Against my will and better judgement I was dragged kicking and screaming to the dark side of Vegas last night, a slave to the magnetic dark force of the seventeen year old future Academy Award winning director and budding Nazi who reckons I’m her Dad, and wanted to see the internationally acclaimed stage adaptation of one of my top five all time favourite books, George Orwell’s 1984.
It was the first time that I’d been to live theater in donkeys years, not because I don’t like live theater, but because it’s boring and a wank and you can’t get a bet on or even smoke, plus I’ve had attention deficit disorder forever, or at least since I was sexually abused as a kid, and I can’t usually sit still for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, which is a bit of a problem when you are supposed to spend 120 watching arty-farty types dazzle you with their interpretation of a work of genius that needs no alteration or illumination.
Puh-lease! Orwell gives us a diamond and some Pommy fop who spends his days on a stage or out the back when he should be fighting fascists or shooting elephants or drinking cheap goon in a Paris doss house wants us to believe that he can improve it?
For f*ck sake, what the hell’s the go with these jokers?
They’re just like that bloody Baz Luhrman who made a puff piece of fluff about third-rate washed-up drag queen mime merchants who couldn’t cut it in the Cross and had to head go bush to get some bastard to pay ’em a bit of attention. He rips off the stage show from The Beat lock stock and cock smoking barrel, packages it up into a movie, pitches it to a bunch of suburban drones who reckon a trip to the rip-off Hoyts cinema at the local Westfield torture chamber is living life on the edge, and makes a trillion dollars on the back of their naivety.
And then, flushed with his faux success, he makes 2 hours of tripe in which he hard-sells Nicole Kidman as the Mata Hari and Kylie Minogue as a bottle of absinthe – a shocking drop if you’ve ever tasted one, although I wouldn’t mind emulating my actor mate Jason Buckley in his teens and tasting Kylie – and flush with the cash from Priscilla that gives him the wad to pay the two chalk and cheese but smoking hot Aussie actresses to front his frauds posing as art he makes another gazillion.
Then goes mad and imagines that he can not only interpret Gatsby better than the bloke who wrote it could, but that he can actually bloody improve it.
Dead set, the drugs don’t work Baz and they never have, except maybe for Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and that was pure opium not 3/4 cut cocaine hyped up as primo marching powder by East Coast Hip-Hop promoters and off-loaded to pumped up Aussie film directors whose brains are so full of the sh*t that they think they’re the king of the world.
I could go on for hours about all the great books that have been ballsed up as movies and plays but time’s short and we’re long, and the bottom line is that if I didn’t drug myself up on the old man’s pure liquid morphine and drag myself over to the Lyric Theater tonight with a drug induced smile on my dial The Captain would have made my life a bloody misery for months if not years, and so at $99 bucks a head that in an ideal world have been thrown on the favorite in the first Gilgandra in the morning there I bloody was among the throng who love nothing better than going 2 hours without a fag and wasting 20 minutes of their lives standing in a queue to pay 10 bucks for a G&T.
Bloody morons. If they’d been brought up properly in Geebung they would have had a $12 half pint of brandy that they’d bought at BWS on special on the way in and transferred to a Lipton’s iced tea bottle in their missus’s bag like I had, and would have been half a dozen drinks into oblivion by the time the waterboarding posing as entertainment kicked off instead of leaving their half-drunk over-priced plastic cups filled with watered down moonshine and soda water on the bar for the desperate Uni student waiters to scull.
Getting ripped in front of the flock of sheep is good, downing your over-priced nail polish in front of the flock while the bells are ringing for the first round is bad. Go figure.
Orwell called it Doublespeak, both in the book and by proxy in tonight’s play, which I have to admit through the pain-killed lens of 100ml of pure morph and a 375 of cheap brandy sunk straight was actually not that bad, and may even have been bloody good if a bloke who hates to admit he’s wrong were to make a concession and concede he was.
Archie’s right, Archie’s wrong: drugs are bad so suck ’em through a bong. That’s doublespeak too the art of ingesting a pair of diametrically opposite or contradictory statements and holding that both are at the same time true.
War is Peace.
Freedom is Slavery.
Ignorance is Strength.
Bassam Hamzy’s ex-girlfriend accidentally ran into Joe Antoun’s assassin while driving along a Parramatta street that the B4L boys never tread while on the way to a BBQ with her mum and had a quick chat with Farhad Quami about how her ex’s cousin was going to knock him.
R v AC (No 3) (Detention application)  NSWSC 209 (8 March 2016)
Bassam Hamzy’s ex-girlfriend drove alone to a pre-arranged meeting at a Parramatta gym where the B4L boys regularly work out, parked her car, went inside and raced up to Farhad Quami to tell him that her ex’s cousin had put the knock on him, and then proceeded to tell every B4L boy she could find the same tale.
R v AC (No 7)  NSWSC 404 (15 April 2016)
If one of these two findings by the learned Supreme Court judge Justice Hamill is true then using oldspeak logic the other cannot also be true.
Either the unimaginatively code named AC (these are in fact the witness’s real initials) was driving to a BBQ with her mother or she was not.
Her mother was present after the witness had a conversation with Farhad Quami and acted differently after that conversation, or her mother was not present and the witness did not.
She either stumbled upon Farhad Quami by chance or she did not.
The witness either deliberately drove alone and without her mother to a gymnasium, parked, alighted, went inside and approached Farhad Quami to tell him his card was marked or she did not.
Farhad Quami either regularly frequented the Parramatta area or he did not.
The discussion was either had near the gym or it was not.
Equally, it was either held in the gym or it was not.
Other members of the B4L were present during the discussion between the witness and Farhad Quami, or they were not.
Farhad Quami forced the witness to drive three assassins to murder the wrong Hamzy, or he did not.
Two plus two equals four.
Or it equals five.
Supreme Court Judges who have sworn an oath to uphold the law, and whose fundamental duty is to the truth, will never choose to ignore either truth or the law; for if they knowingly and deliberately allow evidence or facts to be distorted without taking action to remedy the contradictory presentation of accounts, then what they are in fact doing is pissing all over the law that they have sworn to uphold, and given the huge distrust of the judicial system that this engenders we may as well shut down the whole court system and start again, and find a better way.
Witness AC was actually telling the truth.
Ha ha ha ha ha!