I didn’t write about the US election (even though many times I was tempted) for the simple reason that the publisher of this site has an Uluru-sized contempt for the increasingly rapid Americanisation of our golden soil – “Halloween!” she screams, “Puh-Lease!” – and an unflinching commitment to keeping Its Not Normal Aussie.
So while I was tempted to tip you into Trump as the best outsider since Prince of Penzance in last year’s Cup, I didn’t: both because I know which side my bread is buttered on, and because – as I am constantly reminded – I have to sleep some time and the publisher has the keys to my room at the hostel, courtesy of the duplicitous letter writing of my c*nt of a psychiatrist head shrinking bastard who reckons I lack the capacity to properly manage my own apffairs.
For the love of f*cking pizza – I only punted 2 houses and drank and smoked the equivalent of another! And it took me bloody months to chuck even that miniscule amount of cabbage away. Can you even imagine the type of soul destroying torment I was going through as i off-loaded the loot so much slower than i had hoped? All I wanted to do was take myself back to the broker days in the Bung without the scarlet stain of blood money on my mitts just so I could be happy again like I was before i got raped. Does desiring to be whole render me mad?
I don’t fucking think so. You try copping what I and a whole bunch of other kids did aged 12 to 14 and see how smart you are then hey?
Goddamn Kerry Packer dropped the same amount in a single bet on a race that took 72.4 seconds from whoa to go and they don’t call the adult guardians in on him do they Henrika? No spunky of course they bloody don’t.
Dead set its just one law for the rich and another for the poor in this goddamn SOB of a country these days. Dad reckons its just like Grandpa told us that time we went to visit him in Wolston Park when he was eating grass for dinner and washing it down with glasses of water from the cistern. Its all a f*cking joke and those c*nts have got a camera in your head.
He wouldn’t have voted for Hilary, dont you worry about that.
Anyway, that’s why I didn’t throw the Trump card down earlier, and why what I’m about to write is not about America my dear Madame
Punisher Publisher but rather about the death of the fourth estate and the rise of the fifth, a development that’s long overdue, longer in fact than John Holmes dick.
But let’s get this fourth estate thing straight before we go any further sportsfans, because in the 21st century the whole romantic ideal about journos being housos that many – most of them bastards who don’t have a clue what it means – imagine it is a bigger load of crap than the Wallabies forward pack, and you can throw in the back line too.
In fact, it always was.
The fourth estate thing is an invention, a trite term dreamed up by the fella of every true Liberal Party believer’s dreams – and the Branch Stacker’s too – that old Irish toff Edmund Burke, a corrupt f*cking loony if ever one was born.
Loony’s are sometimes right though – just look at me for example – and Burke was, because when he coined the Fourth Estate phrase he was in fact putting sh*t on the early Pommy versions of Andrew Bolt and Doubting, the rapscallions who pretend to be by the people, of the people and for the people, but in reality represent the vested interest that run the whole world show, then as they do now.
In those days there were supposedly three estates – the god-botherers, the filthy rich, and the rest of us – and these first 2 buggers were the captain and crew that steered the Poms House of Broken Dreams, with the riff-raff simply warming their bums on the flash Westminster seats while learning how to get rich. The fourth estate – the newly emerging hounds of the press – were supposed to be the camels that put a brake on the excesses of the holy-rollers and the toffs by rooting for the average punter.
Fat chance. How could an educated, literate bloke – and I’m not being sexist cos they all had dicks, why do you reckon Mary Evans called herself George Eliot? – represent the great unwashed in the days when only 1 in a hundred fellas finished grade 12, and 1 in 50 of them went on to uni? They couldn’t is the answer, and when you throw in the fact in those pre-internet days only the seriously loaded or their sycophants could afford to self-publish their stuff it becomes obvious that the whole forth estate thing’s always been a crock.
Which allows me to skip a couple of centuries and jump to Trump without upsetting the prick of a publisher who pays my wages.
You see sportsfans the mainstream media have always been well-divorced from the punter on the street, and despite the pretensions of those who in the modern age delude themselves into believing that they work for a newspaperman rather than a money-grubbing f*cking hound with the morals of a gutter snake – a bloke who’ll abandon his country, shit all over his numerous wives and mistresses, play his kids off against each other just for kicks, sack a phalanx of workers while laughing in their face, try and ruin Rugby League, and hack dead peoples phones so he can get his mob to kick ’em while they’re down and dead – the truth is that reporters working for Rupert and his duopoly silver-medal winning so called competition have their heads so far up their arses that they need to unzip the old fly to apply a dab of Colgate in the morning.
Reckon I’m wrong?
Then cast your mind back just a couple of days and then grab a chalkboard and whack it up on the wall.
Draw a line in the middle, then plonk the headings ‘Said Good Things About Trump’ on one side, and ‘Called Him a C*nt’ on the other.
Now read 3 weeks worth of papers and go tick, tick, tick on the side that the story falls.
Finished? What do you see? It’s this isn’t it?
C*nt – 5 324 084
Cool – 2
The mainstream media got it totally ballsed up didn’t they folks?
‘Cos the low wage earners who bought the bullsh*t that the trickle down effect would make them rich as long as they agreed to give up the world to let the water through didn’t deign to get off their morally outraged tushes perched on the tiger skinned, titanium legged pews in the newsroom and wander around the working and wish they had a job to work at towns and cities stuck in time just a few miles inland from their own desk with the harbor or beach views.
Instead the idiots decided to postulate and write pieces about why Trump was the all the riders of the apocalypse combined and how society would fall to pieces if the punters who actually vote gave him a majority of the old wink and a nods.
Meanwhile the real voters in the drive-through queue at Maccas, and in the pubs and club pushing maximum credit, five bucks a play on the pokies were like trees falling in a forest, screaming Trump! Trump! Trump! while nobody heard. Least of all the clowns who were supposed to bloody listen, the Fourth Estaters with the fried brains and fickle understanding of the history of the political and fish and chips wrapping games.
Geebung’s a bloody long way from the land of the supposedly free, but mug punters who don’t read newspapers or watch TV news, and instead have their heads down and arses up listening to inane talkback chat on radio stations like 4BC are the same the world over, and the blokes in the Zillman Waterholes bar to a man said if they were Septic Tanks they’d be voting for Trump.
This variety of comm0n moron doesn’t give a rat’s banana that Trump hassled women – ‘He’s rich you imbecile, he’s entitled to’ is how they see it, pure and simple. What you gotta remember is that these are the forgotten folk whose jobs have disappeared, only to be replaced by short-haul, low paid casual con-jobs that via the same manipulation of the unemployment figures used in Australia to make things look hunky-dory result in them hearing on their favorite talkback station the same c*nts who cut their jobs effusively praising the jobs growth their government has achieved.
They were and are absolutely spewing this silent majority, but no reporter thought to drive down to their derelict and deserted once-prosperous town to hear what they had to say, and so they became even more pissed off, to the extent that they hauled their 24 year old glass pipe gazing no job, no hope daughters bodily off the divan and dragged them down to vote for the Don, and now here we are and the only tossers surprised are the tools who didn’t care enough to ask them what they might have been thinking and feeling.
The same tools who are now still decrying the Don’s ascendancy and making every excuse under the sun to explain their idiocy. The fools who gave his unheralded but incredibly clever and incisive campaign strategy so much oxygen that it could have floated the wide brown land had someone have been able to slip a Zeppelin under the golden soil.
You’ll hear a whole lot more abut Trump’s winning strategy over the coming weeks, but the guts of it and the fair-dinkum fact is that he and his people decided early on that he was going the bash ad while they stuck on message throughout the entire campaign. Hilary got spooked and blinked, and that’s the tale of the tape.
At least she has an excuse.
But what can you say about her unabashed supporters of the mainstream media?
Only this, quote from the prescient Scottish satirist and offbeat essay writer Thomas Carlyle, a bloke who would have without doubt been hurled head first from the Supreme Court and be sitting along me as in his brogue he scorns the lemmings headed toward the cliff and cites once more his sage words of 1797:
A Fourth Estate, of Able Editors, springs up; increases and multiplies, irrepressible, incalculable.
It’s not Rupert and the gang he’s talking about is it?
It’s website writers from the fringes, fillies and fellas who devoid of any dependence on the bosses coin can call it as they see it and tell it like it is. And whose words no bugger can edit or sub-edit away. Reporters of the new post-internet-age school who may well just have sought some balance to the pseudo-liberal, inherently navel gazing and incredibly lazy woe-is-me Vote 1 Hilary tune sung by scribes who should have known better, and instead told it to you just like it is.
The Don’s not our danger sportsfans.
The reporters who repudiated balance in their stories are.
The 5th estate is rising.
And love it or hate it the future of truth in reporting lies on the shoulders of eccentric characters just like me.
Do you 18C?