Death is a distant rumor to the young.

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When our father died, the usually taciturn older brother’s most profound statement was of how some indigenous races believed that sons now become men. I learned that this notion is shared, not only by primitive races, but by many contemporary sects and to me, implies the easy days are over, put aside childish thoughts for, by default, you’ve just become the bread winner.

Eight years ago the father of the writer who openly declared his hostility of oldies and other human junk in the Courier Mail under cutting was 78 years of age. Getting on, you could say, but hang on, it’s an expected fate, the terminal disease that just doesn’t happen unexpectedly, its sufferers would prefer do-gooders to fuck off and let us die sans God-botherers and various nannies.

You’ve all heard the one about old age creeping up on you, and the repellent effect such creatures have on younger, proper, intact humans. It’s a fair summation of facts, apart from its sufferers having to cop all sorts of insincere claptrap from almost all paid people in the news industry.


Syvret's column. August 8, 2006. Highlighted.

Courier Mail August 8, 2006. p21


The usually fickle thirtyish silly-filly dot com writers who crocodile tear away about the circumstances of an older persons lone death give us the most angst. Quite simply, their saccharine ‘reporting’ on an oldies seemingly gruesome death is guesswork. (I know how/what you’re going through etc etc) No you don’t you drongos, just run off and come back in twenty years or so if you’ve matured.

Dying people of all ages can shit, piss and bleed in bed at home, but independent minds prefer to get lost in a bush ‘walk’ and die (and shit and piss) at their own pace. So, do-gooders, run away and contemplate your own violin-accompanied finale.

There is some contention for me in the bereaved’s compulsion to share his grief with a part of the populace that so offended him. The fierce warrior-sportsman is far less confident and secure about himself than his offerings reveal, the budding sage stumped once more by emotional youth, the shell of a man awaits suitable company.

Syvret’s condemnation of the learned ancient elders, and other shopping hindrances wouldn’t have included his sire of course or his pregnant relatives, come to think of it. As Rupert Murdoch’s token Labor spokesperson, he was, nevertheless, impelled to do an anti-common people piece to prove a recent editorial advancement. The writer must not be allowed to forget his error of judgement.


Syvret's Obit. 27/12/2014.



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