Archive for the ‘Kooralbyn.’ Category

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.

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.

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.

Beaudesert and Street Drugs: Sorry Mummy, you’ve got to go.

March 29, 2016

BT 2/03/2016. p.10 (ice dealers)

Detective Ward came away from anti-terrorism school all learned-up,”…not all Muslims are terrorists and definitely, not all terrorists are Muslim.” Heady, really heady territory here and so erudite, warranting a major quote in the disappearing National/Liberal journal, Beaudesert Times.

Armed with such profound knowledge, Detective Ward is better equipped to go forth and enlighten his largely disadvantaged, catholic-educated, protectorate. Strains of South American, third world fear of Christ’s reprisal permeates and curtails mental development in this National Party enclave.

Despite the detectives cloak of anonymity, the peculiarly named, Scenic Rim, boasts a top terrorist chaser without a terrorist on a lacklustre kill sheet and nothing, not even a smouldering bomb under a Scenic Rim bed and no sovereign terrorists to bolster the image of those susceptible to false praise.

Darren appears to be up shit creek when it comes to slotting ice merchants. He won wide acclaim recently for lecturing petty shop-lifters on their naughty habits. Pushing party chemicals is hard to comprehend but initiative brings its own rewards to an activity embedded in Beaudesert culture.

Such trade is integral to the domestic economy and too many pinches would disturb the balance. No matter how well-meant anyone’s intentions, they could easily be compromised and negated when it comes to appeasing  three levels of National and Liberal party corruption.

Much reverence is afforded Barnaby Joyce clone, Buchholz. Those denied access to the back room are out of the lurks and perks loop and unlikely to praise he who, for one brief period in Camelot, had Abbott’s ear. Most huffing and puffing favoring the obese Member for the Larder comes from the failing LNP journal, Beaudesert Times.

Boom Times

One of the NLP cabal, Brent, appears to have been knocked off after local election dust settles. Likely winner Cockburn wins with 24% of the vote, which means three-quarters of the people’s wishes are ignored absolutely.

Perhaps the electorate should demand unfair legislation like that recently introduced by a rotten Canberra Liberal/National coalition, that the sitting mayor should have only one opponent to battle.

Rumoured a nice guy, Liberal State member, Jon Krause’s stench meter reminded him that guilt by association with this trio as too tangible to ignore.

Rejected by Turnbull, the obese Minister’s ego was salved to some degree by LNP mouthpiece, Beaudesert Times recently using his obscene bulk in six images on one page. When the local ‘Mr. Big’ social drug on-sellers are nailed, the pampered, frightened offal of  solicitors, accountants and real estate operators are among the principal players.

When youthful indiscretions, regarded by mummy and daddy as worthy leadership traits fade and become forgotten in cliquey little towns, Beaudesert’s “school tie” epicentre would be Wright Representative Buchholz’s office in William Street, conveniently adjacent sanctimonious self-servers the RSL, who persist in coddling druggie recidivist criminals forty-five years after the end of conflict.

Guilfoyle bust.Vindictive schemer, con-man, fraud.

“The people who are regarded as moral luminaries are those who forego ordinary pleasures themselves and find compensation in interfering with the pleasures of others.”

The RSL feels patriotic by cultivating the diseased minds of aging volunteer drivers to keep tabs on dissenting neighbours and flourishes still. The heritage of former Queensland Labor filth like Tom Burns and Schwarten lives on.

The tagline under this posts masthead has been changed, but was attributed to Jane Austen and goes,”Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.”

Across  from the RSL on a side street is the constabulary/ Magistrate’s Court precinct. Buchholz’s office is in Beaudesert Times former building, very, very expensively tarted-up by  committed LNP string-puller and ardent Catholic recruiter, McCabe. Within spitting distance, a couple of xxxx xxxxxx establishments, one struggling for survival in a former retail shop. “Manager resigns; another Kooralbyn..”

Cynthia, and I’ll swear that’s not her real name, left Foodworks to pursue a rewarding career with Whatsis real estate rentals four or so years ago. In the few weeks of our acquaintanceship, I found her to be a friendly, outgoing person. Asked of her welfare/progress a couple of years later, a mutual friend replied,”She’s having the time of her life hassling late paying renters.” She had found job satisfaction and her niche in the pecking order of life.



Tweeters; real estate employees would be unable to find grammatical errors in this advert.

People, relatives, whoever advanced start-up cash to real estate proprietors ought sit facing entrances, ready to hit the floor, given the Baden-Clay state of delusion that is endemic to self-deluded, grand-standing entrepreneurs.


Or copy Bill who, with spouse and a suppressed employee or two run a small, rural based business from a shed, between Beaudesert and Jimboomba. A chronic know-all/loudmouth, he had made a couple of N.Q. deep-sea charter outings and wanted his own boat.

His mother was dying but not fast enough for the budding Captain who brought her home where he and wife smoked furiously in her presence and she died choking with flailing little arms trying to deflect the poisonous toxins.

An unencumbered, double story, well sited Victoria Point brick home had potential; potential for the devious couple that is. Well, heaven was short-lived. Barnacle Bill had to pay tuition fees before he could hoist the skull and crossbones. But glory of glory, the loudmouth know-all had been well and truly scuppered. His mother’s house had become an irreparable rotting hole in the water and conniver Bill would have condemned the Labor Party the irony of it all.

Loudmouth Bill claimed the police often dropped in on their rounds for a chat when all sorts of subjects were covered. Much local goings-on was unintentionally sourced, he claimed, but the cops would be wary of blowhards surely, and this one in particular, with whom one would be cautious in discussing the chances of rain.


BT Sept 9,2015. Demon Phantom Terrorist chaser.

Detective Ward’s real job is that of Official Terrorist Chaser, or OTC, but if the sheets can’t give up skid marks or there’s no bombs under beds, a bit of ordinary, common crook catching is on the table and the puzzling disappearance of garden gnomes an ongoing dilemma.

It’s a ‘pushing shit uphill’ battle in Beaudesert with its long entrenched, three level Liberal/National Party rule whereby the police are obliged to become part of the problem. Beaudesert policing means catering to the most influential.

Rookie truck driver on his first solitary job phones boss in great panic, “I’ve hit a pig and it’s stuck in the tyre bay and I can’t move it for love or money,” he screamed.

“Slit open its guts, the released gases will relax the body and it’ll just drop out.” was the advice.

Minutes later the driver was on the line again,”What is it now,” boss demanded, “did you do what I told you”?

“Oh yair, yair, no problem there, it dropped out just like you said it would”

“Well what’s up now”?

“Now I can’t budge the bloody motor-cycle.”

Fair dinkum!

Protected: Kooralbyn Real Estate. Roy Wyatt’s “perspective.”

March 15, 2016

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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.

Protected: Manager resigns: Another Kooralbyn R/E crook enters the scene.

February 23, 2016

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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

The Big Pumpkin will rip you off, but you won’t find pests like this one.

January 27, 2016


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

The moment the words were uttered, the realization I had hexed myself was very strong; the chickens would soon come home to haunt me. Retribution came first from Woolworths Beaudesert, when their deceptive price marking had red grapes at $5.80 when real price was $7.98 doing me for two bucks. Boonah IG had reds at $2.99 but an excursion to that fair town wouldn’t have been practical without other tasks being undertaken. Over at Coles, Johanna uses similar tactics by placing expensive cuts of lamb near the cheaper off-cuts.

I had related my Big Pumpkin rip-off experiences to an acquaintance in which I stated how fixed price items are easy to keep track of at the checkout while loose items a greengrocers delight who bump the scale plate with the item and add a couple of bucks anyway. Beaudesert’s Big Pumpkin has two charming daughters well and truly versed in the art of deception with anecdotal goss has it that working for dad is mainly voluntary and real wages are pick-pocketed from careless customers. The street-smart young women are thus ready for the vagaries of life whatever opposition may face them.

BT 2/12/2015.

My appeal to this unpleasant creep that he quit pestering me have been futile. “I’m Father Christmas, the whole town loves me,” he replied to my request a few years ago that he desist. A professional ‘do-gooder’ he does the Rotary cause no good and pushes himself to an irritating, offensive degree.

“Having a bad day are we”? he’ll mutter as I pass without acknowledging him as I make my way to Aldi or Woolworths.

“Yer well, you’ll probably feel much better tomorrow.”

And so it goes until I’m out of hearing range.

The local weekly paper lauds him a hero so I must be out of touch. Shopping out of town has become a welcome distraction.

Meanwhile, back in Kooralbyn’s Countrytown Villas, a quasi Housing Commission precinct whose inhabitants, whether tenants or owners are, on the whole, more hateful than the average Australian, a foul procession of mental sickness has come and gone from the cytotoxic-friendly flat that attracts one-celled scunge, the latest object,Bill, moves outside at crow call where he lights up, then barfs uncontrollably and quite audibly, passionately expectorating pus into the foliage.

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