AT ELECTION TIMES, BLIGH LAUDS OLDIES…Please instruct stasi cadres, that means ALL oldies at ALL times!

Her advisers advise well…The electorate’s memory dims after three weeks and a firework show seals a collective stupidity.

One recent Sunday, about February 20, a relatively quiet day went on into mid-afternoon. The inmate’s medication must have been closely adhered to and the continuing outlook was promising. Mother Woodford had done his habitual morning insect-door banging, the kitchen cupboard doors silent and his clicking on whatever stopped. The ham’s theatre-projected eloquence with a dickhead’s best mate also at peace, as was Hidee’s mobile, road fume tolerable; little traffic. It was a rare and old-fashioned Sunday arvo. It was unnaturally pleasant and couldn’t last and it didn’t!

At 2.45 PM the idyllic picture was shattered by the ride-on clanking down the mowing contractor’s loading tracks and continued until the mowing’s conclusion, an hour or so later. With his off-sider brandishing the whining whipper-snipper, a sudden influx of carbon monoxide and noise beset an area where once upon a time common-sense and manners would have reserved such activity to the other six days of the week. Young Housing Commission punks are amused and indifferent to the plight of septuagenarians who won’t lick-arse and from their discomfort these Murphy-led oafs get their jollies.

Eventually, multi-billion dollar State-financed structures will be inappropriately named after today’s mundane planners and wrongly revered as wunderkinds of their day and deserving of the empty courtesy honor.

Eight years ago when I made a dispirited arrival at this precinct, the pointy heads had been hard at work talking-up the place: A directive was issued insisting that residents refer to their little boxes as apartments. The decree was largely ignored of course by residents whose guts had yet to be emotionally beaten from them. Unlike today, some renters had retained a measure of self respect and spoke-up and the hell with the consequences. The back-room wackos were soon to study blue-prints of the 1950’s army-camp replica and considered modifying the co-joined flats into family units and install families in the apartments that no-one wanted.

The overt, in my face happenings, was a gentle introduction to another dimension known as Government stupidity, but the blind assumption that thinkers must be discredited by biased and nasty novices is a revelation that needs urgent resolution. Queensland Government inaction in keeping up with tenancy demand has seen self-important predator queue-jumpers leap to the top. I wonder how that happens and whose retirement fund benefits?

The twelve unit precinct has a three space car park, which I asked of a QBuild repair man the logic in parking some 150 metres or so from his work which, for him, required constant shuffling to and from his van in an everlasting quest for the right part. Acres of unfenced land surround this precinct, a la Greenbank army camp, gave him carte blanch access to drive to site. All tradespeople are told, he avowed, to use the three lot car-park in spite of inconvenience to tenants.

It is a fact of life that an heirachy of sorts exists in any tenement car park in any country, anywhere in the world and a sense of comfort should be encouraged rather than ridiculed. Hitler’s Station Road Frau Schikelgrubers know and play on this undoubted truth. A pack of them once arrived in two cars and took the only spots available when all those empty acres were available. The inconvenience to tenants amused these women who found their Peter’s Level in mundane, low qualified jobs where their conduct is simply a continuation of their intimidatory, school-bullying days.

The unfenced surrounds of the precinct are kept mown with acres of parking space adjacent the bus stop allowing commuters ease of parking should their choice be park and ride. Wongaburra visitors sometimes used the flat’s meagre space and were never too cut up when their gentle lapse was pointed out. Two oldies parked and caught the bus. I hand-printed and signed a polite notice explaining the set-up. And it was from my study window that I witnessed the local lore of the fifth column unfold.

Earned a call from Frau Kym fearing my sub-normal status will next have me slashing tyres. I watched the scenario unfold from my study window; the three major participants, Bruse, Dr. Paul and Larry Pettums clucking away like lay hens. Recorded this some time back, but in need of a rewrite. The noxious Kym featuring.

Even as I wrote this on an early autumn Sunday, Mother Woodford’s fly-door banging re-commenced in earnest. This old queen is not as academically endowed as he implied or computer literate for that matter. When I rued being talked into Windows 7 lamenting the loss of my beloved XP Pro, he was quick to state the obvious of my stupidity, but showed his by declaring I could have downloaded the system as a free plug-in.

Didn’t like my idea that a heavy tome he advocated is best absorbed at the start of adult-hood, not at life’s conclusion when its content is not worth a pinch of shit. Ann Rand’s philosophy and her epic works left him non-plussed. Swore he taught English, not at USA schools, me brothers and sisters, but at tertiary level.

Tend to think he is much like a less than scholarly adult nephew who recently obtained a law degree. On sussing-out each other one matey email day, literature talk had me confiding that the emotional baggage of Lisa of Lambeth and Of Human Bondage took decades to clear from an impressionable young system.

His learned advice was to feed a kinky pain fetish with a dose of Michel Foucault’s Discipline & Punishment, which incidentally I did look up and found morbidly fascinating. Without having the faintest idea of the writer’s work, to this young tyro chappie, a Maugham might well be an exclusive cigar. The unfortunate pro bonos who draw his representation need more so a pact with the devil.

Is a red still hiding under that bed?

Mother Dales is a brain-washed institionalised mind. He’ll do me for an avid Labor Party apparatchik; must obey all Government ordinances re buying second hand electric appliances etc, the Government has forbidden this and that. A truely artistic mind is free-spirited; his edified mind too aloof, akin to his dead mullet eyes. A dedicated cadre this one; an intimidating proletarian in charge of a small cell. A pretence of theatre troupes and puppetry attracts the gullible of any nation, used with great success to hoodwink S.E.Asian communities, and its application in Australia is an essential part of the dumbing-down of citizens and stealthily withdrawing a natural right to think for themselves.

A bit of info I’ve gleaned, and with educated guesswork is that he is an eviction ace behind schedule with a mark and under pressure to meet his contract. The url has one in six E. Germans used as spies, a target Bligh’s back-room Labor stasi must be close to overhauling. Be ever vigilant. Bye for now.
Lezzo With Love.


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