When Archie was just a wee young boy growing up in God’s Own Land – Geebung – he and his contemporaries were sold a massive pup. They were told that the Rhodes Scholarship was awarded to the brightest spark on the Wide Brown Land’s block, and deceived into believing that the chaps – no we’re not being misogynist, the Nobel Committee are, for only 6 odd percent of recipients over the past century or so have been sheilas – who were gifted the free ride to Oxford courtesy of the largess with stolen money of Cecil Rhodes, colonialist, bigot and Father of Apartheid, were the creme de la creme of the Aussie emerging intellectual world. And so we all heard the words ‘Rhodes Scholar’ and immediately thought ‘ooh-ah, Einstein ya!’
It was all bullsh*t. The actual criteria for copping a Cecil was, and is, as follows:
- literary and scholastic attainments
- energy to use one’s talents to the full
- truth, courage, devotion to duty, sympathy for and protection of the weak, kindliness, unselfishness and fellowship
- moral force of character and instincts to lead, and to take an interest in one’s fellow being
Sounds good doesn’t it sportsfans? But it’s a more than a tad subjective isn’t it? After all, how do you define energy? Or talent for that matter. How do you judge moral force of character? And what duty is the scholarship applicant supposed to be devoted to? Who the f*ck knows, that’s the bloody answer my friends, but if we take a peek at some of the winners we’ll get a clue.
Now wasn’t he smart? So smart that he lost an Akubra full of elections, and so energetic that weighed 140 kilo’s standing nude on a set of crook scales. And let’s not talk about the moral force of character of a character who flip-flopped on nearly every policy position he dreamed up in the chocolate shop, the most notable being his fatal – both to his political ambitions and to the lives of desperate human beings – backflip on asylum seeker policy after he copped a shellacking from Little Johnny in the Tampa election because he couldn’t articulate a case for kindness, compassion and common decency toward his fellow man.
Then we’ve got the Rabbit, Tony Abbott, a joke of a bloke if ever one was born, and one of the few Liberal PM’s to be kicked to touch by his own team. Kindliness? Fellowship? An interest in his fellow beings? The Rabbit? He of Ditch the Witch? You’d have to be goddamn kidding wouldn’t you?
Of course the third leg of the trifecta is John Dyson Heydon, the silver-spoon sucking neanderthal former High Court Judge who infamously ruled that it was okay for a bloke to rape his wife, because after all she is his missus and it’s a man’s world is it not? Or at least it is in Dirty Dyson’s world. Cecil Rhodes would have been proud of him.
And hasn’t the clown named after a vacuum cleaner’s Royal Commission been a raging success? A million and three recommendations for prosecution and what’s he scored? A gambling addicted Tongan from Canberra who was in bed with a corrupt businessman that got off scot free, and 2 mid-level managers from a super fund who’d never done a thing wrong in their lives other than show loyalty to their mongrel dog of a boss who sold them down the river when the heat was on and he wanted to save his own gutless arse.
Top work Dyson – gee you Rhodes Scholars are smart.
Yep, our generation was dead set sold a lemon in regards to the Cecils, and it’s exactly the same for the current crop off cobbers and coquettes when it comes to the Dynamite Alfies, otherwise known as the Nobel Prizes.
Now for those not in the know Dynamite Alfie was an arms dealer named Alfred Nobel who tooled up who knows how many armies with enough bombs and blasts to eradicate a dozen nations, and was consequently responsible for hundreds of thousands – possibly millions – of deaths around the globe.
Old Dynamite Alfie didn’t seem to give a rats arse about the carnage he engendered until his brother died and a drunken newspaper editor published the wrong eulogy – Alfie’s – instead of the dead blokes, and in this erroneous last post took a big stick to the bomb merchant and left the world with the crackerjack quote ‘The Merchant of Death is Dead‘, even though of course he wasn’t.
Our man Alfie didn’t like the label one little bit, and it made him sit up and realise that he had a bit of reputational damage to repair if history wasn’t to remember him as an out and out lowlife c*nt, and so he acted like an out and out lowlife c*nt toward his rellies by cutting them out of his will and leaving the lot to fund a bunch of awards delivered in his name, the Nobel Prizes.
Yes sportsfans, Dynamite Alfie was a fraud and the simple fact is so are his awards, and I reckon the combination of truths is the reason that the thrillin’ Bob Dylan isn’t returning the Nobel folk’s calls, and they are forced to pretend that he’s busy on tour and probably either doesn’t know yet or hasn’t got time to call them back .
Pull the other one dingles, ‘cos it jingles we say.
Truth is that Dylan’s a well-read and knowledgeable man, and would know full well about Dynamite Alfie’s background, and as the man who wrote and performed the seminal anti-war song ‘Masters of War’ we would guess Uncle Bob probably ain’t that pleased to cop an award from a warmonger, even if the bloke is long dead and rotted.
It’s likely too that Dylan – unlike the vast majority of mainstream media types here and around the fast-spinning sphere – is au fait with the will of the warmonger, and thus with the Statutes of the reputation-redemption foundation he left behind.
That will, and the consequent rules that flow from it, state that the Nobel Prize for Literature will be awarded to the person who in the preceding year (emphasis mine) shall have produced in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction.
Um, can anyone tell me what new and outstanding prose or verse Golfin’ Bob has produced and published in the past year? Someone? Anyone?
Nah, you can’t, cos all he’s put out is an album of Frank Sinatra covers, the 2015 release Shadows in the Night; another album of covers of his favorite American songs titled Fallen Angels, which was released this year; and in a few weeks he will be releasing a box set of live recordings from 1966 unsurprisingly titled The 1966 Live Recordings.
Each them we are sure are excellent productions, although we are guessing because we gave up listening to new Dylan albums a decade or more ago, but they all have one thing in common: not a one of them qualify for consideration as Nobel worthy under the rules laid down by the founder Dynamite Alfie himself.
So you can put down your glasses sportsfans and stop reading the rants and plaintive declarations of Dylan-love from ignoramus’ like Andrew Bolt who froth at the mouth and start spewing nonsense without checking even the most basic of facts.
Punters here’s the guts of it, delivered to you exclusively from the Zillman Waterholes bar at the Bunger:
All the arguments about Dylan v this writer or that writer or the other aren’t worth a hill of beans in this crazy world where peace prizes are funded by bomb makers and awarded to killers, for the simple bottom line is this.
Uncle Bob Dylan’s a Dynamite Alfie ring-in who doesn’t even jump the first hurdle by even qualifying to be in the running to win the award, full stop.
That amigo is all she wrote, and the hot air you are hearing and reading is all just conjecture, baffle and bullsh*t, and Uncle Bob knows it.
Hey, you know what, he’s as sharp as a tack that Dylan fella. Maybe he can swap the Dynamite Alfie for a racist Cecil!