They played the studio version of this song by Colin Hay on the day that we learned that Greg Ham had died. It was a good choice.
I saw Colin Hay play this song back in 2002 at Woodford. Back then it was just him, a guitar and his gorgeous wife.
Here he is playing it at the Corner Hotel Richmond, with a very tight band, and the same gorgeous wife.
Anzac Day. A day for reminiscing. A day for remembering great deeds, and the heroic words that were written about them.
God speechless at outrageous Atheistic slurs
It was billed at the debate to end all debates. The one where the big questions would be finally resolved. Renowned God scoffer, Richard Dawkins verses Australian stuffed-shirt-in-chief Cardinal George Pell were to have it out on the ABC’s Q&A.
Many however were disappointed. Cardinal Pell came away looking the same silly old duffer he always does, and Dawkin’s maintained his cantankerous academic schtick to the end – but no conclusion regarding the existence or otherwise of God was made, despite thousands of dollars of taxpayers money being spent to stage the event.
To remedy this Club Troppo has decided to cut to the chase – bypass the middle men – and put the questions that we all want answered directly to God himself. Club Troppo’s religious affairs reporter Rex Ringschott, in preparation for this unique opportunity has sought advice from neither religious scholars nor physicists but rather has spent literally minutes thinking about the important questions as they relate to us today. Over to you Rex.
A Club Troppo Research Project
A voice of reason from way out West speaks clear unvarnished truth.
That the minerals Mother Nature once laid down in her youth,
are the hope of teeming millions seeking sanctuary and jobs.
Free Enterprise the means by which we’ll fill their starving gobs.
We hear the message Mistress Gina. We hear it loud and clear.
There’s mung bean munching Greenies fomenting doubt and fear.
And a bloated Government in thrall to Maynard Keynes,
Threatens to drag our economy down to something worse than Spain’s
Yet still the bleating bleeding hearts bleat their bleeping bleats,
Their carping and their harping filling the Eastern States broadsheets.
But hope (no not your mother), has come upon the scene
Fairfax board control? Next a better tax regime?
And elitists, may mock your meter and your rhyme
But in the hills of the Kimberley, you have found the time
To tastefully put into words rare wisdom and what’s more,
Bolt them down upon a ruddy great lump of Iron Ore.
The sentiment contained therein makes me go all misty.
I applaud your stand against those who’ll turn us Socialisty.
For I too am a man of enterprise at heart,
A modest mini-mogul with Soft-Serve Ice Cream cart.
I have a plan to travel West and make a fortune through,
Serving Soft-Serve Ice-Cream to the starving millions who,
have travelled to the Pilbara seeking work within your mines.
Can I take up a concession? Can you offer credit lines?
I understand, by the way, that you are without bloke.
A woman needs a feller like a Salmon needs a smoke.
Although I’m slightly married, that’s not something ‘ can’t be fixed,
If you’ll have me Darling Gina I’ll be rapidly unhitched.
Incidentally did I mention that you are quite a beauty.
A West Australian Rose (not her) with a most impressive booty.
If the Ice Cream thing doesn’t work I’ll not throw up my hands,
‘cause I trust you’ll be happy for me to sink a shaft upon your lands.
Struggling Australians breathed a sign of relief today, when they read that the ‘relentless pressure‘ applied by Melbourne’s Herald Sun has forced a humiliating climb-down by the big banks and delivered the full interest rate reduction passed down from on high.
The paper reports that “Scrooge bank chiefs who had been silently sitting on the rate cut and gouging more than $4 million a day from their customers” faced a withering barrage of Twitter and Facebook incendiary bombs, eventually throwing up their hands and surrendering to the superior generalship of the editorial team at the Herald Sun, who generously gave the downtrodden a voice, and assured victory for the people.
Little Australian kiddies, can now sleep soundly knowing that they will get the XBox 360 Kinect AND their own Hi-Def TV to play it on this Christmas, and their parents at least, unlike our big banks, will experience the joy of giving.
We’re not a religious lot we Australian’s, but this festive season, Australian’s will surely be whispering a little prayer. “Thank God for Melbourne’s Herald Sun”.
Just in case you didn’t notice it, there’s been a crevice that’s opened up on Tony Abbott’s long road to the Lodge. A crevice that in just a few days has opened up to bloody great yawning credibility gap.
It was just last week, in the wake of the Qantas fiasco, and the critisims from old stagers that he was being weak kneed on IR that Mr Abbott’s blokey swagger and chin jutting suddenly started to look phoney. A more convincing performer would have leavened the posturing with a bit of pensive self-reflection, But for Mr. Abbott it’s pop out the chin, grit teeth to get those jaw muscled looking pumped, and adopt the pose of determined leadership.
Problem is that Mr. Abbott’s posing pouch is no longer ample enough to cover up the hideous truth. The country’s rooted if he gets his hands on it.
Sober and respected business commentators are calling Mr. Abbott guilty of a gross failure of economic credibility, and big-nob political journos who write for the Murdoch press are saying he’s gone feral, with outlandish ill-considered opinions on the Mining Tax, the European bail-out and a knee-jerk response on Qantas.
George Megalogenis says that ”the fundamental weakness of Tony Abbot is that he’ll say anything to get his face on TV” [12:12].
Whether you’re in the Laurie Oakes camp and you reckon Abbott’s lashing out at everything like a shark in a feeding frenzy, or whether like me (and probably George) you think the whole thing’s a B-Grade act, by a B-Grade actor who’s learned his trade from Chuck Norris films – one things for sure – people will start to twig to Mr. Abbots fatal flaw -and maybe – just maybe – Labor is in with a shot.
Interestingly Mr Megalogenis, thinks that the best strategy for Labour in these circumstances is to lose the next election.
If I were Labour I’d be prepared to take a loss in the next election knowing that their turn will come pretty quickly if they cede power to a political party that is not interested in the big ideas. [18.36]
The theory, I assume, being that if Mr. Abbott gets in then we’ll really get a taste of how much of a disaster a Prime Minister can be, and in our repentance we’ll push the reset button on Australian politics.
I think there might be something in that – Perhaps it calls for a Labor campaign under the slogan “We hope you get the government you deserve”. But on second thoughts that sounds bitter and lacking the compassion that hopefully is still somewhere in the DNA – so perhaps a campaign based on the style of community awareness campaigns. A simple direct message to the good people of Australia ”We are handing over the controls to your new pilot. please fasten your seat-belt and assume the brace position – there may not be time for last drinks”.
It was a sign of things to come perhaps. As the All Blacks performed their pre-match war dance with its stamping, grunting, eye-bulging and tongue lolling, the camera cut away to a shot of Australia’s Radike Samo. His face shiny with perspiration, was framed by a ‘do that looked at that moment like a fright wig or the result of an unusually positioned Van De Graaff generator. The effect, to say the least, was comical. At the Pub I was in, the crowd burst into laughter. It was a bad omen for the Wallabies, and no-one in the Pub even attempted a chorus of Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi to counteract the bad mojo. It was a lost cause.
It’s been a problem for years. What to do about the Haka. Countering strategies have been tried. The turning of the back, or the Campese gambit, but this is often condemned as unsportsmanlike, and that’s not an accusation that at least we Aussies are willing to wear.