BUGGER BEAUEY, I’D RATHER BE CORRUPTED IN CAIRNS.


Within reach of my work station is a mislaid story on the unnecessary and unwanted relocation of Beaudesert’s public library. The reporting doesn’t need total recall; Highlighted is the magical Trio: $6 Million; Town centre; Borrowed. The scam artist(s) pulling this off would be blessed and protected by the George Street Looters Club. The money trail will make passing interest 30 years on, but nailing bureaucratic criminals yesterday would have been sweeter. While Cabinet thugs are flamboyantly criminal, it mightn’t always remain the same for their fat, cream-fingered Beaudesert buddies.

The present functional library is well sited only a block from the town centre, and to glance out at pleasant parkland enhances the feel of serenity, though I am now persona go away. Two years ago, with little to do after retiring, I finally became acquainted with the web and to have the newspapers of the world at my fingertips. Scarcely a day had passed in my adult life without buying a morning newspaper, but the frugal side of me kicked-in and I decided on Saturdays to check the library copies of the CM for cyber letters making it to hard copy.

An obese, debauched and self-obsessed Cromwellian look-alike commandeered the micro machine on Saturday mornings on which he did cemetery searches for CM fillers, I later learnt. We began guarded pleasantries and when I admitted a recent introduction to the web and my wonderment at the N.Y. Times using first-up stuff, he jumped in. “I’ve put together a few tales of my experiences, but my dyslexia is a problem and I’d like you to edit my stories. Would you mind?” I declined of course, but relented after repeated requests. reminding him of a less than copy-boy status. I down-loaded his three stories with author’s comments and was furious. This was one cheap con. artist trying to sell me his RC beliefs. Happy, golly gosh, Jesus nonsense told from a local perspective and praising the pale of the church. “It’s my job to get the numbers,” he declared, after a confrontation.

At about this time, Saturday’s Courier-Mail began disappearing and to add to my tarnishing, it was me who alerted staff. The day after the tête-à-tête with Cromwell, I was contemptibly told by a librarian that the constant disappearance of Saturday’s paper meant future perusal of the parchment is possible only with their permission and within their sight.

I would rather be done for lifting an ATM machine than wear the accusatory tittle-tattle of petty thief and the little girl’s reply from Council to my complaint was not satisfactory. This is how thwarted manipulators get square with those who prove more resilient than expected.

The image of this bloated and unlikable mick stared out of the local rag a few weeks later surrounded by a crew of chubby faced, illiterate bum-scratchers. Goodness gracious me! This prick had yet another hat; this one as back-room political intrigue merchant. The motley crew and the recruiter had had a party revamp, and masquerading as grown-ups, nominated a cretin to represent them in the approaching Queensland state elections. How apt, I and others reasoned.

Common-sense dictated the car analogy of decades ago of not fixing a thing if it isn’t rooted, but I’m afraid we have become as inured to Council stupidity as we have to their largesse with rate monies.

Observers like me don’t make pleasant appeals to the architects of planned crimes, therefore will relate as best I can with some educated speculation. Council Chambers the world over are training grounds for the bigger picture. The impatient and indiscreet don’t get to feel grubby George Street leather as retired councillor XXX well knows. Former buddy councillors and bureaucrats still in there honing-up. You moved too soon Pet, there will always be trusting, naïve souls to rip off, no necessity to get in and get out quick. Uncharacteristic wisdom will never consume the locals.

Any of you people remember that dead good guy Labor big-shot? Well, every dead bit of spew is a larrikin good fella. The CM and TV channels will confirm this. He couldn’t use a row-boat unless to get to a shoal. His other proud claim was to promise opponents that “You are being watched.” The thing is you see, that was not an idle boast. Labor today more than ever, relies upon its malevolent watchful sycophants. The Department For More Homelessness has a firm belief in the fifth column and Woodridge contacts.

The fore-mentioned Catholic numbers man copped that Burns warning and he in turn uses variances of it to intimidate the non-compliant. Somewhere there is a correlation to Rockhampton and Beaudesert in the construction and building game and who might have sway in a library construction short list.

I cross the road to criticise the local paper for increasing its cover price without adjusting the front. Looks like an unhappy workplace. Being run by school children who are more familiar with newspaper workings than its owner. The integrity of the previous editor seemed sorely tested. A good newsman gets the jack very quickly of owner interference, yet from such an environment stem gems like council staff gathering around a plate of meat pies to celebrate Christmas.

The coverage of a letter-box theft or its total annihilation is Letterman material with the lamenting being for the seventh place it scored in an esteemed, shire-wide competition.

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