Posts Tagged ‘Feel better Leave Beaudesert’

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

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Kooralbyn’s Phantom ‘Resort.’ An Arid Hole Built With Bullshit. A Beaudesert Times Collation.

November 27, 2014

Huang pays his workers in bar tabs.

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K Resort, get it right. 26/11/2014

All photos from Beaudesert Times

Much is on the nose with this joint. Deferred promises the rule. Big time crims?

Dry Summer Pic. 26/11/2014
This is the good season, Laze and Gen who are thinking how cute is Kooralbyn, reckon I just might buy out there. Heartbreak Valley awaits you.

T-A Advert
Beware you “guys” with a few dollars who just know they can become a bigshot and rub shoulders with Kooralbyn’s movers and shakers. Will never happen via this elephant.

 

McCabe. 26/11/2014
Don’t larf! This object plays Liberal Party politics in the Beaudesert centered Federal seat of Wright and as a sideline to controlling potential candidates is ever-ready to save gullible nose-pickers from the fires of hell on behalf of the Mick cause.

Boonah "Road"
Lazy, obese failed flower-growers want the people’s money, the Government that is, to spend $M600 on a road to Boonah. If a future Government falls for that one, Woolworths, Coles and Aldi for starters, will move into Boonah, displacing the dependable IGA shop whose prices are invariably under those of Beaudesert. In addition, the value of these bludger’s useless, failed businesses will multiply immeasurably. This must not happen!

Helping Woolworths Regain Profit Supremacy.

May 29, 2014

Guaranteed to get rid of ’em

Images of shop assistants at work.

Woolworths, Beaudesert.

 

The pictured fish fillet is second half of a recent purchase from Woolworths, Beaudesert. It's gone now, I ate it and suffered no after-effect. It's just that S.E. Asian and African fish are rumoured to be sourced from tainted, shitty creeks and that worries me. I've been stuck on farmed Tasmanian salmon for so long that despite its delicacy, a change was in order.

My bitch is that when I wanted change and took a punt on the imported stuff at something like $18, it wasn't until some days later when my shit-detector went off, the receipt showed I'd paid for Tasmanian salmon. The arch arse-holes Woolworths had done me for about $15.

Deli attendants all over the country have proved dozy bastards lately. One middle-age dear at this very same shop suggested I buy skin-on salmon because it is marginally cheaper than the skinned variety. Another time after waiting forlornly for a few minutes, I had to do cart-wheels to get their attention and break-up the gossiping trio and copped dark looks and short manners. So much for Woolworths, Beaudesert, but they in effect, are little different from their Coles sisters up the road.

There, I ascertained, a carton of NZ fillets contained five kilos, so reckoning five times $12 a kilo wasn't a mind-bending exercise the cost was immediately known. The woman extracted and weighed the contents, gave me a serious frown and declared in mock sympathy, " Gee, dear me, That comes to $60. Do you still want them"? Fuck-wits all.

 

Woolworths, Beau, 26/04/2014

Creating More Cunning, Thieving Bastards… Local Councils.

June 25, 2013

English: Monument at the birthplace of Steele Rudd

English: Monument at the birthplace of Steele Rudd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

OUR TOWN…Not a happy little town.

This is an old post from April 2011. Resurrected it when I saw a Turnbull line about referendum for recognition of Local Government (This means SFA to me.) would fail.

Would like to remind readers of what was probably the opening paragraph of Steele Rudd’s (Arthur Hoey Davis) 1908 satirical take on Queensland politics,“Dad In Politics.”

“Smith, the member for our district, died one day, and we forgot all about him the next. Not that a politician is ever remembered much after he dies, but Smith had been a blind, bigoted, old Tory, and was better dead. Politicians are mostly better dead, so far as other people and their country is concerned …”

Appreciation once again to the invaluable Wikipedia.

Remember that one about empty drums making the most noise? That’s how it is in any Main Street, Scrubtown. The less cerebral talking over the top of those who hesitate a few seconds to intelligently consider before making an impulsive retort. Walking away from and avoiding these anti-social boors gives them free rein to become the insufferable Cambell Newmans and the cautious mayor never secretive about the wider picture, ready to tilt at fuller tills. Newman doing a Charlie Sheen, a wind-bag pushing his amusement interest beyond the ho hum, his Peter’s Level exceeded.

Of mundane, domestic interest, my Saturday visits to the library involuntarily suspended after strong implications I risk tarnishing a blameless life by indulging in petty theft. Inquiring on consecutive Saturdays the absence of that days Curious Mail, the third Saturday was set upon and told that stolen chronicles a problem and I could have access only under supervision. Dumb Les again the schumck. I would rather be accused of ram-raiding an ATM machine.

For an anti-confrontational peace lover, I never can comprehend why is it so that the shortest of outings has me arriving home with another conundrum or two. Even a glance from my study window could invoke a committal hearing. I and one other sixtyish, tubby, curmudgeonly Cromwellian look-alike and imitator were the only users of the reading room first thing, he on the dot machine and the one most adept at sowing seeds in contrite, bucolic minds.

Unknown to me initially, I expressed wonderment at the ease an amateur’s letters being used by NY Times and Guardian even before I was conversant with email. Reminding him of my novice status, I reluctantly agreed to ‘edit’ his three emailed stories, every line a paean to the cause. His intro. notes a grammatical and structural mess, an obvious lure. I was livid and had it out with him at the library.

When one gets in bed with government, one must expect the diseases it spreads.

This bloke wears an array of hats, significantly that of founding member of a local revamped political party who put an eventual turncoat in Parliament, has now endorsed a mate to grace George Street Looter’s Club. It was a church cap that propelled his belief once too often and the rift. “It’s my job,” he excused his enthusiasm. He may well have used “God made me do it.” I’ve already speculated on yet another hat where a Council building contract to unnecessarily replace a popular faculty has probably been decided.

Newman stands condemned as far as I’m concerned, for reassuring the major State Bureaucratic criminals of their everlasting top-level omnipotence. Contra stitched deals between the new head-man and back-room bastards hiding behind the elected pretenders of democracy, whatever the individual’s take on that word. Whoever the ultimate power-brokers, the status quo won’t change and my naive mind suggests there is little to be gained by exchanging one lot of $1,000 a day rank thieves and bludgers with a similar crew.

I suppose that is a version of democracy at work, rotate the bandits to shush and appease ’em all. We could be reminded more often of their personal sacrifices to serve the community they love for a miserable $!,000 a day when their real worth in the real world outside George Street would get them much more than tea and biscuit money. Les.

Drop site:lesjohns.wordpress.com into your search bar for 60 more good reasons for dwelling in the desert.

OUT OF BEAUDESERT…The Road To Christmas Creek.

March 8, 2011

For Fifty Insights On Queensland Housing(site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/)

I whinge too much, I’m told. Attribute blame on the toxic effects of a growing familiarity with the real intent and workings of Government bodies and their employees; that self-promotion and aggrandizement is their raison d’etre, my laugh lines disappear as a result of the forced diet of suspicion and distrust. I offer an old post as an atonement of sorts:

Had a grand piece of inspiration a few weeks back when I enjoyed a pleasant autumn morning drive to Christmas Creek. You and me and the world know that name and its history, but few seem to have made the visit to Beaudesert’s slender claim to fame; the rescuer’s route to a plane crash that an intuitive chap named O’Reilly had a nagging feeling that the plane wreckage was somewhere up there. Well, he was spot-on as we know a few thousand times over.

Along the way some 17 or 18 k’s southwest of town on the right, was one of those old-fashioned farm produce signs selling Queensland Blue potkins at the farm-gate. I couldn’t resist that wording and using the honour box, bought a large pumpkin for $4. The landholder was a few hundred metres or so distant doing farm things, which made asking the derivation of the word rather awkward.

Entering the foot hills at tiny Christmas Creek settlement, there was a miniature, purpose-built western wagon containing lemmons for sale. Three or four kilometres on, over low single lane bridges was the end of the road. Lamington was on another route. Doing the exit circuit, a sign on the left sternly barred my entrance to private property, the track on the right belonged to the ghosts of those long-ago plane searchers and today’s keen hikers. I headed for home and at every bridge approach enjoyed spotting the trickling flow of freshly fallen water hurrying to meet its fate. It was grand being out in rural climes again but a letdown to see cold-hearted local government signs like refuse transfer station heralding the demise of scavengers running the local garbage tips and the wonderful grammatical gems that stemmed from their ‘don’t stuff with us’ signage.

Near Laravale on the way home, I went over a slight dip in the road and the courtesy sign told me I had just crossed Jim Brown Bridge. A bridge over nothing. The long drought’s intensity has lessened lately but dryness is the new norm and the necessity for such a construction over a bog or water-course would be hard to envisage today. At least the name of a long gone identity, who was probably a self-important councilor or a nouveau gentryman, lives on for local history’s sake. In keeping with the times, there would have been much oratory pomp and ceremony on Grand Opening day, the cutting of a ribbon and its gradual decline into insignificance and a trip to the dump one clean-out day. He and the memories of his contemporaries and their children with it.

The namesake was probably a most insistent voice in getting that bridge built over a wet weather impediment of 70 or 80 years ago and might even have been a Dad and Dave-like local councilor. This possibility set off a train of thought. A kilometre or so back toward Christmas Creek, was a side road named Rudd Lane. I mused how the recent P.M. would have been at first humored at the reminder of its existence, but now bored by its sheer retelling.

Of Australian literary interest though, is there an Arthur Hoey Davis connection? On Our Selection short stories were born in 1895 at Greenmount, south of Toowoomba, just over the way if one is a crow. I bet there’s a Snake Gully nearby and a neglected grave with a moldering Mabel resting up.

Nearly home in Beaudesert, I passed a two dollar shop where some years earlier, before the product became unusable, I would nip in to get their dreadful, but cheap product for use as nose tissues. The commodity wasn’t in the usual spot the last time I wanted it, and not prepared to go touring, I appealed to a nearby employee stacking shelves where was the lavatory paper now located. “It would be in stationary,” she solemnly declared. “You use lavatory paper in other regions,” I politely and modestly enlightened her. “Well if that’s what you want,” she admonished, “why didn’t you ask for toilet paper”? It is true, one is always learning. Lots of Love, Les.


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