On Being Good. Or Not. Discuss.

Goya : Don Manuel Osorio Manrique de Zuniga


Ah. The quietitude of Covid-19. The tranquility of isolation. Solitude gone viral. Ned has been most disinclined to disturb serenity with the blare of rant. But as the tide of plague appears locally to ebb, and the chattering classes ramp up once more, he’s inclined, he’s inclined.

So. On being good. Or not.

To commence, a confession. Ned Ludd admits to finding Being Good increasingly difficult. Being Law Abiding, yes, no major problem – the odd spate of machine breaking apart – and who can blame him? – but  more and more Ned finds himself doing and saying things considered, it would seem, today, Not Good. Bad, even. Of course, being over 200 years old does not help. Back in the early 19th century, things were simpler. Today, however, there are far more than Ten Commandments. Additions and amendments to the Tablets Of Stone seem every day to issue forth from atop The Shrouded Mount.

Is it just Ned? Or is it raining commandments? Thou shalt not. Thou shalt not. Thou shalt not. It’s enough to make the thinking troublemaker shalt.

Exactly who is hiding up there, atop The Shrouded Mount, daily despatching new proscriptions on behaviour? A heavenly host of kindergarten teachers?

Of course, The Rain Of Thou Shalt Nots might be most welcome if the downpour was resulting in a more united, contented, peaceful society.  The evidence, however, unequivocally betrays a widening, increasingly unbridgeable chasm between kindergarten teachers and class.

And it’s not just errant Word or Deed. The teachers are coming for Thinking. A Google Thought Monitoring App is but a nanoblink away. And we all know who will be leading the rush to download.

There is, however, one positive to be taken from the struggle to Be Good. Goodness, unlike Law Abidance, is a moral position, not a legal requirement. Enforcement is thus vexed. Branding of transgressors, being offended, expressing outrage, holding breath until blue, while frequently tried, all thus far evidence no apparent success.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.



Why Moralists Lose Elections


To offer respite from the swirling, ubiquitous discourse on The Plague, Ned returns to a political matter under discussion before we were so rudely interrupted: the burning question of why moralists lose elections.

Brexit. Trump. Morrison. Johnson. 4 out of 4! OMG! How on earth could this possibly have happened? OMFG!

And after each defeat, the utter mystification of the defeated. Complete inability to fathom what, by every progressive standard, should not have happened but inexplicably has happened, seeming to leave the defeated but one option, the last resort of the vainglorious loser: denigration of the victors as The Scum Of The Earth. They’s a witch! Burn They! They is (insert)ist! Thus comfort for failure is found in The Culture Of Denunciation.

Before proceeding further, Ned must make clear his position. The election of Trumpo, Scomo, and Bozo, those bourgeois shits, those globalist running dogs, renders him incandescent with true left fury. Indeed, the Troika Of Winners sends Red Ned, cudgelling his brains, to the  edge of The Abyss Of No Hope.

While Brexit is more cause for sorrow than anything else. For that Brexit was coming – or something not unlike – was bleeding obvious by the early 1980s. Traditional industrial Britain bludgeoned and tossed with disdain on the scrapheap guaranteed that payback, in time, would come. Sadly, Ned cannot see Brexit solving Brexiteers’ problems. However, it remains eminently successful as Payback. Big Payback.

BUT. But but but. But, Ned Ludd Says, even more perturbing than that horrific Troika Of Winners is the sanctimonious political ineptitude of The Losers.

Which brings us to the nub of Ned’s rant, the critical question of our time:

Why do The Basket Of Deplorables keep thwarting The People Who Know Better?

Ned Ludd Says several answers present themselves.

Answer 1: Food. Clothing. Shelter. Employment. Health. Education. Security. All come into consideration before Being Correct.

To be crass – and why not? – the homeless, the unemployed, the struggling, et al, do not tend to be greatly thinking about identity issues when voting.

Answer 2: The People Who Know Better reside in Moral Fairyland while The Basket Of Deplorables inhabit Shafted Actuality.

Or, to filch Mr G.B. Shaw’s phrasing, The People Who Know Better “mistake their own emotions for public movements.”

The Moralist believes, simply, that because something should happen, it will happen. A way of saying The People Who Know Better are out of touch – way – with The Commonality. (Which is actually how The PWKB like it.)

Answer 3. The People Who Know Better, characterised by media as ‘the left’ – ha! – but, in political actuality, comfortable, poncey, wetty-pants liberals, are replete with moral opinion and rules of conduct for all, but wilfully bereft of any alternative political-economic system with which to address underlying causes of social ills.

Answer 4: The People Who Know Better are Preachers, enabled by comfort enabled by capitalism, at the expense of others who vote accordingly.

Answer 5. The People Who Know Better are Missionaries, called to enlighten the savages, to replace the church in calling down hellfire and damnation upon sinners, to constantly hector the swinish multitude to change their ways. Which of course they won’t. Why would they? Missionaries give people the shits.

Answer 6: The People Who Know Better belong to The 10%, the beneficiaries of trickle down from The 1%. They be The Cream Of The Chattering Classes. And They have no wish to change anything that will alter that status. Their comfort depends on the system not changing.

For they are butterflies on the rose of capital.

Answer 7: Being Woke and They and morally and intellectually superior to those who disagree with They changes nothing. But The Culture Of Denunciation does not seek to persuade. Analysis of cause, rational persuasion to change, organisation for effective political action, is beneath The People Who Know Better. The primacy of personal expression is embraced ahead of social effectiveness. Being righteously outraged, feeling mortified, being offended by The Deplorables, trumps (sorry) practical politics.

Or, as Ned Ludd Said, they’re a bunch of comfortable, poncey, wetty-pants liberals.

Answer 8: All of the above.

Old Karl was right. Change happens on the ground, not in the head.

Which, Ned Ludd Says, brings us back to Answer 1.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.




A Workingman’s Cemetery : Episode 39


Ned continues his tour of a small but crowded workingman’s cemetery once servicing the northern coalfields and unearths..Nerida Louise Humphries.

(For the complete collected stories, visit Menu/A Workingman’s Cemetery)



1933 – 2010 


Nerida Humphries’ husband, a suburban solicitor, left her after twenty years of marriage to relocate to an adjoining suburb with his secretary of one year. Nerida experienced relief as she had been wrestling with the question of how to tell Robert she was leaving him without hurting his feelings. She also thought, thinking of his secretary, be careful what you wish for, Robert. In the event, she took Robert, as the expression goes, to the cleaners, although suburban soliciting did not, in the final washup, provide pockets as deep and as full as Nerida had assumed. She walked out of mediation with sufficient to purchase a near-new Volkswagen kombi, a second hand potting wheel and furnace, and a run-down miners cottage in a dying village.

Nerida had dabbled in clay pottery whilst on marital duty, a commitment which included the raising of three less than gifted, egotistical children. Freed, discovering to her delight that her creativity would not be constrained by potting orthodoxy, she stumbled into the realm of what she was to term organic sculptural pottery, and there set up shop. Her pots, if that was what they were, ballooned in size, colour, and organic complexity, and, the artist would freely admit, uselessness. But they looked interesting. Almost alive, some said.

In 1985, a latecoming resident, newly subscribed to The Pit Progress Association, keen to demonstrate commitment to progressive action, Nerida proposed that The Association seek heritage classification for The Pit as “an historic mining village”. Word spread quickly. Within twenty four hours the proposal – seconded by another late blow-in, Herbert Hobbs, son of the fondly remembered corporal-punishing Hobbsie – subsequently voted down, overwhelmingly, in the horrified negative, by everyone else – had given a decided fillip to decidedly unhistoric home improvements. Nerida was not to know that she was contributing late zest, reinvigoration via fear, to a pre-existing phenomenon.

With a view to the future, the company had sold the miners their cottages but not the land upon which the structures stood. The future not yet having arrived by 1985, inconclusive ownership saw the four-room cottages remain largely original at heart, while for appearances outwardly sporting thickly personalised makeup whereby nineteenth century timber verandah posts had been replaced by modest Grecian columns in concrete (Neville Jones), tubular steel posts (Washery Foreman Don Finch), box-sections (Police Sergeant Mick Worsley, transferred; of late, daughter Tracey), lightweight open-web joists (Dougie Pratt), some featuring curling metal ivy (Moaning Janice Meiklejohn) and Moorish-influenced ferro-cement arching (Mine Accountant/Bowling Club President Allen Goode). Porticos shaded aluminium fascia, mock brick sheeting, cement stucco, plasterboard, “crazy paving” with the temerity to scale walls, enlarged sliding windows and slimline screen doors which corroded white in the salt air. Rich cream, milky lime, dark chocolate trim were the dominant colours by virtue of a Massive Once In A Lifetime Stocktake Sale at Swansea Hardware.

Housefront symmetry had become popular, creating a line of rectilinear faces with aluminium-rimmed eyes above flyscreened nose and mouth, the congruity offset by ten metre television aerials tucked jauntily behind one ear. A late trend – repositioning of the aerial at the midpoint of the roof ridge to attain absolute symmetry – had been initiated by the late, unorthodox Alec Meiklejohn.

Original timber was, if not routed, now in rapid retreat. Wayne Thorpe had secreted his entire timber cottage, including verandah, within a box of cream aluminium cladding, sealed under a pyramidal blue and white terra cotta tiled lid. Two slit windows faced the road with apparent deep suspicion. Thorpes embraced darkness as though in fond remembrance of the gloom of Derby, left behind generations before. Within his aluminium shell, Wayne was systematically removing all trace of organic material for deployment as winter fuel.

Only Nerida bucked the trend to modernity, stripping any feature she deemed inauthentic from the former home of Coral Caulfield. In Retired Miners Corner, the rigorous Humphries attempt to experience the weight of working class history via restoration of the Caulfield cottage to its original condition earned her the sobriquets “Mrs Greenie”, “Mrs Fucking Greenie Blow-In” and “Mrs Stuck Up Flaming Greenie Bitch”. Extra ‘Fuckings’ and ‘Flamings’ frequently appended to the titles. Nerida’s best endeavours at authenticity resulted in the house appearing more fraudulent by the day.

Alone, Ron Shipwater’s home weathered and fell apart, unpainted, without addition or alteration. Attempts to shame him into imposing his considerable personality upon the residence had long been abandoned.

Nerida and Herbert Hobbs both having ‘blown in’ at around the same time obliged Nerida, regularly, upon venturing outdoors, to deny involvement in a politically-undertoned love affair with the seconder of her ‘historic village proposal’. Let alone to exploring, as some suggested, a 1970s style retro threesome with Herbert and white-calico-clad wife Denise. In The Pit, it was generally agreed Nerida was the type. And it was true she had belatedly loosened up, in a 1970s mode, upon taking up residence in The Pit. Making up for lost time, the perspicacious concluded, as Nerida’s 1970s continued well into the new millennium. A number of male visitors, sandal-wearing, said to be fellow potters and sculptors, were seen overstaying and attending to odd jobs and heritage restoration in and around the Humphries cottage. It was said by some the aroma of illegal substance could be detected in the surrounding atmosphere. Others put this down to a particularly odoriferous Indonesian cigarette in vogue within artistic and counter cultural circles of a bygone decade.

Diagnosed late, given twelve to eighteen months, Nerida devoted her remaining time in this dimension to the creation of her own memorial headstone.

The design process was to prove a tortuous journey. Regulatory restrictions governing the size, shape and symbolic nature of a memorial necessitated major changes in creative direction. Erotic forms sourced from Indian temple reliefs were deemed unsuitable. As was the concept of the headstone as a large door, or perhaps drawbridge, opening onto The Other Side, executed in mixed media on white clay pedestal.

The content of wording on headstones Nerida also found subject to tight regulation. She had, at one stage, opted for a notably ribald passage from Rabelais on the subject of bodily functions as a summation of life, in the hope her commemoration might surprise those who thought her straight-laced. Especially her children. Should they visit. Which she doubted. Rightly. The scatalogical epitaph was to feature in parti-coloured ceramic lettering on an outsized marker shaped like a Norse runestone. Or gargantuan kipfler potato, with crude inscription, depending on point of view. Before rejection by the cemetery trust, Nerida had despatched photographs of the Rabelasian Runestone to whet her offsprings’ appetites for visiting her final resting place.

In situ, the finished article is, if not a thing of beauty, an object of curiosity. Locals determinedly instruct tourists not to miss The Thing. More than one visitor has been overheard to say “What on earth was she thinking?” The Thing, it must be noted, is compliant with regulations.

As soon as probate was granted, her children sold the cottage, as a weekender, to a middle-aged cafe owner and jetski rider from Sydney, for considerably more than their mother had paid for it.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

Intellectual Eugenics or What To Do With Heretics?


Just what to do with heretics is an age-old problem. Is it not?

Burnt, hung, shot, electrocuted, racked, sliced, squashed, starved, fed to animals, worked to death, it seems the heretical just will not go away!

What is so difficult for them to understand? One more time, for the dummies:

Only the pure in thought deserve to live.

Yet, society does progress. Today, the aberrant, the flakey, the deluded, the dumb as dogshit, the outright wicked, indeed the full spectrum of heresy, and especially sportspeople, shall in the spirit of inclusive humanism be first placed in moral re-education camps. On a last chance to behave properly and cease offending the good.

Thereafter, should successful reconfiguration to correct thought not occur, the heretical shall be annihilated, their property given to people who deserve it, and their names and deeds expunged from the historical record.

And damnation is to be retrospective. History is far too precious to be wrong.

Thus, the new liberalism. Values as diktats.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

Vintage engraving from 1807 showing people being tortured during the Spanish Inquisition.


Mama, We’re All Bourgeois Now!


Whatever happened to The People Formerly Known As The Working Class?

One of the major successes of post-war capitalism, in this country at least, has been the convincing of The Working Class that they no longer exist.

Here Ned speaks of class not as an occupational/income demographic but as a self-identifying group of people who view themselves as separate from and different to other classes, and evidence a concomitant development of singular class values, culture, and institutions.

Now, of course, The Workers are still out there, en masse, propping up the 1%, not to mention underpinning the 10% doing quite well, thank you very much, off the trickle down.

But out there as a self-identifying Working Class? Ned, unhappily, thinks not.

Ned Ludd Says The Workers have been persuaded that they too are bourgeois. Who just happen to be coming off a lower base than others in the competition. And that this disadvantaged start is simply the luck of the draw and certainly not a systemic arrangement. Heaven forfend.

Ned Ludd Says the subversion of values through advertising – buy this and you will become that – enabled via the freeing of credit – and you can have it and become it now! – allied with the hurling of the socialist baby out with the communist bathwater – has suborned The People Formerly Known As The Working Class into the materialist paradigm of competition, acquisition, and status signalling via conspicuous consumption.

Mama, we’re all bourgeois now.

Ned Ludd Says that although Workers may no longer present in traditional guise, coal-and-oil-grimed beneath cloth caps, residing in the inner city (fat chance!), they labour in even greater numbers than ever before. Doing the low paid dirty work, accepting unpaid overtime so as to get paid for regular time, double and triple jobbing, part-timing, gigging, scrabbling, running to get ahead. Because ahead is where one must get.

While the possibility of class conflict – oh, the horror! the horror!, do not speak of such because we are classless! – of confronting money and power, no longer seems to exist. Debt keeps the populace docile.

Rather, The Worker now seems to hold to capitalism’s promise: stick to the program, keep running, you will get there. Wherever, whatever, there is. Ahead. Just keep running.

Entirely complicit in this situation we find the flaccid, self-serving Labor Party, Alt-Lib, class traitors for whom a special ring is reserved in hell, and those other sometime left pretenders, The Greens, ensconced within the comfortable 10%, Missionaries and Pharisees of the New Church Of Saint Me, and as green as Engel’s arse.

And that Other Lot? Complicit is way too feeble a description of their involvement. A docile, well-behaved, grateful workforce was/is/ever will be their Fondest Wish and that towards which they have been working since chickens had lips.

Off with their heads.

Mama, we’re all bourgeois now. There’s no left left.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.



The Undeniable Allure Of Shares


Ned’s good and kindly friend Mr Dickens may not have known the solution, but he certainly knew the problem:

“As is well known to the wise..traffic in Shares is the one thing to have to do with in this world. Have no antecedents, no established character, no cultivation, no ideas, no manners; have Shares. Have Shares enough to be on the Boards of Direction in capital letters, oscillate on mysterious business between London and Paris, and be great. Where does he come from? Shares. Where is he going to? Shares. What are his tastes? Shares. Has he any principles? Shares. What squeezes him into parliament? Shares. Perhaps he never of himself achieved success in anything, never originated anything, never produced anything! Sufficient answer to all; Shares. O mighty Shares! To set those blaring images so high, and to cause us smaller vermin, as under the influence of henbane or opium, to cry out night and day, “Relieve us of our money, scatter it for us, buy us and sell us, ruin us, only we beseech ye take rank among the powers of the earth, and fatten on us!”

               from “Our Mutual Friend”

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.



Marx Would Have Hated The Greens

“Bourgeois moralists!”, Ned’s old mate would have declared. And he’d be right.


That Green electoral heartland is gentrified inner city Melbourne and Sydney says it all. Well-serviced fashionable suburbs from which former residents – workers and cheap renters – have been driven out by Money. In order that the gentrifying class might live designer lives, walk designer dogs, make capital gains, price young people out of housing, self-obsess over identity, shriek and wring their hands at the backwardness of some people, and wonder how on earth Brexit, Trump, Scomo, etc, could happen.

Hypocrites to the bone.

Don’t stop there, Ned. Go ‘em!

The Greens of recent years have tended naught but bourgeois moralisers. Perching high upon liberal centre political ground – please don’t call them left – The Greens positioned themselves well to pour down righteous vituperation upon both right and left, to preach rather than persuade, all of which amounting to phrase mongering, got them nowhere except to be seen as sanctimonious.

Go ‘em, Ned! Go ‘em!

Thus the 2019 federal election saw The Greens attempting to resurrect some of the environmental credibility of their early years, perusal of their platform, however, revealing this revision to be tokenistic, re-rebadged sermonising to the converted, merely attitudes to singular, high-profile issues like Adani and The Reef allied with ‘motherhood’ statements of environmental concern.

For behind the feel-good badging and one-offs, The Greens simply have no program of systemic political/economic change. Which makes perfect sense. Why would they critique, let alone take action to alter the system which enables their middling, piddling, comfortably trimming stance? The materially acquisitive, growth-based system which, if they were truly green, they would seek to tear down as the chief villain in decimation of the natural environment. Sadly, The Greens now are a very pallid, self-serving shade of green.

Don’t stop there, Ned! Keep goin’ ‘em!

The Greens mission – for they see themselves as missionaries – is simply the moral uplift of those unfortunates less progressive than themselves, thereby to promote the elevation of all races, genders, sexual inclinations, belief systems, anyone and everyone – except marxists? – to individual equality. To the much-lauded level playing field, where equally well-behaved citizens of all possible stripes are equally nice to each other. Nothing wrong with that within the moral paradigm wherein today’s Greens dwell. (Apart from the sheer boredom. But let’s leave that aside.) Outside the moral frame, however, the broader political-economic question arises: equality to do what? All being free and equal, what are we, as free and equal individuals, free and equal to do? The answer – in the absence of a program of political/economic change – is the liberal answer. To consume. To compete. To embrace the market. To be capitalism’s foot soldiers.

And so, surreptitiously, or to be generous, perhaps unthinkingly, The Greens do capitalism’s dirty work. Growing the market. Growing profit. Growing the 1%.

Perhaps as liberals they believe a little wealth will trickle down.“Quatsch mit sosse!* – bollocks! – as Ned’s old mate would have said. A trickle is not enough.

Finally, in addressing growth in relation to a local economy based on a building-industry-led Ponzi scheme and people farming, we inevitably arrive at the vexed subject of population growth. Content which Ned will reserve for  florid future rant.

Except for this.

A Greens’ “immigration spokesperson” recently opined that to cite congestion and lack of infrastructure as reasons for reducing immigration was ‘racist’.

Ned politely opines that this be asinine, sanctimonious twaddle.

Until the Greens acknowledge the nexus between population growth and environmental despoilation – a connection they scrupulously avoid – for fear of being called out as racist? – by themselves? – they will remain oxymoronic.

And as green as Engels’ arse.

More People. More Stuff. Less Wildlife. Simple.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

* nonsense with gravy




To Be Offended Is To Be Terribly, Terribly Bourgeois


How bourgeois is being ‘offended’? Being ‘offended’, feeling ‘uncomfortable’, deeming behaviour ‘inappropriate’, is so unutterably FEEBLE! So insufferably WET!

One would have to be mummified within numerous cloakings of pretence to be ‘offended’ by moral slight or slur. With authentic emotion – should such  exist – interred inside impenetrable layers of preciosity.

Then again, being offended is all performance, isn’t it ? The offended are far less interested in remedying offending behaviour than in performing their emotion. Garnering attention. Signalling morality. Being bourgeois.

It’s all so Margaret Dumont.

Given its history, its attitude, the human race is in no position to be offended.

The vanity! The vanity!

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

The Yarts Are Now The Yards!


Ardist. Ards. Pardi. Communidy. Humididy. Compuder. Foody (foodball). Warder (drink of). Pud on the keddle, Peder. I’m like, whadever. Todally.

Plainly, the letter ‘t’ has mutated into a ‘d’.

ABC ards programs in pardicular evidence the viral spread of this linguisdic  deformidy. Possibly because commercial channels are more inderesded in spord than ard. And id may well be thad ardists possess a greader abilidy to chad ad length aboud themselves and their ard than spords people have the capabilidy to communicade aboud spord.

What has happened to the Australian tongue? Historically a lean, sharp, hungry organ, the 21st century antipodean speech muscle appears to have become a victim of material comfort, succumbed to obesity and the accompanying sluggishness, and, put simply, become too fat, too heavy, and too enervated for effective manoeuvre within the oral enclosure. The listless, corpulent muscle is now compelled to loll inside the mouth, in semblance of nothing so much as a slab of liver, whilst its state of sloth coerces the lips into doing all the work. A problem in itself, given the boom in collagen plumping (trout-mouth-ectomy) and related cosmetic procedures – let alone any intervening dental architecture – necessitated by the eugenics of contemporary beauty.

To date, linguistic deformation seems predominantly to afflict “t”s in the middle and at the end of words rather than “t”s at the beginning, as though correct pronunciation of an initial plosive – necessitating energetic expulsion of air between tongue and roof of mouth – exhausts the portly and unfit Australian tongue, rendering it unable to correctly execute any subsequent plosives. Instead, mid and end word, the flabby, dissolute organ is barely able to struggle to an elevated position, linger momentarily whilst failing to muster the energy required for a “t”, substitute a plod-like “d”, then flop to the floor of the mouth, where it lies, torpid and tumid, hoping the sentence will end soon.

Of course, the deformed “t”is but the canary in the coalmine, merely an early casualty on the slippery slope of linguistic mutation fomented by the proliferation of flabby middle class tongues and the bloated organ’s deployment in the exponential globalisation of intercourse.

Not least because, in today’s world, talk is widely mistaken for thought, if not having completely replaced it.

Ned needs little convincing that worldwide market-driven economic integration, burgeoning means of communication, and the corollary, escalating commodification of talk, will drive verbal exchange to a Malthusian level. Whence subsequent pandemics – Chronic Tongue Fatigue (“Lazy Mouf”), Chomsky Syndrome, Chomsky Syndrome By Proxy, Congenital Inarticulacy, Tongue Banding, Digital Maw, Glottis Pox, La Langue Morte, etc – will  culminate not only in the demise of the letter “t” but in complete annihilation of the phonetic alphabet as we know it. Or used to. And thus, in utter unintelligibility.

Back to Babel.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause Trouble. And teach your children well.




“The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity”

The Second Coming  :  W.B. Yeats.  1919    


Perhaps The Best lack conviction because battling the passionate intensity of The Worst, the vehemence of The Social Media Pile-On Mob, the sanctimonious correctness of The Moralisers, the sheer fortress-like absolutist thickness of the several parties comprising The Mediocre, is just too bloody exhausting after a time. 

Well toughen up, Princesses! Because The Worst gets worse.

Why, Ned hasn’t even mentioned the singular horror that is Ambitious Mediocrity!

Nothing is more disheartening to the thoughtful, more dangerous to a thoughtful world, than ambitious mediocrity. Not least because mediocrity does not know itself. Indeed, would not recognise itself if it bit itself on the arse. The capacity to know thyself is beyond the mediocre mentality. Even if – BIG if – the concept of self-cognition does by mischance happen to rise in the mediocre consciousness, the threatening spectre is wilfully dismissed as an unnecessary and hazardous notion that would necessitate admitting one’s inadequacy to oneself. And is that going to happen? No way, blockhead! The Mediocre have no self doubt. None. They can’t. Not a jot. Because The Mediocre are, as the man said, always at their best. From which unexamined position the added injection of ambition, fueling self-delusion, drives the unquestioningly witless into situations way beyond their capability without their ever recognising it. While The Best fall exhausted and self-doubting by the wayside. Or, finding themselves employed, managed, manipulated, bullied and otherwise CEO’d by The Ambitious Mediocre, are driven insane. Or simply give up and run from the bone-headed world into arcane pursuits such as reading.

Now. The merest smidgen of research demonstrates local mediocrity almost invariably presenting in the form of Holden-Ford binary thought. Stay with Ned. Holden-Ford. You are one or the other. Irredeemably. You think one way or the other. Irrevocably. And your binary opposite is intolerable. A rival to be scorned when in expansive mood, hated when not. The homophobe versus christianophobe nature of much recent Folau Discourse springs to mind. Liberal/Labor dualism. Melbourne v Sydney. Bali/not Bali. Victim/Villain.

Now. The occasional Valiant of Different Thought may chug over a crest, dazzling in its difference, for a brief moment tempting a thinker perhaps to broader insight, but the cognitive aberration, equally anachronistic, never threatens to put a serious dent in Holden-Ford intellectual hegemony. Furthermore, deep into the 21st century, in an astounding display of digger-like resilience, Holden-Fordist Thought continues to thrive long after its automotive analogues have been displaced by umpteen more sophisticated, imported competitors. The flourishing of vehicular alternativism is simply not replicated in the market of thought! Au contraire! Far from loosening its grip with the passing of time, Holden-Fordism seems only to be expanding its dualistic dominion over what may be loosely termed The Australian Mind.

So. Give them an issue and out they come, Holdens and Fords, revving at the lights of discourse, drivers panting with the importance of highly polished, accessorised and badged, same old same old contributions. Same old faces, same old earrings, same old headband, same old toothy hee-hawing at each others wit when talk turns to lighter matters..which it inevitably does as The Mediocre rapidly run out of intellectual steam and begin to repeat repartee.

To this exchange is awarded the appellation “The Conversation”.

Now. How often does “The Conversation” concern people who themselves are not invited to participate in The Conversation? Ned here is thinking of the poor, the chronic unemployed, the homeless, the victims of violence, et al. When did we last see a homeless person on a TV panel show? A pauper? A chronic welfare recipient? Is there a minimum wage prerequisite – let alone mandatory state of bourgeois grooming – for appearance on The Drum or The Project or The Nightly Cant or Morning TV Gibberish OMG? There appears no end of familiar well-tailored offended parties by proxy in attendance upon these platforms, and precious few, if any, actuals. Then again, victims by proxy make a living through having opinions. And, when on a good thing, by sticking to it.

And then, and then, diving deeper and down, we enter the realm of shrieking blockheadedness known as social media. Down here, the light of sense is so unable to penetrate, the darkness of cerebral immiseration so pervasive, that not even the cranial feebleness of Holden-Fordism can get a look in. Down here, where reaction by keypad has completely supplanted thought, we are in the realm of no thought at all.

So toughen up, Princesses! And off with their heads!

In 1919, given the then disturbed state of the world, Ned’s good friend W.B. was inquiring, poetically, as to whether The Second Coming might be at hand. With caveat that, if such was the case, The Second Coming of what?

In 2019, one hundred years of disturbance later, with sincere apologies, W.B..

“And what rough beast. its hour come round at last

Slouches towards Northcote to be born?”

Or St Kilda, Darlinghurst, Bondi, or Byron Bay, for that matter.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause Trouble. And teach your children well.


Still Life With Dead Duck – Pieter Boel – 1622-1674


Victory lies within our grasp.

The War On Nature has been prosecuted far more successfully than the War On Terror, The War On Poverty, The War On Drugs, The War On Waste, The Wars On Racism, Sexism, Genderism, Ableism, Ageism, Bodymorphism, Anything-Human-That-Other-Humans-Pick-On-ism, Etc-ism.

The War On Peace does show progress, thanks to a small number of dedicated terrorists, theocratic states, tribal dictatorships, and the occasional capitalist invasion, but total victory surely lies a long way off while billions of humans will persist in clinging to the dream of a peaceful life!

Whereas The War On Nature is but a tick’s dick short of Total Victory.

Everywhere post-animist humankind has populated, Nature is defeated. Enslaved when useful, decimated-to-exterminated when not. Utility to homo supremacisticus is all. We have been fruitful, increased in number, filled the earth, subdued it and achieved dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the heavens, the cows, pigs, sheep, and every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth, not to mention fruit, vegetables and sundry other life forms of less complex nervous systems. And we have in the main achieved our dominion effortlessly, via the production and consumption of Stuff.

Excellent work.

But not enough! We need more Stuff. Economic growth depends on production and sale of more Stuff. Population growth demands more Stuff. 10 billion humans by 2056? Eliminating poverty? More Stuff.

Happily for us, Stuff kills! Making more room for more humans and more Stuff. Stuff is Our Principal Weapon in the War On Nature! All of our built environment, our industry, agriculture, and infrastructure, all our domestic Stuffthe house, car, boat, pool, furniture, appliances, clothing, toys, mower, 4-burner barbecue and leafblower – what it’s made of, where it’s made, how it’s made, how and where it gets into our hands – all of the above – follow the chain of carnage from raw material to finished, distributed product! – comes at the expense of other life. By way of habitat destruction and species dispersal, climate change, cultural behaviours, insensate machinery, pollution, disease, nets and fencing, guns and poisons, introduced predators, invasive plant species, genetic engineering and humanity’s outsized wheels.

No-one gets off the hook. Apart perhaps the abject poor languishing in some dustbowl of a failed state, or tribal hold-outs in a fast-diminishing jungle**, no-one has clean hands. Not me. Not you. Not them. Not even if we eschew ‘animal products’, vote Green, and flaunt a Stop Adani! bumper sticker

Of course, most if not all of us prefer not to acknowledge that the house, the car, our clothes, our screens, our coffee, hairdryers, high heels and hipster holidays, our life, killed other life.

Well, you wouldn’t want to acknowledge it, would you?

Stuff is the new opiate of the people.

But unless you and I live up a tree or in a cave, and forage for subsistence, we are footsoldiers in the War Against Nature.

Now. Is death by abattoir more immoral, more cruel than death by starvation, by dehydration, by being run over, by displacement and all the other means by which homo supremacisticus achieves dominion?

Because there does seem a very selective arithmetic is being deployed by certain evangelists and bourgeois finger-pointers in bestowing upon themselves the sanctity of “It’s them, not me.”

Ned Ludd Says: Responsibility demands we do our personal accountability sums comprehensively before accusing others of war crimes.

It’s the hypocrisy, stupid.

This week’s disheartening UN report declares that one million animal and plant species face extinction unless a “transformative change” occurs in human interaction with nature.


It’s all a bit hard to see this”transformative change” happening, isn’t it? Not without a meteor hitting. As Ned’s good friend M. de Balzac so pithily put it:

“Avarice begins where poverty ends.”

After poverty, how much comfort is too much? Wherever the line is, it’s not where it is now.

And if Ned sees another commercial featuring a 4 wheel drive demonstrating dominion over a pristine beach, churning across a stream, ploughing up a hillside, plants, rock and earth flying in every direction, he will be sorely tempted to call out the troops and by dark of night impose hammer-led Luddite dominion upon any and all morbidly-obese earth-trashing vehicles within range. And as for Jetskis..and trail bikes..and..

..and just to be clear:

A Misanthrope Is What A Humanist Calls A Realist.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

Free the POWs!

**Don’t worry. Stuff is on its way.


What’s The Problem With Going To Hell?


What is the problem with going to Hell? I mean, really? Ned is going to Hell. All his friends are going to Hell. The vast majority of the population, and Ned is talking globally, is going to Hell. The Frightened simply need to understand that they will be in jolly good company. With far, far fewer moralisers telling them how to behave. Of course, the odd demon or fiend, even Beelzebub himself, may attempt to impale us on a spit, so to create a discomforting rotisserie, or dunk us, strapped in an uncomfortably hard chair, into a lake of boiling sulphur, or remove and devour our internal organs, raw, before our very eyes, or stuff us into the mouth of a Very Big Fish, but really, when you think it through, demons and capering fellow travellers haven’t got a shit show. Our sheer number, the vast unholy mass of the Eternally Damned, will soon see the inmates running the institution. If we are not already in charge. Deploying historical perspective, taking into consideration the quality of evildoer already below, it’s hard to imagine self-government not being the case in Hell  long before now. Long, long before now.

While the tongue tickers and finger waggers and tight-arsed goody-goodies languish in heaven, bored out of their skulls. Not least because, up top, on high, there are no malefactors to hector.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.




Do Good Koalas Go To Heaven?



Well? Do good koalas go to heaven? If not, why not?

Is the option of paradise for eternity only available to self-conscious materially-acquisitive bipeds who exercise dominion over the earth, revel in anthropocentric self-worship, and fawn over The Creator – whoever he/she/it may be – for having the sheer cleverness to come up with humankind?

Bloody humans. What wankers!

Koalas never hurt anyone – apart from pissing on people – who can blame them? – and they take good care of their little patch of the earth. What have koalas done to warrant, upon decease, consignment to bog-oblivion and banal return of their component matter to the general molecular mass of the universe?  That koalas are not offered the opportunity to frolic forever in heaven as reward for a good life seems grossly unfair.

Especially if they become extinct.

What can God have been thinking?

Ned is reminded of Queensland. A rethink is needed.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.


It’s the RELIGION, You Fools!


The hellfire and damnation recently visited upon the head of Israel Folau for his commentary on homosexuals (not to mention drunks, adulterers, thieves, fornicators, and other Biblical miscreants) is misdirected, aimed at too soft and easy a target. Folau is a symptom, not the cause. The cause is RELIGION. Of course, it would require far greater insight, moral courage and intellectual staying power if one wished to shut down the source of Folau’s misguided beliefs, Christianity, and its particular fount of wisdom, The Bible. And if The Outraged piling onto Folau were to attack the source of his belief, religion itself, then logically, so as not to be hypocritical, The Outraged Critique would need to include Islam – heaven forbid! – la religion du jour – and the numerous other belief systems founded upon the teachings of supernatural beings and espousing a view of homosexuality similar to that of Christianity. And is that going to happen?

Much easier to play the man and not the ball. Let alone end the game itself.

And here’s a question. If Ned did take it into his foolish, unbelieving head to negatively critique Christianity, would he then be damned as a Christianophobe? As critics of Islam are currently labelled Islamophobes?  And what about Hinduphobes, Buddhaphobes, Shintophobes, Judeophobes, Sikhophobes, Taoistophobes,  Satanistophobes, and Animistophobes?

Are they all lurking out there on social media too?

So let’s talk about phobia, baby. Definition: an extreme, irrational fear. And, Ned asks, what else is religion but an extreme, irrational fear, of the material world? Might it therefore be internally contradictory to suggest someone has an extreme irrational fear of an extreme irrational fear?

Of course, to label a viewpoint ‘phobic’ is to employ an old, lazy debating trick – push an opposing position to its seeming furthest extreme – say, by referencing, as the opposition’s fellow travellers, Hitler or Stalin or Jack The Ripper, or all three – or by bringing in incurable illogicalities such as “extreme irrational fear” – with intent to render the opposing argument utterly senseless and so untenable.

Much easier to phrase-monger than to think things through.

Ned Ludd Says: An Islamophobe is merely what an Islamosycophant labels a Rational Materialist. Likewise, all other religio-phobes.

Finally, finally, for God’s sake!, CENSORSHIP DOES NOT WORK. Ned had thought this battle won forty to fifty years ago. It seems not. The censors, the punishers and straighteners, have reared their ugly heads again, this time in the guise of liberalism. Huh? Diversity. But not in thought. Banning Folau’s views from social media and Folau himself from the football field will DO NOTHING to remove the offensive beliefs from society. It may well achieve the opposite, strengthen religion’s hold by hardening the resolve of its defenders – nothing like a good old siege mentality – and, perhaps, by adding the mystique of forbidden belief, attract the vulnerable, especially the angry. Much as both Trump’s anti-liberalism and radical Islam have proven appealing to the lost, the confused and the disenfranchised.

And is not banning certain beliefs and practices exactly what hard-line religion seeks to do? Hypocrisy, thy name is liberalism.

Ned Ludd Says: Let the offensive hang themselves, and continue to hang themselves, in public. And counter with intelligent discourse.

The answer to bigotry is simple: educate your children.

However. More and more, every day, the easy way is the Aussie way.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

There Is No Such Thing As The Market


There is no such thing as The Market.* There are individual buyers and sellers and there are corporations, avowedly acting in enlightened self-interest, paradoxically dim and herd-like in bellowing stampede to buy and sell according to the panic attack of the day.

“The Market decides” is received superstition, the hocus pocus of capital, the tribal juju of traders, chanted to frighten the public and justify the toxicities of Laissez-Fairyland.

The “Invisible Hand” supposedly governing the movement of supply and demand within The Market is naught but a malevolent poltergeist, Adam Smith’s familiar, an economic spook conjured to befog the irrational and unenlightened arithmetic entangling us from preschool to pension.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well


*with no apology to Baroness T.

The Vanished Left and The Totalitarian Centre


The Left – the genuine Left – that of socialism – has sadly vanished from local public discourse. Become the philosophy which dare not speak its name.

In its absence, the term left is now monstrously slandered in being appended to bourgeois liberals such as The Greens, ABC political commentators, local Guardian opinionistas and, very occasionally, commercial channel breakfast show guests. The false nomenclature is deployed both by liberalism’s enemies on the right, as a pejorative, and by liberals themselves, but as flattery: “I am so progressive, I must be left.”

Now let’s get this straight, once and for all.

Bourgeois liberals may be to the relative left of Tony Abbott, Alan Jones, and Heinrich Himmler, but more objectively, these moralising folk occupy a central position on the political axis. Fake Left? If you like.

The true left may have vanished but the position remains vacant.

The guilty parties in this terminological misuse, the lumpen-commentariat of the media, seem to lack even a basic knowledge of the political history from whence the terms left wing, right wing, centrist, derive. Perhaps these pundits were born post-1989 when, according to liberal historians and vested interests, history concluded, and our post-quartre-vingt-neufers are still living the dream. Or perhaps they simply cannot, or choose not to, read.

It gets worse.

Moving from the badgers to the badged, linguistic deformation becomes even more monstrous, contradictory, and dangerous. Not content with moral finger-wagging – from a market share of around 10% or less – the bourgeois liberals – or Clayton’s left? – confound their  proclaimed missionary belief in freedom and equality by seeking to ban, banish, censor, de-platform, airbrush from history, talk over the top of, or drown out by squealing, any viewpoint contrary to their own, as heresy.

Oh yes. Flame the heretics. Tear down the statues. Remove the stadia names. Book burning coming on!

Thus has been conjured a whole new oxymoronic political stance: Totalitarian Liberalism. Or perhaps, PC Fascism? The Extreme Centre? Rainbow Puritanism? The Dictatorship Of Virtue?* Je Suis Robespierre?

Diversity. But not in thought.

Historically, the Extreme Right and Extreme Left have proven dangerous.

The Extreme Centre is similarly menacing. And preposterous.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

* thankyou, Simon Schama

A Maximum Wage! Now!


What do we want? A maximum wage!

When do we want it? Now!

The very thought..!

Imagine the squealing! The gnashing of teeth! The wringing of hands! The indignation in expensive suits! The howling of the corporate press! The de-fenestration of economists! The plague of lobbyists infesting the capital! The plummeting sales of Grange futures! The OMGing! The WTFing! The Social Media Prolapse! The mortification of screen jocks and share pimps as the Fifth Horseman Of The Apocalypse, Whose Name Is Moderation, canters through the stock exchange, laughing like a drain!

Oh, the poor dears! Calm. Calm. It’s not going to happen. Promise. Not even if it were conclusively proven in the national interest to reduce income inequality would it happen.   

The New Aristocracy would find such an impost on their greed to be unthinkable.

The New Aristocracy. Yes, the First Estate is back. Not that it ever really went away. It simply shape-shifted and found a means whereby it was no longer necessary to have committed mass murder and stolen immense tracts of land in the past to socially ascend. All that is required to be an aristocrat today is greed, ruthlessness, and the ego to Borrow Big and Borrow More and Carry On Borrowing from fellow aristocrats.

For the Princes and Princelings Of The New Aristocracy make money out of money! How clever is that? They remain rentiers, like their forebears, but instead of accumulating wealth through collection of rent on land, they collect rent on money. Rent from modest loans to peasants, serfs, vassals, villeins – mortgages, insurance, car finance, credit cards – and more impressively, rent – on a gargantuan scale – from loans to the Dukes And Earls of Executive Corporate Management, lounging one level below Princes in the aristocratic hierarchy. Who do not of course pay the huge rents on gargantuan borrowings out of their own pockets – heavens, no! – that is the role of corporate structure. For, as Napoleon recognised, the wonderful thing about corporations is that no-one is responsible! With the result that New Aristocrats may receive multi-million-dollar salaries, supplemented by multi-million-dollar bonuses and multi-million-dollar kiss-offs even when they fail, which is often, and/or more rarely, are caught with their snouts too deep in the trough – too deep being a financial stratum unimaginably deep to the peasantry – and in which unsavoury event the base of the aristocratic pyramid, the Barons and Viscounts Of The Legal Profession – steeped in the finessing of wheeling, dealing, and evasion of consequences – come into overpaid play.

Ruling over all, there is, of course, King Rupert.

And from king down to lowliest overpaid baron, the very idea of a maximum wage is an abomination.

What about the market?, they scream. The market sets salaries! Bollocks! The market does not exist! The market is a chimera, a fantasy of laissez-fairyland. Ned Ludd says!             (see NLS post: 22.09.18)

So..what would happen? Should a visionary government* legislate a maximum wage, not find itself sacked, arrested, disappeared, and/or shot, and the nation not invaded in defence of capitalism by the USA and/or China..

What would happen?

Well, not to put too fine a point, a positive welter of one percenters would flee the country in high dudgeon, along with their ill-gotten gains – assuming such is not already parked offshore (ha!) – buy their way in to wherever unfettered individual wealth remains acceptable, and continue feeding their greed via exploitation of fellow humans.

How could that be anything but good? For the country left behind?

And long term, after the greedy had fled, leaving only the suckers they formerly exploited, this country might be able to recalibrate its needs and wants according to reason, simplify material life, preserve its natural beauty, and arrive at a more equitable, less stressed mutuality.

He’s a dreamer! He’s a dreamer!

The alternative, of course, is to park a guillotine in each and every CBD and get to work chopping.

Ça ira!**

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

*yes, yes, oxymoronic **it’ll be OK!

Jackson, Pell, and the Conservative Media




Why do not Andrew Bolt and Miranda Devine defend Michael Jackson as they do George Pell? I mean, really. Have they no respect for diversity?

Off with their heads.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.





Please Exit The Anthropocentric Paradigm


This will sort you out.

You’re out in the bush, in a life-threatening situation. Fire. Flood. You have the opportunity to save a total stranger, or a koala.

Your choice?

Before you answer..

Current global extinction rates are 1,000 times higher than the natural background rates.

Australia has the fourth-highest level of overall animal species extinction in the world, trailing only the USA, French Polynesia, and Mauritius.

The latest Red List of Threatened Species, published by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, lists 40 Australian species as  extinct.

A further 106 are listed as critically endangered.

We rank number one in the extinction of mammals.

30 Australian native mammal species (11%) have become extinct since European settlement.

We are responsible for  35% of global modern mammal extinctions since 1600, the highest of any country. By a country mile.

310 species of animals, including 30% of surviving mammals and 7% of lizards, as well as 1180 plant species, are listed by the Australian Government as at risk of extinction.

An estimated 4 million feral cats in Australia kill an estimated 75 million native birds, reptiles and amphibians every night.

Land clearance in NSW and Queensland accounts for an estimated 50 million mammals, reptiles, and birds, annually.

By 2050 it is projected there will be no koalas left in NSW.

The Western Australian shark cull allows trapping of protected shark species.

From 2019, also in W.A., the dingo will no longer be considered native fauna.

It is clear our environmental protection laws have failed native species.

The mantra of growth chanted by the political class and vested interests signals a national intent to fail wildlife even more successfully. Economic growth. Population growth. Accumulation of stuff. Burgeoning bathrooms. Morbidly obese 4WDs and glandulous utes. Breeding, disposable electronica. More, newer, bigger everything. At the expense of other life.

Yes, yes. Ned knows. We have dominion over the earth. Of course we do. Earth is ours to subdue. Genesis 1:26. With variations on the theme similarly intoned in most other self-serving compendia of superstition, hocus pocus, and witchdoctery promoted as holy books and sacred texts.

Here is an alternative view, put to Gulliver by the King of Brobdingnag:

“I cannot but conclude the bulk of your natives to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth..”

The anthropocentric paradigm has reached its use-by date.

Save the koala.


That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

Our Janus HANSONS: Twin Mothers Of Australia


How lucky is The Lucky Country to be nurtured by not one but two mother figures, both named Hanson? Our Mother Sarah and Our Mum Pauline, elected to bear crosses on our behalf, the one to point out our manifold sins, the other to encourage them, surely make Australia not, as some say, a nanny state, but a mummy state?

Mother Sarah: our handwringing, long-suffering, Goody Two Shoes Mater.

Mum Pauline: our feisty, flag-clad* Ranga-Bogan Ur-Mother.

In the spirit of correctness, signalling that she views men as equals, Our Mother Sarah openly shares her Hansonism with Youngism. Whilst Our Mum Pauline, although born a Seccombe, identifies as a Hanson, which in the spirit of inclusive diversity is all that is required to be a Hanson.

Perennially beleaguered, prone to shed tears at our copious transgressions, Our Mother Sarah simply cannot fathom why her well-suckled offspring – us – continue daily to misbehave , giving Mother Sarah habitually to utter deep sighs of exasperation, muster gravely disapproving looks – and more particularly to ask, despairingly, why we horrid little ingrates do not unceasingly wish to play with poor little gender-fluid and/or migrant kiddies?

Sleepless on cold Canberra nights, Mother Sarah worries: do I over-suckle my children? Why are they so ungrateful? Don’t I give them everything? OMG! What is the appropriate behaviour if they start playing with that awful Pauline’s children? OMG! OMG!! Why don’t their spineless, white-privileged, sperm donors do more?

Perennially #Not Me, I don’t like it, Our Mum Pauline prefers not to fathom, but rather to stay on positive message, in the belief that if she continues saying the same thing over and over, we, her southern-cross-tattooed, ute-driving, “Such Is Life” post-mulleted sprogs, will eventually wake up, Australia!, and learn to stand on our own two feet before the nation is overswarmed.

Thrashing about on hot Canberra nights, Mum Pauline frets: am I under-parenting? Why are my kids so docile? So wet? So PC? Am I not making myself clear? OK, youse, is this clear enough? If youse southern-cross-tattooed, ute-driving, “Such Is Life” post-mulleted sprogs don’t stand up for yourselves, youse’ll be overswarmed! Why can’t all Australians just be like Australians?

Our Mum Pauline has no worries about her children playing with Our Mother Sarah’s, as Mum Pauline is confident her children will beat Mother Sarah’s children to a pulp if they give any trouble.** Mum Pauline has heard, however, that some of Mother Sarah’s children may be unvaccinated, surely an argument for offshore detention, if not deportation, in a leaky boat, as far away as possible.

Our Mother Sarah enjoys the support of several short, sensitive new age gentlemanly factotums (factoti?) who can be trusted to behave appropriately in all situations, such that when Mother Sarah becomes emotionally overwrought, they are, if not completely the equal of Mother Sarah’s moral sensitivity, at least capable of stepping in and administering a dose of corrective – verbal, no smacking, criticise the behaviour, not the child – to errant little Australians whilst Mother Sarah recovers composure.

Contrastingly, Our Mum Pauline has routinely found domestic help difficult to retain in her employ, as, in Mum Pauline’s experience, sooner or later, usually sooner, they get too big for their boots, start having ideas above their station, think they can run the show, forget whose name is at the top of the leaflet, and all that. As a consequence, in today’s troubled times, Mum Pauline is firmly intent on single-parenting the nation unassisted. Most recent Pauline disciple, Mr Latham (Uncle Mark), appears unaware of this determination.

Now, to a difficult issue. The call of truth demands that Ned unpack the farrago of gossip and innuendo, speculation and factoid, that befogs the true relationship between Australia’s twin Janus-like mothers.

So, stay with Ned. Stay with me.

Recent research within the dark realm of digital whisper elicits a tantalising question: could Australia’s Janus-mothers be blood related? Our Mum Pauline’s claim to have been born Seccombe has proven no obstacle to surmise and pursuant forensic investigation, as documents can be, and usually are, in Canberra, forged. One particularly virulent capital city canard has it that The Hansons could prove to be sisters! Unbeknownst to themselves. Or – still  more intriguingly – beknownst! Even twin sisters? Conjoined? And separated at birth? Or (shudder) later? Accidentally, or cruelly, depending on who you talk to? As a result, depending on who you talk to, of a significantly underfunded hospital system? Or, depending on who you talk to, of trusting in the unwashed, unqualified hands of an unAustralian fake medical practitioner on an overstayed visa? If indeed, depending on who you talk to, the miscreant ethnic obstetrician had a visa in the first place?

There is surely more clarity yet to be had from filtration and distillation of the Hanson genealogical murk. Watch this space.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

*on occasion, seeking anonymity, Mum Pauline has been known
to don apparel of middle-eastern appearance.
** bogan v snowflake. no contest.

An Indigenous President for the Republic of Australia

Albert Namatjira Meets Queen Elizabeth II


Run this up your flagpole.

Why not combine indigenous recognition in the constitution with the legal framing of the republic..

..by constitutionally mandating that the President of Australia be an Indigenous Australian?

A few definitions, presidential job description, constitutional rejig, to be sorted.

Too easy.*

First round of voting: Indigenous Australian constituency elects a limited number of presidential candidates.

Second round: National constituency elects the president from the Indigenous-elected candidates.

Time to Think Big.

A piddling nod to history will not fix the hole in the soul.

And Ned would love to see President Marcia Langton give the mediocre clowns in the other arm of government a good, regular kicking.

Stranger things have happened. And recently.

That’s all for now.

Light blue touch paper and stand back.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

* Yes, yes, Ned knows. Call him a cock-eyed optimist. 
A strabismic pollyanna. A risible panglossian. All that. 
Time will tell.


Weekend Cycling Is Rococo Capitalism!


Rococo capitalism – the manufacture and consumption of the completely unnecessary – surely reaches a morbidly-accessorised apotheosis in the figure of the Australian Weekend Cyclist. Tumescent with the overt symptoms of Obsessive Lycra Disorder, longish shorts/shortish longs featuring replete colostomy bag at the rear, zippered shirts spattered in faux Tour/Giro advertising, cleated footwear, ineffective helmets, innumerable plastic bottles and tubes, rudeness to cafe staff and non-cycling patrons, road sanctimony, and complete lack of awareness that the global cycling world finds the entire antipodean pose preposterous.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, where does all that lycra – and its accumulated secretions – end up? In the mid-Pacific gyre, of course. Branding the littoral of The Great Plastic Island. It’s enough to make a fish sick.

Next: “Lance Armstrong” Signature EPO. Gives the weekend cyclist “that extra edge”.

Off with their heads.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.

A Plague On All Your Gibberish


And lo, the Lord sent a plague of technologies to tempt the man and the woman. And they were tempted and bowed down and worshipped the plague of technologies.

Then the Lord sent a plague of hand-held and other devices, and the man and the woman bowed down and worshipped the plague of hand-held and other devices. In the street, and in shopping malls, and in recreational spaces and especially on public transport did they bow their heads and worship the devices.

And lo, as the people bowed down, the Lord did cause a plague of words to issue forth from their mouths and from their thumbs and from their fingers. Words. And words about words. And words about words about words. And a plague of opinions was set upon the land.

And the names of the opinions were Gibberish, Blather, and Drivel.

Then the Lord made a prophet to come forth and cry “Oh, the jabbering! Oh, the jabbering!” but the people would not listen and they did throw stones at the prophet and cast him out into the desert.

And from the plague of words and the plague of opinions, the Lord did cause a plague of digits to fly unseen through the air. And the plague of digits did multiply, and digits begat digits, which begat digits, which begat digits, until digits did fill the air. And when the air was filled with digits, the air was made solid.

And lo, the man and the woman could not breathe, and died with their heads bowed before their devices.

And relative quiet was once more upon the earth.

That’s all for now.


Remember: Cause trouble. And teach your children well.