The truth in Jones’ column appears every night on TV with the news coming out of South Africa and surrounding states — even on the ABC, which has the most biased version of events happening in South Africa imaginable.
So far around 1000 blacks have been butchered in South Africa by their own people.
If you did to an animal what they do to each other a judge would give you 20 years. Nothing as quick and simple as shooting each other in the head. They swarm onto a train and hack women and children to pieces with machetes.
They go into a town or workers’ barracks, drag the people out, pour petrol over them and burn them alive. All in the name of freedom and equality for my black brothers and sisters.
Even Winnie Mandela has been charged as an accessory to the murder of some kid called Stompy who was beaten to a pulp then had his throat cut. He was barely 14.
Yet whenever the ANC or whatever come out here the grandstanding bleeding hearts can’t get down and kiss their backsides quick enough.
And no-one knows how much of our money Bonzer Bob has given them in aid. Probably millions.
I reckon the day the blacks get majority rule in South Africa there’ll be a bloodbath that will make what the Japs did during the siege of Nanking look like the festival of Aquarius in Nimbin.
The only thing that can help to stop it is the white government.
They’re far from perfect and I don’t think I could ever see myself getting into a shout with a bunch of those Afrikaners, but I believe they’re the ones we should be giving aid to, not bunging sanctions on them.
The communists must be laughing their heads off while they wait in the wings rubbing their hands with glee.
And if the blacks do take over in South Africa, who will they model their style of government on? Bob Mugabe in Zimbabwe? It’s a corrupt dictatorship where offenders in the government are pardoned and dissenters are shot.
What about the new bunch of jolly chaps that have just taken over in Liberia? In one incident alone they herded 600 women and kids into a church and killed the lot. The bodies were stacked almost 2m deep.
Some bloke called Bongo just built a $120m church and the Pope came out and blessed it. The people are starving and they have hardly any hospitals.
In Somalia 60,000 civilians have been murdered. Mengistu Haile Mariam in Ethiopia? He sent the troops in to machine-gun several hundred starving peasant farmers because they asked for land reform and something for their starving kids to eat.
In the Sudan they cut off your right hand if you break a minor law and if you crack it for a dropkick of a break they cut your foot off as well.
How about Idi Amin?
Maybe he could come out of retirement in Saudi Arabia or where ever he’s holed up with all the loot he snaffled out of Uganda and take up a post as some sort of government advisor.
What about Ken Kuanda in Zambia? He was a big hit with Bonzer and the team at the CHOGM conference when he demanded power-sharing for the blacks in South Africa, yet if you try to form an opposition party in Zambia they take you out and put you in front of a firing squad.
Fascinating lot, aren’t they?
And there’s no shortage of punters to choose from. Out of 51 African states only six allow their people to hold elections and choose their leaders, yet they’re all members of the United Nations. It’s got me stuffed.
It wouldn’t surprise me if some grungy dyke working in the ABC read this and said, ‘That racist bastard. He ought to be castrated’.
Well that’s more than fine by me. I’d much rather be a white racist bastard living in Australia than a black in South Africa. Out here they only cut off my orchestras, which haven’t been that much use to me anyway.
Over there I’d be necklaced.
I would like to take my hat off to a lady. ‘Lady’ has taken an awful battering in Australia lately; there are no sheilas, birds, chicks, etc. left in Oz, they’re all referred to as ladies now.
And the lady in question smokes, loves a drink and has a laugh that would knock the icing off a wedding cake at 10 metres.
I’m convinced if she heartily enjoyed a baked dinner she would not be adverse to breaking wind at the dinner table. But in this miserable chauvinist’s eyes she is still every inch a lady.
I refer to author Colleen McCullough. Possibly the best writer this country’s ever produced.
A writer is only as good as how many books he or she sells.
Colleen’s The Thorn Birds sold 10.5 million alone. Yet her peers and literary review boards pooh-pooh her and say she’s not a good writer. She’s vulgar and plebeian and her works aren’t literature. In other words she writes books normal people can understand and enjoy, and makes a packet while she’s at it.
She doesn’t come up with a lot of boring elitist shit that goes over everybody’s head, except of course the literary elite.
Has anybody out there ever come across a literary elite? Has anybody out there ever come across a literary review board?
If you were washed up on a desert island with six members of a literary review board and a tin of corned beef, you’d kill and eat the literary review board and keep the tin of corned beef for the act of social intercourse.
The same with the authors they support. They’re the most boring, procrastinating, self-opinionated drones imaginable and half of them couldn’t write their name on a brasco door.
I sprung Colleen McCullough letting go with one of her laughs at these drones on The 7.30 Report. When asked the secret of her success, she replied that she didn’t consider herself all that great a writer, but she simply wrote to give people enjoyment and not to impress the literary elite, particularly in this country.
No wonder she’s laughing all the way to the bank. Yet these ponces she’s referring to swan around in their tweed coats and skivvies or overalls and shirts, come up with a binder full of bathroom mould that would be lucky if it sold 1000 copies and consider themselves the literary elite.
If they were writing for a feed you wouldn’t give them a paper plate. Yet they all live quite well thank you on handouts from the literature board. A glorified writer’s dole.
I know one writer who’s milked almost $250,000 from the Literature Board and every two years he comes up with 150 pages of 25-carat horseshit that no-one can understand. You read one of his books and you feel like going out to the garage, getting your Black and Decker and drilling a hole in your head to see if you’re still alive. Yet the wine-and-cheese mob gush over it and say, ‘Marvellous, simply marvellous’.
I’m not against grants. I got a small one myself once. But I swear I’d written two books off my own bat before I knew the rort was on and found out how to apply. And I’m eternally grateful to the Arts Council for getting me out of the steamy kitchens for six months to write another book in moderate comfort. I get letters from housewives and punters with definite talent asking me how to crack it as a writer in Australia. And I’ll state categorically there’s got to be a fairer and more equitable way of handing out these grants where budding writers can get half a go and not just the same bunch of greedy, selfish bores year in and year out.
I reckon everyone in Australia should be entitled to $15,000 once, to take a year off to write a book. Providing they’ve had something published off their own bat, be it a bit of poetry, an article or a short story or whatever to prove they can use a typewriter and have the ability to write.
Christ! With $15,000 tax-free sitting in the bank and doing a bit of casual work on the side, if you couldn’t come up with a 300-page novel in 12 months you should be stuffed and have your clothes burnt.
If this were adopted, I’m convinced there would be a resurgence of writing in this country like you wouldn’t believe.
And we could get rid of all that deadwood with their snouts stuck firmly in the Literature Board trough.
Unfortunately, at present, due to a mad hatter’s tea party of toffee-nosed elitists, it ain’t going nowhere like that.
But,
to the 503 that missed out on a grant and any others out there trying to get a book together: don’t get too discouraged by all this waffle going on around you.
If an overweight woman with a laugh that would split a railway sleeper can make millions (and an ex-butcher who’s going that bald you can almost read his mind can make a reasonable living), you can do it.
Unfortunately, you’re going to have to forget about the literary elite and write for that detestable, low-life rabble — the general public.
I always do my best to write things that might interest our readers all over Australia.
But occasionally someone in Sydney does such a job on themselves you have to mention it.
I’m talking about Mike Carlton, the radio DJ.
I used to be a regular Mike Carlton listener — when he was funny. He does good voice impersonations and on his day could be reasonably entertaining.
However, Mike’s not short of ego, as he once mentioned on TV, and he can also be a moralising, self-opinionated bore that would empty a bar giving away free piss.
He’s embraced the feminist cause and he’s right up there on the anti-racism witch-hunt-cum-bandwagon rolling around the country.
Mike’s two favourite whipping persons are the Meadow Lea margarine TV commercial — it’s sexist — and, of course, South Africa.
But no matter what, Mike ‘ought to be, con-grad-u-lated’. He did win an award in Melbourne for radio excellence called Raywards. I only wish I was talented enough to win something like that myself.
Mike was waffling away over the cornflakes on 2GB and rating fairly well about the same time ‘the mongrel’, John Laws, split for 2UE.
Enter Jane Singleton to take over Lawsie’s spot. If you think Carlton can be boring, Singleton is the industrial-strength version. Once ensconced at the station she got into Carlton’s ear and they both decided they were going to be the new moral conscience of Australia as far as racism goes.
And away these two shining lights went — boring the tits off whatever listeners 2GB had left after Lawsie legged it.
The Japanese were really greenies with the wellbeing of Australia at heart and never committed any war crimes. There were no Hong Kong triads smuggling heroin into Australia using Vietnamese criminals already living here. The sun absolutely shone out of Nelson Mandela and his comrades in the ANC’s backsides etc., etc.
Week after week they droned, putting the boot into all the regulars: the RSL, Casey, Ruxton and Blainey. Any Australian with even a semblance of national pride who thought differently was a jingoistic fascist.
The sad thing is, it’s people like Carlton and Singleton on these self-righteous, holier-than-thou, ego-trips that stir up most of the dissension in Australia — migrants or otherwise.
Naturally, most people turned off in droves. Their ratings went down like Linda Lovelace and before long the 2GB executives were that far back in the doghouse they were feeding them with a shanghai.
They gave Jane the flick leaving Carlton to carry the can. Back in the ashes of what was once a reasonably well-rating program Mike offered to resign. But he stayed on.
Such bravery does deserve an award.
I’d like to give him an award for bleating to the papers, after boring his listeners senseless: ‘Oh well, if I have to lose a few racists it doesn’t worry me.’
In other words, if you change stations because some DJ is giving you GBH of the earhole you’re automatically a member of the Ku Klux Klan.
Another award for saying after Laws left: ‘Oh well, at least I don’t have to prop up John Laws any more.’
While Mike was going down like the Lusitania the mongrel went to number one and managed to drag the rest of 2UE up with him.
And he deserves an award for his efforts during the bicentenary and the re-enactment of the First Fleet landing — the so-called Tall Ships. Or as some call it … ‘Invasion Day’.
The Tall Ships got torpedoed around Brazil and the NSW Government pulled out because it was turning into a rort with money being wasted everywhere.
Mike rallied the 2GB listeners to cough up over a million bucks and they managed to get the Tall Ships here on time. Mike’s quid pro quo was to come when he sailed down Sydney Harbour on the Soren Larsen sprouting platitudes about the majesty of it all while everybody told him how wonderful he was.
Talk about a waste of money. Along with the Tall Ships the NSW Government at the time blew more millions on a fireworks display that went up in a blaze of gunpowder and under-developed film.
What about the Bicentennial asthma research centre, a koala sanctuary or a home for the underprivileged kids or the elderly? At least we’d still have something to show for it.
No. Give them bread and circuses.
Funnily enough, while Mike was swanning down the harbour, not far away was the Our Svanen with an ad for one of the biggest selling drinks in South Africa right across the sail — Mainstay Rum. It’s a product of Mauritius but, as anyone knows, South Africa has heaps of business investments on that island.
I wonder if … No! That couldn’t possibly be right.
I don’t give a stuff if they drink Mainstay in South Africa or North Korea. Mike said I’m a racist for switching off so I went out and bought a few bottles. And I reckon it’s the best white rum going around. It’s got everything it says on the label. Absolute clarity and perfect dryness. And don’t it get you pissed?
Yo-ho-ho me racist hearties.
The way it is in Australia lately — with all the politicians pandering to some ethnic vote or other — it’s almost impossible to crack a joke or take the piss without offending someone. Especially if you’re a white Australian with an Anglo-Saxon name.
It’s as if politicians want to turn us into a bunch of humourless drones not game to laugh at ourselves any more. Laugh at someone or something and immediately the moralising do-gooders and pressure groups are calling you racist, fascist, sexist or whatever.
If you said Charles Manson was a typical Scorpio, you’d be a zodicist!
I always thought true Australians were known for their larrikin sense of humour. The old ANZAC thing of laughing at ourselves, and pomposity and absurdities around us.
Take the Australian navy doing a tour of duty in the Persian Gulf.
After weeks of being bored shitless on a stinking hot ship, a few wags got done up as Arabs in Bedouin headgear and bowed towards the nearest oil refinery — taking the piss out of the situation they were in and the pressure they were under.
And what happens? The Arabs couldn’t start jumping up and down quick enough, screaming that all Islam had been grossly offended.
They’ve got to be kidding. They can come to Australia, find religious freedom to build mosques just about wherever they like and then bring some Mullah out. They can brawl among themselves in public and threaten to kill any TV crews sent to cover it. Then they can march down the street burning the Australian flag.
I reckon that’s not only offensive, it’s downright criminal!
But hardly anybody says a word. Maybe if the Arabs learnt to laugh at themselves they wouldn’t be so full of hatred for the infidels.
Though admittedly, they haven’t got much to laugh at.
They treat their women as if they’re chattels and expect them to get around looking like a cross between Darth Vader and a public letter-box.
They’ve managed to make Beirut, which was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, look more like the dark side of the moon. And if it weren’t for one Arab nation invading another the Australian navy wouldn’t be over there.
I reckon our sailors should get a medal for finding something to laugh about in the whole rotten schemozzle.
Another giant drama at the moment surrounds those ads for Hahn beer.
Billboards show an African native with about a metre of copper bands running up his neck. He’s holding a bottle of Hahn and saying: ‘The first one didn’t touch the sides’.
There’s another poster of
a different native looking like he’s got a frisbee jammed in his mouth and he’s saying: ‘Get your laughing gear around this’.
I reckon they’re quite funny and so does the black model who did them — and his family likes it, too. In fact, he’s laughing all the way to the bank.
But the do-gooders and holier-than-thou lot all jumped up and screamed it was racist and offensive. And, of course, good ol’ Derryn Hinch got in on the act and vowed he’d never drink another bottle of Hahn.
What a load of pious horseshit. If the Labwor or Dodoth tribesmen from the Karamoja or wherever want to get around with their necks resembling a metre of drainpipe and their mouths looking like they’re trying to swallow a hubcap, surely we can take the piss a bit without the Hinches of this world and their ilk trying to score brownie points.
I mean, if the ads showed a black bloke on the end of a rope surrounded by ranting idiot rednecks in sheets and the black bloke saying: ‘I’ve been hanging out for a Hahn all day’, I’d certainly consider that a bit off.
However, even I admit we do have to draw the line somewhere.
A very disturbing story arrived on my desk this week that I consider highly offensive, from where else but that vilest racist regime — South Africa.
It concerns a white South African doctor with a practice in Durban and a black woman, complaining of a sore throat, who went to see this racist, Afrikaner bastard.
The poor woman was Ugandan and she wasn’t just black. She was super black. Almost blue-black. Proud black.
The South African doctor had a quick look at her throat then said, ‘Righto. Take off all your clothes and get down on your hands and knees in the middle of the room.’ The woman did as she was told.
The doctor looked at her for a moment or two then said, ‘Okay. Now go over in front of the fireplace.’ The woman did as she was told and crawled over in front of the fireplace.
‘All right,’ said the doctor, ‘now go over near those pot-plants.’ The woman did as she was told.
Then the doctor got her to kneel underneath his oil painting of Cecil Rhodes near the far wall, in front of the Venetian blinds, crawl back to the middle of the room and finally back in front of the Venetian blinds.
So What Do You Reckon? Page 10