Gun Control
I’ve had cause recently to consider my position on gun control. My position is this:It doesn’t work.
Here in Vietnam, most households have weaponry of some description stashed away from the days of the American War. Gun crime is minimal to the point of being non-existent. In Switzerland military service is compulsory, with the service weapons being kept at home. Recreational gun ownership is encouraged and non-military weapons do not need to be registered*. In Brazil it takes a mob of paperwork and a minimum of thirty days to acquire a gun. Compare the murder rates.
Dead is dead – you don’t get any deader if you are shot than if you are stabbed. I think a lot of people sensationalise guns. I don’t know why, I’m not good at that sort of thing. Doubtless there are better educated persons than I out there who could reel off psychobabble that would maker sense to other psychobabblers, but I couldn’t be bothered.
I’m not a recreational shooter. I don’t hunt for sport and no rifle range target ever called me nigger. I do like guns for the craftsmanship and beauty of the desighn, but unless something needs to be dead, I’m not firing it. I’m not a big angler either, but if you want to do these things then by all means go right ahead.
*This is going to change next year.
Filed under: politics, Uncategorized | 7 Comments
Maranoaspeak
First posted on ATI October 8, 2004
“Owyergoin’ mate, orright?
‘Aven’t seen yer all week, where ya bin? Nevermind, ya can tell me later, it’s your shout… Gold thanks, love.
Remember last week I said we might be gunna get a bit ‘o rain? Whaddya mean, no…? We was sittin’ right here. I was on this side an’ you was on that side an’ ol’ Toby was yarnin’ to Ol’ Mate from out west who always smells like he don’t wipe ‘is bum properly. “Member? An’ Jacko was in the corner tryin’ to crack on to that Chinese sheila with all the zits an’ the harelip. You know the one… got a head on ‘er like forty mile ‘o bad road… yeah, that’s her. ‘E musta put the hard word on ‘er or gone the grope or somethin’ ‘coz she hauled off an’ clocked ‘im one. Then she starts jibber jawin’ at ‘im in Christ knows what language, wavin’ ‘er arms around an’ carryin’ on, ‘course, ‘coz she’s got that harelip she’s sprayin’ froth an’ spit all over ‘im like she was a horse that’s bin worked too ‘ard. Geez it was funny, we was cackin’ ourselves. ‘Course then she notices us laughin’, see, so she turns on us an’ starts jibberin’ away at us, too, which made us laugh even more. She saw the funny side after a while an’ just give us all a little smile an’ went back to talkin’ to Jacko.
What? ‘Ow would I know if it goes sideways, ask Jacko, ‘e ended up crackin’ on to ‘er eventually.Anyhow, it was just after that I sez to you, I sez “Reckon we might be gunna get a little bit ‘o rain” I sez, an’ you sez to me, you sez “Ooh…reckon?” you sez, an’ I sez to you, I sez “Yeah…reckon.” I sez an’ then we talked about the footy, ‘member?
‘Course you do… anyhow, we did get a bit ‘o rain… 85 points in ten minutes, geez it pissed down. I was just doin’ the last change on the irrigation on the old development when she ‘it. Almost dropped the ute into the supply channel, it was that slippery, bloody near loaded me strides too, I did. So we managed to get ‘er all shutdown an’ caught all the runoff, we ‘ad two pump goin’ for near two days just on ten minutes rain!
Trouble is but, she came down too ‘ard, see, an’ she’s sealed the top ‘o the beds over an’ the cotton’s ‘avin’ trouble pushin’ through it, see. She’s all shot, but she’s all dyin’ alone in the dark, like when Willow bought Buffy back from ‘eaven.
What? Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a turn, either, Willow too, if I had a few beers in me. Anyhow, looks like we might ‘ave to replant a few paddocks in the old development, course, I’ll have to run the show again, ‘coz I’m the only decent operator out there,…don’t pull faces like that at me. Whaddya mean shut the fuck up? Eh?… whereyagoin’? Eh, comeback….
Arsehole.
‘Owyergoin’ mate ‘orright? Where ya bin? ‘Aven’t seen you ‘ere in a while, nevermind, you can tell me later, it’s your shou….
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Australia, The Bush | Leave a Comment
Life in the Bush
First posted on Ati August 31, 2004
You know, there are pros and cons to living out here… One of the pros is that, if you have a civilised boss, you don’t have to go to work when it’s wet – sometimes. We had 84 points last night, so I don’t have to start until 10 a.m. and then it’s over to the boss’ place to have the BMP and quality assurance manuals for the feedlot explained to me.84 points ought to be enough to ensure the wheat and barley come to something, too. One of the cons is that the standard of single women can be variable. In fact one of them at my local pub is best described as a fat pig. At least 90kg’s and probably 100, wanders around naked and has been known to go around waking blokes up in the middle of the night. And only nine years old! No wonder urban people make jokes about us.One circumstance that can be either a pro- or a con- depending on your tastes is that we have very little exposure to the more commercial variety of popular culture. Until recently, the only way that I could keep up with such things was via the Satanic Verses of Australian popular culture. Now however, thanks(?) to the glory that is 2WEB, I have been exposed to many of the fine artistes that have been thrust into the public gaze via the grueling selection processes involved in talent shows such as Australian Idol and Popstars Live. So far there has been only three that have graced the airways whilst I have been listening, Shannon Noll, Cosima De Vito and Paulini . Thank God. Or Satan. Or The Sacred Chook. Whatever. I will deal with them in order;First young Shannon. Apart from a predilection for black t-shirts and bad hair, our Shannon would not seem to have much in common with Jon Bon Jovi. Don’t tell him that, though. His single, Learning To Ride, hee, reference to recent misfortune there, sounds like it got rejected for filler material for a Bon Jovi – B -Sides and Hidden Tracks album. Only the guitarist is even worse than Richie Sambora. Still, it isn’t too painful.
Next, the woman with the forehead, Cosima. I grew up in a farming area of Victoria that had a very large and proud Italian section of the community. I imagine most of them are right now in the process of changing their names from Gervasi and Carpenteri to Johnson and Carpenter. This woman has inflicted a truly abysmal noise on the world, without even having the Xtina style redeeming feature of having toned bits and pieces and prominently displaying them to the world. This song was one of the low points of a band that didn’t really hit the heights musically to start with, but this bitch has mutilated it, even going to the extent of having some tool who can’t play the guitar provide some generic – squeaky fucking acoustic back -up.
Last – and least- Paulini. Her single – Angel Eyes, should be retitled Pack – raped by Hell’s Angels because that is what it sounds like is happening to her. To say it is awful is to do severe injustice to awfulness; it is far, far worse than that. I have not had to suffer through seeing this evil noise performed on TV, but I can imagine it. She would be wearing one of those billowy halter tops designed to encourage pubescent boys that one of her breasts is going to escape any second now (they never do) and a pair of those pants that look like they’re held up by a clit ring. Said pants would be pulled so far up her that when she opens wide to hit the high* notes you would be able to read the dry-cleaning instructions. The performance is given emotion by pulling a face equivalent to that accompanying a fisting by a boilermaker who still has his welding gloves on. High* notes are indicated by an increase in intensity of facial expression, like the boilermaker has plugged the welder in and connected the earth clamp to one nipple and is trying to strike an arc on the other. The attendant involuntary mouth movements have an effect similar to watching a dubbed Japanese sci – fi movie. The knuckles on the hand holding the microphone are white, while the other hand is outstretched and pulled back in a rictus that supports the welder theory.
Or its very tasteful.
I doubt it, though.
*”High” is a relative term, you would need to use some fairly advanced measuring equipment to detect any actual change in tone.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Popular Culture, The Bush | Leave a Comment
Cunnamulla Fella
First posted on ATI August 22, 2004
So Friday means pub night around here, apparently, which means that Saturday morning I didn’t really feel like doing all that much. I did go to St. George and ordered a couple of toolboxes and bought food (eating is addictive). When I got back and unloaded all that stuff I thought I’ve never been to Cunnamulla. So I put a fresh set of undies in a tank-bag and fired up the bike.I didn’t realise that the road from Dirran to Bollon was like this for about forty or fifty k’s. It was getting late in the afternoon, too, so the sun was in my eyes (The photo was taken on the way home again.). Of course, before you get to that bit, you cross the mighty Culgoa River . By the time I got to Bollon and chased down some petrol (which involved going to three separate businesses, including following the advice on a sign which read “If you want fuel, go see Blondie at the café.”) it was nearly sundown, not the time to be riding another 175k’s in the land of the furry grasshopper and the bush-chook. Nevermind, it still only took about an hour and a half.Not a whole hell of a lot to write about Cunnamulla itself. I stayed at a pub, got drunk, had a brief but meaningful relationship with a person who had interconnecting parts and came home again. I only wanted to go there after seeing the doco about it on telly last year.For those of you who saw the doco in question – the town taxi has gone from being a 1974 Holden to a 1989ish Falcon and – for any Catholic priests that may be reading – no, I didn’t see either of the two girls who are suing the producer.Actually, I thought the town and the people in it got a pretty rough deal from that doco. It isn’t that it misrepresented anything, more so that it was sensationally edited. Nothing happened in the show that doesn’t happen in most outback towns (and suburbs – except the way the stray dogs are destroyed).Anyway, in the morning I went and had a look at the town water supply . This weir causes the river to back up about 10 k’s back through town.Downstream, the river looks like this, whereas upstream, it looks like this all the way back through town.
It only took me an hour to get back to Bollon from Cunnamulla (175k’s) not a very exciting road. And then the motocross track to Dirranbandi.
Here is some evidence that I do look after my baby.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Motorcycles, The Bush | Leave a Comment
Resist the Dominant Paradigm
First posted on ATI August 4, 2004
I don’t even know what that title means, but it sounds right. I heard some stand-up comedian say it on telly the other day.
You know what I hate? The Brisbane Broncos. Not because of their legion of arrogant, boorish barrackers. Not because those barrackers all turn up missing when the Broncos lose, surfacing only to mutter darkly about ‘southern conspiracies’. Not even because their sainted coach, Wayne Bennett, didn’t publicly support Superleague until they took the Origin job off him; despite being the driving force in the club behind the signing of most of the players.
Nope, none of that, although they’re all good reasons. The thing that really annoys me about the Broncos is the name. Hey fellas, this is Australia, we don’t have Broncos here. We have Brumbies, we have Buckjumpers, we even have scrubbers (not Pommy slapper ones either, although I s’pose you could find a few if you looked for them) but we don’t – or shouldn’t – have Broncos.
Same as those blokes from Townsville – Cowboys? – hello? In Australia, fellas, a cowboy is some old busted arse stockman who isn’t able to do the hard stuff any more and so is given an honourable retirement milking the house cow(s) and maybe doing a bit of gardening. Or at least he was, until everybody started rehearsing for when there is a single world culture and decided that we don’t have ‘stockmen’, ‘ringers’, etc., but have ‘cowboys’ instead.
What makes it even worse is the fact that I like the Cowboys. The team, not the name. I met a few of the original players when I was staying in Townsville in the nineties, all their supporters* had a great attitude and the atmosphere at Stockland stadium was addictive. Everything the Broncos aren’t.
What brought this rant on is the fact that one of the new blokes who started at my soon to be ex-workplace wears a Gill Bros. Rodeo hat. I met Brian Gill a few times in the eighties in Alice Springs. A real old time Aussie, Brian refused to call his traveling show a rodeo. It was a Buckjumping Show, same as it was when he started on the road with his parents in the twenties. I’m guessing Brian must be dead now, hence the hat.
Brian had lost one of his legs in a work accident many years before I met him (I don’t know if he checked down the back of the couch, that’s where everything goes when I lose it) and he had a fairly fancy plastic and steel set-up from his knee down. In the Territory dust gets everywhere. When dust enters a joint, the joint squeaks. Every time Brian shifted his weight it sounded like a mouse with a microphone. I was talking to Brian once, but couldn’t concentrate because of the squeaking. In the end I told him to “Hold that thought”, went and got a can of CRC, pulled his trouser leg up and soaked his knee. Didn’t make any difference, though.
*supporters are still visible when the team is losing, not so with Barrackers.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Australia, Sport | Leave a Comment
The Thoughts of Chairman Me
Firsted posted on ATI July 26, 2004
Oh, the working class
Can kiss my arse, ‘Cos I’ve got a bludger’s job at last
Making headlines today -John Howard got older, something happened in Iraq and – I got a new job! Yes folks, it’s true; in just a few days, or weeks or whatever notice I decide to give this mob, I’ll be out of here and off into the wild west to start another job. 20% pay rise (up to a level enjoyed by only the very best dumb shits in The City), more salubrious housing, four wheel drive for personal as well as work use and a benefit you just don’t get in a city job – fresh meat. Yes folks, as well as cotton we’ve (note the possessive) also got a feedlot, as well as a small flock of sheep kept solely for domestic consumption.
As a contrast in management styles – I’ve been working on this place for over two years and have never been to either the owners’ – or the foremans’- place socially. At the interview yesterday much emphasis was placed on the fact that it was “beers on Friday, usually here, but sometimes we go to the pub in town.” When you couple this with the fact that there is broadband access in the area, how could I refuse?
The new place has less than half of the area of cotton country this place has, but it’s well designed and looks to be a simple system to operate. Talking with the new boss, we agreed on most things to do with the actual farming of cotton, which will be a welcome change from here. You can’t argue with results and they’ve got the runs on the board here when it comes to crop yield, but gees they’ve got some laborious ways of going about things sometimes.
And in sporting news over the weekend, the hotly anticipated senior’s Rugby Union match between the Condamine Codgers and the Moree Broken Pizzles ended in a hard fought draw*, while Lance Armstrong rode his bicycle reasonably quickly for a while in one of them countries where they talk funny.
Before I go, I got an email today from the lovely Hooch, ( I assume that she’s lovely, she does read this stuff, after all) asking for an explanation of the “kick in the nuts” reference yesterday; soon, I promise, soon.
*Apparently all Senior’s matches finish in a draw.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Self-absorption | Leave a Comment
Die Skippy, Die
First posted on ATI July 25, 2004
So I went to see about the new job. It wasn’t a done deal like I thought it was – when the fella asked if I was interested, I didn’t realise that he was interviewing a few blokes. Oops. So anyway, the place is right next door to Cubbie Station (of Tony Eastley stupid story fame), right up the road from Hebel. Haven’t been to Hebel in about fifteen years or so. Today kiddies, I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me the other side of Hebel, in 1987. It was known as The Great Crash…
Back then, I was living in Lightning Ridge, opal mining and losing the arse out of my pants. In true opal miner tradition I was living in a tin shed with a dirt floor, no water, no electricity, no nothin’. Every now and then I would get a call for help from somebody who was having a spot of mechanical trouble or who just needed a hand. One of these calls came from a bloke who had a dirt-bike which was playing up on him. It was a minor problem and didn’t take long to repair, but while I was in the process of fixing it, another fella asked if I would give him a hand to muster some sheep.
Use of the dirt bike was approved, so I gave it a go. Big paddocks (5000 acres+ per paddock) + big mob of sheep = big fun. It only took a day to clear the paddock and put the mob two paddocks over so we had beers after. Riding home again late that night, at about 100kph on the Castlereagh Highway, I was hit by a kangaroo. Only a little one, the bugger jumped over the table drain straight into my front wheel, knocking it out from underneath me. Bear in mind I was wearing the approved sheep mustering wear: shorts, work shirt and boots. You will note that there is no helmet in that inventory. It took me years to replicate the sound my head made when it hit the bitumen, but in 1996, at the Calliope folk museum I managed it when I hit a blacksmith’s anvil with a block of red-gum.
I must have blacked out for a second as the next thing I can remember is laying face down, watching the trees slide up-wards, out of my vision. Didn’t take too long to work out that I was still sliding, feet first, down the road. I looked up and the bike was sliding as well, faster than I was. I raised myself up on my right arm and fended the bike off. I was nearly stopped by then anyway.
I got up and caught my breath, seeing which bits I could move and which bits were out of action. Surprisingly enough, I guess, everything seemed to do what I wanted it to. I had a look at Skippy; he wasn’t going to be rescuing Sonny any time soon. I had a look at the bike, it seemed to be in one piece, so I stood it up. That was a lot harder than it normally was. I sat on it and had a rest for a while. I had blood running down my face and dripping off my nose. Actually, dripping isn’t the right word; it was streaming off, not breaking up into drops before it hit the tank of the bike.
This was a bit disconcerting when it sank in through the fog. “I’d better get back to town.” I thought, so I gave the bike a kick. Big mistake. I’ve had my legs held by two blokes while a third one kicked me in the nuts (long story) and it didn’t hurt as bad as kicking that bike did. I dropped the bike again as I fell over and didn’t do much but whimper and feel sorry for myself for a while. When I was able, I stood up and hobbled around for a while; my leg was hurting like a bitch by then, similar quantities of blood spurting out of my knee as my scone. I went over for another look at Skippy, then kicked him a few times (left foot). He was already dead, but I felt a little better afterward.
I went back over to the bike, picked it up and had another rest on it. When I got my breath back, I had a go at roll-starting it, using the camber of the road as a slope. I tried about fifty-five thousand times – she no go. In the end I pushed the bike off the road and hid it behind some bushes and started to walk back to town. I was pretty tired by then, operating on auto-pilot. I kept dozing off as I was walking, whenever I woke up I had to open my eyes with my fingers as the blood started to dry over them. When I did get them open, each time I looked around to find myself off in the scrub on the right-hand side of the road. I really just wanted to lay down and go to sleep, but I was scared that if I did a) I wouldn’t wake up and b) nobody would ever find me. So I kept walking.
After a while I felt somebody putting me in their car. I don’t know if I was still walking by this stage or not. The local copper had picked me up, at first he assumed I was a drunk, until he got closer. He asked me where I was headed. I told him I was going back to the Ridge. “Not that way, you’re not. Another few hours and you could have made Goodooga, I s’pose.”
He thought it was funny, anyway. He took me back to the Bush Nursing Hospital for a bit of a check-up. There was no doctor resident in the Ridge in those days, so one of the nurses had a look at me. She wanted to get the helicopter to airlift me to Dubbo or Sydney, but there was some reason why that couldn’t happen, don’t have any idea what it is, though. By this stage I had a hangover that would kill a drover’s dog on top of the other, comparatively minor problems. They couldn’t give me any drugs or anything to drink because of my head injuries so I just had to put up with it. Eventually they got a conventional ambulance to take me to Walgett, where I was changed over to another ambulance – apparently I was injured severely enough to be airlifted, but not so severely that the ambulance was allowed to stray too far from home. Same again at Coonamble, except that I had whinged enough all the way from Walgett that they radioed ahead and arranged for me to have a cup of ice-cubes, which I enjoyed immensely. (Do you know hard it was to avoid saying “cool” then?)
I was starting to cramp up by then, too; I had gravel rash up both my arms and legs as well as the head injuries, so I was laying on my back with my arms and legs in the air like somebody doing a ‘dead-dog’ impression in an attempt to avoid touching anything.When we did get to Dubbo they took me to Intensive care where they cut my clothes off me, washed me down a bit, then shipped me off to X=ray. They took a couple of shots of my arms and legs ans a side shot of my head before they moved the machine to take a front on shot of my head. I could see my head in the reflection on the front of the machine. I shit myself. I couldn’t see my right eye as a big chunk of my forehead was hanging down over it. I could, however, see about six square inches of my skull.
To cut a long story short, I ended up with about forty stitches to my right ankle, about sixty to my right knee (plus some sort of tricko internal stitch job to the tendons or something. I was full of pethidine at the time and wasn’t paying much attention), about fifty stitches to my right elbow, a couple of broken fingers (one with the nail ripped off) and about a hundred and fifty stitches to my face.
You will note that I use the word ‘about’ quite frequently. That’s because the doctor who put them in didn’t keep a count and they left them in a day too long, plus I had been too active in the meantime which caused them to bleed – and scab over, so the nurses didn’t keep a count when they took them out either. It took them four hours in the morning to take them out of my leg and arm, plus about four hours in the afternoon to take them out of my face. Can’t complain about the quality of the sewing on my scone, though, I’m not much uglier than I was before. I’ve got a little bump on my brow, right between my eyes, which wasn’t there. Most people don’t notice any scarring which remains these days, unless I’ve been exerting myself on a hot day.
So now I don’t exert myself.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Motorcycles, Self-absorption | 1 Comment
Yay For Me
First posted on ATO July 23, 2004
I’m a pretty happy chappy right about now. I’ve got the weekend off for the first time since May. Astute observers will be aware that I had a week off at the start of June, but as this involved attending a residential skool for uni (paid for upfront, Libertarians) this doesn’t count, although sleeping in to 6 a.m. and knocking off at about 5p.m. nearly qualified it as a holiday.
I was planning on doing S.F.A. for the entire weekend, but apparently I am being head-hunted. A fella from further west rang up to offer me a job. Sounds like a pretty good deal, but it’s way out in the boonies – even boonier than here. So, on Sunday morning I’m going to go and case the joint and see what I think. In the meantime, it’s time to portabilise my life again. I don’t go much on possession. I’m no dirty pinko commie bastard or peace, love and land rights for gay whales Grass Roots reading alternative type, either; I just don’t seem to be the type to settle down and having to pack stuff up and unpack it shits me. Usually, I can be packed and gone within three hours of making the decision. Lately, however, I’ve acquired too much stuff. In cities or larger towns, what I would usually do is pack what I thought I needed (books, CD’s and photo’s, maybe clothes as well) and give the rest to Vinnies, with the proviso they pick it up.
I can’t do that now, but. Firstly, the nearest Vinnies or Salvos is 140k’s away and they just ain’t gonna come. Second, there isn’t anywhere else to replace the stuff I’d leave behind anywhere near where I’m probably going to go. However, it’s time to put the lifestyle on a diet. I think tomorrow that I’ll start at one end of the house and work my way to the other and get rid of anthing that I haven’t used in some yet-to-be-set arbitrary time-period. Don’t know what I’ll do with the cast-offs, load the trailer and give them to the salvos I guess.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, Self-absorption | Leave a Comment
Honest John
First posted on ATI July 21, 2004
So Donald McGauchie is the new chairman of Telstra. He’s a farmer. I don’t care. On the wireless today John Howard was asked if it was a political appointment. In keeping with ATI policy I haven’t bothered to get a transcript but I can remember the gist of it:
Interviewer: Was it a political appointment?JH: Of course not, he was appointed by the board.I: But you appointed the board, didn’t you?JH: No, the board is appointed by the shareholders.I: But, isn’t the government the majority shareholder?JH: Well…, yes, but…(spin, spin, spin.)I really don’t give a rat’s arse who’s the Telstra chairman and neither does anybody else I know. Telstra is going to be fully privatised and nobody is going to change that. I don’t think that it’s a very good idea, I don’t subscribe to the whole economics-is-God thing that seems to be the go these days. I think the point has got to be reached eventually when you have to stop and ask yourself why there needs to be a profit in every human interaction. (If anybody can explain this to me I’d be very interested in hearing from you, but don’t bother if you can’t do it without statistics) Offhand, I can’t think of a single instance where my quality of life has been improved by the privatisation of anything.But that’s by-the-by. What annoyed me was Mr. Howard reverting to lawyer-type by not answering the question in a straightforward manner. Of course it was a political appointment. So what? What’s the point of being in politics if you can’t make a political appointment? It’s not as if any other party is so pure that they would refuse to do the same thing. I really don’t like Mr. Howard, which may or may not colour my opnion of his actions. I do try to be objective, but any time something happens and there is room for doubt, I find myself on the opposition benches – and not very happy with the company I find there. The above interview goes a little way to showing why I distrust our P.M. Even if he isn’t being dishonest in the Webster’s sense of the word, he is being deceptive. Or attempting to.I firmly believe John Howard is a liar, for one reason; in 1996, prior to the Federal Election, somebody*, I think it was Kerry O’Brien (cue the cynical outbursts from the RWDB’s) was interviewing John about privatising Telstra and after a period of evasion which would make the above exchange look like “yes”, Mr. Howard said”If I am elected, my government, or any future government of which I am leader, will never,ever(his bad grammar, not mine)(this time) sell more than one third of Telstra.” On The Country Hour earlier this year, Mr Costello, our Treasurer was quoted as saying “Full privatisation of Telstra was always the plan, a partially privatised entity just doesn’t make sense.”One of them is a liar, I know who my money is on.*Research it yourself, I’m not your fucken slave.
Filed under: Arm The Insane, politics | Leave a Comment
Hi.
There is no dignified way of writing an initial post on any blog. By necessity they are introspective, arrogant and self-indulgent. Be that as it may, I’m going to write one anyway, because I also am introspective, arrogant and self indulgent.
I guess I should tell you a little bit about myself, this blog or why I decided to write it – but I’m not going to, except to say that I’m going to write about subjects which I also like to read about. I think that it would require some very generous judging to describe anything that you may happen to read here as well-informed, well written, fair or balanced. I am not the BBC, but then again I am not Indymedia or Anne Coulter, either.
I may write about politics, motorcycles, life in Vietnam or boobies; I just don’t know.
Posting will be sporadic at best, content quality will be poor, and I probably don’t like you anyway, so why not save yourself the bother and go to the pub?
Filed under: Self-absorption | 1 Comment
Recent Entries
Categories
- Arm The Insane (8)
- Australia (2)
- Motorcycles (2)
- politics (2)
- Popular Culture (1)
- Self-absorption (4)
- Sport (1)
- The Bush (3)
- Uncategorized (1)
