Tuesday, September 02, 2014

What Malcolm Said

Malcom finished his lunch. He sat back and let the sun fall on his face. 

He took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one.

“Would you mind going somewhere else and smoking that?” asked the nice lady in the twinset and pearls, sitting at one of the other out door tables.

“This is somewhere else,” replied Malcolm.

“I’m sorry?” said the nice lady in the pearls. Her sweet, saccharine smile fading just a little.

“Well, we were once allowed to smoke anywhere, we were once allowed to smoking inside, but now we have to smoke “somewhere else,” he made parenthesis in the air with his fingers. “Which is out here. So I am, actually already smoking this”, he held the cigarette up in the air, “somewhere else.” He made parenthesis in the air again.

“It is just that I am allergic to cigarette smoke,” said the nice lady in the twinset and the pearls. “I’m sure you understand.” She smiled that kind of smile that ended the conversation in her favour, no question.

“Well, may I suggest that you head inside, where the air is clean.” Malcolm smiled. He didn’t mean to smile exactly, but he felt the corners of his mouth twitch, almost involuntarily, at the corners, as he finished speaking. He liked to think of it as his serial killer smile.
“Oh, um,” said the nice lady with the twinset and the pearls. “I don’t think you quite understand, I can’t…”

“I understand,” said Malcolm. “You are being ridiculous.”

“You are being rude, young man.”

“Young man,” said Malcolm. “How about that.” He looked around. “There is fresh air all around you here and me smoking a cigarette has nothing to do with any health requirements you may have and everything to do with your, um, how do I put this? Your selfishness.”

“I’ll have you know…”

Malcolm held up his fingers making a talking mouth motion. “I’m getting a lot of this, old woman. When I should be getting this.” He made a closed duck’s bill shape with his fingers.

“I’ll get sick.”

“Go inside.”

Monday, September 01, 2014

Tony Abbott is proving what a reprehensible creep he really is

Abbott is proving what a reprehensible creep he really is, by using the problems in Iraq to deflect the heat from his complete and utter failure as a Prime Minister and the failure of his government.

When in doubt go to national security.

What threat does Isis pose to Australia? Very little, to none, in all reality. The terrorist threat to Australia has not officially changed since 2001, and yet, Abbott is up there playing the terrorist card for all his future as a prime minister is worth.

It is a very low act to engender fear in the comunity and to fan hatred towards one section of the community, namely muslims, to save his own pathetic political hide.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

I didn't want anything except to see the look on his paedophile face

I saw the teacher from my Kew boy's Grammar School, who molested me... who tried to molest me... who certainly had it in his thoughts to molest me, just like that, there he and I were together, in a cafe in the country.

I heard his voice. I knew that voice. It hadn’t changed.

The sun was shining brightly, I could see blue sky beyond the windows. I’d been to the supermarket and I just stopped in for a coffee and a custard danish.

He was older, of course. Fatter. But he still dressed the same. He still had the same haircut and that same fay manner.

They all knew him, the girl's behind the counter. He got thick sandwiches in a brown paper bag. He said have a nice day to all three of the girls behind the counter, as the three gathered together and giggled, as one handed him his lunch.

Peter Morrison, well I’ll be. I wondered what the late middle-aged “girls” behind the counter would think if they knew the truth.

I’d finished my coffee, I was done. The empty mug and the white plate with cream coloured crumbs sat in front of me. I had no reason to sit there any long and I had more reasons to leave, actually. So, I head out after him. My feet led my brain. I wasn’t at all sure if I’d thought this through. He stepped to the curb and was looking each way to cross. “Um… er… Mr Morrison?”

He looked around. “Hello?” He stepped back from the curb. He was still that kind of gay effeminate, posh, well spoken, just a little too well spoken, but now he was fat.

“Christian. Christian Fletcher. Smithton. You taught me.”

He looked directly at me and kind of refocused as if going through his back catalogue of faces. I guess any man who taught at a boy’s school for any length of time would have to do the same thing.

“You used to pick me up from choir, on Sunday nights. We drank coffee at Brummells. You used to drive me home.”

“Christian?... oh Christian.” Recognition. Then recollection. “Oh… um.” Bingo, he knew who I was. I could see it in his face.

“You remember?”

“Yes. Christian. What have you been doing… er… since school?”

“Uni. Career. The usual thing, I did finance, um,” I said.

“Good career, finance. It is where all the big money is.”

“I found that rather than chasing the corporate round about of more and more, I have opted for a shorter working week and less money, of course. But a great work life balance.” I was just babbling now, I could hear my own voice. “Are you still teaching at Smithton?” I didn’t draw breath, I should have drawn breath, the sudden jump took him by somewhat of a surprise.

“No.” We made eye contact. He looked away. “I have taught at Gilmour, on the mount… for some years now.”

An exclusive girl’s school, practically a finishing school for snotty blue blood girls. “Probably best,” I said. I laughed, I didn’t mean to, it struck me as funny, it just came out.

“Yes,” he said. We made eye contact for a second time and there it was, laid naked in that snatched glimpse. He knew, that I knew, that he knew, exactly who I was. “I’ve found girls… um,” he looked away. “Less trouble.”

“I bet you have.”

He looked nervous, as though that particular topic of conversation should have been passed over by now and we should have got on to other pleasantries, like he did, I presume, with most of his other ex-students, you know, the ones, I presume, he didn’t try to touch.

It was the first time that he and I had been together as two men, as equals. Power shift, dynamic change, I could feel it and it felt oddly fearless.

Truthfully, I’d barely given him much though over the passing years, it hadn’t been that much of a big deal. But seeing him, so unexpectedly, in my new adopted country town, where I felt right at home, after so many years, it was now my stomping ground, I felt very at home there.

“Your car, your dirty magazines out the back of Royal South Yarra?” There used to be a car park, kind of at the top where you could park at all hours of the night. I don't know if there still is? I said it quietly, deliberately, as though I was just filling in the facts so there could be no misunderstanding.

There was silence, that seemed to ring between us for an inordinate amount of time.


”What do you want?”


I didn't want anything, I told him. “I don’t want anything.” And I didn't. I just wanted to see the look on his face. I cleared my throat. I just had to say it. “Do you remember what you did?”


”I didn't do anything to you.” Technically, this is correct. I saw him going for it. He touched me between the legs, I guess. I said, “No,” And he stopped, he didn’t do anything else after I said no. But how else would he explain the thirteen year old in his car in a car park in the dark with him with pornography on his lap?


That kind of pissed me off, as we both knew what I was doing there, even if I didn’t at the time. “Oh yes you did,” I said. “You tried to…”


He laughed nervously to cut me off. ”Look… I don't really know who you are?” That came a bit late in the conversation to be believable, he suddenly didn’t know who I was?

”I was thirteen,” I said.

”I think you must have me mistaken for somebody else. Sorry.”

“Are you Peter Morrison?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

There was momentary silence.

“Look… I’m sorry… “ He shrugged. “I’ve got to go.” He gave me a please-don’t-let-there-be-anything-else, like I was hunting him down, this can’t be happening, kind of look,

Funny, I thought, if anything, I was the victim in this situation.

“Look, I just used to drive you home,” he said in a whisper. “We ate cake some nights, sure, I thought you liked it.” He looked quite nervous, suddenly. “I just drove you home,” he said, as though he was trying to tell me the facts.


"Does that excite you?" and "Let me see what you've got there, I remember you saying that night… before you drove me home.”

He looked both ways up and down the street. He looked back at me as though he was going to give me the last word like, is that it, are you done, written across his face. It was almost a-nice-chianti-and-fava-beans moment, if his jaw had quivered, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Scared, huh, I thought. I said nothing.

We stared at each other. He looked away. He crossed the road and walked away hurriedly. I could feel his hand groping me all those years ago, as I watched him walk away.

Well, there you go, I thought, as I turned away. I’d wondered once or twice over the years how it would go if ever I saw him… and now I knew.

The sun was shining as I walked back to my car. Peter Morrison, I thought, well how about that?

I guess I was groomed, as they say, I thought. Soemthing that I hadn’t thought about before, I’d never thought about it that way. I sang in the church choir on Sunday nights and Peter Morrison didn’t really have a reason to be there. He said he came for evensong, and he just drove me home afterwards. But, some Sundays he’d just be waiting in the car park having not gone to the service at all. This went on for weeks.

Timing was on my side, however. As it turned out, coincidentally, on the night in question, the choir master had told my parents, during the day some time, that my voice was breaking and that that Sunday would be my last night singing in the boys choir. If I wanted to join the men’s choir at some time in the future I could, but I didn’t want to. I’d had enough. I’d enjoyed my time singing with everyone, but I wasn’t going to continue. I found this out when I got home, which kind of distracted me from Peter Morrison and his wandering hands. I didn’t tell Peter Morrison this, it never occurred to me to tell him.

I wondered if Peter Morrison was sitting in his car in the car park the next week waiting for me, who never turned up. 


He wasn’t one of my teachers, but interestingly enough, he was one of the boarding house masters. (raised eye brows. Fox. Hen house. What do you reckon?) That was how I knew that he was gay, a couple of the gay kids used to go over to his room in the boarding house and hang out there. I never did, as I am not sure that I ever really liked him that much, as he was much too effeminate for me to want to hang out with him. (Talk about a neon sign gazing back at me) That was how our orbits came into contact though, one of the gay kids who was, for want of a better expression, a part of Morrison's circle took me over to the boarding house one day just out of the blue. (I remember his leopard skin jocks laying casually on the carpet) I wondered now, as I walked down the main street of Woodend, if that was, indeed a matter of chance, as I’d always assumed it was. I guessed it must have been. I wondered.

The sun was still shining, the sky was still blue, when I got to my car.

Friday, August 29, 2014

One of the greats, Joan Rivers

A living fucking treasure. I don't think there is anyone who has made me laugh as much as Joan Rivers has. It's a very sad world when the comedians start checking out. Is that a plague on our house, or what?

The first thing I did this morning was check the news to see that she was alright.

Get better Joan, the world needs it's comedians more than it ever has. Get better Joan because you are fabulous.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Santo bought fairy lights

I made pudding

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

We need an election to clear up the Liberal Party's Budget mess

I would just like to say that I would never join any team that Tony Abbott was on, Team Australia, Team Liar, or Team Middle Class Christian Bigot. 


You know what I think, Tony, to put it bluntly, take your simplistic, meaningless slogans and shove them up your arse, you lying moron.

Considering that all Julia had to do was scratch her arse during her last term in government and One Term Tony would demand she hold an election, how long do we have to endure Team Abbot's incompetent failed budget before we have an election?

Going by the time frame One Term Tony set during the last government's reign, an election should have been called by now.

Mr Abbott, you now need to hold an election, your budget has been a resounding failure.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

I don't like it

Don't like gay marriage? Don't get one.

Don't like cigarettes? Don't smoke them. (Smokers can no longer smoke inside. Try and find some evidence that second hand smoke has any effect of other people in an open air space. Non-smokers, stop being great big whinny babies)

Don't like abortions? Don't have one.
Don't like sex? Don't fuck anyone.
Don't like drugs? Don't take them.
Don't like porn? Don't watch it.
Don't like alcohol? Don't drink it.

Don't like your rights taken away?
Then don't take away someone else's.