Tuesday 20 March 2018

fallen windmills, quinoa & frozen pike



Comrades,

Crikey! It was a busy weekend for the Miracle of Democracy...



[Photo: Nina Zontina/Sputnik. Voters in Sochi, Russia, 18 March 2018.]


I note that My Mate Vlad has been returned for his fourth stint as President of the Russian Federation.
Wildly popular among the middle class he created, by all reports.
Who knows what the proletariat is thinking?
Backed him in with something like 77% of the popular vote by some accounts, but the powers-that-be in Russia are not generally fond of Electoral Commission's, or nuisances like that, so it's hard for the amateur psephologist to get any handle on the exact numbers that actually count.
It goes without saying that with the genuine Opposition out of the race after boycotting the poll in protest over a fraudulent bribery conviction of their leader, the Communist Party candidate was the only real alternative [and he died in the neck with the voters], and despite eight candidates on the ballot paper, Putes was a lay-down misere in this one, so there wasn't much need for vote rigging, as the election had already been rigged.
There didn't seem to be any argument about that.
There were reported cases of "ballot stuffing" - that's always a good one.
If enough people don't bother to show up, electoral officials just sternly fill out all the blank ballot papers for the authorities and stuff the ballot boxes with them, safe in the knowledge that no-one will be any the wiser.
Winner!
The only reality about the whole exercise was the turnout, but that's a State Secret, as are the number of spoiled ballots, that would have been binned anyway.
There were some legitimate concerns that folk would not roll up, blaming the unseasonably cold spring weather, but Putes had an answer to that...he adopted Abe Lincoln's old tactic of offering free booze at the polling stations, with barrels of Govt. made and authorised vodka being rolled out across the nation so people had the opportunity to raise a glass and toast "tvajó zdaróvye!!" to their Great and Glorious Leader.
And not happy with just grog, it was reported that on Russia’s Pacific coast, local officials delivered fresh eggs, tinned peas, and frozen pike to polling stations, to be sold at a 30% discount on retail.
Brilliant! Go shopping on the cheap while you vote and have a drink.
Who's going to argue with that?
Nikolai Kretsu, who's known around those parts as the Chairman of the Consumer Market Committee, was quoted as saying "we think by doing this we can increase turnout” and "the second objective is to strengthen allegiance towards the authorities.”
Too right mate, and too honest for yr own good.
Never mind being a dab hand with a light touch of nerve agent, if Vlad the Impaler doesn't do a Mr Jinping, and is still term limited in 2024, he already would have been effectively running the show for nigh on a quarter century anyway.
Talk about the quintessential autocrat.

[Photo: Alexander Zemlianichenko/AP. Vladimir Putin celebrating the fourth anniversary of Russia's annexation of Crimea, Manezhnaya Square, Moscow, 18 March 2018.]



[Photo: Steven S. Marshall caught looking rather shady at an un-dated press conference in Adelaide.]

Meantime, over in the Free Colonies, you've gotta love the South Australian Liberal Country League Cartel, who think they were born to rule, if anyone was.
Steven S. Marshall - a former furniture salesman and wool broker - ironically represents the good burghers of the electorate of Dunstan [formerly Norwood]...he of the Pink hotpants, Our Don, on course, would be revolving in his poor shallow grave knowing that a Tory is representing the seat he famously nicked off the arch-conservatives, and is now named in his honour.
Mortified, he would be.
There was some of the usual hanky-panky going down with the Pinko's apparently forced to make something like 40,000 robocalls through the reverse phonebook, and send a few thousand texts in the days before the election reminding old folk that not only do they have the right to vote, but that they are obliged to vote, after the Tories spread a scurrilous and fictitious rumour that Senior Citizens were exempt from the ballot.
That hoary old chestnut - spreading postal vote forms in nursing homes has long been a Pinko ploy on the campaign trail - but now it's same, same, only different; just run a 'don't vote' scam on the platform favoured by the elderly, Facebook, and watch it take off.
Uncle Jay looked like the heavy burden of power had been lifted from his shoulders while conceding defeat with an excellent punting analogy "like a four-time Melbourne Cup winner, who the handicapper has finally caught up with - on this occasion".
The handicapper being the Surveyor-General or whoever drew up the "radical redistribution" which effectively made four solid working-class seats very marginal, so the odds were indeed stacked against him, and the L.C.L jumped at their chance.
Lets face it, Labor did preside over closing a car factory or two, a submarine base that according to a former Tory Defence Minister "couldn't build a canoe", and a whole lot of windmills falling over in a 'once in 100 year storm' and frying the electricity grid to buggery.
But what could have been 20 years in power is a long long time, and nobody has a mortgage on the Miracle of Democracy.
The Pinko's just lost the popular vote.
Croweaters' opted for change for change's sake, surely confident that not much will actually change in the Rust Belt, apart from schools and hospitals and the like going down the S-bend us usual.
And it wasn't as if the Lefties were "swept from power" in a landslide or anything, it was more like a "brave, honourable defeat" given the near-impossible task.
Apart from being redistributed out of it - in the end, it was the "incumbency problem", plain and simple.
In a scary unstable world, the punters left their Protest Votes at home, and went with self-interest and stability, as everyone knows what a minority Govt. looks like - just ask Julia Gillard, she'll tell you.
It was most pleasing to see that complete & utter freak of nature, Corey Berandi, go entirely nowhere, while that show-pony Nick the Greek is now also a goner, a spent political force.
There is no way back for Xenophon, as South Australia polarised - scared to death of the unknown - left to the left and right to the right, thanks, leaving no middle ground to contest, and sensibly the wily bastard won't have yet another lash at the Senate as his comrades in the Nat Cap are splintering like Mintaro slate, and there's simply no point beating yr head against a limestone wall, anymore.
He's had his day in the sun, and is now very tanned.
So Nick goes from wannabe power-broker and king-maker to schmuck, and will just have to return to "no win, no fee" lawyering to earn a crust, as even his handsome Parliamentary pension from Canberra is unlikely to keep him in the manner to which he is accustomed.
It's everyone for themselves on that part of the island, I'm afraid.



[Photo: Stanley Hammond 1979 Bronze [detail] of John Batman, co-founder of Melbourne - "a rogue, thief, cheat and liar, a murderer of blacks and the vilest man I have ever known".Formerly located in Collins St, Melbourne, currently in storage.]


It was heartwarming for an Old Red to see the Pinko's and common sense triumph in the Batman by-election, where they were the under-dogs to end all under-dogs...but it was a classic example of a very old adage..."all politics is local".
Global warming be buggered, folk in inner-suburban Melbourne [where there's long been "four seasons in one day"] could not give a blue root about a "stranded asset" that is highly unlikely to ever become some Indian coal mine in outback QLD more than two-and-a-half thousand kilometres away as the crow flies.
Reffo's? Nah, no votes in them.
The Greens did themselves no favours at all by fielding a perennial loser, a very ordinary party hack who has now contested the seat SIX times and lost [although she still has a very long way to go to beat Screaming Lord Sutch of the Monster Raving Loony Party who still holds the world record for the most number of contested elections lost].
The tofu hanging off the Hipster Proof Fence along yr Bell St there did not turn Green with mold, and the tree-huggers' candidate was also dogged by vindictive bickering in her own party and was blatantly and very publicly accused of being a bully and an all-round not nice person.
Now that's not white-anting, that's eating the whole house.
In stark contrast, the Pinko's had the sense to run an actual real worker [a former nurse], with enough political nous to rise to the top of the Australian Nursing Federation and then follow the RJ Hawke route through the ACTU.
She knows a thing or two about organising - don't you worry about that - and reportedly worked very hard at retail politics.
If she personally didn't knock on every door in Batman, one of her envoys did.
The Labor vote actually increased south of the Quinoa Corridor as the Greens were deserted in droves by the Millennials - so there's hope for them yet.
While the Hon. Bob Brown down on his little farm in Tassy is consumed by incandescent rage at the wrecking of his noble intentions party by ignorant fools, the un-reformed Trots are way up shit creek without a paddle, after a disastrous election in the Apple Isle, losing big-time ground in SA, failing to secure a certain win in Batman, and are now being wholly consumed by their own long-running internal backstabbing - ask Lee Rhiannon, she'll tell you.
The way they're going, it's likely to all end in tears and go the same way as the Australian Democrats.
Remember them?
The Greens, of course, just blame shady preference deals and everything else under the sun, so instead of putting it on everyone but himself, the only decent and honourable thing for Dr Dick Di Natale to do is to fall on his sword and go back to pushing pills for a living, or going off-grid to navel gaze in an isolated rustically trendy log cabin on a freezing cold Victorian mountainside, never to be heard of again.
The Tories couldn't even be bothered running a candidate.

Solidarity forever.





Monday 19 March 2018

the first-rate quality of the South Australian electorate



Comrades.

The first-rate quality of the electorate in South Australia has never ceased to impress me mightily and is beyond reproach.
This specimen, patiently waiting in the queue to cast his ballot, has got the message of the Miracle of Democracy - they all count, it don't matter who you are - one vote, one value.



So help me, God.


Photo: ShitAdelaide/Instagram

Wednesday 7 March 2018

the SR-28 Sarmat Super Heavy comin' at ya



Comrades,

The idea of them damned Ruskies bombing the living bejesus out of the US of A has been around for a very long time now.
The above diagram drawn and published in October 1953 shows how sneaky bombers could come out of Nowheresville in the Arctic and drop The Big One, and there would only be seven hours warning that American cities were about to be turned to cinders.
So it didn't really come as any surprise that My Mate Vlad went fully thermonuclear in his State of the Russian Federation address this week past.
Putin's annual speech before the party faithful is usually done in some ornate hall in the Kremlin and takes hours to get through, with all the stats on tractor production and state-sanctioned vodka quotas etc etc et al, but not this time.
Oh no.
He needed a large conference centre with all the latest audio-visual equipment to show off the capabilities of the SR-28 Sarmat Super Heavy, which is code named "Satan" in NATO military intelligence circles.
Now this is one helluva muthfukka - if you believe all the hype and bluffing - as it's apparently able to carry a payload of up to 200 tonnes to any square inch on the face of this earth without being detected by any up-to-date modern defence technology.
So the thing would be on you before you knew it.
Bang!
It might even have Fractional Orbital Bombardment capabilities, in plain and simple terms, the monster could, in theory, get up into a low-earth orbit, then drop out of orbit, and deliver it's payload, and could even come at the Americans from the South Fuckin' Pole.
That of course that would be in contravention of SALT II [Strategic Arms Limitations Treaty, 1979], which explicitly bans ballistic missiles that can go the FOB.
That said, 200 tonnes is astonishing for a single rocket, and of course would translate into many many many megatons of thermonuclear weaponry spread over whatever territory you like.
As foreshadowed on this bloggy-blog-blog a while back, the Yanks have long suspected the Ruskies have been flouting with the 30-year-old Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty [INF] which effectively bans the use or development of any nuclear missile that travels between 500 and 5,500 kilometres.
Suspect no more, complete with a whiz-bang slide-show, the Great and Glorious Russian Leader has come out and positively flaunted his capability of entirely ignoring the treaty, as the Sarmat Heavy can puportedly go anywhere on the planet, and he was also talking up all sorts of new cruise missiles and "underwater drones" [read: torpedo's] in development that are all capable of carrying The Bomb.
Of course the show of force is all about Vlad facing "re-election" for the Presidency in the Russian's own curious version of the Miracle of Democracy, as by all reports - with no real opposition candidates - he's having tons of trouble getting out the vote.
He really needs to whip up some patriotic fervor before the first-round [and very likely only] poll on March 18.
The only way the Russians can express their displeasure at the way the country is being run is by not turning up at the polls, but even then, non-attendance would be most likely noted by the Secret Police, especially if it was known that you had been trash-talking The Pres. over yr own dinner table.
Putin, who of course is an old KGB hand, desperately needs a decent sized turn-out to legitimise his own despotism
If you didn't believe me that a new nuclear arms race is now well and truly on, doubt no more that "a hard rain's gonna fall" when the Nuclear Winter arrives to finish us off.
Of course, DJ Trump! has no idea how to respond this blatant talking up of The Big One, other than some vague promise to build a Bigger and Better and more Beautiful Big Nuclear Button on the Oval Office desk.

In the meantime - blinked and you would have missed it on most western news services - in the wake of the frozen Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, dignitaries and envoys from South Korea have in the past few days nipped across the Korean DMZ and lobbed in Pyongyang for a bit of face-to-face chit-chat with Fatboy Kim himself.
Nothing much has come out about exactly what was discussed - but you can be sure it wasn't just the time of day - apart from Fatboy viewing favourably the possibility of President Moon of the South making an official State Visit to the North at a date to be fixed.
The sticking point, of course, will be the South Korean pre-condition that the North announce a permanent suspension of all nuclear weapons testing, before such a tour could go ahead.
If they pull that off, then they could really get down to tin tacks
If nothing else, it shows that the Fat Boy is at least willing and able to come to the negotiating table, and he's even mouthed some platitudes about going down in the little history books as the man who led the Great Reunification of Korea and achieved lasting peace on peninsular.
In your dreams, says the US State Dept, and I just can't see it happening anytime soon [i.e. in my lifetime].
But you never can tell when international diplomacy comes into play and people at least make a facade of being sensible.
And again, it comes as no surprise that the Trumpotus has no idea how to deal with such rapprochement, while he's busy kicking off a global trade war after slapping tariffs on foreign steel and aluminum.
The Europeans find the move so laughable that they have threatened to go tit-for-tat in the isolationist tariff caper, and make Levi jeans and all kinds of Bourbon & Tennessee Whisky [you know, Mr. Jim Beam and Mr. Jack Daniels] completely unaffordable across the entire European Union.
So there.
If you don't cack yrself, you'd cry.

Sunday 4 March 2018

people hate change





Comrades,

People hate change.
And nobody hates change more than Tasmanians.
Don't get me wrong, I love the place, I've been there many, many times, parts of it are beautiful beyond belief, and there's also sheep and cows and trout and stuff, but it's always struck me as a joint haunted by its past and dogged by endemic poverty [particularly in the north-west] and the fact that by far and away the biggest single employer is the State and Federal Public Service.
To call Tasmania "backward" might be a bit harsh, but it would certainly be among the last places on earth I would consider for a tree-change.
Plenty of trees if you know where to look, but no change.
Willy Hodgman of the Tasmanian Hodgman dynasty said as much while claiming victory in the election, saying "four years ago they [Tasmanians] voted for change, tonight they have voted for no change."

No change there.

He's called Will to distinguish himself from his grand-father Bill Hodgman QC who got himself elected on the conservative side of politics back in Ol' '55, so there's been Hodgman's knocking about on the electoral scene in the Land of The Eleven-Toed for more than six decades.

No change there.
All that really happened is that the Tories and Pinko's managed to pinch seats off the tree-huggers, with the Greens having spent almost all of their political capital and are now likely to be reduced to a single voice in the Parliament.
That's a long way down from being in cahoots in a power-sharing arrangement less than five years ago.
Bob Brown would be aghast.
The Pinko's picked up a couple of extra seats on account of the federal Coalition is on the nose, and the Jacqui Lambie Network really didn't have their hearts in it and went absolutely nowhere.
Jacquie knows she's really the Brian Harradine-type odd-ball in disguise and can only hope for representation in the Senate, on account of Tasmania being the quintessential example of Canberra's Upper House being made up of "unrepresentative swill".
Never mind all the red herrings that were dragged across the campaign trail, like Labor trying to deny people's inalienable right to have a pull on the pokes, Hodgo being in the pocket of the monopoly gambling lobby, and some late fudge about gun control...etc...plenty of folk don't care.

No change there.

At last count, only 324,421 punters decided to turn up, so with the turn out at just 85.1%, which together with an informal vote of 4.4%, a fifth of the electorate in a compulsory election couldn't give a blue root about the Miracle of Democracy.

No change there.
Under the Hare-Clark-McIntyre-Duckworth-Lewis multi-member system of balloting in the Apple Isle with five constituencies drawn on the exact same boundaries as Federal electorates and each returning five members, the numbers-men at the Electoral Commission would have had to get their abacus' and slide-rules out to the determine the quota's for Tassy's tiny 25 seat Parliament, which is more like a large committee than anything else, akin to a town council.
The numbers really matter because each parliamentarian represents fewer than 14 thousand participating voters.
The phenomenon of Jancidamania across the Tasman just did not translate into Rebeccamania in the Deep South, because they have never really been interested in agrarian socialism down there, as through the years most Tasmanians have been gainfully employed by the Govt. in wiping out the Tassy Tiger, building big beautiful dams on great mighty rivers, digging mines, and chopping down common or garden old-growth forest.
Timber, electricity, chocolate and animal hides remain the Island State's biggest exports...oh...and a few bales of hops and barley to keep the Mainland brewing industry going.
That said, sealing and apples fell out of favour a very long time ago.
Labor leader Rebecca "Beck" White at the tender age of 35, and only 12 months in the top job, has many many years ahead of her - if she wants to stay in the game - to hone her political nous.
And she'll need the next four before she can go again to re-build the Labor heartland, wherever that is now, and good luck to her.
Obviously, Tasmania is not quite ready for such a young local Pinko to lead them bravely forward.

No change there.