Tess Livingstone used to be a journalist, or so it is claimed anyway. Some claim that she continues to be so, although I for one am not too sure of that, because journalists are supposed to adhere to the Code of Ethics, and this what the code says:
So far, so good from the girl who attends church at St Kevin’s in Geebung and venerates Tim Norris, the priest who had a ‘live-in housekeeper’ – that everyone in the Bung, including my parents who at one time owned the shop directly opposite the church, knew was in fact his unofficial missus – and has a somewhat more than high regard for the Man Who Knew Nothing, Father Monsignor Bishop Archbishop Cardinal His Eminence the former Ruck-Rover Georgie Boy Pell.
After all, free speech and freedom are enshrined in the Aussie culture, if not in fact in the constitution, and anyone anywhere is entitled to believe whatever they want, no matter how fantastical it may appear to the average punter.
In Geebung the old folk call it live and let live, and keep your nose out of your neighbor’s business.
The young folk call it whatever c*nt, just don’t bring your sh*t into my backyard.
Either way, it means much the same thing, and the mad Miss Livingstone can believe whatever she wants to, as long as she doesn’t push it down other folks throats.
But ah sportsfans, therein lies the rub, for Ms Livingstone does indeed push down our throats her belief in men who rise from the dead, and women made from wanker’s ribs, and angels resting on clouds, and under-the-pump politicians that ascend mountains with a world full or worries and descend with a stone tablet proclaiming ten essential commandments to the conduct of life in Israel, Egypt and the world beyond.
Titanic Tess believes in that and a whole lot more, and as stated above that’s her business, until of course she begins to push in down the throat of the mug punter across the wide-brown land, for when she does so she is supposed to – under the media code of ethics – disclose all relevant facts, including her personal beliefs and interests, and the conflicts of interest that may affect the independence of her supposed journalism.
And indeed – and let’s allow Archie to call a spade a f*cking shovel – the fact that she has a hard-on for her subject, who just so happens to be Australia’s current public enemy number one the pedophile protector George Pell, to the point that she actually wrote the half-baked hagiography of tome about the bloke that she so mendaciously describes as a fair-dinkum biography.
All of the above is fact, and so is her past as a board member of Campion College, the mysterious one-degree University founded by Pell’s close mate the hotelier and brewer James Power, and populated by a doyen of dodgy fellows including Mad Rabbi’s whose dads used to be Governor-Generals, former chief clerics of the Shop Assistant’s Union, Tony Abbott acolytes, rabid anti-abortion activists, suspected pedophiles, blokes who sling illegal political donations to pro-pokie political candidates and somehow make promised inquiries into their conduct go away, child-abusing exorcist ex-school principals, shadowy former spruikers (above) for right-wing US Republican think-tanks (an oxymoron if one ever existed), and – shock horror – right hand men and proteges of old mate George Pell himself.
Whoever said the DLP and the infiltrating strategies of BA Santamaria were dead?
Not Tess Livingstone, that’s for sure.
In fact the gal who attends mass in Geebung – although I am certain that she crosses Downfall Creek in order to do so – doesn’t disclose any of the above at all when she continues her her0-worship of the Pedo Protector Pell in her ridiculous rant in defense of her fellow Opus Dei alumni in the Weekend Oz.
It’s a bit rich isn’t it?
The Oz used to be an august and upright publication. Or so some say anyway. But the writers for the rag used to tell us about their conflicts, perceived or real, despite the doubters shouts.
Some journos get pinged even today for being slack arsed c*nts peddling piffle and pernicious perfidy.
Just look at Paul Sheehan (that prick must have changed his last name at some stage), the right-wing Catholic Voice vocalist posturing as a journo who has this week been punted for ignorance, uselessness and hating Muslims.
What an absolute imbecile and goddamn grub.
But at the end of the day is he any worse than Tess Livingstone?
May their Gods be their judge.
That’s what I say anyway, but King Kevvie of Geebung doesn’t agree, for he’s issues Tess Livingstone with an immediate life ban from the Bunger, with no bottom sentence and no prospects of parole, saying he’d rather piss in Karmichael Hunt’s mouth than pour a tequila shot into Tess’s.
Harsh words, harsh words indeed.
But like you and me – and unlike the Cardinal c*nt – Kevvie’s got kids.
And in Geebung we put them first, and if you don’t like it, well then you can f*ck right off on the first train bound for hell.
Kevvie reckons there’s a spare seating waiting next to Pell.