any primary schoolyard in the country.

The rsl endorsed love-child of the decade, Garvens was the next major trash to enforce my acceptance of the Hindu sect’s belief that hell is life as we know it; being suffered right here, on Earth, in this lifetime, this minute and with death, Nirvana brings eternal reward. Why this cunning and conniving, criminal psychopath and cherished bubble-wrapped excreta is admired while many genuine RSL people could be honoured has been featured elsewhere, but there’s a few thousand unused words awaiting in the wings. Even the police who work hand in glove with the crooked rsl were unable to falsify an assault charge against me to appease Garven. RSL criminal associate and NLP stooge, Adelaide, then talked the situation over with her crooked Woodridge compatriots and dredged-up the oft-used scare tactic of Housing sycophants, by issuing an illegal eviction notice.

Garven’s psychosomatic diseased mind and body brought about his premature departure. QBuild, followed Murphy’s instructions to the letter and propelled by the joint animosities of Kimberley and Schoutens and other shit had the ideal chance to inflict on the residents, but essentially on me, more of that which has such an adverse affect on the XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx toxins, long barred from use in areas habituated by pensioners, but in all complexes, I suspect.

The garden contractor, for the first time in memory was instructed to use poison on the lawn-weed bindii. Another costly Qbuild Maintenance move to use up and dispose of a gross abundance of maintenance money. No bare children’s feet will disrupt a blade on these treated grounds.
What follows are my p.c. observations on the stasi queen who took Garvens flat:

Monday, November 15, 2010.

Something cooks! The most unlikeliest candidate for H.C. accommodation today. Far too polite and ever so cultured. His brag list, the usual ; 25 y. resident of the States; a daughter pictured with a formerly top sportsman,or was she the sportstype? his prize-winning portrait and association with the arts and abiding attachment to American football. You could well and truely say, ” more of the same.” Another unmitigated ego-tripper who knows not shame, introducing the morons to how life should be led. All this from a newly arrived H.C. dweller.

Convienently deaf woman friend Lucy, sat on top stair while he kefuffled about. She and I exchanged forgettable niceties. He was very quick to chat with Yvonne, and I’ll bet my ugly visage graced a few of his new surrounds pictures.
He, Dale, represents whom–what? If it smells like stazi, it probably is. In a POW camp, he’d be cold meat by now.
His curiosity as to true north interests me also.
My admission to owning a car pleased her and I soon learned that the vehicle they arrived in was hers.

Sat. Nov. 20: Dale brings in bits and pieces. A huge removal truck with the rest of his shit on Tuesday 23.
This Dale much different, yet much the same as all others. Everything must be about him and how his arrival brings with him enlightenment and knowledge to be shared among the uneducated rabble. Making out he didn’t know the masthead diff. of CM & B.Times adds to the query.
It was agreed that after his new frig. was delivered on Wed that I would take him shopping. During the day he knocked on my door and asked me to accept delivery of frig while he went off with his shopping trolly to pay for the frig and do shopping, so I don’t offer him any assistance now.

Claims he bussed to Bris. Thur 25. Was back at 1300 hrs. round trip takes 4 hrs without conducting business and no bus to accomplish the return trip. The Dale is just another fraud. Have printed time-table to produce at the appropriate moment.
His fly-door slamming is unnatural. Deliberate? Ryan did this, if its planned, then a battle will ensue. The ignoramous’s actions are rsl template and sanctioned, I’ll wager.

Mon. 29. Four return trips between slamming fly doors this a.m. The peace was short. He inveigled his way into Yvonne’s after the door slamming, or is it job buddies exchanging notes?

Tues 30. … he be stasi or independent. It’s about him, a know-all and apt Larry Pettums buddy who should, if they haven’t already, come together and discuss joint Amercian exploits. Slamming fly doors; outrageously loud mobile manners. (I’m important, just listen to my transactions!) Who gives a rats about his self-importance?

The annoyances of this fellow echo the irritations of the former occupier, Garvens. I laid the bait when I let-on that the carpet was heavily and irreversibly stained with my blood. The next inspection will undoubtedly include an under mat search seeking out the errant bit.

Tues arvo… Asked Dale if his noise was a message and he, in actor mode, was surprised that he had created such an impression. Things have settled into relative quietness.

Sat. Dec. 4. When leaving to visit Cath. he declined invite to accompany me, mentioning a phone call.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Bligh’s Labor Stasi Inspects Your Sheets For Pubes And Skidmarks. | Leave a comment | Edit


ADD= the stench of ‘officials’ on the take.

Did a media commentator hope to convince himself or did he reference the great unwashed for wondering if the ABC has sumpin’ to do with readen’ and writen’ like, when he asserted that a government’s very existence, their raison D’etre, to fancy it up, is to protect the vulnerable and needy. In Queensland, I’ve seen a variance of Bligh concern for the AAA goodness that might be right Governments are set-up to protect don’t employ discredit authorization behind the conspiracy theorist

Government “help” to business is just as disastrous as government persecution… the only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off.
– Ayn Rand
Fourteen Defining Characteristics Of Fascism.

Was clicking through StumbleUpon when up bobbed an academic’s ranking of Fascism and with the continuing harassment from Bligh’s Housing’s thought police, it was once more unto the fight, dear friends, once more. “Christ, here we go again,” I could have uttered as I yanked the four most relevant points over to a page and rearranged the importance order.

They lead this post with the URL address and the article a click under the head. I ought commit to the definitive, ‘he said, she said’ treatise on this cliquey, distasteful organization and its fifth column links to this precinct and be done with them.

Dr. Lawrence Britt has examined the fascist regimes of Hitler (Germany), Mussolini (Italy), Franco (Spain), Suharto (Indonesia) and several Latin American regimes. Britt found 14 defining characteristics common to each and which could be added (Bligh) Queensland. I’ve added relevant comments XXXThe first four mentioned are important to the writer:

1. Disdain for the Recognition of Human Rights – Because of fear of enemies and the need for security, the people in fascist regimes are persuaded that human rights can be ignored in certain cases because of “need.” The people tend to look the other way or even approve of torture, summary executions, assassinations, long incarcerations of prisoners, etc.

2. Identification of Enemies/Scapegoats as a Unifying Cause – The people are rallied into a unifying patriotic frenzy over the need to eliminate a perceived common threat or foe: racial , ethnic or religious minorities; liberals; communists; socialists, terrorists, etc.

3. Supremacy of the Military – Even when there are widespread
domestic problems, the military is given a disproportionate amount of government funding, and the domestic agenda is neglected. Soldiers and military service are glamorized.

4. Powerful and Continuing Nationalism – Fascist regimes tend to make constant use of patriotic mottos, slogans, symbols, songs, and other paraphernalia. Flags are seen everywhere, as are flag symbols on clothing and in public displays.

When lying is practised on me by a clumsy amateur or a so-called person of integrity, like a cancer surgeon, who shamelessly insisted the prognosis on my partner looked good when her outside doctor confirmed the opposite, leaves me disappointed. Lying is not part of my makeup and am annoyed when misguided, corrupt little rumour-mongers like Hillhouse, hiding behind the Housing mantle, use such a practice at braggart, Larry Hurst’s (sic) behest in an attempt to demean me and my name, from whom I walked mid-sentence, revulsed by his self-aggrandisement 5/10/11

Metro bus travellers have restructured their city excursions to avoid the
Beaudesert people don’t seek admittance to 220-226 Brisbane Street, or is have gained a fingle status Beaudesert locals might have sought residency at this address but only trained antagonists from Bethania/ Gold Coast area have been allowed entree. Funny innet? I and fellow tenants of the precinct don’t exchange too much general talk let alone XXinformation not too What has occurred a been going on at this block of flats can’t be slanted at passers-by, hungry intransigents, or blacks who get the pointed finger. and explains the use of the personal in my condemnation of Judas tenants.

My experiences with the vindictive machinations of Queensland Housing and the on-going effect of a Schoutens instigated vendetta extend to kids who arrive here on ‘inspection’ occasions, confrontational because their leaders told them to act like that. alien-like body probe increases with time rather than diminishes. One of those diminutive bolts is about to be replaced with something more robust. Not for my indoor protection, I hasten to add, I have never entertained concern for my physical safety; not here where the ‘men’-bitches retaliate with spiteful tongues, phone calls Woodridge Housing and various girly acts of attrition. No! A forced bolt damages door surrounds, a chain and padlock will deter entry via the other door.

Such is my naivety that even as I was becoming aware of monkey business around me, it wasn’t until I connected the dots that evidence of impropriety became too strong to ignore. I reacted by commenting on their intrusions and exploits through this blog-site. A surprising insight to officially sanctified prying came to light and with well-practiced and protected deceivers as opponents, I turn to a fictional concept. It never occurred to me to use one of those bolts, but a bank of locking devices, New York style, is no barrier to officially supplied keys. I thought the little lady opposite, was drama-queening when she locked-up to check her mail or collect washing, but I now do the same. A mutual trust might still exist between some tenants, but Housing provides master-keys to selected criminal hyenas like W.and H., giving them the authority to enter flats of recently deceased tenants to peer at papers and cherry-pick valuables as they perform their officiallyXXX of packingwould never illegally enter a private flat unless in emergency. But why delve and snoop? Is it to denigrate and demoralize? Demoralize by discreditingXX Not especially
L.A.N.A.R.T.A. Jean masquerades as a caring member of a Government backed tenant’s union. Anyone got an idea where went the much cliched word, oxymoron? This person is typical female Housing, dim with well-practiced put-downs. Like any ridicule, it is intended for shy, decent people uncomfortable with confrontation of any kind who are expected to walk away, unheard. A month or so before Jean’s advice, I had defended myself against attack by a neighbor whose assault happened on ‘my’ verandah. He wanted me charged. A recorded cctv of me trying to avoid Garvey would have absolved me in an instant, but Jean forbade discussion on cctv as she did on cigarette smoke intrusion and mobile phone noise. She hadn’t strayed far from the sloth of Housing’s safety net. Local police overtly aligned to the rsl declined intervention. Please click l.a.r.n.a.t.a Jean for detailed story. “People like you,” she advised, should accept their retardation, learn how to operate a tv set and suggested I read a proffered brochure on electricity saving.
If you were compelled to read two attached notices laying flat on a neighbors veranda floor and saw such words as stasi fag-boy and of female acquaintance obese baby-eating, etc how would you handle such ruthlessness? Woodums



L.A.N.A.R.T.A. Jean masquerades as a caring member of a Government backed tenant’s union. Anyone got an idea where went the much cliched word, oxymoron? This person is typical female Housing, dim with well-practiced put-downs. Like any ridicule, it is intended for shy, decent people uncomfortable with confrontation of any kind who are expected to walk away, unheard. A month or so before Jean’s advice, I had defended myself against attack by a neighbor whose assault happened on ‘my’ verandah. He wanted me charged. A recorded cctv of me trying to avoid Garvey would have absolved me in an instant, but Jean forbade discussion on cctv as she did on cigarette smoke intrusion and mobile phone noise. She hadn’t strayed far from the sloth of Housing’s safety net. Local police overtly aligned to the rsl declined intervention. Please click l.a.r.n.a.t.a Jean for detailed story. “People like you,” she advised, should accept their retardation, learn how to operate a tv set and suggested I read a proffered brochure on electricity saving.

If you were compelled to read two attached notices laying flat on a neighbors veranda floor and saw such words as stasi fag-boy and of female acquaintance obese baby-eating, etc how would you handle such ruthlessness? Woodums

except perhaps for a few piqued Fraus acting independently of the system?

Okay, I might have got myself snared, but an animal trapped in a deep hole gets pissed off.

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