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For Americans

Just in case, you know, there is an American citizen somewhere in the world who has managed not yet to see this ad. One way or another it is what most Australians think and fear for the USA and ourselves

Lynton Crosby Outed as Dutton’s Muse (probably)

Sir Roger has it on authority from multiple sources that the “Dead Cat on the Table” ploy most recently fed to and trotted out by Peter Dutton is the signature work of one Lynton Crosby. Goebbels was also a master propagandist. What? Sir Roger is in no way suggesting that Crosby is comparable to or correlated with the Nazi regime. On the contrary, just as Barnie did with the boats and the beef, Sir Roger just mentioned both things side by side. How dare you suggest that Barnie was throwing a long-dead and rancid dead cat on the table, or that Lynton Crosby is just as putrid!

ICYMI, what is a “dead cat”? According to The Spectator

When,  Crosby says,  you are in a hole or faced with the tricky task of diverting attention away from some unwanted piece of news you should throw a dead cat onto the table. Hey presto! No-one is talking about the bad news; everyone is talking about the dead cat on the table.

Lynton Crosby – sorry, SIR Lynton Crosby (knighted for confusing the British electorate into voting for the wrong set of poncing fools last year) –  it is said SIR Lynton Crosby has, as his favourite method of tricking the voting public into voting for the wrong team, the above-mentioned Dead Cat ploy. The function of this skullduggery is to cause everyone – including especially the media – to talk about the one thing the party has going for it. The media of course lap it up and blow it up and smear it over everything they own because there are now too few journalists, they are overworked and overwhelmed and they are desperate for an easy story (“What are they saying on twitter?”). And so it becomes the big story of the day, or the week, it reinforces the one issue that does well in the party’s focus groups and turns the media gaze away from issues where the other side polls better.

It is also used to divert attention (and conversation) away from damaging embarrassments.

And what would they not want people talking about? Well, almost everything. The budget, last year’s budget, the one before that. Malcolm Mansion’s incompetent mismanagement of the NBN, health, education, pensions, unemployment, the economy, growth, unemployment. The Innovative Society needed to be hidden after the NBN raid because that just reinforces that if Malcolm if so incompetent that he can’t make the cheap and nasty version cost heaps less than the expensive shiny one then he’s got no chance of pulling off an innovation of any kind.  Then there’s

  • superannuation,
  • tax cuts (except for the rich)
  • tax increases,
  • the climate,
  • the environment,
  • fracking,
  • burning rivers,
  • subsidies to polluters,
  • orphan industries,
  • new coal mines,
  • the Great Barrier Reef and coral bleaching,
  • to name just a few.

The list of topics they’d rather we didn’t have a close look at includes just about everything – oh, except the Tony Abbott obsession with keeping the brown-skinned people away from our pristine White Australia. Lynty-baby certainly has his work cut out.

Anyway, Sir Roger hopes that Sir Crosby will be as effective in this election as he was in the recent Canadian election, where his client collapsed in a landslide.

The problem is that the Dead Cat ploy is not a surprise any more. The media are onto it like a sharak smelling blood and are beginning to cover the campaigner and not the issues. More and more people are talking about the sliminess of the liberal party’s campaign strategy and campaign strategist and despising them for trying to play them for fools, or more importantly, trusting them even less than before if that is possible. The propagandist is in the spotlight when he’s supposed to be invisible and the valiant hero of the East, or at least the Eastern Suburbs, is supposed to be bathed in the limelight.




Soul Murder

“Soul murder” — not a phrase one comes across every day.


Oliver Sacks and "soul murder"

By Luigi Novi / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 3.0,

Sir Roger was listening to the ABC Science Show today. It was Robyn Williams’ homage to Oliver Sacks (Awakenings, The Man Who Thought His Wife Was a Hat, Seeing Voices, Uncle Tungsten etc. etc. etc.) and was jolly-well enjoying it immensely. The sun was shining into the conservatory, the hounds had been walked, the ice was clinking cheerfully in the Glenfiddich, all was right with the world … when suddenly his Lordship was shaken by these words:

Listen to the complete ABC Science Show feature 

Sacks recalled his early (wartime) childhood experience after being evacuated to the country from London during the blitz.

He called it “soul murder”.

Sir Roger’s glass slid from his hand and he watched it slowly fall, like an overcranked silent film, to be dashed on the Italian tiles of the conservatory floor.

The idea of murdering a child’s soul – what would that mean? To thrust a knife into the heart of the spirit of playfulness and enthusiasm and joy, to cut off the hands that grasp so eagerly for learning, to amputate the arms that long for love, to sever the legs that long to walk tall, to blind the imagination and every dream, and to gut the body of hope. To replace it all with what — an interminable desert of dust and ash and despair, and the nightmare of blank nothingness.

Repairing to the Library Sir Roger blew the dust off an article about “soul murder” by Leonard Shengold who said:

“Soul murder is the term I have used for the apparently willful abuse and neglect of children by adults that are of sufficient intensity and frequency to be traumatic. By that I mean that the children’s subsequent emotional development has been profoundly and predominantly negatively affected.”

The mind of the master of Migently Estate flashed into flame, like ancient nitrocellulose film in a poorly maintained projector on a hot day, with the thought that the treatment of asylum seekers by successive Australian governments, and particularly their Prime Ministers and Ministers, their bureaucracies and bureaucrats, and their profit-driven corporate contractors, matches the description of “soul murder”. Especially – though not only – when it is perpetrated against children for whom as a society we are collectively responsible. And more damningly, as a Culture – which we so pridefully contrast with others we call barbaric, backward, primitive, knuckle-dragging, inhumane –  we are deeply shamed.

And so Sir Roger slumped into the rattan and pondered to whom, on Shengold’s definition, the term “soul murderer” might be applied. Who had publicly and wilfully perpetrated, advertised and perhaps boasted of abuse against children who are, after all, in the broad sense in Australia’s care (you know, to discourage people from getting on boats and to break the people smugglers’ “business model”)?

And he mused, “those would include Dutton, Morrison, Turnbull, Abbott, Rudd, Gillard, Howard, Keating, Evans, Bowen, Ruddock, Vanstone. Who have I missed? All those who voted in parliament for them and their policies. And all those who are complicit because they voted to put those people in parliament”.

And he shouted to the cat, “You can say ‘not in my name‘ as much and as loudly as you bloody well like, but actually it is in your name and you are not absolved unless you do something about it. It is in your name if you vote for either of the major parties party.” 

“And that’s all right, puss,” he said quietly, “as long as you are clear with yourself that that is who you are: someone who is okay with the murder of children’s souls.” 


A Flock of Pigeons on Ice


Listen to Sir Roger’s podcast of this story!
[Music:”Relent” by Kevin MacLeod at (Creative Commons licence)]

or listen on You-Beaut:

Years ago in 2009 Sir Roger spake unto his readers about the standard, weaselly political responses to catastrophes. Sadly he has had too many opportunities to review his advice and now, once again, in the aftermath of yet another foul and grotesque public demonstration in Paris of the moral superiority and loving-kindness of a middle-eastern god.

Back in 2009 Sir Roger said:

At a time like this hearts, thoughts, prayers, condolences and sympathies are thick in the air like a flock of pigeons on crystal meth.

Our question is, PMs and Presidents not only send, convey and extend thoughts, prayers, sympathies and condolences to us – and their hearts autonomously “go out” to us –  but they also inform us that they have already arrived – “our thoughts and prayers are with you”; so how exactly do they get here? Wifi? How many megabytes will I need, because there seem to be a lot of thoughts and prayers on their way? How can we tell they have arrived? Could they be behind the dresser? Under a cushion on the couch? On top of the cupboard? What do they look like? Do we have to unwrap them? How big are they – will they all fit in my sock drawer? If they are “deepest” sympathies, do I need a larger drawer? When someone’s “heart goes out” to us, do we have to have a special jar to keep it in? Will I need tubes and pumps and plumbing? And how will you get on without it? What actually are these things? What do they mean? What actual value are they to us? How much did they cost?

The answer to the last four questions are: nothing, nothing, fuckall and fucking nothing. Talk is cheap and mealy-mouthed words and pompous forms of words are empty and meaningless. So, for a politician, the price is right.

Watch for the first politician, French or American probably, to paint with chocolate-coated bullshit the deaths in Paris as “sacrifices”, as people who “sacrificed their lives for freedom”. And then watch them try to stitch the unlucky dead into the false myths of the faded, fraying, fabric of a national flag1.

Now Sir Roger is not actually obtuse. He does understand the desire to say something.  A politician’s main job is to say things (although usually that is “give me money”). He does understand. Yes, we know it’s all metaphorical language, but it’s also an endorsement and perpetuation of bullshit magical thinking. What a politician says in these times ought for goodness’ sake to be meaningful and useful. And should not be lies. Prayers don’t actually work. Telepathy and Telekinesis are  not real. Condolences need to actually have the power to console. Of course you can tell the truth and say you are shocked, upset and angry and that you have empathy for other people’s suffering. Good for you. And I feel your pain and my heart goes out to you. The people who are hurting, however, can’t use your pain. Also, don’t address your remarks to dead people. One of the symptoms of being dead is that you can’t hear stuff, not even American Presidents’ gold-plated, ringing oratory.

So say it is a bad thing. Then say exactly how you will help relieve the pain, as much as it might be relieved, and say how you will try to stop it happening again, and how you are going to deal with the bastards who did this and the other bastards who still want to do it in the future.

By the way, our own Malcolm Turncoat today said today, just after he opened his doublet and released his heart to fly its way from Berlin to Paris, that there is

“a global struggle for freedom against those who seek to suppress it and seek to assert some form of religious tyranny. A threat in the name of God, that is truthfully the work of the devil.”

Now be careful, Malcolm. You may be invalidating the basis of western political culture. After all, the christians, whose hodgepodge of religious beliefs, schisms and secular values made possible and now underpin both liberal democracy and perpetual ideological friction, spent many hundreds of years brutally forcing others to follow their beliefs, destroying people and cultures, cities and countries and who would not submit, through crusades, wars, terror, torture and inquisitions, and social degradation. Threats in the name of god. Sir Roger would agree with him if he is really saying that history of Chrisianity is truthfully the work of the devil. Except that there is no such thing as a devil of course. Or a god.

Sir Roger’s heart goes out to … you know …


1 After all, just 54 years ago in Paris, police massacred 200 demonstrating Algerians or drowned them in the Seine. So much for the myth of liberte, egalite, fraternite. So much for Malcom Turnbull’s ‘France: the home of Freedom’ myth. But then, what does that matter when a great myth is hungry.

These men just legalised child abuse


These men just legalised child abuse.












Scott Morrison’s Ghastly Uninvited Visitation



Sir Roger is having a short break from the hard work of watching his serfs tiling the fields, shaving the sheep and milking the bulls or whatever they do. He has tried to fit in some self-improving rest and recreation activities (see photograph above) and has had some time to read. He read this by George Steiner (1967):

We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day’s work at Auschwitz in the morning.

And Sir Roger had a sudden moment of déjà vu.  A ghastly vision of Scott Morrison swirled ethereally into view – happily going to church to improve the odds (=0) of his personal salvation; on his knees humbly praying forgiveness from someone he couldn’t possibly (and obviously doesn’t) comprehend; jovially supporting his football team while children in his care cut themselves from despair; and then back to the serious business of bastardry, sitting behind the big desk of his own Auschwitz coldly making the lives of innocent others a misery. For the Party. (Oh, and his career.)




Sprezzatura – the New Cool

Sir Roger has been somewhat troubled of late that persons of his (ahem) “vintage” have become quite out of step with the young’uns these days.

Not in terms of worldliness, because after all his generation have seen a lot more world (times Time), with all its available varieties of grief and joy, of wonder and horror, of peoples and places, than the young’uns, although they apparently believe they invented the world in 7 days (more or less) and are piqued that the old cheeses don’t give them credit for their creativity (as we also complained, to be honest). “See that Pops? That’s a car! I invented that. See that? That’s a smart phone! See that? That’s the internet! I had the original idea and created them with my bare hands out  of thin air. No-one ever did anything before me. No, don’t bother, you wouldn’t understand with your tired old alzheimery brain lol. (I also invented music and dancing btw.)”

No, the trouble is in terms of personal relationships.



Way back in 1528 Baldassare Castiglione published Il Libro del Cortegiano, The Book of the Courtier, and brought to the world the term Sprezzatura.

Sprezzatura is a “rehearsed spontaneity, studied carelessness, and well-practiced naturalness” intended to  “avoid affectation in every way possible . . . and to practice in all things a certain  nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.”

It is the ability of the courtier to display “an easy facility in accomplishing difficult actions which hides the conscious effort that went into them”. 

Sprezzatura has also been described “as a form of defensive irony: the ability to disguise what one really desires, feels, thinks, and means or intends behind a mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance”.

Oxford English Dictionary defines it as “studied carelessness“.

So back over here on this side, Sir Roger is cogitating on his apprehension that sprezzatura translates very roughly into what the young’uns call being “cool” (as if they invented that word as well), or “chill”. What it looks like is that the kids (with whom, of course, one is quite embarrassingly down) find it very uncool, not at all sprezzatura, to express an emotion or to actually give the faintest appearance of having actually noticed anything at all.

Now, there are two important exceptions to this.

One is permitted to (or one does anyway) express the emotion of tanterum provoked by an unfairness or frustration that one perceives is directed at one’s spoilt-child-self, usually by authority figures (or parents – not necessarily the same thing), and to use a full range of expletives and explosive actions to describe these offenders-against-one’s-divinely-bestowed royality.

The other exception is that while it is uncool to notice almost everything external to oneself, it is almost compulsory to notice oneself constantly, and to take photographs of these earth-shattering moments and share them with an adoring public – a public which, ironically(?), is spending a lot of – studiously disguised – energy and effort not noticing anythingoranyone but itselfie. (Some fringe dwellers do notice the food they are eating and take a cornucopian photographic record of their every repast to share with, what they imagine is, a drooling, breathlessly waiting, deeply impressed world that is starving for the latest news of their banquetations. However, this behaviour is deprecated and thought to be uncool by the Sprezzaturati.

Lol! All this light-hearted fun, eh? lmao, right?

Well, it does have its sad side.

Alphabetical Gens of every tribe appear to have no authentic, meaningful time for the human reality of actual other people. Perhaps they are not being cool at all but are merely, and actually, unaware of others. Or they are simply too busily absorbed in and fascinated by broadcasting the minutiae of what in their fantasy are their own extraordinarily interesting lives as social media celebrities, and having what they call “fun”.

This “fun” involves superficial and content-free banter, often electronically, with what they call their “friends” (lol), competitively drinking buckets of poisonous liquids before staggering out from their squat/ share-house/ apartment/ parents’ place on a recreational excursion where the agenda is to drink a mixture of as much intoxicating beverage, of whatever malt, as possible, perhaps augmented by a range of cutely acronymous drugs of uncertain pedigree and even more dodgy consequence. The goal, apparently, is to cause a swoon, to crumple at the knees, to fall on the floor, or even more hilariously in the gutter, to vomit, and magically to awake the next day and find oneself in bed with a bad headache, a bucketful of remorse and probably an ugly stranger, wondering what happened after the first drink at 3 o’clock in the afternoon the day before.

So there is no difference, even in detail, between this fun and the way fun was pursued when Sir Roger himself was a young’un. In fact in most respects Sir Roger’s generation – the BoomBoxers – who also thought they invented everything and understood everything and were instant experts and were immortal, and were shallow, too, were no different from today’s young’uns.        

But my dears (says Sir Roger) there is a new shallowness, an existential hollowness, a bottomless pit of empty dread in the New Cool, the Sprezzatura nova, and it is either actual indifference to the multi-dimensional reality of other minds; a terror of touching the wobbly-jobbly, smelly-messy emotional innards of others (or what we used to call “intimacy”) because either they fear catching something from it, or they have no idea how to deal with it; or a fear of being thought uncool rather than a desire to be cool – that is, a dread not so much to connect as to be seen to. You can’t touch them. Your fingers slide off them like burnt bacon off a teflon frypan. And yet as humans our greatest need is to connect.

“She might,” said E M Forster, “yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going…Only connect! Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.” 


And by the way, since Sir Roger has mentioned Forster:

This woman was a goddess to the end…This episode which was so tragic for him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened.
“Thank you,” was all that he permitted himself. “Thank you for everything.”

Sir Roger wishes to say to his particular goddess, Thank you. Thank you for everything. And by the way, and I know there’s no use in telling you but, I am your worshipper too…


Special Intel Ops

Special Intel Ops, Sir Roger is required to inform his readers, may actually AT THIS VERY MOMENT be taking place, or be in preparation, or at the very least in prospect. (Clutches pearls.)

It has come to Sir Roger’s attention, or may have come to Sir Roger’s attention, or may in the future come to Sir Roger’s attention, that spooky types with false beards stuck on, dark glasses pulled on, black hats pulled down and coat collars pulled up, are probably at this very moment – or perhaps not – engaged in Special Intelligence Operations, looking for, and even looking at, evidence, or what may or may not turn out to be evidence, of fundamentalist jihadist islamist/ christian/ buddhist/ hinduist/ atheist thoughts and feelings that, if turned into actions, may disturb the status quo and the little old lady next door, who has always voted Liberal and will again if she lives that long without a bomb blowing up her tiny flat, or if she doesn’t choke on her cornflakes or swallow her dentures and if she’s not too terrified to venture out of the only safe place she knows. WE MUST PROTECT HER in her fantastic delusions so that she can once again vote for Tony’s Tamer Straya (waves colonial-era jingo flag [made in China]) so that the jesuit interloper and his fundamentalist christian fellow travellers might win the most unlikely election victory in living memory – even if that is at the expense of the freedoms of the rest of us.

It is believed the Specious Intel Ops in question may be on foot in an Australian suburb which has a high (or cunningly low) concentration of persons of a specific cultural-religious-ethnic heritage. The Special Intel Ops may currently be in the final planning stages of a secret pre-dawn raid which will be unknown to only a few besides selected members of the media. Residents of the targeted street will need to be patient for as long as the television news vans need to remain in the area to interview the tumescent penises of the Attorney General, the Minister for Death Stares and the Minister for Immigration-&-Everything-Else-He-Can-Lay-His-Hands-On (and his 90 media distorters).

You have been warned. The Night of the Long Penises is coming! Welcome to the new world of Special Intel Ops.

Men and Whitlam of Australia



Men and Whitlam of Australia…

“The decision we will make on December 2 is a choice between the past and the future, between the habits and fears of the past and the demands and opportunities of the future. There are moments in history when the whole fate and future of nations can be decided by a single decision. For Australia, this is such a time.”

We will abolish conscription forthwith. We will abolish fees at universities and colleges of advanced education.”

 “We want to give a new life and a new meaning in this new nation to the touchstone of modern democracy — to liberty, equality, fraternity.”

Yes, sadly it’s time. Finally.

It’s time to bid farewell to a fading myth of the socialist left that no-one under 40 has ever heard of: old plinth-bound, red-taped Goth the Whittler whose soul, vision and legacy are chained and frozen in stone within the walls of the Wiblam Edifice, protected by the Hooded Brethren of the Whitlam Industry (UWS) Inc.

His name was “Goth”, a legal personage, a trademark, now hijacked by a “controlled entity” bearing the name of the once terrifying but now sadly faded and hardly remembered – and largely unknown amongst those under 40 – mythical hero of long ago.

His time, comrade, was a time of social earthquake, of cultural lightning and political tempest whose like we shall not see again.

Heralded by fiery comets, bare-chested and thumping did he unchain the creativity of the nation’s sleeping beast.

With the life-giving elixir of  freedom did he quench the crumbling leaves of its dreams.

And “Liberté, Egalité! Fraternité!” was his (okay, pretentious) battle cry. To those who awoke it was as if St Crispin himself were there amongst them.

And the beast was roused! It shook off the dust of the dead, Mingisian years and romped and played for joy.

But the beast grew and grew and its liberator, though mighty, was no match for the beast which became a monster and destroyed him.

The largest stars shine brightest and briefest and explode with shocking spectacle. And are gone. Their glowing supernova remnants linger for a time but fade and are forgotten.

As Oscar Wilde almost wrote of the Star Child,

“Yet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the fire of his testing, for after the space of three years he was destroyed. And those who came after him ruled evilly.”

And they still do and today they promise to rule more evilly than ever before. 

If there is one thing Sir Roger despises above other things it is self-important posturing. If there is one group of people he despises it is people who are so far up themselves they can look themselves in their own eye sockets and who then insist that everyone else take them seriously. Such are the rulers of our day, the Mad Rabbit, Jolly Joe Porker, the Cormorant and the Death Stare.

Yet still a few remember the torpid days of beige oppression and monochrome social control during the reign of Ming the dreadful and his pathetic successors, and these few who remember know and cherish the bright and cheerful contrast of the Sir Gough Years. Sir Roger since 1972 has found in every new day a new excitement, a new challenge, a creative opportunity to influence his world for the better and to make it a better, more loving and more humane place – much the way that Gough inspired us all to do and be. And everyone has the constitutional right, the moral duty and the precious freedom to do so.


So now to Gruff the farter, Gog the sun and Goth the gruff old goat. Gough be with you. 

But wait! This just in:

TONY BURKE: The late Cardinal Clancy used to often relate about his conversation with Gough when Gough had inquired as to whether or not St Mary’s Cathedral might be available for a funeral, which surprised Cardinal Clancy given that he was not expecting Gough to convert to Catholicism.

Gough explained: no, no, no, it wasn’t for the Catholic funeral — it was because he wanted to be buried in the crypt, claiming that he was willing to pay but would only require it for three days. 

Is there yet hope?

(includes excerpts plagiarised from Sir Roger’s earlier posts)

Lord Roger Migently?

 back to the regency future

Sir Roger Migently, as you must surely realise, has been quite unwell. He has been managed like an unlucky skier in an induced coma these many months since September 2013, when the floor of the Migently Mansions entertainment complex collapsed beneath him and he landed heavily on his Conservatory, hitting his head repeatedly against the wall.

It should be understood that “the Conservatory” is not the cheery, sun-washed place it seems. It was conceived by the Abbott in the Dark Days of John Hunt, “the Coward”, as a place for torture; a place of despair, where all seemed bright and beautiful but all the beautiful plants had deadly thorns, and all the bright things when touched turned to dust, and the wafting perfumes of such sweet and seductive promise turned dreams into terrifying incubi.    

Anyway, Sir Roger was rushed to the Migently Mansions bathroom cabinet where medicines were administered and soothing unguents applied, but to no avail. Sir Roger swooned and would not unswoon. “So a coma it is,” said the Doctor.

Not necessarily surprisingly, attempts at his gentle revival seem always to coincide with yet another dreadful jolt in a string of momentously stupid and dangerous utterances from Canberra and Sir Roger falls back into his protective deep sleep.

However, so many people have been at sea without his mentoring and discourse that his staff have tried what they can to evince some guidance for his adoring public.

And yet in one’s daily attempted mind-meld with Sir Roger one has been unable to rouse Sir R from his slumber.

Perhaps the whiff of Abbott the bigot (of course there’s nothing wrong with that) protecting his cute friends (nothing wrong with that), Sir Andrew Bolt, Sir Alan Jones and Dame Gina, from those nasty decent-and-intelligent-people has drained his remaining energy and convinced him to continue to emulate a plank.

Nevertheless (or perhaps more) one is certain that, had he seen the old queen Flint, in anticipation of his own impending magnificent elevation to glory, go onanistically red-in-the-face [“EIIR! I love you! I love you! … Oh! Oh! Oh dear! … Unnhhh … “]  it would be Sir Roger’s view that we have lived through the monochromatic 1950s already and have moved on, leaving the Womens Weekly behind.

Sir Roger clearly is not against imperial honours per se (or ought that be qua honours?) but he would surely feel that the value of his own cherished knighthood (bestowed, he dimly recalls, by some German inbreed or other) would be debased by the addition of random honours gifted for political sycophancy and party donations to the riff-raff and nig-nogs. Unless….unless…

… Given that Sir Roger was the “natural” son of Lord Lummy and Lord E. Lordy, ‘Lord Roger Migently’ has an appealing ring to it, a siren song, the seemly snugness of a perfectly fitting glove lost in the garden for generations and new-discovered; a rightness, a coming-home, a certain comme il faut.

A peerage is an honour for which Sir Roger, like Courtney Bryce and General Storr, or whoever these stiffs are, would in a moment, as Bill Hayden infamously did, repudiate his democratic and republican instincts in favour of the narcissistic rewards of personal aggrandisement, and assume an air of indulgent condescension toward the lower classes. 

“EIIR!” can’t you almost hear him panting, “EIIR! I love you! I love you! … Oh! … Oh! ……… Oh dear! … Unnhhh … Zzzzzzzzzzzzz …..”

[for Sir Roger Migently]

Hoban’s Heroes

Sir Roger was contacted yesterday by an outfit called Bogan Recruitment. Or Hoban. Or something.

“Lindsay” left a message because Sir Roger was attending a board meeting about protecting the Migently Millions and what to do about the servants.

Lindsay wanted to have a chat about someone (let’s call her “Annabelle”) for whom Sir Roger had once agreed to be a referee.

Now, Lindsay had rung at 4.55 pm and Sir Roger didn’t get the message until well after decent people had gone home for the day. (Sir Roger hadn’t gone home, obviously, but then nobody has accused Sir Roger of being “decent”.) Nevertheless, as soon as he could Sir Roger raided his files to find Annabelle. Yes, he recalled, she had been well worthy of a reference. She was mature though young, punctual, committed, focused, capable, experienced, bright. She listened attentively and learnt quickly.

So this morning Sir Roger rang the offices of the fabled – and as it turns out octopoid – Hogan Conglomerate only to find that their phones were experiencing troubles and he had been transferred to Melbourne. But they would leave an email for Lindsay that Sir Roger had called and she would call him back.

Lindsay did not call back.

In his loyalty to Annabelle, who after all was a good stick and deserved a break, Sir Roger rang a second time.

Lindsay wasn’t available at this time, apparently on the phone making further spurious calls, but the young lad would leave a message and Lindsay would call Sir Roger back.

Lindsay did not call Sir Roger back.

Sir Roger was not seeking a job. Sir Roger would not use the services of any agency but himself.  Sir Roger was doing a favour for someone who deserved one. He felt treated like an applicant, he felt treated like a thing. He felt Lindsay was very rude indeed. And/or extremely slack and bad at her job. (Who rings someone at COB to have a conversation that will often take about 20 minutes?) And even if she no longer needed the reference she ought to have returned Sir Roger’s calls. She did not know how important Sir Roger might or might not be, or how valuable his time. She worked off a stupid narrow world view and an ignorant theory of mind.

He wondered whether Lindsay judgmentally makes employment decisions or recommendations on the basis of applicants’ ability to do the job, their punctuality, efficiency, customer service ability?

He felt, if so, that Lindsay would fail badly on her own criteria. He felt Hobans failed miserably.

It is nothing really to Sir Roger. His future is not on the  line – not on their line at least. He will never see Annabelle again, or ever know whether she was successful in obtaining the position. But Holborn Human Placements and its android staff made an enemy they didn’t need to. And of course they don’t give a shit because they are so huge.

So Sir Roger recommends avoiding Bogan’s Heroes because they don’t seem to care about people or understand what that means. It’s just the profit margin. Just the business.


Liberal Party


Feel free …joined the liberal party


No really. Pin it, fb it, tweet it, email it. With Sir Roger’s blessing.

Just don’t join the liberal party really

Rentier Socialists


Just (sorry) Sir Roger thinks IT’S TIME to refer back to the recent squabble about certain t-shirts and heap some shit on those who assert ownership of the commonly used English phrase “It’s time”. 

Universities once, in all the centuries up to but not including this one, were laboratories for learning and thinking, experiencing and exploring. They fostered the free flow and sharing of ideas. They created possibilities. They were machines, hothouses, for ideas, rather than being mainly and merely commercial employment factories basing their teaching on the (safe) theories of the past. (Better the devil you know than the one you might unearth with your damnable curiosity and cause all sorts of uncertainty and, worse, discomfort.) 

So when a university, especially a university, or a “controlled entity” of a university, indulges in trademarks, copyrights and any “intellectual” properties it can get its hands on, what does that do? Well, it prohibits the free flow and sharing of ideas. It steals possibilities. And so it steals from a nation. 

What is that? wondered Sir Roger, that lives off the rental or hoarding of ideas and goods, or off other people’s work? By chance he came across a term which describes, or once described, such a person or “entity” – the rentier




A rentier (/?r?nti.e?/ or /r???tje?/) is a person or entity that receives income derived from economic rents, which can include income from patents, copyrights, brand loyalty, real estate, interest or profits.

Rentier is a term currently used to describe economic practices of parasitic monopolization of access to any (physical, financial, intellectual, etc.) kind of property and gaining significant amount of profit without contribution to society.

The rentier was the ultimate bourgeois, like Helen and Allison. But then, aren’t we all, or don’t we all aspire to be, rentier capitalists? A second, third, fourth, investment property? Write a book and live off the royalties and movie rights? Perhaps. But Sir Roger thinks rentier capitalism is not a core value that one associates with Gough in his heyday, not even after they turned his marbles into a bust and stuck him on a plinth, in fact ever. Perhaps that’s why we voted for him.


Democracy – Dancing for Joy?

About 300 years ago, like a smouldering kapok pillow, a massive revolution began its slow burn.  A scientific revolution. A social political revolution led by great minds. Newton, Spinoza, Locke, Voltaire, Rousseau,  Diderot, d’Alembert, Montesquieu. Hume. Robert Burns. Thomas Payne. The Age of Enlightenment surged on and rational, egalitarian thought swept everything from its path. Except religion, of course. You’ve got to give it to religion – it’s resilient. Like an ocean wave at last it broke into violence. The French Revolution, The American War of Independence. But in the rubble a fragile flower bloomed.

The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen [Déclaration des droits de l’Homme et du citoyen] of 1793. The Americans, between their Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights, embraced the same sentiments at about the same time.  

By these documents were guaranteed the liberties and rights whose influence quickly spread throughout the western world and which we now take so much for granted.

Homo sapiens sapiens has been around for perhaps two hundred thousand years.  The Neolithic Revolution, farming and domestication of animals, and the building of cities, occurred perhaps 10,000 years ago.

Not so long ago (post Agriculture, not before) life was indeed, as Hobbes imagined, “nasty, brutish and short”, a seething battleground of warring lords and ruthless despots, of slaves and serfs, and of absolute monarchs who had the arbitrary right of life and death over all people.

It was just 300 years ago unrest began to swell in earnest. That’s just 3% of our history since the rude beginnings of agriculture.

Only 200 years ago – one thousandth of our history as a species, a minute dot in time – the tide turned and democracy began to struggle to life. That democracy was tiny and constantly under threat from still powerful influences. But with the aid of its champions and nurturers it survived and grew.

Yet it is still under threat from those same influences, barons of another kind who control the thinking of the masses, press barons, princes of religion and those who desire power for themselves for power’s sake.

Our democracy is an infant. New Zealand was the first to introduce universal suffrage (including women) in 1893.  Australia followed with not quite universal suffrage in 1902. That’s just yesterday in historical terms. But it was not until 1962, only 51 years ago, that Australia gained universal suffrage by including the Aboriginal people.

This is a new thing we have, a child, not an obvious, done deal. It needs nourishing still and it needs vigilant champions. We are not as far as we imagine from the possibility of the events of Egypt in the last few weeks.

Our democracy is still under threat and it is under threat from three sides.

First, the politicians themselves, who would be kings but are fools, who corrode, erode and mock the meaning of democracy with their travesties, and all for their own petty, selfish and shortsighted ends. The politicians who drain the blood out the hearts of the citizens.

Second, from the ignorant who wonder what all this has to do with nail-tech or Big Brother (more than they realise).

From the comfort of our sofas we see on our plasma (or, for the supremely self-congratulatory, LED-LCD) screens the people of other countries, newly democratic after pitched battles, blood, pain, terror and ultimately victory – like the people of Timor-Leste, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt – dancing on Election Day in the streets with joy, and music, and riots of colour, celebrating their right to choose their representatives and their own futures and the future of their countries.

It is wonderful and as we look up from the tv dinners on our knees, tinnie in hand, we beam indulgently and complacently at these innocents who have joined the “right” side, our side, with, unlike us, their shed blood, ruined families and ransacked economies, still dancing for joy the way we never have.

We drag ourselves and our prejudices resentfully and reluctantly to the polling booth, sometimes with our children in tow to teach them how to despise, as we do, our astonishing freedoms and democratic rights for which, and for 300 years, millions fought and died.

So the third and biggest threat is our own complacency and, worse, our boredom and apathy.


We can’t imagine it being taken away. We think it is here forever. We think it is obvious. We think it is safe. We are wrong. A decade ago we nonchalantly handed over basic rights in the interests of “security”. Habeas corpus, the ancient cornerstone of our legal system and therefore our democracy, was slipped away without shame and without a murmur.

Our democracy is under threat right now from the most powerful multinational-conglomerate opinion manipulators the world has ever seen. It is under threat from those, of not just one religion, who see theocracies as the future of their world. And these are not the only threats.

If we take our eyes off this still very young child, democracy, if we will not remember to dance for joy in the streets for the brilliant gift from our forbears that democracy is, it can turn to dust in the blink of a bored and apathetic eye.






A Moron in a Hurry – Part 4 (Final)

GOTHPLINTHDrawing by the extraordinary Doctor King

Men and Whitlam of Australia, not to forget the moron in a hurry, it’s time to bid farewell to old plinth-bound, red-taped Goth the Whittler, his soul, his vision and his legacy chained and frozen in stone within the walls of the Wiblam Edifice, protected by the Hooded Brethren of the Whitlam Industry, with this final chapter of Sir Roger’s dictated response to  Helen the Madam Intimidatrix and her office girl Allison. 


Current violations

I think you ought to know that in the last few days in the context of an election campaign at least one person (Christine Milne, Leader of the Greens) and one organisation (the Guardian) have infringed your trademark(s) under TM 1414012 Class 9 and Class 38. Ms Milne has also infringed TM 985583 Class 35 in relation to Advertising and promotion of services, organisations and issues related to politics, political issues etc.

Christine Milne, 4 August 2013

It’s time that we treated refugees in a compassionate way

It’s time that we supported the poorest in our own community and dealt with issues such as homelessness and poverty.”

Ms Milne has clearly used the phrase in a way (twice is surely “branding”) that would appear to provide a prima facie case of infringement. I look forward to hearing the news of your fearless action against this perpetrator.


This case may not be so clear-cut but probably worth a try? High profile defendant, the Guardian; famous case to lift the Institute’s profile and strike fear into the hearts of mom and dad transgressors?

I will in any case make sure, in the near term, that both Ms Milne and the Guardian are made aware of and understand their transgressions and I will inform them that it is possible you may be in contact with them in the near future. I also feel it my duty to warn all other news outlets and politicians of the danger that they may be facing  if they are not vigilant.  



If this response is insufficient for the might of the Gruff Wiblam Foundation well then you might ask yourself, as Sir Roger so frequently asks,

“How would this look on the front page of the Herald?”

The might of the Whitlam edifice versus a poor old pensioner whose heart (what is left of it) is in the right place, whose career has been in furthering the rights of man, standing up for the underdog, entertaining the masses, educating and mentoring the unemployed, the broken and the dismayed.

The frail old thing, who can’t afford to defend himself, is being bullied by the ruthless, taxpayer-funded guardians of a fading myth of the socialist left, that no-one under 40 has ever heard of.

Sir Roger wouldn’t know about the front page of the Herald. He has only been in the Stay In Touch page of the Herald and his website, while it has a strong and consistent following, has only been number 1 on Google, Yahoo, and Bing and for about five [six] years.

Sir Roger does, however, know what it means to be immortalised – as is Sir Gough through the Institute – his website being archived in the Pandora Archive of the National Library, and one or two of the website’s t-shirts being included in museum collections – T-shirts such as this one which has, one can’t help thinking, an apropos message here:


Or, to put it momentarily back in the courtroom, confusion is more difficult to establish when the Values Australia logo has fairly strong recognition of its own.


On an even more personal note

  1. Sir Roger has noted in publicly available documentary sources that you find academic legal work ‘thrilling’ – Really? Sir Roger cannot find in your presentation the merest whiff of evidence evinced that you are thrilled, no paragraphs or PPT slides addressing this burning issue at all.
  2. Sir Roger thinks you have answered your own question re: gatekeeper or transaction facilitator. Yes, just an enforcer – “do as I say”.
  3. By the way, “different from”, not “different to”.
  4. And please do for goodness’ sake get someone who knows what they’re doing to design your PPT slides. Or, better, just learn how to speak without them. Some might think that yours perpetrate a worse sin against humanity than anything Values Australiahas ever done.
  5. You may think Sir Roger has been unfair and you might say that you are quite a nice and caring person after all and how could one be so mean and cruel to you and make judgments about your character and personality when one had never met you.
  6. And one would reply, one is oneself quite a nice and caring person also, and deeply moral, who loves his children and works and campaigns for the betterment of real people in the real world. And yet you did not ask or care but coldly made assertions, accusations and judgments about one’s character and personality when you had never met one. Your ground rules, not one’s.
  7. Sir Roger requested I ask one last question:


“Just because it’s legal, is it the right thing to do?”  


 A certain person is passing himself off as ex-Opposition Leader and ex-Gillard Minister Simon Crean.  He is clearly an impostor who is calling himself “Simon Cream”.



Sir Roger has not heard from Helen, Madam Intimidatrix of the Hooded Brethren of the Whitlam Industry since e-penning this polite response. He does not know whether she is mollified, stupefied, unutterably bored, or in a fury of retribution to punish naughty Sir Roger in any way possible. We shall see.

Sir Roger would deem it not unkind of his army of supporter to feel that it’s time to share with its friend and influential acquaintance, this saga, or to share the complete e-letter which can be found and downloaded here.

And now to Gough the farter, Gough the sun and Gough the gruff old goat. Gough be with you. 



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