Coronavirus? Pandemic?

Coronavirus? Pandemic?

What the Actual Fuck?

Has this been the worst ever social and economic disaster in our lifetimes? Or has it been the squealing brakes we needed, to curb our pre-pandemic headlong, tunnel-vision rush towards . . . well, where? . . . We were too busy to think about that.

And is it unprecedented? Or is it just one of the smaller, if not insignificant, health crises in roughly 300,000 years of the human story?

The answer is Yes. Or no. Or all of the above.

For some it hasn’t been so drastic; it’s even been interesting, a wake-up call, an eye-opening surprise, intimations of a new world waiting for us.

For others—millions, billions of people—this has been dreadful. Shocking. Crushing. Life was already tough enough and suddenly the little that they had has been locked down, or ripped away, or they are forced to endanger their own lives and others just to survive. And many have seen their businesses, their jobs, their weddings, and funerals, without warning, abruptly disappear into a ruthless black hole.

For some ‘luckier’ ones it has just been a horror show of seemingly interminable boredom doing the same bloody things, or nothing, day after day after blursday.

While some have clung to crosswords, jigsaw puzzles, binged on Netflix and blown the dust off childhood board games, many others have discovered TikTok or embraced Instagram and explored their latent talents and skills, joined online courses, or worked on projects they never had time for before. But even this can drain enthusiasm if what we also need is the stimulation of other humans physically close to us. 

People who already work from home, and are more used to it, might have escaped the worst of the trauma.

For introverts and people who enjoy their own company there is the added benefit that avoiding going out in public becomes a good deed.

 

What next?

What has roared up to surprise us is an incredible global treasure-trove and display of creativity and ingenuity that hadn’t displayed itself quite so publicly or broadly before. A lot of people are suddenly engrossed in something they love doing that has become more than a frivolous hobby.

We have discovered new ways of doing things and embraced new rules for living. There has been an extra flourishing of kindness and caring.

Many of us are longing for the time when this uncertainty is all over and everything returns to ‘normal’ – what the politicians are falling over each other to call “the other side of this” as if we’re going through a tunnel that doubles back on itself and we’ll pop out the other end into an unchanged world.

But it won’t work like that. We are already creating a new world with novel expectations. Many of us are praying that we never go back to that pre-2020 ‘normal’ because returning to those days would be to endorse the negatives and stress of that time, abandoning so much of value we are freshly learning. It would be like resigning to the hopelessness, like embracing our abuser.

What before we had considered ‘normal’ isn’t normal in the history of humanity, not in the history of science or technology, not even in the stagnant history of politics. What we called ‘normal’ before this time wasn’t ‘normal’ as recently as 20 or so years ago.

The world of 2020 is not at all the same as the world of 2000, and it is starkly different from the world of 1980. Millennials were born in the dark ages; many before the internet and smart phones which rule our lives today.

Everything is always changing in the subtle blink of a historical eye. It morphs subliminally as we watch but don’t notice. And it sneaks up on us so surreptitiously that it feels as if things have always been this way.

Except . . .

. . . except that this very recent jolt sits on top of centuries where the central pillar of human society hasn’t essentially changed – like an Easter Island statue, set in stone that goes literally deep underground.

This central pillar of modern society, in effectively all cultures, and all politics, is the gaslighting coercion and commodification of humans by the wealthy and powerful in relentless pursuit and protection of power and wealth.

While everything else is always changing, the underpinning fundamental principles of political philosophy change glacially. Most politicians and their parties almost anywhere in the world still wade up to their armpits through the foul morass of opportunist cronyism; still harvest the noxious sludge of the distant past; still, head down, trying to navigate, with stained, fading, tattered and obsolete maps, the quagmire of ancient myths of crumbled worlds millennia ago; still shadowing the spectral call of long-dead heroes, buried in dark ages, or in the more recent beige years of hopelessness and resignation imposed upon us for a quarter century by Ming the Grim; still desperate to claw up and restore a long-vanished, and fictitious, world of fairytale childhoods; still hawking concepts that decomposed centuries before they were born.

While the horse and buggy politics of early Australia – forever ago it seems – were often steeped in inequality, prejudice and discrimination, at least some few of those early federalists were people who had achieved something in their own right before they became members of Parliament, people of principle who had a sense of service, social conscience, ethics and fairness and worked for the good of the country. They fought for the People, for a basic wage, fair working hours, a national broadcaster, and an equitable health service. And if they were found breaking the rules they resigned.

It has not lately been like this. As you know.

What Parliament really looks like on a normal day. Where are all the dedicated people (paid by Australians to do a job) who really care and are working hard for the welfare of the Australian people?

‘Normal’ in the 21st century has been the seats of Parliament, on both sides, filled (when they are filled) with the polished arses of chancers, grifters, opportunists and carpetbaggers; arrogant, self-impressed, self-congratulatory, amoral branch-stacking careerist apparatchiks without principles, conscience, or ethics; with limited experience, no understanding of the complexity of the real world, empty of any sense of service (or what ‘service’ even means), oozing with greed for power and money, uninterested in the good of the country and its people, willing to lie and cheat in order merely to “win” and enrich their mates. And amongst them are more than the country’s share of racists, fruitcakes, conspiracists, conspirators and clowns.

As American Professor Heather Cox Richardson puts it:

 [Politicians] create their own reality for the end that they will be able to continue to stay in power, come hell or high water [and] will do anything it takes — anything it takes — to make sure that this [US] government continues to be responsible only to a very, very small elite in society.”

  

So winning at some dick-measuring game, the game of “staying in power” for the sake only of staying in power—without regard to the actual issues and potentially destructive outcomes of the game, or of the effects on the country, its people, or their future—this is what politicians all around the world think and have long thought is ‘normal’ and ‘appropriate’. Of course it is despicable and we all despise them for it.

 

 

‘Normal’ before 2020 was good in many ways but it was never a perfect time, was never good enough and often it was contemptible. Our greatest challenge—Global Warming, far greater than this pandemic—has not been seriously addressed, at least not by our global “leaders”. Inequality, prejudice and discrimination have not dissolved. Political cruelty is rife. Those who struggle are scorned as weak. Unemployment is cast as a moral  issue, portraying the almost universally unwillingly unemployed as bludgers, when the fact is it is an economic issue linked to inflation and party politics.

  

“ The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect. Men may hate us.
But, we don’t ask for their love; only for their fear.

― Heinrich Himmler

If we settle again for the political and economic slop and mush we know it has been, all our suffering and our admirable communal discipline and sacrifice through 2020 will have been for nothing.

 If we ignore the gift of this pandemic, if we fail to take personal ownership of our society, and the quality of our lives, that will be a choice we have collectively made and we will each own the responsibility for it.

 Too much about the CoVid world has changed for us to want to reboot the past; but a ‘new normal’ will not be an improvement unless we keep reminding ourselves of what we have been taught here and the visions of the future we are all already imagining.

We have had the opportunity to take a stark, honest look at the way we have actually been living. In the gift of this frozen moment we have seen through the deception of the cultural illusions and delusions we’ve been wrapped in for so long. Our suspended lives are an opportunity to choose who and how we really want to be, and what is truly possible in life.

The power ‘elite’ will try to convince us to return to a past they already royally buggered up (in the case of many priests, literally) . We know we can’t trust them. In a private wine-glazed moment they would admit that lying to us is in the core of their craft. We can’t live into a new future by relying on them, or anything they say, when everything they think they ‘know’, or want us to believe, was dredged up from the fossilised past. 

 

Imagining the future

 

Human society has always been organic, even (or perhaps especially) when faced with the horrors of despotism. It is always the mass of the people who take on the big challenges and decide the big corrections. And it is always when the people are tired and shrink in fear that the great possibilities are stolen from us.

We have already imagined so many ways a new normal might look and feel and how it might work. It is this envisioned, projected future, our combined belief that it is possible, our expectation of it, that will generate the new future, with a firm intention that it is beautiful, free and healthy.

And exciting.

We’ve been given the opportunity to learn to recognise, in the cold, calm, quiet light of this suddenly suspended time, the levers and pulleys of the flimsy fantasy machine of the systems we have permitted to command the quality, the colours, the contents, the contours, and the meanings of our lives.

Now is an opportunity to learn to deeply appreciate life itself, the actual miracle of being alive, the right to enjoy it fully, in an impossibly unlikely and (as far as we are yet aware) otherwise lifeless universe. It is an opportunity to appreciate being; not just having; not just doing; and not just going somewhere.

Until now, in our urgent rush toward the void, we haven’t really had time to grasp that we’re not actually going anywhere anyway. Full of stress, anxiety and fear, we’ve been sprinting towards . . . what though? . . . winning at life?

There’s no payoff at the end, no trophy, no pat on our deathbed head. We don’t get a certificate for making it to the end (unless we score a telegram from the queen).

If we’re always in a hurry to get to the end we rush past all the amazing things that truly enrich life because we’re too busy to notice them and don’t have time for them on the way to nowhere.

 

What will be left of all the fearing and wanting associated with your problematic life situation that every day takes up most of your attention?

A dash, one or two inches long, between the date of birth and date of death on your gravestone.”
~  Eckhart Tolle 

What will be left?  Yes, in that brief dash will be the fear, all the hatred and all the good we failed to do. But also in that simple hyphen will be all the good we did do, the love we gave, our positive influence, the lessons we learnt and taught, how we lifted others up, the difference we made in the world, how we helped to protect the world, improve the world, create new ideas for the world.
The money we made and the stuff we owned will not be engraved in stone.

What will be left of value in the living world?  Our kindness, our wisdom, the love we shared and received, the joy we gave to others and the joy we found for ourselves. These things will continue on, in the eternal present.

 

We don’t win at life; we win IN life.

 

 

The whole of life is in

each moment of life itself

What if we were to spend our infinitely precious time, here and now, appreciating the juicy, exciting, amazing, exuberant, cornucopia of the present.

What if we play in it, experience it, embrace it, grasp and suck and swallow it, in the present. And what if we do all that with feral enthusiasm? Or in meditative stillness? Luxuriously bathe in it?

Right now.

Yes we can sit with our back to this moment nostalgically yearning for the past, but the past is just a sketchy memory we experience in the Present. We can enjoy good memories and be grateful for them.

In the Present.

We can understand that whatever our bad memories, they are not real, they’re just imperfect recollections.

In the Present.

We can thank them for the learning and smooth their pillow. They have no real claws. They can’t hurt us in the present without our permission.

 

Yes we can scream forward with our head in the future trying to reach it before it arrives.

Or we can savour the joy and the miracle of right now.

Because the future, inexorably and without our help, will come in its own time. In the present we can enjoy the possibilities of the future. And when it arrives we can appreciate its reality.

We’ll recognise the future when it comes.

It will be called “The Present”. 

“It is our suffering that brings us together.”
Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed 

Many things have emerged during this lockdown, some of them upsetting; but also good has emerged because of our shared experience.

There has been an increase in generosity, a stronger sense of local and global community. Complete strangers wave to each other, chat to each other, form more intimate relationships. We see it in people from all over the world joining together in creative activities. Remotely making music, performing plays.

Even dressing up to put out the bins has created an international community of over a million people. Community is the core to being human. We are social animals. We need each other. We are incomplete without others. That’s hard-wired. We need connection whether we’re introverts or extroverts.

We need that real, warm sense of personal connection and belonging to a community.

Homework’ Takes On A New Meaning

In 2020 we’ve discovered — or rediscovered from the cottage industries of the pre-Industrial era — that employees can work perfectly well from home and be productive and collaborative without being micro-managed.

One of Sir Roger’s acquaintances reckons the data show an increase in productivity of 25% among those working from home. We can continue to do this. And it’s scalable.

This has benefits for both workers and companies.

Workers have found that they can put in the same or more hours from home but don’t need to spend hours and money travelling to and from work. And that means they have more time at home spending more time with family and more time doing the personal things they never seemed to have time for before.

In many cases companies won’t need enormous elaborate premises with expensive leases to accommodate the workforce that they have. They won’t need to be in the centre of the city, Costs can go down and salaries can go up without a loss of profit.

 

We spend most of our lives first being trained to be compliant and docile and then bringing those gifts to a job which is, for most of us, not wholly satisfying; not the job we chose but the one we could get; not really who we are; learning to pretend to be the person we are expected to be; all for rewards which are never quite enough.

Just in order to survive.

For what?

 

For that awful realisation, as we get older, that we wasted most of our lives wrapped in a blanket to protect ourselves from dangers that never happened.

How do you know that your job is not everything you could wish for and you are wasting your precious time?

  • Do you look forward to Friday?
  • Do you call Wednesday “hump day”? 
  • How quickly would you leave your job if you won the lottery?
  • Would you stay in your job (and put up with the boss) if you didn’t need the money?
  • What would you do if you didn’t need your job?

What are we thinking?  

Despite our unremarkable, humble neighbourhood, we are extraordinary.

We are entities with minds the size of the universe (literally).
We are the universe. We are the universe conscious of itself—probably for the first time in its 13.7 billion years.
We extraordinary beings, full of thoughts, emotions, imagination, stories, creativity, wonder, are the only beings aware of their mortality and the mortality of the universe itself.
Yet we willingly surrender our too brief and finite lives, our gifts, our dreams, the miracle of our minds.
We surrender to a dispassionate, fabricated system; to an artificial and deeply dysfunctional construct called ‘the economy’; and most of us to a suffocating story of compliance and conformity and the safe, orthodox, mediocre life. Religion has a lot to answer for, for this, because . . .

The immense majority

of human biographies
are a gray transit between

domestic spasm and oblivion.
George Steiner

What can we do?

This pandemic has given us time to become more aware of the environments where we live and the people who live there. It is giving us time to be more aware of, and to think about, what society and community really mean.

It is also an opportunity to see how we have overlooked the breadth, the depth and the vitality of community, and why; and to draw out the forensic UV torch to reveal the blood on the walls; to unveil the fictitious story, to reveal the witchcraft, to expose the illusion, to unmask the conspiracy, and instead to see the reality. To grow into a way of living and of really experiencing and exploring our real lives, with other real lives, freely, richly and autonomously.

It is an opportunity that we can all share.

How exactly it will look and how it will be achieved we can’t know. Not yet.

What we can know is that any outcome hauled out of the grave of the recently passed world will inescapably mean inviting the undead to inhabit, and inhibit, the future.

But if it’s drawn from the future that we are already imagining, that will be something new and better.

In the meantime we can reach out in our lives to others. Value others – and not just humans – as fellow creatures. Make a joyful difference to their lives. Value our own lives fully, for everything they are, be grateful, and find joy in our own lives.

M-m-m-My Corona

M-m-m-My Corona

 

What is it With Toilet Paper?

 

When age can, uninvited, link the distant poppy past of The Knack with the all too adjacent Present and come up with a pun, Sir Roger is delighted that there are others still living who appreciate the troubling incongruity of those innocent days and these so shredded ones, and have gone ahead and done something about it and finished it off.

So Sir Roger is relieved that he no longer has to tolerate the unwelcome earworm.  

 

Oliver Sacks and “Soul Murder”

Oliver Sacks and “Soul Murder”

 After:  Oliver Sacks  by Luigi Novi  9.13.09

. . . the arms that long for love

  Sir Roger was listening to the ABC Science Show today. It was Robyn Williams’ homage to Oliver Sacks (Awakenings, The Man Who Thought His Wife Was a Hat, Seeing Voices, Uncle Tungsten etc. etc. etc.) and was jolly-well enjoying it immensely. The sun was shining into the conservatory, the hounds had been exercised, the ice was clinking cheerfully in the Glenfiddich, all was right with the world … when suddenly his Lordship was shaken by these words:

 Listen to the complete ABC Science Show feature on Oliver Sacks

In the show, Sacks recalled his early (wartime) childhood experience after being evacuated to the country from London during the blitz.

He called it “soul murder”.

Sir Roger’s glass slid from his hand and he watched it slowly fall, like an overcranked silent film, to be dashed on the Italian tiles of the conservatory floor.

The idea of murdering a child’s soul – what would that mean? To thrust a knife into the heart of the spirit of playfulness and enthusiasm and joy, to cut off the hands that grasp so eagerly for learning, to amputate the arms that long for love, to sever the legs that long to walk tall, to blind the imagination and every dream, and to gut the body of hope.

To replace it all with what — an interminable desert of dust and ash and despair, and the nightmare of blank nothingness.

Repairing to the Library Sir Roger blew the dust off an article about “soul murder” by Leonard Shengold who said:

“ Soul murder is the term I have used for the apparently willful abuse and neglect of children by adults that are of sufficient intensity and frequency to be traumatic. By that I mean that the children’s subsequent emotional development has been profoundly and predominantly negatively affected.”

The mind of the master of Migently Estate flashed into flame, like ancient nitrocellulose film in a poorly maintained projector on a hot day, with the thought that the treatment of asylum seekers by successive Australian governments, and particularly their Prime Ministers and Ministers, their bureaucracies and bureaucrats, and their profit-driven corporate contractors, matches the description of “soul murder”.

Especially — though not only — when it is perpetrated against children for whom as a society we are collectively responsible. And more damningly, as a Culture — which we so pridefully contrast with others we call barbaric, backward, primitive, knuckle-dragging, inhumane – we are deeply shamed.

And so Sir Roger slumped into the rattan and pondered to whom, on Shengold’s definition, the term “soul murderer” might be applied. Who had publicly and wilfully perpetrated, advertised and perhaps boasted of abuse against children who are, after all, in the broad sense in Australia’s care (you know, to discourage people from getting on boats and to break the people smugglers’ “business model”)?

And, he mused, those would include Dutton, Morrison, Turnbull, Abbott, Rudd, Gillard, Howard, Keating, Evans, Bowen, Ruddock, Vanstone.

Who else?

All those who voted in parliament for them and their policies.

All those facilitators, such as bureaucrats and others, who were ‘just doing their jobs’. Heartlessly. 

And all those who are complicit because they voted to put those people in parliament.

And he shouted to the cat, “You can say ‘not in my name‘ as much and as loudly as you bloody well like, but actually it is in your name and you are not absolved unless you do something about it. It is in your name if you vote for either of the major parties party.”

“And that’s all right, puss,” he said quietly, “as long as you are clear and okay with yourself that that is who you are: someone who is okay with the murder of children’s souls.”

Sprezzatura – the New Cool

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…“

 

  

Men and Whitlam of Australia

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?

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]