Monday, February 2, 2009

David Burchell, The Ruddster, Malcolm in the middle and the perils of Adelaide

An exceptionally quiet day on loon pond, with the only signs of restlessness a mild flap over at The Australian as David Burchell tries to grapple with ways to destroy the Ruddster in Too many authors get Rudd into a write mess.

You have to feel sorry for the loons as they work out that neo liberalism is dead and that, sadly too true, "the Howard government became the largest dispenser of purely passive welfare entitlements since Federation".

Indeedy. And how my heart reaches out for them when forced to write of "that suffocating burden of pious cant that so often deflects centre-leftists from the complicated (and often unwelcome) reality of the world around them".

Oh yes indeedy. Maybe that kind of cant is kissing cousin to the other kind - you know "that suffocating burden of pious cant that so often deflects centre-rightists from the complicated (and often unwelcome) reality of the world around them".

None of them seem to have noticed that the world is in an economic meltdown, spiralling out of control as a result of their worship of George Bush and the dumb greedy fucks that drove America and the rest of the world into the ground these eight past years. And that blaming the Clintons no longer cuts it. The worst result since the great depression.

That's how you end up with a Ruddster. That's how your team gets some time on the sidelines worrying that no one follows your plays anymore (go Steelers).

Oh the tragedy, to have to listen to the Ruddster, perhaps the dullest, most opaque, Christian, tedious, pious, bureaucratic and painful Rooster of them all. Well, do I care? There wasn't much name-calling as the Titanic went down (they even allowed the band to play on), and it's fun to see the cantists get excited about an article in The Monthly. Won't somebody spare a dime or a thought for Quadrant - has someone got a new Piltdown hoax, anything, to get the circulation back up to a thousand?

Over at The Sydney Morning Herald, things go from worse to bizarre. There's Paul Sheehan, intermittent loon, saying that the voters might well prefer Napoleon Rudd when the alternative is Malcolm Bonaparte. (Which chameleon do you prefer?)

Is this the first time that someone has noticed just how badly Malcolm Turnbull is doing, not just in the polls but in the general tedium surrounding a hot, muggy January? Turnbull once got by as a kind of dog whistling moderate with a past littered with fuck ups in republicanism and fixing up the flag, but ever since we heard that Chris Kenny, an Adelaide hack with right wing views on global warming and so on was appointed Malcolm's chief of staff, we've been thinking that there's been a conscious decision to steer the good ship Turnbull onto the reefs of right wing ratbaggery. 

Kenny was at one time an adviser to Alexander Downer, and if that doesn't give you a whiff of the way things work in Adelaide, you'll need to go live there for awhile. Second thoughts, life's way too short, as that humble rock star Ben Folds discovered when he married an Adelaide gal.

If you can stand the pain you can still find Kenny's scribbles in The Advertiser, once a proud broadsheet with North Terrace views but now turned into a tabloid of the most vulgar kind by its American owner (yep, taken over and wrecked, just as The News killed The News, the original Adelaide tabloid rag, when there was a buck to be made over sentiment).

And here's the funny thing. Not a word about Costello turning to god on Australia Day. Well that should give Malcolm some comfort. He can fuck up at his leisure, get shafted by Sheehan, ignored by the public, and generally disparaged without half the grief faced by that hang faced hound Brendan Nelson. And up against a tin rooster with feet of clay who fancies himself as a political theorist, and who sends the neo liberals into a frenzy, only to kill them, stupefy them, with boredom. Life can be cruel.

But it could be worse. You could be living in Adelaide. Take it away Ben:

On a plane
Far from the united states
of LA
Dropping in from outer space
Takes a day
Now I see the Bogans
At the motor race
Here you know the world could turn
Or crash and burn
And you would never know it
Going where the air is clear
There's better beer in Adelaide ...

(and so on down to)

And you know the earth could turn
Or crash and burn
And you would never now it.
Really got to make it to the finish line
Get the record done on time
Pack the bags
And catch a flight
And you can kiss my ass goodbye
On Adelaide.

(Once saw Ben play the Enmore. Gee he and his team were good, tight, rocking, energy plus, pounding away at the piano like it deserved to be nuked, and then brain snap - Ben went to Adelaide. Deary me, how even the righteous can take the wrong path).

So don't trust me, trust the newly reformed, turned wise by experience, Adelaide 'kiss my arse' departed, Paul Kelly and Ben Folds. 

They know how to rock in the suburbs, or is it just that they know that somebody, say Malcolm, is a brick sinking slowly. Trust the boys who know how to rock Malcolm, and keep Chris Kenny and his weird Adelaide ways at a safe distance. 


Anonymous said...

I really, really like your writing but please don't play the boring "boring Adelaide" card again - you should know that that's owned by the oh-so-trendy metropolists of Marvellous Melbourne. BTW, Ben Folds, when asked why he lived in l'il ol' Adelaide and not Sydney, replied that non-Australians he knew thought about so-far-away-from-where-it's-all-happening Sydney in the same way eastern states people think about Adelaide. I hope this helps you finish your prep schooling out of your catholic upbringing. As I said, I really, really like your writing. Apologies if this is shown a second time - am new to reply to blogs.

dorothy parker said...

HI Anon,

pleased you had fun with the scribbles, but mate, maate, maaate, as they used to say in Don Dunstan's day, I lived a long time in Adelaide. I have dim memories of the days when you had to drive around on a Sunday looking for the designated petrol station, and you had to ask the waiter at Paganas in Hindley street for a coca cola with a knowing wink if you wanted a rough red. Sad, all gone now.

Love the place, except for your owl loving premier and his policy of funding film festival films for an audience of a hundred, but ssshh, I'm under deep cover here in the east, and you have to pretend to hate boring old Adelaide just to survive (it's like being in Melbourne and not liking the real Fitzroy Lions. That's a scalping offense in Mario's in Brunswick street. Funny football freaks).

But here's the win win - if I keep writing this sort of gibberish, you don't get swamped by hysterical, neurotic, stressed out, refugee eastern staters, thereby keeping paradise as paradise (and no better wine exists in the entire world than comes from the Clare valley).

And over here, slowly, ever so slowly, I'm gaining the evidence to prove that Sydney is actually a figment of Alex Proyas's mind! (All I ever meet is road rage robots who just want to kill, kill, kill).

BTW, as you probably know, Ben spent most of his peripatetic childhood in North Carolina, so anywhere's likely somewhere for him.

And never no mind about replying to blogs. Loons like me deserve all the abuse we can get, and being masochists we love it.


(Maybe I should do boring old Perth and horrid humid Darwin next?)