Incident in Beaudesert.

March 17, 2017

A couple of weeks ago in the pre-rush a.m, I had occasion to be downtown in Greater Beaudesert where the proverbial cannon could be fired without hurting a soul. The early opening newsagency beckoned and with only one car out front, there was easy parking.

The mirror showed three cyclists in the ‘right turn only’ lane as I prepared to alight. The lead cyclist made a sharp swoop towards me as I stepped out. “The door, the door, the door,” the rider, with emblazoned club shirt screamed,” as he returned to the right turn lane and turned into Bromelton Road.

Evidently the classic do-gooder, do as I say, looking to fault anyone handy, reprimanding we presumed thoughtless drivers. This items’ forefathers would have prided themselves and felt justified when their kangaroo courts arbitrarily stretched the necks of innocents whose profile differed from theirs.

Retailer Pharmacists. As Ill-principled as the Medical Industry.

March 16, 2017

I presented early at Soul Pattinson, Beaudesert, first thing in fact, as the polite junior girl took the first of many mobile display units jamming the aisles to their places outside the shop.

“Can I help you,” proffered the senior shop assistant, as I neared the counter clutching my only reason for visiting such an establishment, a script needing filling.

“It’s the last repeat,” stressing the point, getting the jack of being told what I’m well aware of.

I sat down.

“Have you been here before,” she demanded, “I have that,” was my honest reply, surprised at the question, considering a few weeks before she had needlessly apologized for the short, normal wait.

“I’m not so important as to expect instant attention,” I had told her.

“Oh, but you are very important to us,” came the palavered reply

Minutes later the product had been taken from the shelf, re-stamped with my details, placed in a small tray and passed to the senior woman.

“That was the last repeat,” she echoed my words of a few minutes earlier.

“Am I so retarded that I’ve forgotten what I told you”?

“I’ve got to tell you that,” the comeback.

The previous visit I had had an amiable conversation with one of the proprietors about chemists’ penchant for claiming scripts as their property by wrapping them in their branded advertising and stapling together.

About that time, in the few metres between Woolworths and their shop, I had lost a gold ring and despite the futility of recovering such an item, had returned to the shop with my predicament. In other words, intelligent people would have remembered my presence.

Cash grabbing chemists look upon oldies as an assured and constant money source and like the rest of society, would prefer dealing with contrite, obedient non-thinking slabs of old meat.

Queensland Labor prefers dumbned-down followers who can’t think.

February 5, 2017

Qld Labor can’t think.

Buchholz gives “initial” $M3.5 to exclusive school.

Qld Labor;Liberal Lapdogs.

Australians can’t think…dumbed-down.


In the years preceding the 2007 Federal Labor walkover, Brett Raguse stood for anything that enhanced public awareness of his entity. At that time I was querying Qld Labor’s apparent disinterest in it’s own fate and wondered if a PR machine existed to defend the Party.

Labor had an information tent on market days at Beaudesert’s Dick Westerman Park, and I began chatting with its resident luminaries. The elected Ruguse was consolidating his image when I put to him the aggravating nature of a Viet vet, a dangerous psycho named Garvey who had been homeless forty years, now a neighbouring tenant whose “in your face” cigarette habit was playing havoc with my respiratory system.

A few days later, Raguse made headlines with the politicians favourite standby of defending Viet Vets who, “fought and gave their lives for our democracy,” denouncing those so intolerant as to find fault in trivial matters. To reinforce his defence of returned junkie Vets, he would join servicemen’s unions to better fight THEIR fight.

The under quote comes from an old piece I did at that time on how touchy can Labor be simply because of the limits of their own vision. And my question to the tent follower, Jason Whitlock that so convulsed him went like: “Every day The Courier Mail has at least four anti-Labor stories that are left to run their course and germinate, but are never denied or questioned. Why not”?

Keeping in mind that anti-Liberal sentiment lasted only one term and Liberal Bert van Manen regained for the Libs. The measure of the man is shown by Raguse’s career choice. You need to be morally bankrupt and essentially a con-man/people-hater to be in real estate, a choice that is greed driven and tailor-made for the Liberal mindset.

“Now while I had become acquainted with this lot by mutual, initially Labor-favoured  small talk well before Raguse made his seat runs, my comment so startled the boy Jason Whitlock, a minor apparatchik, that he produced an apparently ever-ready camera and asked me to pose with his lady-friend for a “matey shot.”

I did so without qualm, having  nothing to fear or hide, but the Labor Party had uncovered a dissident, and I was about to get a taste of their infamous mind games. Once an avid Labor voter, I seek now to support the candidate most likely to damage Queensland Labor Thugs.”

Queensland Labor like followers with an 80 IQ baseline.

February 5, 2017

This became, “Queensland Labor prefer dumbned-down followers who can’t think.”

An oldie scares the devil out of Beaudesert woman.

January 27, 2017


Was using Coles self checkout recently at a busy time when a clean-cut, middle-aged woman, of apparently normal mien was hesitant about squeezing her way to the only vacant machine, the other side of me. Took a few seconds off processing my stuff and rearranged my trolley allowing her access.

She looked at me in absolute horror and backed off,” I’m so terribly sorry,” she stammered.

“Why should you be sorry”? I asked. I hadn’t been abrupt or yanked the trolley in anger.

She repeated her apology. Quasimodo reputedly had a kind and gentle nature yet invariably got a bad press.

Transaction complete, went on my way, wondering if the woman hadn’t had a prescience flash.

It’s Australia’s “Bollock’s Day.” Cause a road crash and win praise. (But only if you’re in your twenties)

January 26, 2017


Under this is a cutout of a road death story taken from Beaudesert Times of August 3, last. Points of interest or contention are circled and come from the biased mind of a junior bush journalist, possibly in a tizz defending his alma mater, Beaudesert High School.

"Horror Crash" 3/08/2016 Points Stressed.

The dead driver was on his way to suburban Bromelton where he was paid per load to deliver road metals. An inattentive 23 yo male in a black car, the least road-safe color, was  evidently otherwise occupied when his car “crossed to the wrong side of the road” and caused a head-on collision.

It was pure luck the innocent driver survived, but the inconvenience he suffered would have been intolerable. No sympathy was afforded this man in the Beaudesert Times story but is it not historic that the ” lovable larrikn” is an Australian thug whose romantic image mustn’t be tarnished.

At age 23, the killer driver would have been at least five years out of high school and in reality, well and truly out of the school system. The Administrators would have had to search old records to get a fix on this dead, self-important drongo, simply to appease the low esteem of professional mourners.

H.S. Principal’s ill-considered, immature comments were moulded to console the cretin in his midst, “.. still very raw, etc. ” If this verbal nonsense was genuine, from the heart out-pourings, it is a poor reflection on our society and helps to explain the ‘nanny-state’ conditioning of minds of all ages and must have a good deal of bearing on why a complacent community allows present Australian government stasi agents, smell and inspect their bed-sheets for skid marks.

I take particular offence to the story’s end-note where an immature, unformed writer confused “victim” with “perpetrator.” A kind fate consigned this nasty bit of work to Hades before he had the chance to maim and kill and inflict sorrow and despair.


Toxic industry and backyard burning. It’s what happens in @LiberalAus Beaudesert.

January 9, 2017

One block from Beaudesert CBD.

One block from Beaudesert CBD.

Irresponsible Beaudesert neighbours. Hallmarks of a typical @LiberalAus

Irresponsible Beaudesert neighbours. Hallmarks of a typical @LiberalAus

Truck washing;engine cleaning, view from back door.

Smouldering fire; toxic chemicals.

Five Level Camp Cupboard, My Discovery Of Year: Specialised Power Equipment.

January 4, 2017

Camping has moved on quite a bit since partner and self made do with the protection from the elements that a tarp offered to those dossing down in the back of the ute.

Camping in Ute, winter.

A few months ago, a catalogue issued by Specialised Power Equipment of 140 Brisbane Street, opposite Toyoto, featured among many other products, a five shelf collapsible camp cupboard, price $65 while on sale, then $90.

5 Shelf camp cupboard.

Five Shelf camp cupboard.

At 140 cm or 55 inches, it’s quite ample for my simple needs, in this case, to store linen, my days of expensive furnishings well and truly in the past. The luckless Beaudesert renter who has no option but to rent an unscreened residence would find this product great for its purpose of protecting their foodstuffs and crockery/cutlery from fly and cockroach contamination.

Camp Cupboards (Catalogue)

Camp Cupboards (Catalogue)

Specialised Power would no doubt, carry mosquito nets, an item that should be history in the modern home but unscrupulous owners are allowed by the Queensland Labor Government to rent out unprotected premises to families. The product pictured under was obtained elsewhere for about $30.

Circular Style Mosquito Net.

Circular Style Mosquito Net.

Coles Beaudesert self checkout is an escape from Woolworth’s beggars.

November 4, 2016

“Enter The Big Pumpkin.”

Although shopping is more expensive at Coles, I’ll use them before Beaudesert Woolworths simply to dodge the front of shop professional beggars and being implored by Woolworths checkout staff to make another donation on exit.
If a ‘best thing about’ tag could be applied to shopping at Beaudesert Coles, it would have to be their self-checkout where, by definition, Woolworths checkout staff are unable to pester customers on exit to “make a $2 donation”.
To enter Woolworths via one of their two entrances, the shopper must run a gauntlet of beggars, usually gentle and pleasant do-gooders, but with the noticeable exception of an aged, unkempt loudmouth item of filth who persists with rude personal comments long after one has passed. Named Keith, “I am known as Father Christmas and everyone loves me.” he replied when I asked him to stop heckling me. “Beaudesert’s Malevolent Thug..”
The next best thing about using Coles is related to the ‘best thing’ in that no collectors of any persuasion are permitted to set up shop to harass clients. Nearest they had, a couple of months ago, in the car park, was a team of bimbos who would spray a section of your motor vehicle and buff if pretty while very nearly doing a lap dance to induce a sale of their product.
After twenty or so minutes, I managed to persuade the one working on me that such tactics are amusing but wasted on this tightwad old prick, did she piss off having found an urgent task to attend.

Coles: BT, Sept 28, 2016

Coles: BT, Sept 28, 2016

Coles, overtaken with altruism and a desire to be seen as generous benefactors and to distance themselves from the insidious effect of their poker machines, got involved with this facade of bullshit care as depicted in the Beaudesert Times story. Designed entirely for publicity purposes, thinly veiled, good enough to deceive the yokels while Coles/Woolworths poker machines strip millions of dollars from the low paid gullible.

2011 Census came with a sheet sniffer.Queensland’s Disdain For The Recognition Of Human Rights.Reprinted from Sept. 2011.

August 24, 2016

A man’s ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death. Albert Einstein

I dared not ask why, or even delve into the computer for answers, my old age a constant reminder of my stupidity and non-person status, the subject, incidentally on which I was working, with the confidence of having made a reasonably good fist of apologizing for my idiocy and ignorance and for my very existence. Researching beyond three Google pages is a tiring task, a tardiness that has allowed devious, immoral Queensland Housing gorgons, one of whom, Charmane Schoutens tried to have me evicted for defending myself against attack by a favored tenant. She and the ultimate hate-merchant and practitioner, Kimberley Hillhouse, long ago relinquished any right to manners by me, their fair treatment never offered the writer. I was rather taken aback on learning I was supposed to be contrite in the presence of this ill-mannered crap; that he, the nice QBuild representative was not to be feared, that Housing were the heavies.

Stasi area chief Paul Gladmann, using annual premise inspection as a pretext to do inspections of another sort, was taken aback that an obvious retard should ask him to formally identify himself, but the assumption by biased Housing “officials”that a classic I am a lolling-headed helpless dolt was shitting me. has left me with no alternative. Previous annual ‘inspection’ visit by piranha, Celeste Turner on Nov 25 2009 found her on the defensive and confrontational, most unexpected, having never before met her. Her behavior apparently, a result of colleagues feeding a scattery head.

Guileless, or gut-less perhaps frightened little messenger, Terry O’brien, yes-boy of the gorgons will never be good enough to sniff my back hole, but will be recorded while trying to do so.

Bligh continues to have Murdoch’s editorial support it seems. Had another letter rejection by the Courier in which I again pleaded for smoking restrictions in aged flat precincts. Their opinion is shared by the tenant union’s LANARTA JEAN, who is evidently just another despicable Government lapdog who finds assisting retarded tenants bothersome, as are cigarette smoke toxins in aged flat precincts, to quote her, not of her concern.

One looks at the bullshit surrounding the talentless druggie, Amy Winehouse and the 27 club nonsense with ho-humity. Good and proper age to go out, what with diminishing sex appeal inducing soft-ons. What concerns me a great deal is how supposed adults who mourn this no-hoper, with Queensland Labor Party support, can demand entrance til 8 p.m. with instructions to quit griping about cigarette smoke and the unnecessary noise of fellow tenants.

Extract From Nanny State Files


Most thinking Australians have followed Andrew Bolt’s court ruling plight which was to me the done deal of the decade given the ‘political correctness’ claptrap that banishes decent citizens to the desert. Intrusive visits by Queensland Housing heavies to silence my anti-smoking comments and condemnation of their active encouragement to favoured tenants to release toxins at will, proves more stinks in Queensland Labor than Housing’s calculated disregard of human rights.

Andrew Bolt has thousands of supporters, one of whom is John Roskham, speaker of a think-tank whose letter in Bolt’s column could apply to the silent suffering of many flabbergasted, decent-living, generally older people, whose principles have been unceremoniously pulled from under them. Abandoned, they are left to wonder why inborn instinctive goodness, once so pivotal to a civilized society, is now derided as a mental aberration peculiar to ‘oldies.’

That I’ve lately questioned my nurturing by overly decent and worthy parents is unfair to their memory and a poor reflection on law-maker’s sympathy with bullies and other recidivists who have been nanny-state trained not to think beyond on whose property should they chuck their take-away rubbish.

As a Qld. Housing tenant, I have seen and experienced too much blatant disregard and disdain of human rights by operatives within the Housing system, that had I wanted to keep my self-respect, would have departed long ago. Two instances; 89 y.o. woman troubled by downwind cigarette smoke drift and road toxins pleading with me not to let on that she was so troubled, didn’t want to get on wrong side of Housing staff, she said. Same lady issued with notice to correct an anomaly with $1.90 f/n undeclared, unaware WW2 pension of first, dead husband. Given two weeks to correct things or lose rent subsidy. A worrier, she chased a remote off-spring to fix it. Dead five weeks later.

Example 2; Visiting an acquaintance in another housing precinct, I passed a declared fifth columnist who had spitefully made false accusations against my acquaintance for undeclared income. Facetiously, I offered him some of my notes for his edification. His reply is typical of Housing Commission’s killing of personal thought: “No way in the world,” he quickly shot off, and I am not kidding, added, “If they (H.C.) get to hear about it, I’ll be looking for another flat.” For Queensland Housing, this manipulated, brain-dead oxygen waster is the embodiment of the perfect tenant.

Mr. Roskam, Australians should be outraged at tons of social issues, as you say, but unless they are suffering a similar fate, their comprehension of outrage is hard put to extend beyond deep and meaningful statements like “scary” and such heart-felt emotion could happen only if a promised firework exhibition or free sausage sizzle failed to happen. I commend your intent.

“How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate, they could plug-in your wire whenever they wanted to.” — George Orwell, 1984.

Was clicking through StumbleUpon when up bobbed an academic’s ranking of “Fourteen Defining Characteristics Of Fascism.” and with the continuing harassment from Bligh’s Housing 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.

Les Johns.

Brisbane bus driver accused of making racist remarks towards passenger…But is it ok to demean a monkey?

July 28, 2016

Woman with babe in arms boards bus, has altercation with driver, storms down isle, slumps into seat besides passenger and sobs,”That driver, I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.” “Get right back to that bloke,” advised the man, “and lay into him, and if it helps, I’ll hold the monkey for you.”

A Murdoch man for whom the adage,”Runs with the foxes, hunts with the hounds,” was coined.

July 8, 2016

The brave opportune Tweets of a @rupertmurdoch suck-hole.

Syvret.(On “doddering” octogenarians and pregnant shoppers.)

“Who are I…pleeze journos..”


Damn, now I regret cancelling Foxtel. Blot has Pauline Hanson and Rowan Dean on tonight. #MeetingOfGreatMinds

Syvret associated Tweets in block quote:

Paul Syvret ‏@PSyvret

Hanson takes centre stage again but this time we should listen not lampoon. Very thoughtful piece by @margokingston1

Paul Syvret ‏@PSyvret

A serious question: has Hanson ever offered anything positive, or does she just float to the surface again when the zeitgeist is angry?

Paul Syvret Retweeted
#AusExit FitzSimons ‏@Peter_Fitz Jul 4

I reckon this tweet to #QandA on the money: “If Abbott was in charge, Shorten would have given his victory speech by 9 pm.”

Syvret’s unlikely LGBT alliance. Not expecting miracles from relatives ‘butch’ army brain-washing.

Fitzsimons is a loudmouth plagiarist of Australian military history, played a ball sport giving Syvret a kinship claim.

In Beaudesert, Qld Labor, ever the lap-dogs to Liberal overlords.

July 2, 2016

A decade or so ago, whenever an election was pending, whether Local, State or Federal, the Jimboomba ALP branch would man their little recruitment/information tent on market Saturdays at Beaudesert’s Dick Westerman Park and do their damnest to look harmless to the passing weary.
The main beneficiary of this function was to promote the fortunes of a demi-god, in the mind and eyes of Queensland Labor, a thief of decent working people, to whit, a real estate sales-person in the name of standover merchant Brett Raguse
A exception to these dummies who was always an able conversationalist, a pleasant man, was Brett McCreadie who, after the foul Raguse fluked Wright’s formerly named Federal seat of Forde, went on to contest Beaudesert, losing to the Libs Jon Krause.
Yarning with an earnest, small minded boy, as it turned out, Jason Whitlock and his ‘wife’ I idly, and innocently, I must add, asked why the Labor Party never seems to rebuke The Courier Mail despite them printing at least four blatant untruths about them or their associates every day of the week.
In a flash, it was demanded of me that I pose with Whitlock’s ‘wife’ for a matey, family photo. I did so without compunction; I was not the strange-acting one in this scenario. This character typifies all that anchors Federal and State Labor parties into the mire and encourages Plibersek among a host of others to converse with their followers at a basic IQ level.
Reproduced Beaudesert Times story with picture of Queensland’s arse-licking girl-child Deputy Premier:


Beaudesert’s malevolent nut-job, via Woolworths/Aldi: “Can’t touch me, I’m Father Christmas.”

June 30, 2016

Beaudesert's serial pest throws comments after Woolworths and Aldi customers who refuse to cave-in to his incessant money demands.

Beaudesert’s serial pest throws comments after Woolworths and Aldi customers who refuse to cave-in to his incessant money demands.

Dodgy Kooralbyn R/Estate Operator Opens Diner, Writes Own Review.

June 29, 2016

Huang pays workers in bar tabs

Compliments Beaudesert Times.

Compliments Beaudesert Times.

After Maroon Cemetery, you’ll come across this precarious..but looks staged to me.

June 22, 2016

Boonah to Rathdowney.

To Boonah via Rathdowney brings you ‘The Border Ranges’ and the Maroon Cemetery. The best road out of Beaudesert.

June 22, 2016

“Out of Beaudesert..The Road To Christmas Creek.”

“Our Town..not a Happy Little Place.”

Maroon Cemetery Sign. 9/09/2014

Brisbane’s last Saturday Telegraph. December 29, 1979. Mal Meninga, working Melbourne Hotel bottle dept. took delivery of Teles.

June 17, 2016

Last Saturday editions, Brisbane Telegraph. December 29, 1979.

Last Saturday editions, Brisbane Telegraph. December 29, 1979.

“The Bulletin” ( & other publications) old clippings, book reviews; of Australian writers. Begins with George Johnston, 1968.

June 12, 2016

The Bulletin (From National Museum Australia)

"The Bullitin" book reviews; of Australian writers. George Johnston.

Who could forget Thea Astley's, "A Boatload Of Homefolk"?

Who could forget Thea Astley’s thrilling, “A Boatload Of Homefolk”?

Geoffrey Dutton's writing over my head, his reviews couldn't be missed though.

Geoffrey Dutton’s writing over my head, his reviews couldn’t be missed though.

Geoffrey Dutton from Wikipedia

J P Donleavy's "The Onioneaters" an opening to crude, adult humour. Larfed 'til I cried.

J P Donleavy’s “The Onioneaters” an opening to crude, adult humour. Larfed ’til I cried.

2004 CM review of gay play. The female reviewer's high moral standards remain untarnished and public. Read her closing paragraph to find out. Had I lived in Brisbane and not Beaudesert, where I was soundly rubbished for being old last Friday when I attended the State Government Office to extend my "geriatric" driving license, I might have been tempted to look-in at this updated version of Dorian Gray.

2004 CM review of gay play. The female reviewer’s high moral standards remain untarnished and public. Read her closing paragraph to find out why.
Had I lived in Brisbane and not Beaudesert, where I was soundly rubbished for being old last Friday when I attended the State Government Office to extend my “geriatric” driving license, I would have felt free to comment openly on this updated version of Wilde’s Dorian Gray.

C. 1947 Greenslopes S.S. group. I’m prob. the demure, meek one, mid 3rd line, cowering between 2 others.

June 9, 2016

Greenslopes S.S. circa 1947

How much faith can you put in a pet cemetery’s bullshit,”Your beloved pet is safe in our care.”

June 7, 2016

The Sexton’s wife…Far too precious for Aida at Brisbane’s QE2 Stadium.

“It’s a dog’s life for Rosa in the pot.”

I assisted in and around a Greenbank pet crematorium and burial establishment. Behind the scenes goings-on eventually caused a permanent, hateful rift between its owner and myself. This had to happen.

Buried in my junk is a site-map of pet burials whose owners were unable to attend the service because of work or other commitments and who fully expected the service to go ahead in their absence exactly as it would have in their presence. Reproduced under is a note to self at that time which has recently risen to the top of the pile.

Printed a few years ago within this blog is a more precise account of the nefarious abuse and contempt for the lately bereaved pet lover. Click on “When Pets and People have had Their Day,” for more details.

But not all is as it seems. John applied a wee bit of his version of value-adding by tipping out the recently deceased animal from its warm, earthly box to face eternity wrapped only in the good earth. Entrusted wishes not followed but the cash-in-hand remains unchanged.

Lawn Cem, saved boxes.

“Heeey everybody, I’m a ‘white cunt.'”

June 7, 2016

Beau could have prefixed ‘desert’ as being an administrative, walled township of National/Liberal Party rule, but I could have gone off-track here. Recently, I ‘relocated’ to the fair borough of Beaudesert and the short street of my new voting address forms part of the common walking route into town, recalls a small personal incident gone now some eighteen years.

Some of the concreted walking path from Edward St covers a low-lying flood plain and is a pleasant kilometre or so stroll into town which I always enjoyed. Nothing too memorable ever occurred until one day on the trip home, the sudden whirring of push-cycle wheels as a prepubescent black kid wheeled past sending a golly of badly misdirected spittle my way and screamed, “White cunt.”

All this time later, the boy, if fate allowed his living, would now be a young man in his late twenties with no recall of the event, possibly an oft performed party trick, or perhaps I was a one-off, would have given him a brief feel-good moment. At that young age, would have been groomed by an older person, a parent or relative, espousing hate.

Wonder if his attitude changed, one way or the other, for better or worse, in the meantime.

Feel good, spit at someone.

June 5, 2016

Changed this short recount to “Heeey everybody,Im a ‘white cunt.'”

Changing camping spots can be as emotionally draining as the death of a close friend.

May 13, 2016

“Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering-and it’s all over much too soon.”

I am relocating. That is, as an oldie, in officialese, I am changing ‘accommodation,’ like I’ve rolled my swag and am moving from a bush-stick lean-to to a secluded, drier spot under the overpass.

Informing Telstra of the change, leaving and coming dates, and all that goes with these occasions the patronizing, over-matey, please love Telstra (and me) young man seemed taken aback that a geriatric old prick gathered his wits long enough to negotiate the system thus far and carry out an indifferent, run of the mill chore.

He was pleased to tell me of my good fortune, that the unit was plugged and ready for my ADSL connection. I knew when inspecting the place of that availability and was a prime reason for taking such ‘accommodation.’

The young chap marvelled at my reassurance that pushing a plug into a wall socket was within my broad reach of combining a manual movement with a cerebral task. The inquisitive ASIO trainee feared my advanced journey into mental and age retardation would surely have hampered, prevented even, my having the faintest idea on how to pick my nose.

For something like $300, he reminded me, a technician could come around and do the job for me. Far too generous,these consultants/salespersons.

Origin Energy’s move phone number gave me a self-congratulatory five-minute spiel then assured me there was a twenty-minute queue and that I should ring back later in the evening. I slept beyond the 9 PM deadline, putting another job to the irritating ‘later on’ category.

A robber carpet cleaner is scheduled. Main Roads will be informed, so is mail address redirection awaiting and don’t overlook the bank. The Feds have my new gen, so things are getting done without the aid of Telstra-like gratuitous humbugs.

This and real estate crap as well.

Taken on our Goondiwindi tour with first dog.

The move itself is somewhat daunting with more sentimental culling to do; old paperwork and photographs, once important and reverent, fitting, one thought at the time, that it should be kept in perpetual remembrance, like the Holy Grail, but now an encumbrance; a partner’s soft and delicate sleepwear, kept for too long, perhaps. No, not really.

Sally (“Snippets”) Rogers & crook father, Barrie, tried to gyp us. We won the case; this envelope contained the legal documents.

May 7, 2016

4 Winds on manilla env.

When Editorial people took “TIME” to reply to readers. Lauren Field, most likely, never even got a ‘thank you’ note.

May 7, 2016

"TIME" mag reply to 1975 letter.

Victorian tram, horse-drawn possibly, circa early thirties, a park rest-up, my father with niece.

May 5, 2016

Would think this tram was horse-drawn.

Melbourne. Dad with ? circa 1925

Would have been a standard condolence letter of the time, I expect, but do wonder if such decency gets a look-in nowadays.

May 4, 2016

Bill Hayden Mum condolence letter.

Would have been a standard condolence letter of that time, I expect, but do wonder if such decency gets a look-in nowadays.[/caption]

Jimboomba’s day of infamy; when the Church’s 7th placed letter-box was kidnapped.

May 4, 2016

Seventh placed in a letter-box competition and the spiteful anti-Christs pinch a Catholic school's pride and joy. "We are quite sad."

Seventh placed in a letter-box competition and the spiteful anti-Christs pinch a Catholic school’s pride and joy. “We are quite sad.”

After this sorrowful 1917 shot, amateur historians forgot to make notes for descendants.

May 3, 2016

Thoughtful of the historian for the facts; and was press-stamped FEGAN . BRISBANE

99 y.o. words on back next.

How Dad and friend motored in the early thirties. Very formal dress code in Victoria.

May 3, 2016

My Dad and friend on epic motoring tour, early thirties, would guess.

Most amusing! Lead balloon today I suspect. Undated CM, its compiler would indicate era.

May 3, 2016

Undated CM

Brisbane’s short-lived Daily Sun. More Murdoch bastardry.

May 3, 2016

Daily Sun. May 27, 1982.

Bill Roycroft’s success with “Our Solo” at Rome Games. (and signed by the author)

May 1, 2016


John Watson, 1951-2014. Cairns friend.

May 1, 2016

'Hippies' Bryan Nason and John Watson. Tales from the Magic Era.

Apologies to NARPACA (North Australia’s Live Entertainment Circuit) for lifting their words. I’ve had a spot of bother making a link.

Tribute to a remarkable man.

VALE John William Watson (1951 – 2014)

It was with heavy hearts that we heard of the sudden passing on Monday 4 August 2014 of our much loved and respected colleague and friend John Watson. A true cultural warrior, John will be remembered as much for his passionate belief in the arts and his many talents as a writer, producer, director, dancer, costume and set designer/maker, as for his mischievous nature, glittering eyes and ability to make everyone he met, feel special.

As one of Queensland’s most loved theatre practitioners, a tribute was staged to honour John on 15th of August 2014 at the Queensland Theatre Company’s Bille Brown Studio. This special event allowed the community to celebrate and farewell an adored man who touched the heart of all who knew him. During the tribute, John was described as a “true friend and helper, a man of the theatre who was as adept with a sewing machine as he was with a cordless drill”.

John entertained and inspired the lives of thousands through his many and varied creative projects including his work as Producer River Stage & National/Corporate Days World Expo ’88, as writer of Smiley – the Musical (Book & Lyrics) and as co-writer and director of the enormously successful musical Possum Magic which recently celebrated its 25th anniversary and on its last tour, played to over 80,000 people.

John passed away in his sleep the night before he was to commence as Manager of the Moncrieff Entertainment Centre in Bundaberg. He died in the way he lived, excited, brimming with ideas and full of expectation for his new adventure. John is buried in an unmarked grave. Vale John Watson.

Click here to watch the Tribute to John’s life:

Liberals cranky after Labor realizes it too, can pull off Joh/Lib stunts.

April 27, 2016

Krause: BT 27/04/2016.

When prawns were 3 pounds a $1 Bread 3 loaves a $1.NZ made, 1974 200 L. Freezer, going still. ‘Downsizing,’ going to see Jesus.

April 27, 2016

Ta-ta Deepfreezer.

Beaudesert Showground landmark Frangipani mulched after boof stubbed idiot toe.

April 24, 2016

In the year 2001, in Edward St Beaudesert, shattered Leopardwood nuts from mowing entered next doors front yard and in retaliation, the hateful old chap had his former workmates from the Works Department demolish the footpath tree to ground level.

About the same time, a drongo stubbed his half-wit toe into the very prominent roots of a long established frangipani tree, a favoured shady spot at the showground. That huge tree was also arbitrarily destroyed, just like the one out front.

Wrote a few letters in protest but as Oscar Wilde observed, the letters to the Editor page served to remind him of the stupidity of the populace.

Huge, shady Beaudesert showground Frangipani removed after drongo stumbled on its roots.

When Council ‘mates’ destroyed an Edward St. tree to satisfy a grudge.

April 24, 2016

When Beaudesert Council Works Dept mates could lop a footpath tree to satisfy a neighborhood dispute.

Two cakes with one egg: Oldies might soon resort to war-time measures for unhealthy ‘luxuries.’

April 23, 2016

V old newspaper (Two cakes with one egg)

No column jottings. Seems like immediate post World War 2 frugality.

No column jottings, seems post-war frugal 1940-50's

From my WordPress media file, unlikely now to have stories woven around them.

April 20, 2016

Bora Ring 2.

Cath's Stufffed Toys.

Cath's 1st Easter Veterinary Show.

Cem Roses

Props Cath used in her "Pot of Gold" Irish Curmudgeon, Bragg Veterinary Skit.

1946 Letter. P1

Charlie to Arthur P2

Missouri and Maryland Streets.

Warren Saxen took shot of self with Cathy. House, cnr Missouri & Maryland Sts, Jimboomba.25/12/'93.

The Last Two Standing.

Jesus bus close-up

From the steps.

Camping in Ute, winter.

In The Aisles. (Syvret)

L. Prince back page.

Jim Pearson's Angellala Siding Proclamation of 1962.

Cunt lunches (2)

img036 Yours Truly.

Cathy's Christmas.

Cathy’s Christmas.

Casablanca Cairns

Casablanca Cairns

Paul Siroky, 29/25 Hughs St, Potts Point. NSW. 2011  Circa 1963/4 Holloways/Machans Bch, Cairns.

Married by Burt (Bert) 10 March, 1997, in old Beaudesert Hospital.


Shade (right view)

Shade (right view)

The Martins.

The Clan. Front Yard abt. 1955


Melbourne. Dad with ? circa 1925

Crown Stove Reverse.

A Flat In A Carpark.

Gay Viet vet plaque



Total Cairns Costing.

Cairns Homeward Cost.

"Once U A T I T West" damaged.

iIan, Narelle, Bert. Early 1953 at a guess.

Michael Plant Obit. July 13, 1965.

Traitor Trad’s the DSC___. Rubber-stamping useless, Newman Govt Beaudesert by-pass.

April 19, 2016


Last gutsy journalist pose pertinent 2005 question; Menzies failed referendum.

April 18, 2016

CM Sweetman. 23/10/2005.

Beaudesert Times: How she was writ in 2004 and them that was writ about.

April 17, 2016

Gleneagle Butcher, circa 2004Beaudesert Times, February 18, 2004.

You might be amused at the story’s characters and the lack of editing.

Yet to come across a more hilarious BT report than that of the Anglicans deliberately blown up mail-box and the effrontery of the parishioners. Especially distressing since recently, wait for it Laz and Gen, its sheer uniqueness had earned it seventh place in a letter-box competition.

At about that time, readers were elated to learn that Shire Council blue collar workers celebrated the coming festive season around a platter of meat pies.

Oldies Need The Right To Exit At Will, Not By Staged Accidents; ‘Lost’ While Walking; Gunshot.

March 31, 2016

For a reason best kept from Beaudesert Coles, when I food-shop locally,  Woolworths, by default, has become the provision source, but for their coy late opening time, would much prefer Aldi’s lower prices. Their piss-weak tea a major error of judgement.

My penchant for variety and change and a compulsion for the novelty can find me shopping anywhere in a wide arc from Boonah around to Logan Village. As well, one never knows what interesting characters could be waiting beyond the next curve of the road.

Woolworths has its quota of offensive oafs, seemingly without the faintest idea of their condition but few as unpleasant or disliked as the Coles misfit, Johanna or her tubby, sycophantic lickspittle, the lazy, impertinent ‘James.’

One mature but witless female had to be reminded that a sciatic limp wasn’t indicative of cretinism. So next visit found that I had been dispatched to Coles Coventry, snotty, limited iq noses upturned at unexpected retort.

Said to mature checkout Woolworths woman that it’s ok to leave small red cabbage loose, that I unload the goods into a wheeled trolley to easily facilitate unloading. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied, “I think it should go in a bag.”

There you go. The oldie knows not what he wants. The attitude is widespread. Put down old bastards at every opportunity, not especially by public servants and medical, but the private sector as well.

We learn not to protest our sanity; the local newsagent, nineteen years ago, declared oldies questioning their change or being unnecessarily loud at the counter warrants a call to the cops.

This morning I decided not to renew a monthly direct deduction and called the Commonwealth Bank to cancel that account to avoid the $5 monthly fee on extra accounts. She firstly had to check that I had declared all direct debit obligations.

At one stage in life, the onus would have been upon me to worry about that, but on oldies welfare, it transpires, I am unable to make considered decisions. If younger people could think, they would be planning now to avoid the humiliation that awaits them.

“The Big Pumpkin,” apt tag for Beaudesert’s notorious rip-off proprietor.

March 4, 2016

The Big Pumpkin will rip you off, but serial pest Reinke, won’t be present.

Red cabbages aren’t all that big. Stripped of its fibrous, unusable outer leaves, the product compares in size to that of a small rock melon. In other words, they’re not that big, but Woolworths, Beaudesert sometimes halve them for their own value-adding benefit.

I didn’t want two halves of a small cabbage, nor would I have settled for one. I wanted two complete, unmolested red cabbages. Resisting the temptation to cave-in to my ennui and just buy two half pieces and be done with it, I went across the road to the most ill-mannered rip-off merchant in town, The Big Pumpkin, of which I recently related my experiences with this prick in “The Big Pumpkin will rip you off, but…”

These strip shops are handy for quick, one item purchases but  unconscionable, crude pricks like this fellow really should be avoided, if only to keep one’s dignity. Too hungry and inconsiderate of his customer to use bags, I fronted up with two red cabbage at $4.50 each, in my own carry bag. $2.50 at Olleys if you’re passing through North Maclean.

“That’s OK” he offered as he handed me a dollar change.

“That’s OK”? I queried.

“Thanks.” he conceded.

The hell with indifferent petty crooks like this, I swear I’ll search further or go without in the future.

Beaudesert’s Dauntless Demon, Darren.

February 24, 2016

Beaudesert’s bucolic, hero-starved weekly parchment finds such local subjects a rare breed and when one comes their way, it’s all systems go. This ever-green tale of self-sacrifice and determination tells of a fearless fighter for everything that is right and politically conservative in the Scenic Rim and of  the  evils that lurk in the terrorist hot-spot of outer Brisbane.

BT Sept 9,2015. Demon Phantom Terrorist chaser.


A quotation with an image is big stuff: The detective observes,”…not all Muslims are terrorists.” Widely travelled Beaudesert Times staff, one of whom is remoured to have made a visit to remote Brisbane, believe the quote opens new ground for mutual understanding and tolerance.


Eager for knowledge, a one-day Logan area seminar enlightened Detective Ward on terrorism and he  knows now that ‘Al-Qaeda and ISIS’ are trigger words for overseas western-haters with an unpleasant agenda. He also “heard” lectures which are mostly free, except for the Murdoch-censored Australian press, delivers to the world every second and is freely available to anyone.

Government reckoned Demon Dave was worth it to have wasted dollars thrown his way and be officially brought ‘up to speed,’  while he adds very important gen about Scenic Rim’s  formidable ‘sovereign  terrorists’ to those manufactured by ASIO, AFP, Tony Abbott’s jumped-up Benedict Quaedvlieg’s ABFarce and whoever else.

The Oxley Academy of Police Excellence is being prepared for the Dux of the year awards of which Detective Ward has a fair chance of taking  off.

The coveted prize is believed to include all 28 episodes of the entertaining, British-made, Foyle’s War, set in the immediate post WW2, whose hero chases and dispenses due justice to the rotten kraut terrorist.



BT 28/10/2015.

Go back in time ten, twelve years perhaps, and the guardian angel bears an astonishing resemblance to an ardent, younger plain clothes copper who, to  allay suspicion, would take a  10/12 year old boy, presumably his son, into hotel bars or annexes where poker machines were then situated and begin inquisitive, ‘friendly’ conversations with players, mainly about their poker machine proclivity. Without certainty, I guessed he was looking at their money source, hoping to nail a dope dealer or three in a trade very important to Beaudesert’s black or unofficial economy.

He was so obviously a rank novice at the sneak, sniffing the sheets, delving game, I had a profound commiseration for the fellow’s absolute uselessness. An obvious and profound novice.  If the boy followed his clumsy father into the same game, I do feel there’s some amusing Pink Panther copy that might interest sequel writers.


Wasting time at the truly dreadful, stale nicotine stinking Logan & Albert Hotel a year or so ago, a tall, smartly groomed young man with flawless, smooth, very non working-class hands presented at the next machine. His blue overalls carrying the folding marks of work attire only a short time before removed from its package.

Rathdowney cop reaction to his removal.BT 28/10/2015.

“How ya goin”? he started. Without a shadow of doubt, and long ago forgetting the hapless original, here was The Son of Darren, Darren Two, even. We were immediately joined by a similarly aged, tubby, ordinary  young woman using the same false matey approach, straight out of Kath & Kim. These hopeless cunts can only nab those equally short in the nous department. Inept crook chasers will only nail the Walter Mitty Darcy Dugans, thinkers with half a gram of iq will avoid the can for much longer.



Beaudesert’s far right RSL uses its corrupt management to nail and cause ever-lasting harm to dissenters or to those whose opinions don’t match theirs.

Guilfoyle bust.
Nasty singular master of hate.

Queensland Housing Commission. Jaala, Hillhouse, Murphy, Shouten, Horan: True-blue arse-holes.

February 24, 2016

Lifted from Aug 31, 2011 a reprint: Last days of Bligh’s mess.

This post ran on August 31, 2011, toward the end of Bligh’s time as Beattie’s heir apparent when piss-ant Schwarten was the nominal head of Housing, to whom I wrote decrying a Qbuild painting overseer screaming at me, “You shut up, you fucking poofter,” after asking him to control the verbal noise his two young exuberant painters were making.

I had mentioned the incident to visiting Housing staff,  the virginal twenty/thirtyish Jaala and Hillhouse, so offended with my verbatim use that I would “be reported.” After the Schwarten brushoff, told not to contact again, was passed over to a very vindictive Woodridge based Murphy, and that was when the real ordeal began and the visit by Senior Sergeant Moffett on Tuesday, October 25, 2011, at about 1115 hrs, who suggested “we” go to my doctor and take a mental evaluation test.


Admitting that the system couldn’t be beaten, that Queensland Housing is a self-admitted institution, I signed myself out and straight into the quasi Housing camp at Kooralbyn where two of my neighbours are visited frequently by mysterious agents in Queensland Government plated cars. Have also been witness to two known drug ‘busts.’


Dumbned-down Australians relaxed too soon when 1985 dawned and Orwell’s warnings faded with his book. The iconic title was a random number, he later wrote. It could easily have been 2011, the year the Queensland Government redoubled their efforts to destroy my credibility for fear I file a damages suit.

The stupidity of the Queensland Government’s corny waste clap-trap policy finally being aired. (Got the State wrong, but same template across the country; this is not yet a trial transcript) Non-thinking citizens stuck up the creek now won’t know which way to turn. The monstrous cost of the system was known before its inception. Additionally, in this Government block of flats, the abundance of unused recycle bins laying idle must incur a cost that is met from only one source. If Governments can’t think through the consequences of their actions, the possibility of Woodridge Housing dummies becoming breathing, thinking Pinocchios most remote. I offer an Orwellian observation:

“People simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual word.”
– George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 1

Little effort has been made to conceal identities of participants in events that are fictional. Names coinciding with actual persons unintentional.

An aging and inexpert tyro writer like yours truly is verily in the shit as he tries to push buckets of it up hill at his helplessness to explain the creeping re-emergence and acceptance of Nazism as its influence gradually festers and grows, displacing decency, whose practitioners become objects of derision by girl yobbos, descendants of book-burners looking for a post storm-water drain respectability. They get their jollies by informing on harmless minorities; ego food for untalented and amoral zombies whose only ability is to ascertain in a flash how to best proffer ridicule on decent people.

Vampires, if ‘horror’ movie scripts have credibility, recoil from the holy cross when so-confronted, fearing its power will finish them. A hammer and stake through the heart most likely did the damage. My unblemished entity has a similar effect on Schoutens-led harpies, yet to explain their fear of my presence, resolute despite the wag of vindictive tongues. Like Hemingway’s shit detector, mine is always tuned. Why? I don’t know. A handy asset for one on defence maneuvers I suppose. Not in my martyr book though. Housing staff malevolence toward me is palpable, their knives simply slice off enough to suit the moment. Dealing with decent oldies leaves them perplexed and foundering while Bligh praises this vintage group only on victory nights, who by dawn have reverted to senility and history. How, in peace-time can one counter the effect of Government encouraged stupidity and stay out of goal? A famous British skit advised writing a letter to the Times a paean for all problems from the late arrival of the Cumberland twit to the clarification of rumors that wanking is fraught with aids after all. A letter to Bowen Hills impracticable in the current atmosphere unless its sender is of the far right where the stench of Bligh’s corruption curdles the ink.

Monday last, two Government hit-squad goons called. They tell me to quit fighting for a natural right to clean oxygen and boast of urging Woodward to release whatever legal toxins he wishes into the prevailing easterlies to be down-swept into my flat. This advice, if followed, will be met by an equally obnoxious but legal deed of my own. I am too generous with the dim. Mother queen and tubby use Hillhouse supplied confidential client information that might be less than accurate. ‘Nuff sed. With my blog posts having non-libelous, but strong comments, the material the nice young girl held was pussy-cat stuff, degrading only if the complainant feels he fits the bill, e.g. stasi sperm-eater, shit stuff, but manna for Housing’s fetish for kangaroo court justice. These girls were on an excursion to show just how brittle are the egos of their own protected bullies, unable to master their own defence.

The girls, proud bureaucratic bullies get their jollies degrading old men. We have under discussion here, covert shit who should be awaiting criminal trial for aggravated assault. Their dread of my innate goodness is a worry. The heavy-handed Cromwellians insist civil rights for aged Queensland public-housing tenants without fifth column protection are suspended. The State rejects the individual except for $1,000 a day mates and bludgers of Mike Kaiser level. Inflated doped-up egomaniacs without mental maturity, admonish an educated oldie for out-thinking the maladjusted cadre, Mother, who felt his psychiatric skill justified the appellation of psycho for asking him to tone down his mobile phone posturing.

The hate and self-satisfaction of Hillhouse and her agent Hidee, not yet sated apparently. Illegally entering my flat no longer on the crime statute, accepted as run of the mill stuff, as will become her waddling and heaving along a private veranda to steal my false cameras. These are bullying criminals doing bad things to good people and I won’t apologize to retributive, lazy thugs. I’ve admitted the difficulty in exposing a system established to discredit whistle-blowers, the blatant Illegal entry been going on indefinitely by the tone of things; witless and desperate no-hopers keen to stay in grace and favor of Station Road crooks. Mind games of a pathetically obese baby killer not much of an opponent for me, but offers a compensation of sorts for her unusual abnormality. Am I supposed to weep and gnash my teeth in despair? Can’t do, I’m afraid.

Cheap surveillance toys are just that. I placed two of this $20 Logitech stuff with visible warning notices in prominent places mainly because of its novelty value and had been toy-deprived lately. Hidee, with Hillhouse encouragement, peels off the product supplied signs to further denigrate my buggered P.R. image. I disturbed the status quo and the local cell cadres were aghast that spy devices were spun around to face the users. Labor Party spooks collect excellent quality shots via mobile phones know my toys are passe, but make clucking sounds to garner sympathy from the dummies. Amateurish and embarrassing field-workers like Woodward covertly put me in his phone frame without my ok, annoys me that I am considered too dumb to notice.

He and acquaintances have carte blanche access with supplied keys to enter any flat they choose, occupied or not. I was very quickly on to him and running to his Woodridge masters was his only option. Why his movements within or without his flat should interest me is beyond the pail. I need only glance out my study window if I became so fixated, his whereabouts within easily monitored by constant banging on bare floorboards. An obsession to observe such an unpalatable object is not on my idiosyncratic list and puts ‘watching grass grow’ in luxury class. My p.c. screen mimics H.C. staff in that it can carry out only one function at a time, and I prefer my document files. The web has a few interesting intruder detecting devices that on first glance warrants another look.

The illegal intrusion into private property by nanny-state agents with sophisticated equipment far more offensive than the five minute wonder of legal cams that had their desired result of spooking ham queen at his own game, but with the one huge difference; I used my mind, he had the OK to house-break at least twice proving once again that it’s all about who you know than what you know or more importantly, the depth of your turpitude. A moderate, repelled by private intrusion into an individual’s ‘castle,’ I hope my experiences are a one-off mistake by people who hate one particular ugly old bastard and is not a George Street directive. The p.c. is variable with tons of info, but useless when you don’t get prior advice on what’s been organized for one’s discomfort. An intruder detector with recorded time, probably first purchase a Commission tenant should install, not for fear of fellow tenants or strangers, but as evidence of illegal entry by the ruling party’s sheet sniffers.

And at this point, am obliged to take care as what follows will be used to demean and discredit the writer.

I doubt that the exotically named Jaala, a smug new to me Ayesha on the h.c. scene, will ever gain the integrity to sniff my poxy old arse, encouraged upwind stasi to use all imaginable legal odors to irritate me, might not always have Government protection for her threats and whatever other undisclosed deeds she is mixed-up with. She knows she is a crook and I know. Unprincipled spivs shoring-up a rotten system will be waiting a while to feed on perceived sexist, racist and whatever imagined slights I might make. What irritates me somewhat is that she and other Party hacks with no experience of life wish to impart their inexperience on me. Most of these kids are untrained and clumsy carrying out their ‘duties’ in an ad hoc manner, prompted by paranoid, vexatious seniors fearing a tenants up-rising. Transpose this selfish pack of average public servants to aged care and the prospect of a hose applied to a shitty back hole every few weeks would be rare and accidental.

The use of eviction tenants to shift disliked oldies baffles me that it’s happening in Queensland. Had a trained communicator explained to a prospective renter his loss of civil rights as a government tenant, and what lies in wait for a dissenter, my despair would be unknown. I would have gone elsewhere. Apart from the overt, in your face killings of his own people by Gaddafi’s hoodlums, Queensland’s biased Housing cretins do it the covert ‘ladies’ way of compulsory spent cigarette smoke and toxic ingestion. Usually practiced in foreign countries by developers to move-on tenants loathe to shift voluntarily. Shouldn’t possibly happen in western countries, one would think, let alone in a democratic Queensland run by the misnamed people’s party.

I care not a whit of Mother’s sexual orientation. His non-smoking status is what initially won me over and dulled my prescience. Rejected megalomaniacs get square in the most surprisingly, venomous and unmanly ways and my defenses were down, this old queen lording around the place, a la Noel Coward would be a change and with his obviously affected mien, that I felt the installment of a campy old queen would certainly be a change.

An established pen-man would find difficulty to convincingly relate the goings-on of Government agents to believability which gives me little hope. The manipulators discredit informants as conspiracy theory nutters and lock them up. Witness Julian Assange’s rape accusations. A Diminished I.Q. serial phone pest using Woodridge H.C. communication equipment has rendered my land-line phone obsolete, while the mobile amasses hundreds of dollars credit awaiting a genuine use. The greatest asset of email is that its ‘block’ box repels the dickheads. Tom Burns, a Labor ‘legend’ is remembered around Beaudesert for his, “Never forget you are always under watch,” reminding local developers of their vulnerability as the disenfranchised Nats became once again an emasculated shit party. Was a mistake to ignore this strong admonishment as political memories hang around and smell. The availability of surveillance toys nowadays would send him into paroxysms of uncontrolled joy. I erred a couple of years ago by posing for a matey photo-shoot at a Labor Party booth after making critical anti-Labor comments nearing an election.

Not unexpectedly, Housing stasi responded to a companion’s difficulty in achieving an illegal eviction. Hurst, soon to be exposed a fifth columnist, was chauffeured to his flat ‘inspection’ by the same fellow who, three years later, was to assist in Woodward’s arrival; Our (Hurst) first encounter an endurance test of Job-like proportion sorely tested my patience and I fled this unprincipled, bragging predator mid-sentence, putting me atop his hate-whisper list. Listening to State-side, on secondment ‘under-cover’ police work and sexual frequency and endurance wouldn’t work on a youth so why me? That action shattered his self-belief somewhat and he had to get-square.

Pseudo-puppeteer and eviction tenant believes he introduced new-world trinkets to the precinct, entered my flat on two occasions with supplied keys and by the grace and instructions of his superiors. The first time on January 14, can’t be supported in court, he was complicit in a house-break and on impulse, it is presumed, took the popular Ayn Rand philosophy, Atlas Shrugged simply to show that, under the Gestapo umbrella, he does whatever he wants. I had mentioned in an earlier post my youthful interest in her stuff, now looked upon as tosh in a conversation before his true intent was known. My likes and observations were always ‘stupid’ to this fellow whereupon a charitable chap would offer passing interest. He was to re-enter my flat to undo his former action and to reveal where he went wrong not good to disclose. Living beside an active, Murphy-protected thief doesn’t sit well with me, the crooks too well honed these days to leave paper trails.

Woodums and the rotund one are life’s weak rats who shore-up their egos by dobbing-in good people, would be rewarded with steel in the guts if carried out in a POW camp, for their unabashed affiliation with established thugs, attract only the easily persuaded and dumb, gentle people like the hapless Jock and the unaware Maureen. The offensive baby-eater Hidee, should be doing life for yet to be discovered remains of roasted babies, assist him in his role of eviction tenant. Mother and Pettums Hurst finally revealed their working relationship the other day with Hurst making a full-scale theater production of freeing a supposed sealed fly-door of Woodums. It is a ruse of established house-breakers and small-time crooks to imply another in the area is a common thief to distract attention from themselves.

I displease myself for being tardy, knowing what was in the wind and naughty for not acting to pre-empt the obvious, but there you go! Being Les Johns is a heavy and onerous load, and is rekindling a return to my original tagline: It Is Dangerous To Be Right When The Government Is Wrong. Obedience is the only option for weak, Government-backed toadies, like the baby-eating Hidee and fag-boy and a myriad of others, however capitulating to unprincipled maggots is not on my to do list. My disfavor with Housing cadres intensified after the prissy, empty-headed prig, Rebecca in company with another dunce, according to my diary, took kindergarten offence at my ver batim reporting of a QBuild painter-overseer thug who resented being asked to quieten his noisy staff telling me to, “Shut-up, you fucking poofter.” Been elsewhere mentioned where three months of intermittent TV couldn’t be fixed by an unqualified QBuild ‘mate’ after many call-outs and the matter was incorporated in a letter of complaint to the Minister.

What gets me with the likes of especially dispatched operator, Mental Evaluation Specialist and local cadre chief, Paul G. who is probably a nice chap away from poisonous company, subtly assessed me last April thinks his actions pass unnoticed, got his hackles up when I legally asked the stasi lieutenant his credentials. Hitler’s bitter daughters on Monday last stirred me. Never could overcome the stench of corruption and bureaucratic troublemakers skewing my judgement. The two little lasses, like G. are reluctant to give names on demand, a legal request, seek no doubt the adulation and backs-slaps of fellow ‘yes’ girls for putting an old bastard in his place. The real Australia is in strife with personal attrition riff-raff like them making decisions on a decent and blameless citizen. These little girls should be reminded more often that they are low-order public servants, and that their own superiority is delusional. A story about dictator’s who crown themselves lies elsewhere. What’s the odds on Paul’s imminent return to 220 Brisbane Street to test Terry O’Brien’s assertion that mental evaluation tests are a practical demonstration on the effect of electricity on dissidents.

Mother dropped boastful asides of his mission, knowing his little snippets mean nothing to the casual observer. A medical person agrees Qld. Housing’s inbuilt hate is like that of a tiger targeting an elk and can’t be dissuaded from its goading into a rage to justify Mental Evaluation apprehension. This environment is detrimental for a nanny-hating freethinker and I abhor being obliged to limp with the diseased. Palen Creek looks just the spot for navel-gazers where I understand, there is no requirement to ingest poison at the instance of the daughters of menace. In the meantime, I’ll get a bodgie crime sheet to facilitate a re-entry into public Housing and follow Hillhouse’s advice of fifth column membership and commence a stasi training course at once.

Love, Les.

Buchholz’s Libs give INITIAL $M3.5 to failing Kooralbyn private school.

February 13, 2016

When the Liberal Party, via Wright’s obese Federal Member Buhholz, presented wannabe Kooralbyn ‘International’ School with an initial three and a half million dollars recently, the generosity was more about adding some grunt to a dubious resort that’s been on the nose since year one when the crooked Bank of New South Wales subsidiary, Australian Guarantee Corp backed the venture.

Earlier in the night, I ran the two Beaudesert Times cutouts on Twitter with comment, but the text had been blurred. It seems Tweets with Liberal tags are too precious and are now censored.

Soon, we’ll see what happens on a blog site.



Stays a Lib

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