Scott Morrison’s Ghastly Apparition

Jan 1, 2015 | Australian Values, Border Security, Cultural Values, Democracy, Immigration, OzPol Values, Religious Values, Values

Scott Morrison’s Ghastly Apparition

 

Auschwitz in the morning

  

Sir Roger is having a short break from the hard work of watching his serfs tiling the fields, shaving the sheep and milking the bulls or whatever they do.

He has tried to fit in some self-improving rest and recreation activities (see photograph above) and has had some time to read.

He read this by George Steiner (1967):

“ We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day’s work at Auschwitz in the morning.

And Sir Roger had a sudden moment of déjà vu.

A ghastly vision of Scott Morrison swirled ethereally into view – happily going to church to improve the odds (which are Ø) of his personal salvation; on his knees humbly praying for forgiveness from someone he couldn’t possibly — and obviously doesn’t — comprehend; jovially supporting his football team while children in his care cut themselves from despair; and then back to the serious business of bastardry, sitting behind the big desk of his own Auschwitz coldly making the lives of innocent others a misery.

For the Party.

Oh, and his career.

 

 

 

Sprezzatura – the New Cool

Dec 29, 2014 | Arts, Australian Values, Cultural Values, Lifestyle & Life, Media Values, OzPol Values, Values

Sprezzatura – the New Cool

Only Connect!

 

S ir Roger has been somewhat troubled of late that persons of his (ahem) “vintage” have become quite out of step with the young’uns these days.

Not in terms of worldliness, because after all his generation have seen a lot more world (times Time), with all its available varieties of grief and joy, of wonder and horror, of peoples and places, than the young’uns — although they apparently believe they invented the world in 7 days (more or less) and are piqued that the old cheeses don’t give them credit for their creativity (as we also complained, to be honest).

“See that Pops? That’s a car! I invented that.

See that? That’s a smart phone!

See that? That’s the internet! I had the original idea and created them with my bare hands out of thin air.

No-one ever did anything before me.

No, don’t bother, you wouldn’t understand with your tired old alzheimery brain lol.

(I also invented music and dancing btw.)”

No, the trouble is in terms of personal relationships.

 

 

 

SIDEBAR:


Way back in 1528 Baldassare Castiglione published Il Libro del Cortegiano, The Book of the Courtier, and brought to the world the term Sprezzatura.

Sprezzatura is:

“rehearsed spontaneity, studied carelessness, and well-practiced naturalness”

intended to:

“avoid affectation in every way possible . . . and to practice in all things a certain nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.”

It is the ability of the courtier to display:

“an easy facility in accomplishing difficult actions which hides the conscious effort that went into them”.

Sprezzatura has also been described

“as a form of defensive irony: the ability to disguise what one really desires, feels, thinks, and means or intends behind a mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance”.

 

 

So Sir Roger is cogitating on his apprehension that sprezzatura translates very roughly into what the young’uns call being “cool” (as if they invented that word as well), or “chill”.

What it looks like is that the kids — with whom, of course, one is quite embarrassingly down — find it very uncool, not at all sprezzatura, to express an emotion or to actually give the faintest appearance of having actually noticed anything at all.

Now, there are two important exceptions to this.

One is permitted to (or one does anyway) express the emotion of tanterum provoked by an unfairness or frustration that one perceives is directed at one’s spoilt-child-self, usually by authority figures (or parents – not necessarily the same thing), and to use a full range of expletives and explosive actions to describe these offenders-against-one’s-divinely-bestowed royality.

The other exception is that while it is uncool to notice almost everything external to oneself, it is almost compulsory to notice oneself constantly, and to take photographs of these earth-shattering moments and share them with an adoring public – a public which, ironically(?), is spending a lot of – studiously disguised – energy and effort not noticing anythingoranyone but itselfie. Sir Roger does note that some fringe dwellers do notice the food they are eating and take a cornucopian photographic record of their every repast to share with what they imagine is a drooling, breathlessly waiting, deeply impressed world that is starving for the latest news of their banquetations. However, this behaviour is deprecated and thought to be uncool by the Sprezzaturati.

Lol! All this light-hearted fun, eh? lmao, right?

Well, it does have its sad side.

Alphabetical Gens of every tribe appear to have no authentic, meaningful time for the human reality of actual other people. Perhaps they are not being cool at all but are merely, and actually, unaware of others. Or they are simply too busily absorbed in and fascinated by broadcasting the minutiae of what in their fantasy are their own extraordinarily interesting lives as social media celebrities, and having what they call “fun”.

This “fun” involves superficial and content-free banter, often electronically, with what they call their “friends” (lol), competitively drinking buckets of poisonous liquids before staggering out from their squat/ share-house/ apartment/ parents’ place on a recreational excursion where the agenda is to drink a mixture of as much intoxicating beverage, of whatever malt, as possible, perhaps augmented by a range of cutely acronymous drugs of uncertain pedigree and even more dodgy consequence. The goal, apparently, is to cause a swoon, to crumple at the knees, to fall on the floor, or even more hilariously in the gutter, to vomit, and magically to awake the next day and find oneself in bed with a bad headache, a bucketful of remorse and probably an ugly stranger, wondering what happened after the first drink at 3 o’clock in the afternoon the day before.

So there is no difference, even in detail, between this fun and the way fun was pursued when Sir Roger himself was a young’un.

In fact in most respects Sir Roger’s generation – the BoomBoxers – who also thought they invented everything and understood everything and were instant experts and were immortal, and were shallow, too — were no different from today’s young’uns.

But my dears (says Sir Roger), there is a new shallowness, an existential hollowness, a bottomless pit of empty dread in the New Cool, the Sprezzatura nova, and it is either actual indifference to the multi-dimensional reality of other minds; a terror of touching the wobbly-jobbly, smelly-messy emotional innards of others (or what we used to call “intimacy”) because either they fear catching something from it, or they have no idea how to deal with it; or a fear of being thought uncool rather than a desire to be cool – that is, a dread not so much to connect as to be seen to.

You can’t touch them. Your fingers slide off them like burnt bacon off a teflon frypan. And yet as humans our greatest need is to connect.

“  She might,” said E M Forster, “yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going…

Only connect! Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.”

 

 

And by the way, since Sir Roger has mentioned Forster:

“  This woman was a goddess to the end…This episode which was so tragic for him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened.

“Thank you,” was all that he permitted himself. “Thank you for everything.”

Sir Roger wishes to say to his particular goddess, “Thank you. Thank you for everything. And by the way, and I know there’s no use in telling you but, I am your worshipper too…“

 

  

Special Intel Ops

Nov 3, 2014 | Australian Values, Citizenship, Corruption, Cultural Values, Democracy, Freedom of Speech, Humour, Immigration, Legal, Media Values, OzPol Values, Racism, Religious Values, Terrorism, Values

Special Intel Ops

Night of the Big Dicks

Special Intel Ops, Sir Roger is required to inform his readers, may actually AT THIS VERY MOMENT be taking place, or may be in preparation, or may at the very least be in prospect.

(Clutches pearls)

It has come to Sir Roger’s attention, or may have come to Sir Roger’s attention, or may in the future come to Sir Roger’s attention, that spooky types with false beards stuck on, dark glasses pulled on, black hats pulled down and coat collars pulled up, are probably at this very moment — or perhaps not — engaged in Special Intelligence Operations, looking for, and even looking at, evidence, or what may or may not turn out to be evidence, of fundamentalist jihadist islamist/ christian/ buddhist/ hinduist/ atheist thoughts and feelings that, if turned into actions, may disturb the status quo and the little old lady next door, who has always voted Liberal and will again if she lives that long without a bomb blowing up her tiny flat, or if she doesn’t choke on her cornflakes or swallow her dentures and if she’s not too terrified to venture out of the only safe place she knows.

WE MUST PROTECT HER in her fantastic delusions so that she can once again vote for Tony’s Tamer Straya (waves colonial-era jingo flag [made in China]) so that the jesuit interloper and his fundamentalist christian fellow-travellers might win the most unlikely election victory in living memory – even if that is at the expense of the freedoms of the rest of us.

It is believed the Specious Intel Ops in question — if there is one, of course — may be on foot in an Australian suburb which has a high (or cunningly low) concentration of persons of a [ahem] “specific” cultural-religious-ethnic heritage.

The Special Intel Ops may — or perhaps may not — currently be in the final planning stages of a secret pre-dawn raid which will be unknown — or perhaps known — or perhaps leaked — to all besides selected members of the media.

Residents of the — allegedly — targeted street [unless it is a highway, or an uninhabited desert] will need to be patient for as long as the television news vans need to remain in the area to interview the tumescent penises of the Attorney General, the Minister for Death Stares and the Minister for Immigration-&-Everything-Else-He-Can-Lay-His-Hands-On (and his 90 media distorters).

You have been warned.

The Night of the Long Penises is coming!

Welcome to the new world of Special Intel Cocks.

Men and Whitlam of Australia

Oct 21, 2014 | Arts, Australian Values, Citizenship, Cultural Values, Democracy, Economic Values, Education, Fame, Indigenous, Legal, Lifestyle & Life, Love, Media Values, OzPol Values, Science Values, Values

Men and Whitlam of Australia

On Your Knees

 

Men and Whitlam of Australia . . . 

“ T he decision we will make on December 2 is a choice between the past and the future, between the habits and fears of the past and the demands and opportunities of the future. There are moments in history when the whole fate and future of nations can be decided by a single decision. For Australia, this is such a time.

 

“We will abolish conscription forthwith.

 

“We will abolish fees at universities and colleges of advanced education.

 

“We want to give a new life and a new meaning in this new nation to the touchstone of modern democracy

— to liberty, equality, fraternity.”

Yes, sadly

It’s time.

Now is the time to say goodbye.

Now is the time to yield a sigh.

Now is the time to wend our way-eee,

Until we meet again

Some sunny day

Time to bid farewell to a fading myth of the socialist left that no-one under 40 has ever heard of: old plinth-bound, red-taped Goth the Whittler whose soul, vision and legacy are chained and frozen in stone within the walls of the Wiblam Edifice, protected by the Hooded Brethren of the Whitlam Industry (UWS) Inc.

His name was “Goth”, now a legal personage, a mere trademark, hijacked by a “controlled entity”  bearing the name of the once terrifying but now sadly faded and hardly remembered mythical hero of long ago.

His time, comrade, was a time of social earthquake, of cultural lightning and of political tempest whose like we shall not see again.

Heralded by fiery comets, bare-chested and thumping did he unchain the creativity of the nation’s sleeping Beast.

With the life-giving elixir of freedom did he quench the crumbling leaves of its dreams.

And “Liberté, Egalité! Fraternité!” was his battle cry. To those who awoke it was as if St Crispin himself were there amongst them.

And the Beast was roused! It shook off the dust of the dead, Mingsian years and romped and played for joy.

But the Beast grew and grew and its liberator, though mighty, was no match for the Beast which became a monster and destroyed him.

The largest stars shine brightest and briefest and explode with shocking spectacle. And are gone.

Their glowing supernova remnants linger for a time but fade and are forgotten.

As Oscar Wilde almost wrote of the Star Child,

“ Yet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the fire of his testing, for after the space of three years he was destroyed. And those who came after him ruled evilly.”

And they still do, and today they promise to rule more evilly than ever before.

If there is one thing Sir Roger despises it is people who are so far up themselves they can look through the back of their own eye sockets, and who then insist that everyone else take them seriously. Such are the rulers of our day, the Mad Rabbit, Jolly Joe Porker, the Cormorant and the Death Stare.

Yet still a few remember the torpid days of The Beige Oppression and The Monochrome Society during the reign of Ming the Dreadful and his inept successors. And these few who remember know and cherish the bright and cheerful contrast of The Sir Gough Rainbow.

Sir Roger since 1972 has found in every new day a new excitement, a new challenge, a creative opportunity to influence his world for the better and to make it a better, more loving and more humane place – much the way that Gough inspired us all to do and be.

And everyone now has the constitutional right, the moral duty and the precious freedom to do so.

 

So now to Gruff the farter, Gog the sun and Goth the gruff old goat.

Gough be with you.

But wait! This just in:

 

TONY BURKE:

The late Cardinal Clancy used to often relate about his conversation with Gough when Gough had inquired as to whether or not St Mary’s Cathedral might be available for a funeral, which surprised Cardinal Clancy given that he was not expecting Gough to convert to Catholicism.

Gough explained: no, no, no, it wasn’t for the Catholic funeral — it was because he wanted to be buried in the crypt, claiming that he was willing to pay but would only require it for three days.

Is there yet hope?

 

Lord Roger Migently?

Mar 27, 2014 | Australian Values, Citizenship, Cultural Values, Democracy, Fame, Lifestyle & Life, Values

Lord Roger Migently?

Back to the Regency Future

  Sir Roger Migently, as you must surely realise, has been quite unwell. He has been managed like an unlucky skier in an induced coma these many months since September 2013, when the floor of the Migently Mansions entertainment complex collapsed beneath him and he landed heavily on his Conservatory, hitting his head repeatedly against the wall. It should be understood that “the Conservatory” is not the cheery, sun-washed place it seems. It was conceived by the Abbott in the Dark Days of John Hunt, “the Coward”, as a place for torture; a place of despair, where all seemed bright and beautiful but all the exquisite plants had deadly thorns, and all the bright things when touched turned to dust, and the wafting perfumes of such sweet and seductive promise turned dreams into terrifying incubi. Anyway, Sir Roger was rushed to the Migently Mansions bathroom cabinet where medicines were administered and soothing unguents applied, but to no avail. Sir Roger swooned and would not unswoon. “So a coma it is,” said the Doctor. Not necessarily surprisingly, attempts at his gentle revival seem always to coincide with yet another dreadful jolt in a string of momentously stupid and dangerous utterances from Canberra and Sir Roger falls back into his protective deep sleep. However, so many people have been at sea without his mentoring and discourse that his staff have tried what they can to evince some guidance for his adoring public. And yet in one’s daily attempted mind-meld with Sir Roger one has been unable to rouse Sir R from his slumber. Perhaps the whiff of Abbott the bigot (of course there’s nothing wrong with that) protecting his cute friends (nothing wrong with that)  Sir Andrew Bolt, Sir Alan Jones and Dame Gina, from those nasty decent-and-intelligent-people has drained his remaining energy and convinced him to continue to emulate a plank. Nevertheless — or perhaps more — one is certain that, had he seen the old queen Flint, in anticipation of his own impending magnificent elevation to glory, go onanistically red-in-the-face [“EIIR! I love you! I love you! … Oh! Oh! Oh dear! … Unnhhh … “]  it would be Sir Roger’s view that surely we have lived through the monochromatic 1950s already and have moved on, leaving the Womens Weekly behind. Sir Roger clearly is not against imperial honours per se — or ought that be qua honours? — but he would surely feel that the value of his own cherished knighthood (bestowed, he dimly recalls, by some German inbreed or other) would be debased by the addition of random honours gifted for political sycophancy and party donations to the riff, the raff, the nigs and the nogs. Unless . . . unless . . .  . . . Given that Sir Roger was the “natural” son of Lord Lummy and Lord E. Lordy, “Roger, Lord Migently”  has an appealing ring to it, a siren song, the seemly snugness (smugness?) of a perfectly fitting glove lost in the garden for generations and new-discovered; a rightness, a coming-home, a certain comme il faut. A peerage is an honour for which Sir Roger, like Courtney Bryce and General Storr, or whoever these stiffs are, would in a moment, as Bill Hayden infamously did, repudiate his democratic and republican instincts in favour of the narcissistic rewards of personal aggrandisement, and assume an air of indulgent condescension toward the lower classes.
“EIIR!” can’t you almost hear him panting, “EIIR! I love you! I love you! … Oh! … Oh! ……… Oh dear! … Unnhhh … Zzzzzzzzzzzzz …..”
 

[for Sir Roger Migently, in his absinthe absence]

Rentier Socialists

Aug 28, 2013 | Arts, Australian Values, Cultural Values, Democracy, Economic Values, Freedom of Speech, Legal, Lifestyle & Life, OzPol Values, Values

Rentier Socialists

 

Not Gough in his heyday 

 

J ust (sorry) Sir Roger thinks IT’S TIME to refer back to the recent squabble about certain t-shirts and heap some shit on those who assert ownership of the commonly used English phrase “It’s time”.

Universities once — in all the centuries up to, but not including, this one — were laboratories for learning and thinking, experiencing and exploring. They fostered the free flow and sharing of ideas. They created possibilities. They were machines, hothouses, for ideas, rather than being mainly and merely commercial employment factories basing their teaching on the (safe) theories of the past. (Better the devil you know than the one you might unearth with your damnable curiosity and cause all sorts of uncertainty and, worse, discomfort.)

So when an entity, especially a university, or a “controlled entity” of a university, indulges in trademarks, copyrights and any “intellectual” properties it can get its hands on, what does that do? Well, it prohibits the free flow and sharing of ideas.

It smothers possibilities. And so it steals from a nation.

What is that? wondered Sir Roger, that lives off the rental or hoarding of ideas and goods, or off other people’s work?

By chance he came across a term which describes, or once described, such a person or “entity” — the rentier.

A rentier is a person or entity that receives income derived from economic rents, which can include income from patents, copyrights, brand loyalty, real estate, interest or profits.

Rentier is a term currently used to describe economic practices of parasitic monopolization of access to any (physical, financial, intellectual, etc.) kind of property and gaining significant amount of profit without contribution to society.

The rentier was the ultimate bourgeois, like Helen and Allison.

But then, aren’t we all, or don’t we all aspire to be, rentier capitalists?

At least if we write a book and live off the royalties and movie rights we did the work. But a second, third, fourth, investment property? The profession of such people is idleness. 

Sir Roger thinks rentier capitalism is not a core value that one associates with Gough in his heyday. Not even after they turned his marbles into a bust and stuck him on a plinth. In fact ever.

Perhaps that’s why we voted for him.