HOMOSEXUALITY TO BE PROSELYTISED

As an example of the hubris, arrogance and the desire to push the envelope even further, of which we were promised would never happen after the stomach-churning legalisation in Australia of homosexual marriage, this really hits the spot. To coincide with the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras debauchery, promising to be " ... a blockbuster after last year's successful same-sex marriage vote", according to the Daily Telegraph, as well as it being the fortieth anniversary of the original event, a few bright sparks have come up with the idea of holding Mini Mardi Gras in the very down to earth NSW town of Hay, mid-way between Sydney and Adelaide.

Why on earth would this be happening? " ... to educate and celebrate diversity and promote inclusion in all its colourful glory," a Mrs (Note: not Ms) Mijok, one of a handful of organisers, told The Daily Advertiser. By "diversity", Mrs Mijok can only mean a diversity of sexual persuasion, although it's difficult to imagine more than two unless bestiality is thrown into the mix. Should bestiality enthusiasts be included in the inclusion being promoted? To educate? How much education is needed? A penis goes into a mouth or anus and a tongue flicks and licks a vulva, tongue-in-groove, as it's known in the trade. Simples.

Oh so "progressive" ABC television is tickled pink by the idea of a tentacle of the homosexual celebration feeling its way into darkly unenlightened rural Australia. Who would have thought that a town like Hay would be harbouring a large closet filled with nervous homosexuals yearning to be free? But perhaps it wasn't, given the extremely low number of homosexual natives of Hay flushed out by the ABC - a number of exactly one. Presumably, for the event to stand any chance of success, large numbers of homosexuals will have to be bussed in from Darlinghurst at great sacrifice to themselves; the poor dears will be missing the main event back at home.

The single star of the ABC report was a boy aged sixteen who preferred to be a girl. It's worth noting that, at that still tender age, experts agree that a significant chance exists for the confusion to dissipate and the sufferer settling into the sex nature assigned to him or her by nature. This chance though, one would think, is fraught with the danger of encouragement by the likes of the ABC which distilled translates to "you go girl!" when the girl is really a boy.

The boy in question seemed a sweet kid and one would have to be extremely hard-hearted to not wish him success in finding happiness. His boyish haircut might indicate though he is still having a bet each way. When the ABC reporter tried to draw out of him hair-raising tales of how much someone like him was tormented in such a hard-arse town (Hay is in sheep country well represented by shearers who are not known for being pansies), the response was a let-down. "Sometime," he said, "other kids just ignore me or cross to the other side of the street when they see me coming."  Admittedly, adolescence being often such an exquisitely painful time, experiences like this can be crushing but because he's not experiencing anything new in human nature, the only course of action is to lift himself above it rather than expecting others to change, no matter how much change is legislated.

The only other Hay people interviewed by the ABC were every bit as tickled pink as the broadcaster itself. "Exciting, a breath of fresh air, just what the town needs," were the gushing responses, reinforced by camera scans of rainbow flags and signs in shop-windows advertising the coming joyous event.

For "balance", viewers were then told in sombre terms that all was not as it seemed to be. There had in fact been some dark mutterings suggesting all of Hay's residents were not wildly enthusiastic about what was being planned for the town, singling out a segment of the population - the "tough" shearers, whose negative attitudes showed them to be "blinkered". Right there was another example of ripples spreading out from the legalisation of homosexual marriage. Now that homosexuality was completely bereft of any suggestion it was not officially sanctioned, if not sanctified, one simply did not have the right to not be fully accepting of homosexuality. Could this metastasize into a charge of "homophobia" if a heterosexual man rejected the advances of a homosexual? Apparently, in some parts of the world, it already has.




"We wanted to interview some of the shearers but they refused to come on camera, citing fear of retribution," the dulcet tones of the reporter informed us. What absolute bullshit! Shearers afraid of a few imported pansies and their supporters who'd probably never known a day's hard graft in their lives - or even the inside of a gym? Come on you red-ragging ABCers. What really went on here is obvious. The shearers were probably chomping at the bit to give their opinions on a homosexual parade being staged in their town and wouldn't have held back. Far too dangerous. The ABC would have been terrified of even the slightest hint of  toxic homophobia slipping through. Even the most savage editing would probably not have prevented it; the interviews would essentially have been edited out of existence.

The Saturday night following the Hay report, the ABC screened the "highly acclaimed" telemovie, Riot. This reviewer had not enough stomach-settling medication to be able to watch it, but judging by the promos, it was chock-full of sympathetic characters who with gladiator-like bravery planned and carried out the first protest march for "gay rights" dressed up as a mardi gras. The cops who were nowhere near as dumb as the protesters thought them to be didn't fall for it and reacted with enough force to have it labeled as police brutality.

Without even seeing it, it is an obvious attempt to equate the demonstration with the US civil rights marches in the previous decade and possibly an indication of the producers' mindfulness of the smashing (brainwashing) success of the American television production, Roots, designed to engender shame in the minds of the target audience.

No remorse is apparent in the commission of the deadly sin of historiography in attempting to superimpose contemporary values and attitude onto a bygone era. By way of explanation, seeing actual film of the demonstration and the police reaction at the time would probably not have unduly upset the vast majority of the population. We were then living in a healthier, less upside-down world where it would have appeared natural justice was being dispensed.

To replicate that event to today's audience after forty years of being softened up by unrelenting propaganda, and leftist onslaught is akin to seeing the 2018 mardi gras suddenly attacked by a contingent of baton-wielding coppers. Shock, almost of the electric kind, would be stunning onlookers like mullets. It goes without saying, this is a cheap and ham-fisted technique.

The attempted homosexual colonisation of a country area is an interesting, albeit predictable event, in line with the attempt to spread multiculturalism from major cities to rural towns. Whereas the latter has an excellent chance of success given the never ending importation of the third world and governments presenting decentralisation as the only solution to overpopulation causing our cities to be unlivable, the success of the former is prone to curtailment by the number of homosexuals available. Nature (and perhaps sometimes fashion) fortunately produces only a limited number of the so afflicted. So what is to be done if we're to have the rainbow flag flying gaily about the countryside as plentifully as the golden arches of McDonald's.

How about this? While people are glued to Married at First Sight and Get me out of here, I'm a Celebrity, on their televisions, an extra category could be quietly slipped into (no pun intended) our refugee programme.  It would be made available to homosexuals living in Muslim countries where their claim of a well founded fear of persecution, that is, being thrown off the roofs of buildings, would have to be taken seriously.

Understandably, the government may be a little nervous about this, not wanting to be seen throwing open the gates, or rather, another set of gates. This is where the ABC could help immensely. Similarly to how it has been deluging its loyal viewers with back-to-back homosexual themed programmes in the lead-up to the Mardi Gras weekend, it could begin by rounding up documentaries and movies showing the suffering of unappreciated Middle Eastern homosexuals with which to bombard us and play merry hell with out tear ducts.

 "Your ABC." A fair and totally balanced mirror of Australian society. That stomach settling medication? Where the hell is it? And where are the blood-pressure pills?

DOING THE SLUT-WALK: The inevitable result of unconstrained female power

Oh for the good old days when the demarcation between whores and amateur sluts on one side and good girls on the other was so stark. You could tell at a glance those who could provide a good time and those who would be worth considering for a meaningful relationship with perhaps a reasonable chance of its culmination in a wife and a mother for your children. The sluts and whores dressed accordingly and decent girls would not be seen dead in similar clothing. The scrubbers used language that would not be out of place on a whaling ship while well brought up and self-respecting girls would be shocked and humiliated hearing such language, possibly even swooning. To top it off, "nice" girls now have exponentially more tramp stamps than any tramp of yore.

 It's astonishing to contemplate just how far we've "progressed". Now that women are "empowered", there's no telling the difference between the two classes of women - possibly because no difference exists except that promiscuous women were once sluts but today are "sexually liberated". One can only sympathise with the sluts of the past for the injustice fate has dealt them. Their only real misdemeanor was being born ahead of their time

FREE THE NIPPLE, A SUBSIDIARY OF THE SLUT WALK.

 At first glance, so to speak, most men would not be averse to the nipple being freed, although it would be difficult for most men to swallow the zany feminine/feminist reasoning behind it: that if it is acceptable for men to parade bare-chested, the same freedom should be extended to the sisters. Perhaps though, after men who had gleefully rubbed their hands in expectation of firm, plump breasts breaking out all over, discovered that their ideal was overwhelmed by the sagging, sucked dry type, would be begging for the nipple to be rounded up again. The damage caused by the disillusionment would be lasting if not permanent.



How many women actually want the nipple freed? Hmmmm, probably a tiny minority. After all, whenever a woman is suddenly caught naked in the glare of an unfamiliar man's eyes, she instinctively tries to cover up her most precious assets: her genitals - and her breasts. Presumably, this instinct would require a lot of overriding before a woman felt completely at ease gadding about bare- breasted.

But punting the free-the-nipple brigade's argument right out of the football ground is embarrassingly easy. For starters, the female breast is not the exact equivalent of the male breast. Otherwise, women would enjoy fondling male breast as much as vice versa. Additionally, when men decide it's about time for a little auto-eroticism, their chest is never thought of as a good area for foreplay, whereas women do, suggesting female breasts are a highly erogenous zone. They do indeed seem to enjoy the right man fondling them just as much as the man doing the fondling.

However, for the fools who have never thought it through, and this must include all free-the-nipplers, here is where you arrive when the argument is taken to its logical conclusion, a place called ad absurdum. As soon as the female breast is declared non-sexual, which is what's aimed for when equating it to the male version, open season on the tempting protrusions is pretty much declared at the same time. Who ever heard of a man claiming sexual or indecent assault when touched, pressed or even grabbed - in the case of man-boobs - on the chest?  Being deprived of a feel of the mammary gland being a slappable offence,would be assuredly something the ladies wouldn't like. What's that you say? You most assuredly wouldn't? Well, I'm sorry Sweetpeas, but you can't have it both ways. That would be a double standard, something the shrieking about by feminists has left many a man hearing-impaired.  And naturally, double standards can only be supported by feminists not accepting the obvious differences between men and women apart from those woefully insignificant physical differences.

But to get back to reality, what is it about the female breast that so tempts and befuddles men?  Although men know enough to be aware that the claim by the free-the-nipple brigade that it is simply a better padded version of the male breast is utter nonsense, they are unable to say, when put on the spot, why they like to see and fondle ample and well-formed breasts. Women as well would be hard put to answer this age-old question but naturally they do know that they work for them, and are probably the most powerful weapons in their honey-pot arsenal. The millions spent on breast enhancement tends to eloquently argue this case.

Even a classic breast is around 60% fat. Given that it's difficult to imagine a man wanting to fondle fat on any other part of a woman's body, why is it that men are so hopelessly disarmed, stupefied and attracted like a pyromaniac to a box of matches by what are essentially bags of fat? Men are so bedazzled by the breast that if stumbling upon a woman breast feeding, the are embarrassed and somewhat surprised to be reminded of the primary reason for the existence of the female breast. Subconsciously, they've assumed it was primarily for their own delectation. Reason exists for believing it largely is - nature's sweetening of the procreation deal. If the purpose of women's breasts was solely to be fleshy milk bottles for their young, why do they not shrink and retract like the breasts of lady gorillas when not needed by a baby gorilla? This seems much more sensible than having to wear a brassier for the greater portion of a woman's life. Perhaps this is just Mother Nature conceding lady gorillas will never be dexterous enough to fashion a brassier.

MODESTY A SILLY OLD IDEA

Aly Raisman (who care's how good an athlete she is?), pictured on Sports Illustrated, is waging a one woman campaign for yet another have-it-both-ways privilege for women. She yearns for a world in which women can appear as slutty they like and still be respected. There it is, inked on her body. For those who can't read around curves, it says "women do not have to be modest to be respected". Sorry Aly, but one doesn't have to be a professor of formal Logic to be able to see that that is a debatable statement. If a gorgeous, buxom woman were to waltz down the main street of a city on a Saturday night with her tits hanging out, would she be being entirely reasonable in taking offence at disrespectful comments - from both men and  women? A bridge too far perhaps?

However, a deeper question is overlaid here and that is the reason for women's need to be immodest. Aly's answer to that is that women have some kind of god-given right to show off their bodies. Why should women be ashamed of their bodies? Well if that is so, why, in warm climes at least, were clothes ever bothered with. A certain kind of bodily shame would appear to be part of human nature. (That bitch and the apple incident.) And as far as a god-given right to act the slut and not pay the piper, why, given that Homo Sapiens have been around for at least 200,000 years, was it only discovered less than fifty years ago?

Here's the real reason: pussy power with the safety catch off. While women's perpetual harping on the need for "equality" drives many of us to fondly remember Jimmy Cagney's famous movie scene in which he jammed half a grapefruit into his nagging co-star's face, this power, the nuclear missile in the war between the sexes, is conveniently forgotten.

It's a power grievously misused. It goes without saying that sex is probably the trickiest problem humans and their tribes and societies have ever had to deal with. In the societal microcosm, the tribe, it was recognised as needing tight control because the emotions it could unleash could be destructive enough to destroy the tribe itself. With the advent of civilizaton, in the larger social organisations that grew out of tribes, the destructive power of sex if mishandled was seen to be no less potent, thus monogamous marriage was elevated to the sacred and the family was recognised as the building block of society therefore of equal value to both the individual and society.

Great wisdom was shown in this organisation which was as beneficial as it was fair in that allowed as far as possible everyone to win a prize so to speak. It would have been just as easy to opt for polygamy which may have contributed equal value to a society but would have exacerbated the misery of those who were already the losers of society - the men at the bottom of the heap who would be condemned to a life of loneliness and sexual frustration but perhaps picking up a few crumbs and left-overs here and there while the winners, rich and powerful men, scooped up a surfeit of women. And who knows that this eventually wouldn't lead to social upheaval such as may yet befall China whose one-child policy has led to sexual imbalance which has resulted in millions of men who will never be able to marry or have children. Firstly, of course, enough women do not exist to go round and these men are poor and so noncompetitive in the love-game. Poor plus sexually frustrated - that could be dangerous time-bomb.

Little does anybody consider that the so-called sexual revolution has caused a similar result. Instead of the generally accepted picture of everybody going at it like rabbits, the reality is vastly different.That women are hypergamous, that is, attracted to men of superior cast (or,in a pinch, simply equal, but rarely lower) is proven beyond a doubt by their willingness to share a man in polygamous societies as long as power, wealth and status trickle down to them. So in a monogamous society, although becoming increasingly meaningless as marriage has itself becomes so meaningless as to be now offered to homosexuals, very similar dynamics operate. But instead of harems,what we see are "liberated" women being screwed senseless  - just exercising their right to be sluts - by men who would otherwise have harems in polygamous societies. Men who lack wealth, power, good looks, confidence, or gregariousness or the poor sap at the end of the line lacking the lot, who might as well hand in his testicles - the so-called "beta males" - are in a very similar position to the lonely Chinese men, with one major difference: they may not be entirely enthusiastic about marriage considering the legal traps placed by feminists but they would like to at least dip their wicks once in a while.

But more than likely, they'll just have to wait, wait until the party girls's looks are beginning to fade, when her eggs are approaching their shelf-lives, when all the "good men" and "bad boys" appear to be taken and when they might consider settling down with an unexciting but devoted beta boy. When she does, perhaps after one or two failed marriages with highly desirable males, it's more than likely she has had exponentially more sexual experience than beta boy who will no doubt have some pretty hard acts to follow. How will he be measured? Slightly above failing grade if lucky and in a moment of bitterness she'll probably tell him so.

However, to retrace our steps a little, why do women, even if they do not consider themselves real sluts, need to act and dress like sluts. Well, as they say, if you've got it, flaunt it. And indeed it seems most women with something to flaunt have a streak of exhibitionism. It's possible that female porn-stars are merely pushing the exhibitionist envelope to tearing point. Apparently they are hugely gratified by the thought of legions of men being excited by their sexual athletics.

But is this inherent exhibitionism the only cause of acting the slut - the ubiquitous yoga pants, impossibly tight skirts, short shorts, enlarged breasts bursting to be free and what's the deal with beachwear providing only a shred of material to hide the anus? Are sun-tanned buns all that necessary? One suspects not. It's all about power. About the power to attract, be wanted and to taunt.

Feminism is a study in willful stupidity and the power of an ideology of absolute selfishness to cause blindness to reality.The foundation of feminism is of course, and has to be, that men and women are the same in every way but the physical, ergo, little or no difference exists between them in the way they have been wired sexually. This is how they try to get away with shrieking "double standards" in regard to promiscuous women being called sluts while promiscuous men are admired as stallions and studs. This blatantly ignores how nature has designed the sexes, how they had be designed for human life to be able to progress and not be stalled at a stage reminiscent of a Saturday night in a homosexual bathhouse.

For this reason, nature provided a marvelous balance by appointing women the gatekeepers of the sexual garden and men as the sowers perennially attempting to gain access, or if an evolutionary explanation is preferred, both a woman and a man needed to be sure of the parentage of offspring in order for a man to stick around to help ensure the survival of children. In harder times than ours, ours being about thirty seconds out of a whole day, the survival of offspring and therefore the survival of the human race was precarious. This dissimilarity could not have been effected without secondary differences occurring. For example, men make no bones about wanting sex. It's very much a physical need.

 Sex is different for a woman. While men want sex directly, women want to be wanted for sex. To women who haven't been indoctrinated by feminism, sex is more than simply physical. This is perhaps why they have been equipped with a much longer fuse than men. Being slower to arouse than men could be a protection from rushing into anything not offering  an optimum return. The men chosen by women to have sex with although probably not conscious of it are men considered to brimming with the best genes, and be potentially good fathers and providers.

Judging by the racket they make during the sex act, women are every bit as capable of enjoying sex as a man, if not more so, but this is only after all her prerequisites have been met. A romantic atmosphere helps. She must be in the mood, feel secure and safe and not have a headache.

Wise people through the ages took note of the reality of these differences, hence the sacred nature of marriage hedged about with taboos against premarital and extramarital sex which drew a sharp line between those who liked to be thought of as "decent" and all others. But of course, this silly old taboo, like most other taboos, their important social rationales lost sight of, have been flushed away, along with the sense to know that a double standard only exists when treating two identical properties differently. Women and men are not identical.  Most women under thirty unless disfigured, deformed, deranged or obese could, if it was so desired, have sex with a different man every night. And they sure as hell as wouldn't be paying for it. The converse of this would be a distinct challenge, even for the most successful "alphas".

To return to the most plausible reasons for looking like a slut: the power to attract, to be wanted, and the power to taunt, the latter may be the most unkind. To the large number of men not getting any sex at all, this is being hungry at a banquet but not allowed to eat. "I know what boys want. They want to ..." sang the taunting female voice. Possibly, previous generations thought of this subtle form of cruelty as another reason for insisting on modesty for women. Does it get any worse than cruel? Certainly Muslims seem to think so with their equating the male libido withs a petrol-soaked bush with wind blowing sparks toward it, necessitating Muslim women to have black curtains thrown over them. This demeaning view of men, but possibly accurate for Muslim men turned into what is most feared by their women being kept under wraps, could possibly, just possibly, indicate they are on to something. Inductive reasoning suggests that a type of male probably exists, a rogue psychopath to be sure, who may decide that the constant taunting is too much to take and decides to get even. His victim becomes every woman who has caused his misery.

An inquiring mind could not cultivate a more valuable habit than, when confronted by a complex issue, to ask, what's really going on here? Aldous Huxley, with his Brave New World, littered with the "pneumatic" babes that men compared notes about around the water-cooler was trying to tell us something important, something that should be intuitive. If a "soft" tyranny, the type that most in the West now live under, wanted a way to distract people from their being fitted with comfortable chains, how could they improve on degrading sex to a kind of sport - bread, circus and sex? With the advent of modern contraceptives and the ever stronger urge toward evermore individual freedom by the liberal/left - no need to worry about the outdated requirement of Classical Liberalism for freedom to be balanced by responsibility - as well as the mind-bending methods of propaganda honed to a perfect science, how easy would it be to sell sex as "Soma"?

And with women being the more suggestible of the sexes because of their far stronger herd instinct, the sight, for example, of a woman under thirty without the knees torn out of her jeans being almost as rare as a unicorn sighting, they would be the obvious primary target. You wanted sexual freedom? Knock yourself out. Enjoy! No need to worry about the price. That will come later.

THE YEAR OF THE MONGREL

It's the Chinese year of the dog. Who gives a rat's? Presumably the Chinese. SBS (Should Be Shit-canned) Television tells us Chinese New Year has now been celebrated in Australia for over twenty years now. Given that the Chinese first arrived here lured by gold in the 1850s and 1860s, this can only mean that for over twenty years CNY celebrations have been fueled by public money - your money. Before this eventuality, when the event was dependent on Chinese money alone, it evidently was not all that important to them judging by its being so low key as to be almost invisible - perhaps a lion dance and a few fire-crackers exploding in Chinatown.

SBS also tells us, boasts actually, that the CNY in Australia is the most celebrated (probably meaning most costly) outside of China. This is extraordinary. It means we outdo  Chinese strongholds such as Singapore,  Malaysia (where the Chinese are officially discriminated against), Indonesia (where they are simply hated), Brunei (plenty of money here for fireworks) and Thailand which hosts the largest of any overseas Chinese communities. Thailand, however, being a rigidly monocultural country even though home to a host of ethnic minorities would not be impressed by any of them becoming overly enthusiastic in celebrating their differences. This is of course the polar opposite of the situation in Australia. "You're holding a celebration of your own unique culture? Fantastic! How much money do you need?" In 1991, Stephen J Rimmer, a senior economist working for the Federal Government, calculated the annual cost of multiculturalism to be at least $7.0 billion. The current figures are probably locked away in drawer somewhere marked TOP SECRET.

An old truism has it that you can tell who holds power by noting who can't be criticized. Similarly, it's easy to tell which competing ethnic group in Australia holds the most power by how much money it sucks from the tax-payer. By this measure, Aborigines, with the billions wasted on them year after year via exploitation of our pathological White guilt, and of course being special, are streets ahead in the game. The Chinese, although being a million strong thus out-numbering the special group at around three to one, are behind, but not be far. As just one example, ever seen the "Chinese Garden" at Darling Harbour? Which other ethnic group gets its own obscenely expensive garden in one of the most prime locations in the country?

Another highly impressive Chinese Garden exists in the NSW town of Young, once known as the gold-strike area of Lambing Flat. It was "established to recognise the contribution of the Chinese community to the settlement of Young in the 1860s and to the ongoing contributions of the Chinese community to Australia as a Nation." [italics mine] (www.visityoung.com.nsw) 

 The Chinese contribution to Young was no more than their flocking to the area maddened by gold fever, and the real reason for the garden is to permanently apologise to Chinese in Australia ("Australian Chinese" not being used because it is an oxymoron) for, according to the official narrative, the heinous way in which they were treated by White gold-miners, essentially in a series of six anti-Chinese riots in which many were injured. It is presented as an early example of vile Australian racism notwithstanding that racism hadn't yet been invented. If a tree falls in the forest and there is no-one to hear ...

Conveniently dropped down the memory hole is the real reason for the riots which was that the White miners were incensed at the Chinese practice of picking over areas where the spade-work had already been done, essentially stealing their labour. A major plus though came out of the riots; they led to a Chinese restriction act being passed by the NSW colonial government. A similar act had already been passed in Victoria, reeling under an invasion of gold-hungry Chinese although the initial efficacy of these acts were at best marginal as the Chinese simply sailed to South Australia from where they trekked overland to the gold fields. It was long term that the demonstrated antipathy and open conflict between Chinese and Whites proved their worth. Being in no doubt of the time-bomb being created, one of the first acts passed by Australian parliament prohibited all non-white immigration - the White Australia policy which however never existed in name.

For evidence for the amount of money being thrown at the the CNY, one only has to look at the justification being given for it, which is that it is an investment. It's argued that the money spent is more than repaid in tourist dollars. A similar argument is made for the amount of money incinerated every New Year's Eve in Sydney. Both are specious, The fireworks loving tourists would probably be here anyway or have timed their trip, especially from the icy north, to coincide with the over-the-top display. The CNY argument is even loopier, as loopy as hordes of Aussie tourists trooping off to the People's Republic to watch the Melbourne Cup on television. If anything, the Chinese visitors here have timed their trip to include the celebrations foolishly provided from the public purse in sunnier climes.

Another possible reason exists for our lavish spending on the beginning of the Year of Whatever, and that is too remain sweet with our big Asian customer and even bigger provider of most of the junk we consume. A little cosying up can never go astray. But it would not be straying outside the realms of possibility to nudge this argument one step further by asserting that our progressive ramping up of our love of the CNY is a form of tribute, given that our relationship with China is one of growing suzerainty. For those not familiar with the term, here is the definition given in the Concise Oxford Dictionary: "Sovereign or State having some control over another State that is internally autonomous". In the days of China being the Middle Kingdom, it was the suzerain of many states in its sphere of influence. As a way of preventing that influence becoming too interfering, the stood-over states would regularly make tribute in the form of treasure.

In our modern version, we don't have to transfer the treasure; we just throw it around here in a way that causes our suzerain to smile.

LOOKING FOR AUSTRALIA Part 7

MELBOURNE LOOKS PEACEFUL ENOUGH

After getting back on the Great Ocean Road and climbing toward a battleship-grey sky north of Apollo Bay and wrestling my machine through miles of heart-rate raising convolution on the cliff-tops, the road eventually straightens out on a plain that flat-tops to the long drop into the crashing sea far below. On my left is the Great Ottway National Park and on my right is the Southern Ocean. I pass through the picturesque little towns of Lorne and Anglesea. At Torquay the road swings almost due north to meet up with the Princes Highway.

This is prime farming country but evidently very dry judging by the fat rolls of hay scattered about the fields. Sleek, fat cattle graze, safely guarded from hunger no matter how long the rain holds off. My mind flashes back to the saddening sight of starving, skeletal cattle I'd witnessed during a dry season in Laos several years earlier. Almost too weak to stand up, they munched futilely on dry, dead grass. Unable to afford the luxury of hay, their impoverished owners could only watch and wait and pray to Buddha for the rainy season to begin. Anybody with any familiarity with Buddhism would know Buddha was not a god but simply a philosopher who died 2,500 years ago. But that doesn't matter to people who may not be a lot better off than their cattle if the rain arrives late. And some people still don't quite get it why the third world wants to relocate to the first world.

The size of the city of Geelong hints to me that my bush odyssey is nearing conclusion. On the other side, a fast expressway whisks me through sunny countryside to where I can see Melbourne hulking in the distance.

This is the first time I’ve hit Melbourne from this angle and I’m not entirely relaxed, faced as I am with navigating my way from the south of the city to where I’ve chosen to stay in North Melbourne. So far so good; I’m cruising around a sweeping curve of expressway and the city is looming ever closer. All I have to do is choose the right exit. That could have been it, I think, looking over my shoulder with a pang of self-recrimination. No doubt it was. I’m sensing what it must be like to be in a space capsule bouncing of the earth’s atmosphere in an attempt at re-entry at too shallow an angle. My own consequences admittedly may not be so dire but I definitely don’t like the way the city, instead of continuing to get closer, is receding into the distance behind me.

I have to get off this speed-way or I’ll bypass the city entirely. The first exit I see, I take. I’ve at least stopped the involuntary exit from the city but I haven’t got a clue where I am. It seems a simple matter at first of orienting myself but the more wrong turns I take, the more flustered I become, until I’m not entirely sure which way is up and which way is down.

 More through good luck than anything else, I’ve gotten to within striking distance of where I want to be but I don’t know it. It’s only when I admit defeat and make a distress call to the mate who’s agreed to put me up for a couple of nights that the feeling of so near but so far strikes me. My destination is only five minutes away but the way I was going at it, those few minutes may have become hours.

Because my pal who I haven’t seen in a few years now works from home, and can’t spend any time away from his computer for the time being, he apologises for not being able to show me around. I say “no problem. I’m perfectly happy to nose around on my own.” So, after a shower and a feed, I’m ready to fill what’s left of the afternoon with exploration. I very thankfully leave the bike and strike out on foot. I’ve got my bearings now. All I need to do is head in the direction of the city’s towering office-blocks.

Within a few minutes, I’m walking past the expansive old markets, quiet now with no indication of the hustle and noise that would have predominated in the early morning. A lot of history there, I think. I can cover a lot of distance this way, musing over unfamiliar sights. It’s only when I backtrack that I realise just how much pavement I’ve trodden. I’m soon in the centre of the city.

 As is almost second nature to me, I’m surveying the racial changes wrought by mass immigration. The Sydney equivalent of where I’m standing now in the central business district is now an all Asian affair, almost indistinguishable from say Hong Kong or Singapore. I compare and contrast. From careful observation I have to conclude that white faces are still in the majority here BUT the Asian faces, mainly Chinese if my time spent kicking around Asia has taught me anything at all, form a very large minority. I’m standing like Socrates rooted in the snow, only I’m on a busy street corner, deep in thought, combing through memories for references. I think I have it. This is almost exactly like Sydney was when Asian immigration really started to skyrocket in the mid to late eighties. However, that’s not to say it’s going to take Melbourne thirty odd years to catch up. No way. It will be fast-tracked. Sydney is perhaps a giant racial Petri-dish – a kind of test case to see what can be gotten away with, and it’s been gotten away with glowingly successfully. Gently, gently, don’t scare the horses, hose the boobs with never-ending torrents of propaganda, ridicule and excoriate any who dare to object and use the hegemony of liberalism/leftism and the new religious fervor of multiculturalism to point and accuse of the worst sin imaginable: RACISM. Now that the process has been perfected, Melbourne, followed by every other Australian city, will be cake-walks. The last strong holds of Australia, the country areas similar to the ones I’ve been exploring, will then be stormed.

After night-fall, I again explore the city, this time by way of a pub crawl with my old mate now leading the way. It took him longer to twig to what’s being done to the country but after seeing the light and being converted he has as much of a blood-pressure problem as I have.

 “They use the rolling waves of immigration con pretty consistently here. You know, it used to be the Greeks who no-one liked, then people got used to them and pretty much accepted them as Australians,” he explains after the first couple of pots. “We’re all just hopelessly racist so the same thing is bound to happen with every new wave of immigration, they keep telling us. Bastards! What they avoid like shit on a sandwich is that the Greeks were a lot more like us than Asians ever will be and they wanted to be Australians. No-one was urging the Greeks to pretend they’d never left Greece and to just keep living accordingly. The Greeks did it hard – there were no massive multicultural grants to one and all then. I’d say that’s part of the reason not even the bloody Greeks like the Asians. And another thing …” He was getting wound up. “When we had the Greeks as our so-called “new Australians” we weren’t in danger of losing our entire fucking country.”

While we were trekking from pub to pub, the little pubs of Melbourne with their little beers, I noticed an odd thing. There now seemed to be more Asians out and about. Were the Asians of Melbourne nocturnal creatures?

The next day, my mate’s back at the keyboard and I’m strolling down Swanston Street. I see a big crowd gathered further down the street. Is it people picking out good positions early for a Carols by Candlelight turnout? I wonder. I can hear a lot of sirens close and distant. As I continue further along the street I’m seeing more and more parked police cars. A helicopter is chop-chopping above. What in Christ’s name is going on? By time I reach Flinders Street I discover that the crowd has grown because it’s prevented from going any further. It’s the same on the other side of the street outside Flinders Street station. The crowd there is prevented from crossing to our side of the street. Coppers are everywhere. No-one seems to know what’s going on so I ask a cop. “There’s been an accident,” is the stony-faced reply. Must be one hell of an accident.

BUT LOOKS CAN BE DECEPTIVE

It’s only later in the evening while watching TV back at my mate’s place that I learn the truth. A man thought to be an immigrant or asylum seeker from Afghanistan has driven a car full-bore into a crowd of pedestrians. Many are grievously injured, probably traumatized for the rest of their lives and one will later die of his injuries. No mention is made of it being a terrorist act, or even a hate crime or even of the sub-human causing the mayhem being Muslim although his being Afgahnistani would have to be a strong indication. The socialist Victorian Government, locked in its straight-jacket of political correctness, is craven beyond belief.

Meanwhile, out in the western suburbs amongst other areas, South Sudanese and other African gangs continue to repay Australian kindness by terrorizing the hosts while politicians and police play a merry game of semantics. What exactly is a “gang”? Who’s to say these so-called gangs are not just groups of over- exuberant boys? Police find their feminine sides while standing idly by and watching “community leaders” try to reason with savages reveling in criminal behavior. On reflection, it may be that Melbourne is catching up with Sydney faster than first thought.

I’d originally intended to take the more scenic route back to Sydney via the Princes Highway but that would mean slicing through the city to reach the southern side. However, still slightly traumatized from my earlier disorientation, I decide to hell with it, I’d tear straight up the Hume Highway, now renamed the Hume Motorway. 

It’s in the outer northern suburbs that I start seeing a lot of shops bedecked with Chinese characters instead of English letters. These are evidently the areas that will soon be the southern Hurstvilles, Chatswoods and Randwicks, Sydney suburbs colonized by the Chinese.

Free of the city, I breath fresher area and look forward to my last day free of multiculturalism. I’m in a long stretch of Australia between two major centres of infestation. I’ve decided to get it over and done with. I’ll do it in one hit. That though will entail a lot of short breaks. I take my first in the town of Glenrowan, Ned Kelly country. In a Melbourne museum located in the old Treasury building, a curator had told me that Kelly, the iron-clad bushranger, is Australian history’s most famous identity. “How’s that,” I asked. It turns out more ink has been spent on him than any other Australian. Glenrowan though is little more than a tacky Ned Kelly theme park.

Across the border and clear of Albury, I let the Bonny do the talking and it’s howling. On the Victorian side point-to-point speed averaging cameras target all vehicles, but on this side, they are only concerned with trucks so I take full advantage. Besides, I’m now realizing the reason for the new moniker of “Hume Motorway”; it’s now as good as any Autobahn I’ve seen in Germany. The turbulence is bashing me as I swoop past cars like they’re parked. I should know better but I like being on the edge. It’s a predilection so old there seems little chance of it changing. Only ten hours will elapse between the two centres of social engineering. I’ve enjoyed my visit to Australia, the Australia I remember, and the company of Australians – being amongst my own kind. Should I live long enough, the memory of it will provide a pleasant refuge if and when all is lost, when the multicultural utopia is fully realized and for an Australian, "Australia" is not worth living in.

THE ASIAN WHORE INVASION

Retreating in the face of even the stickiest issue has never been my style. And being one with nary a qualm when wading in where angels fear to tread, I rounded up my gang of hard men to go in hard to get the hard facts on something I'd had strong suspicions about for a long time - the Asian takeover of the Australian sex industry. These hard hitters had all the right qualifications: they were young, they were eager, they ranged from mildly ugly to scared to look in a mirror, they were sick of getting knock-backs and they weren't above paying for it.  "You pay for it whichever way you cut it so why not cut out the bullshit?" was a common refrain.

Would I be chipping in towards the expenses of the survey? No,  I wouldn't be; they just needed to do what they did anyway, only more often, and with their eyes open, at least most of the time. Just knowing they were involved in an important contribution to man's expanded knowledge should have been reward enough.

Although not entirely swayed by this argument, they proceeded anyway to split up and head in different directions with instructions to report back to me with the unvarnished truth. "Remember, go in hard," I urged.

Sydney, being the capital of the Australian sex-industry, was chosen to be the canary in the coal mine. Besides, although Melbourne is a strong contender for the title, my boys were unanimous in their stating they would not go that far for a holiday let alone a quick bang or two - unless I was agreeable to paying for accommodation and train fares. They could get that thought right out of their heads.

Early results soon began dribbling in. It seemed my hunch was right. The lower tiers of prostitution - what may be termed the K Mart and the Reject Shop of the sex trade - had been almost completely conquered by Asian girls. The girls who had traditionally paid hourly rent on grubby rooms since colonial times, poor, unqualified and ill-educated white girls, the type not so long ago decorating Darlinghurst Road in the Cross and nearby William Street, had been almost entirely vanquished. Where did they go? What did they do now? Were they forced to become "honest women"? No-one knew. But here's the crucial point: the newcomers were charging less. The extinction of local street-walkers had been caused largely by simple economics, the same economics causing havoc among the Australian working class generally.

Leveraging their hold on the lazy money of sexually frustrated punters was the form of prostitution hardly existing in Australia before mass Asian immigration - the happy-ending massage, known colloquially as a "rub and tug".  This enterprise has proliferated like the proverbial mushrooms after a rain-storm. Few inner city suburbs would be without a friendly rub and tugger. And why not? It's a perfect contented cash-cow. These little money-makers, even in an era of legalised prostitution, rarely make the effort of obtaining a licence, thus operating illegally and without scrutiny from either the long dick of the law or the Australian Taxation Office. It is almost pure black money.  Even more damaging to the Australian economy is that a generous proportion of this money would be being sent overseas to help family, as is the Asian third-world tradition

 All that's needed for a cashed up investor is the flimsy front of a legitimate therapeutic massage provider complete with a few cheap wall charts showing illustrations of muscle groupings. Who knows? Perhaps the dim-witted sometimes wander in wanting nothing more than relief from knotted muscles. Conversely however, it would no doubt be much more disappointing for a man rigid with anticipation to discover that he'd blundered into a legit operation providing merely what its promotion was saying it was providing.

Less naive types with a hidden agenda - the undercover cop - it seems, isn't a completely unknown visitor to non-legit establishments. (Competition to be part of these investigations must be as fierce as a shark feeding frenzy.) The indication of this is the laughably useless method - rather more of a security blanket - that has evolved for screening out the spy from the genuinely horny guy who in a pinch would probably be happy to dispense with the massage altogether. It simply comprises asking only for the standard massage fee upfront. At the end of the massage, usually signified by gentle finger-tips wandering over the still face-down body if it's been decided the customer doesn't have a badge hidden somewhere, the soft words of "you turn over now please" are heard spoken. At the same time as the customer is turning, a pillow is placed expertly under his head. Sometimes the question is then asked, "you like extra?" but more often the up and down motion of a partly clenched fist accompanied by a questioning look does the trick. A nod in response and a quick negotiation fixes the extra payment at $20. Another $20 gets the gear off, the tacit understanding being that this includes a feel-up. Some haggling is sometimes involved here but it's only for dopes unaware of the standard price. It's an honour system. The girl seems to have complete confidence in not being stiffed, so to speak, for the surcharge(s). She then turns to reach for the oil bottle.



So that's $40, when added to the first forty paid for the basic half hour massage, and with the usual 50/50 split between the house and the girl, the masseuse cum hand operator is making a cool tax free $80 per hour - better than working in a factory or sweat-shop for less than half the take-home pay. And the cherry on the cake is in knowing they are bringing joy, albeit of the most fleeting kind, to so many men. And was it really prostitution? If someone of the status of Bill Clinton could affirm that a blow-was simply a token of affection, rather than a sex-act, how innocent was a hand-job?

My agents had been issued with further instructions to subtly (or at least as subtly as this crew is capable) tease out any further information they can about the girls performing this valuable service: what do they do when not spanking monkeys etc? A surprising number, it turns out, are students, naturally enough, here on student visas. When one girl was pressed for what she was actually studying, the reply was "Kung Fu". She'd travelled from Beijing to Sydney to study Kung Fu. Shouldn't surprise though. The corruption inherent in the "colleges" involved in the overseas student racket is legendary. It's essentially a set and forget system. Once the student has signed on and attended his/her first class the fact that they are never seen again is conveniently forgotten. Particularly worrying is that overseas students have pole positions for citizenship.

The intell was streaming in smoothly from my investigators who were obviously warming to the assignment. But another tier existed between the bargain basement and the top drawer, more of which  later. The problem was that my team, more tight-arsed than a Jew at a church bazaar, was claiming this level of entertainment, as conscientious as they were, was simply out of their price range. Luckily one of the boys volunteered the information that he had a brother, although just as ugly as himself and equally hopeless with women but a lot more cashed up, who spent a lot of this cash in exactly the environment I wanted the dirt on. Moreover, over a half carton of Foster's provided by moi he would be happy to divulge as much information as I desired. Eureka!

He seemed a bit cagey at first, perhaps even a little embarrassed talking to someone he didn't know well about paying for sex which, let's face it, isn't the same  as talking about  about fair and square conquests, something that's difficult to shut most men up about. However, after ripping the zip-pull on his third can, his recollections were beginning to sparkle. The type of establishment we're talking about here is a well run, with clean and and modern, although not luxurious rooms, with a Mama-san or well dressed male to greet you and invite you to be seated in a foyer while the girls available  are rounded up and paraded past you with smiles lighting up the room on their being introduced.



They are invariably Asian - it's a closed shop; everyone here is Asian, including a cleaner once spotted spiriting away a full bin of condoms - with unlikely Asian names such as Tiffany, Georgia or Smokey, but of course bodgy names go with this entire territory. These girls have obviously been screened for age, nubility and prettiness - in a word, fuckablity. A basic "service" will usually get you a shared shower, a blow-job sans condom and of course a fuck - with condom, entirely worth it for peace of mind alone. My new friend was becoming quite garrulous now. "Half an hour is plenty. Why pay for longer when most of that time is spent just re-loading. And if it's talk you're after, why, you can get that for nothing with an Asian girl at a bus-top." With his face, I doubted it but I took his point.

So, as promised, it was time to scale the peak, to the type of establishment that pays for big, glossy ads in the Daily Telegraph. There was an idea. Actual visits were out of the question on the non-existent budget for the operation so why not follow the breadcrumb trails left by the ads and obtain the necessary information by phone? I'd be cunning. I'd begin each enquiry by stating my preference for Asian girls. "How many do you have there?" The replies I got ranged between none and a few or a couple. With places boasting of between 15 and 20 girls on their books, this was a minuscule proportion. Later, poring over photos on these establishments' websites revealed their girls were overwhelmingly white with perhaps a sprinkling of non-whites.

But while on the phone I was going for the jugular, "what are your rates?" The average charge for a half-hour get-together was $220. That was a big chunk on top of the standard $150 - $160 charged for a half hour at the up market Asian brothels. One of the  top drawer joints was offering "a girl-friend experience" for "only" an extra fifty. Essentially, this means merely that kissing is allowed. Kissing is otherwise banned by Australian whores. This is strongly enforced. An acquaintance of mine can laugh about it now, but one can easily imagine his mood when attempting to kiss a white whore  and instead of melting lips meeting his, he copped instead a Kleenex tissue shoved in his kisser. When a different girl was asked by another acquaintance for the rationale behind the no-kissing rule, he met with pure, loopy female logic: "oh, because that's personal". And a penis in the vagina was not considered personal? My informant was too polite to ask.

With the Asian girls, instead of kissing being an optional extra if lucky, it is standard. It's cliche, but cliches wouldn't be cliches if not containing a kernel of truth, and the truth here may be that Asian women really do know how to look after a man. This, along with price-cutting, is most likely the key to why Asian women are cleaning up in the Australian sex industry. For now at least, white girls control the top end of the market. They are meeting certain prerequisites. They would need to be, as well as exceptionally attractive, not entirely stupid and at least able to hold a basic, civil conversation, and with some measure of sophistication, at least enough to not grate on the kind of men providing their custom - professional men, or at least men with good jobs and plenty of money, discriminating men who like to think they're getting value for their money.

However, as the Asian invasion continues unabated, and home-grown Asian women benefit from an education that would be all but impossible to receive in their ancestral homes and are speaking in well-modulated Australian accents, the white whores at the top of the heap better start watching their backs or they'll end up being foremost in the "white trash of Asia" that Lee Kwan Yew, the former leader of Singapore, predicted to be the fate of  us all.

THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

The Year of Living Dangerously was an Australian film directed by Peter Weir and starring Mel Gibson, who we could still then claim as an Australian, released in 1985. It was based on the 1978 novel of the same title by Australian writer, Peter Koch. The title is said to have come from the words used by President Sukarno in an Independence Day speech he gave in 1964. Little did Sukarno know that his 22-year stint as the republic’s first president would come to an abrupt halt soon after. The year of truly living dangerously was 1965, a year which saw a volcanic eruption of violence in Indonesia.

Even to this day, historians and Indonesia-watchers are not entirely sure of the minutia and intricacies that culminated effectively in one of the bloodiest revolutions in modern history but the bare bones of the story are generally agreed on.

For most of his time in power, Sukarno had walked a tight rope above the abyss that finally swallowed him. It was a delicate balancing act needed to keep him in power, one that entailed playing off the world’s third largest communist party, the Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI) and largest Indonesian political party against a right-wing military, with organized Islamists also on the far right. The tension between the two extremes could best be illustrated in an analogy in which two gun-fighters have their guns drawn in a “Mexican stand-off”.

The question was, who would fire the first shot. However, as with other such upheavals, factors other than the purely political played their part, notably the economic factor. By the mid ‘60s, inflation was running at between 500 and 1,000% annually, wiping out the savings of the middle class, and downgrading the lives of the peasants and workers (proletarians as the PKI would no doubt have it) from bad to very bad.

When the first shot sounded, the smoking gun was not exactly in the hand of either side. It was fired by a leftist military faction calling itself the 30^th September Movement, the night of September 30 – October 1 being the first stage of an attempted coup when six top Indonesian generals were kidnapped, summarily executed and their bodies thrown down a well. The Movement claimed its actions were a pre-emptive strike against a planned coup by the military. But then again, the military may have been marshalling its forces after rumours of a planned Leftist coup began to surface.

Perhaps the greatest mistake of the leftist soldiers was not including the execution of General Suharto in their attempted coup d’état perhaps because of his not being perceived as overly political. Huge mistake as it was around the eminently capable Suharto that the backlash quickly developed.

Although no conclusive supporting evidence has ever been produced, it was immediately assumed that the attempted coup had the backing of the PKI, leading to its destruction by the army leading in turn to what was described by the US CIA as the bloodiest massacre in modern history, knowing full well that much of the blood was dripping from the hands of the US Government which had been alarmed at the rapid growth and influence of the PKI. Accordingly, during the blood-letting, arms and information was being provided to the Indonesian military courtesy of Uncle Sam. The American government was additionally not enamoured of the anti-American Sarkarno who was perceived as getting a little too cosy with the PKI, he himself upsetting the delicate balance of Indonesian power.

Initially by the army and then by another army of blood-lusting camp-followers, communists were hunted down and murdered on an industrial scale. First the communists, then the families of communists, then those suspected of having communist sympathies and then anyone who even looked like a communist. How could it be determined? The suspect usually had Chinese characteristics. If not exactly communists yet they formed a sleeping fifth column. This perception may not have been completely off the mark as we in Australia are obviously saddled fifth column ever ready to act on behalf of the People’s Republic of China. This has been evidenced repeatedly in the ease with which the Chinese government can galvanise protests in its interest by hordes of Chinese students studying in Australia.

Be that as it may, during this time of a peculiar Malay habit of running “amok”, a Malay word, the destruction of communists morphed into the destruction of Indonesian Chinese. However, this wasn’t the first time Chinese in Indonesia had suffered at the hands of the people who saw themselves as indigenous to the islands. Ever since the arrival of the Chinese in Indonesia in the eighteenth century, bloody pogroms had been the cause of many of their numbers dead.

The blood-letting finally petered out but only after between 100,000 and two million no longer drew breath. The figure now most commonly agreed on absolute minimum, perhaps by coming up with a rough average, is half a million. It’s more than likely a conservative figure though given reports of rivers and streams being literally clogged with bodies.

With the PKI totally destroyed and any chance of a resurrection prevented by law, Sukarno being yesterday’s man, strong man Suharto now holding the reins of power, the nation was in transition to the “New Order”. This was a change of direction that would see the Left dumped from the see-saw of power, Indonesia securely lodged on the path of an American orbit, and much of the old order rotting on the garbage dump of history. Retained however was the doctrine of “Pancasila”, the national philosophy and an attempt at a glue that would hold a disparate country together. The term is the mating of two old Javanese words: Panca, meaning five and Sila, meaning principles. Introduced by Sukarno in 1945, it became part of the constitution with only slight alterations. The five principles are:

1)     Belief in one god

2)     Just and civilized humanity

3)     Indonesian unity

4)     Democracy under the wise guidance of representative consultations

5)     Social justice for all the peoples of Indonesia 

After the unprecedented violence of ’65, it’s difficult for an outsider, or even possibly a thoughtful insider, to not see this declaration as a grotesque and ironically twisted joke and to wonder how its retention could even have been considered. The belief in one god had always been a stretch, that is, if Christians, Hindus (with a multitude of gods) Muslims and Buddhists with no god at all, had not somehow been hypnotized into the belief that no godly differences actually existed, even between a god and no god. Theoretically, it’s possible when it’s considered that a goodly proportion of the White race has been hypnotized into the belief that no differences exist between the races.

A just and civilized humanity? The less said about that after ’65, the better. Indonesian unity? Possibly, if you consider the destruction of a part not fitting so well as achieving unity. Democracy? No, military dictatorship, no matter how much gloss, is still merely a pig wearing lipstick. Social justice for all? The piles of corpses rotting and stinking under the tropical sun were of course deaf to that one.   

This focus on the Indonesian cataclysm of 1965  is just one part of a series of posts on this blog intended to show the pandemic of racism in our region - institutionalized racism in the cases of Fiji and Malaysia. While we Australian Whites, just like our sisters and brothers all over the world, flagellate and curse ourselves, want to disown our entire histories, prostrate ourselves and issue unending abject apologies for our very existence because of the blackest evil of racism that only we are capable of, we are laughed at by races to whom real racism is as ordinary and omnipresent as the clouds above. For hundreds, if not thousands of years they have lived with racism in all its manifestations, be it actual racial strife, instinctive immutable mutual distrust and antipathy, or even outright beliefs in racial superiority. 

They know enough to be able to see that racial separation is the optimum prevention of racial strife. For most though, that is a luxury beyond the bounds of possibility. The second-best option is a political heavy handedness such as Tito’s which, when it was lifted, the ethnic kaleidoscope of the Balkans descended into a whirlpool of blood and the word “Balkanisation” became a prophecy of doom for any nation tempted to flirt with multiculturalism. Much more than soothing words such as the Pancasila were needed to keep people together who would be happier cutting each other’s throats.

When the white-ants and their Jewish urgers-on were busy plotting the destruction of the so-called White Australia Policy, thus the destruction of Australia, a justification given was that the Asians to our north were beginning to dislike us for it. This became a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy but only because after witnessing the intense soul-searching our “betters” were engaging in, their guilt and the self-induced pain it was sincerely hoped we’d all share, our neighbours weren’t going to let an opportunity like that go to waste. Of course they understood our need to maintain a racially homogenous nation. Of course they understood our wanting to avoid the strife and fragmentation that they’d suffered for centuries. And of course they recognized the wisdom of taking note of the problems in old countries and taking the opportunity to avoid them in a brand new country.

 It’s unlikely they didn’t resent our not wanting to include their huge excess populations in our immigration but neither were they so dim as to not appreciate the reason for it. But if we were going to be stupid enough to dump all of that wisdom generated by thousands of years of experience and turn our country on its head, by Christ, they were going to take advantage of it. Here at last was a chance to dispose of some of that excess population and why not expedite the process by making the white man feel even worse than he was making himself. 

The Taiwanese author of The Asian Mind Game, Chin-ning Chu, has provided an invaluable service to Westerners in lifting the lid on this whole  pot-calling-the-kettle-black and getting away with it scam. On page 9, she writes:

“Asians do not feel guilty about thinking in racial terms, but they do understand that Westerners … do. They will often use accusations of racism to disarm their Western opponents. The same Japanese politician who loudly imputes racist motives to American criticism of Japan himself believes implicitly that the Japanese are racially superior to Caucasians, and also to their Korean and Chinese neighbours. He would never admit these beliefs to Westerners, but among Asians it is so commonplace to think in racial terms that they do not even bother with denial or guilt.”

Thank you Chin-ning Chu. RIP

LOOKING FOR AUSTRALIA Part 6

Port Fairy. If the town had still been named "Belfast", I may have kept going, impatient as I was to get onto the Great Ocean Road, but how could anyone go past such a picturesque sounding name?

 I'm still in what was once a front line in the war against the hapless whale. The curving bay on which the town developed was named after a whaling ship by its crew. The Fairy seems an incongruous name for something as macho-masculine as a whaling ship, as unlikely as the Bismark being named instead the Barbie Doll, but there you go.

In 1845 a whaling station was established. Eight years later, a man of extraordinary vision and deep pockets to match began virtually single-handedly to build a town. His name was James Atkinson. He was a Sydney solicitor originally from Belfast, hence the name he chose for the town. Given, as it seems, the town's name changing with the frequency of the fortunes of war, the name, "Belfast", was soon under threat when the grand opening of the post office took place with the freshly painted "Port Fairy" proudly displayed on its front wall. Atkinson was having none of that and the Post Master General, or more likely merely an intimidated underling, meekly acquiesced to changing the name of the post office, thereby restoring the official name of the town to Belfast. However in 1887, with the larger than life Atkinson now presumably safely in his grave, "Port Fairy" became once again the town's official name.

The re-namers, unknown to themselves no doubt, were way ahead of the curve, given that tourism was still an idea whose time hadn't yet come. However, if a modern town official with an eye to the riches tourism could provide and needed a hook with tasty bait, he or she would probably be haled as a hero for coming up with the name "Port Fairy". It could even be safely left to someone else to come up with slogan, "gateway to the Great Ocean Road". Case in point: as noted earlier, if the town was still called Belfast, I would have probably not turned off the Prince's Highway. It would have though been a great shame.

It's a hot day but I swear I can feel a different sort of warmth. Could it be the warmth of the town's inherent friendliness? OK, the town's people know a tourist dollar as well as anyone else, and the tourist tidal wave is about to hit the town, but nothing can convince me that the friendliness I'm experiencing is anything but genuine as I do my usual getting-to-know-you stroll about this quaint, little burg. Although not even on the scale by European standards where I've seen houses centuries older than this entire nation, by our own much more modest standards, this town, built in the time when remnants of living memory of the first fleet still existed, has to be considered old. The people responsible for Heritage Listing obviously think so. Many of the original cottages, scrubbed up and in pristine condition which I stop to admire are Heritage listed.

I've arranged accommodation for only one night but after standing on an almost deserted beach being mesmerised bythe gentle splash of waves and deciding that peacefulness should be added to friendliness as the town's main attributes, I'm reconsidering. Two nights at least is what's merited here.

I return to my digs, arrange an additional night's accommodation and take a long, refreshing shower. Since applying a second, this time, water-proof bandage to the leg wound I sustained in the bike mishap on Kangaroo Island, I really haven't thought too much about it. But now as I notice the supposedly water-proof bandage is acting more like a sponge, I accept that I can't postpone a check-up any longer. So I remove the bandage but don't like what I see. A film of yellow pus covers the actual wound and the skin around it is an angry red.

With self-delusion bolstered by wishful thinking, I find a pharmacy where I somewhat stupidly enquire if an ointment or cream might exist which would solve my problem. Not satisfied with my informing her that my wound "might" be infected, the female pharmacist suggests it might be better if she could take a look at it, so we go into a small side room and I show her. A concerned look appears on her face. I already know what she's going to say. She says, "you'll have to see a doctor. You need antibiotics."

It's late in the day by this stage and the availability of a doctor is problematical. The pharmacist suggests I go to the clinic attached to the local hospital. She looks at her watch. "Five O'clock,"
she says. "The doctor there would be leaving about now, but if you hurry you might catch her."
I thank her very much, hop on my bike and follow her directions to the hospital."

I read a sign which tells me to push a button which will ring a bell to summon a nurse. I push, it rings, she appears. I explain the problem. She tells me I'm in luck; the doctor hasn't yet left. She leaves me with a form to fill out and goes to find out if the doctor can see me. She returns quickly with an answer in the affirmative. Then the doctor appears in the waiting room where I'm waiting.

She tells me her first and second names - no Doctor this or Doctor that - in an informal but no-nonsense manner. To use an almost disappeared chunk of vernacular, she's a "good sort" or "a looker", young, juicy and white. I'm trying to keep my mind on why I've come here, and concentrate on seeing her as a doctor and not a woman but it's struggle.

The upshot of all this is that my wound is cleaned, bandaged, a prescription for antibiotics is written out for me and I'm provided with enough pills to tide me over until I can get the prescription filled the next day. This has all happened rapidly, efficiently and highly professionally and it hasn't cost me a cent.

The experience and comparison with what one could expect in many other parts of the world lead me to reflect a short time later on how it shouldn't be a mystery to anybody why third-worlders are smashing down our doors to get in. I could tell some hair-raising stories about the ordeal of attempting to get medical help in "developing" countries but they wouldn't come close to what a young American woman serving in the Peace Corps in Senegal relates about her experience in a "fecalised" environment, aka, a shithole:

"The medicine was stolen by the medical workers and sold to the local store. If you were sick and didn't have money, drop dead. That was normal ... One of my most vivid memories was from the clinic. One day, as the wait grew hotter in the 110 degree [F] heat, an old woman two feet away from the medical aides - who were chatting in the shade of a mango tree instead of working - collapsed to the ground. They turned their heads so as not to see her and kept talking. She lay in the dirt. Callousness to the sick was normal." (What I Learned in the Peace Corps in Africa: Trump is Right by Karin McQuillan - website: Western Voices World News)

My luck has run out. After more than two weeks without so much as seeing a drop of rain, now, as the more uncouth amongst us would say, it's pissing down. I'm in two minds as to whether to go or stay. After finding out the hard way how easy it is to come off a bike on a wet road, I'm not overly happy about the prospect of riding through a rain-storm. I know from past experience how challenging the Great Ocean Road can be and with this extra degree of difficulty, the lure of the road is severely muted. On the other hand, if I stay, I'll simply he holed up indoors and having my otherwise pleasant memories of Port Fairy considerably dampened. I decide to bite the bullet. I don my wet-weather gear and hit the road. Damn the torpedoes! Why am I thinking of torpedoes? Probably because of all this water.

By the time I hit coastal clifftops high above the town I've left behind, the rain has dwindled to a drizzle. Perhaps Mother Nature is giving me a break, although I still have the problem of my helmet visor constantly fogging up. The demands of riding on a road such as this is perversely pleasurable but holds me in a grip of tension. Flashes of scenery from the sea, the beaches and the rocks below are poignantly beautiful but I can spend very little time admiring the view, such is the need to keep my mind on the task at hand. This old route along the coast, hacked out of the rocks and scrub by men a lot better acquainted with hard graft than today's pampered counterparts, is a survival course of twists, turn and hairpin bends. I'm silently giving thanks to whoever it is responsible for placing the recommended speed signs at the entrance of every new hazard. They're very close to being right on the money and are potential life-savers. At regular intervals, on another type of sign, is written "In Australia we drive on the left-hand side of the road". This is a response to the number of collisions caused on this already treacherous road by overseas tourists driving on the wrong side. This doesn't diminish the tension I'm feeling

The sharp changes of direction, a lot of the time causing my heart to relocate to my mouth, seem to go on forever. It's punctuated with a few straight runs, albeit short and then I'm twisting and turning again. The longest stretch of unremitting torment, I calculate to be at least fifty kilometres long. I remember with some amusement, and perhaps with even a touch of gloating, how the young guns of Sydney like to test themselves out over a similar challenge through the nearby Royal National Park - lasting perhaps all of ten minutes.

The scrub has given way to rain-forest, indicating high precipitation, but luckily for me, today's rain has ceased, at least for the time being. I'm now stifling in the wet-weather gear but it's probably fifteen minutes or so before I can find enough room off-road to stop and shed it.

I'm now on the stretch of the road that has given the Great Ocean Road its fame and allure - where the crazy limestone formations have somehow survived while the rest of the coast has retreated inland. They have names such as Loch Ard Gorge, The Grotto, and the London Arch which was formerly known as the much more evocative London Bridge until the span connecting it with the cliff suddenly collapsed stranding two hapless tourists until their rescue by helicopter.

Seeing the formations entails parking in designated areas and following paths to lookouts at the very edge of the cliff. A gang of ethnically diverse tourists await me at each location, gabbling, shutter-bugging and craning their necks unnecessarily, there being no more to see than with un-craned necks. With all the hogging going on, it's sometimes difficult to gain a space at the railing.

I do this a few times and find that I'm essentially moving with the same crowd and our familiarity with one another is falling just short of signs of acknowledgment. But as I've never liked crowds and the law of diminishing returns seems to be applying in regard to the impact of the formations, the process starts to wear thin.

I decide to do one more stop at the Twelve Apostles, the numerically overblown name given to towers of rock standing roughly in a long line as though guarding the coast.  Numbering only nine with they were originally named, there are now only eight due to an unfortunate collapse. To earn that moniker, eleven may have cut it - something could have been said about Judas being punted for obvious reasons - but eight? Perhaps Victorian Tourism is simply banking on no-one actually counting.

I remember from a visit years ago being able to simply pull up by the side of the road, walk perhaps fifty metres along a rough track and be able to take in the vista punctuated by the brooding limestone towers. How things have changed. If one wants to stop here now, a side road must be taken leading away from the cliff tops to a car-park, the size of which would do a major sporting complex proud, and even with this enormous size I'm hard-pressed to find a sliver of space for my bike. The building the car-park fronts could actually be mistaken for a Coliseum-like stadium. It's a "visitor centre" and I'm musing on just how many visitors stop here to warrant a building of this size. Evidently it houses a restaurant, cafe, gift shop and all the usual razzmatazz to part the visitor from the money loosened by the excitement of visiting a natural wonder, or wonders. Beyond the car-park is a heli-pad from which a helicopter is whisking eager sight-seers away on a twenty minute aerial tour. I can't take this. It's not so much a fear of crowds that afflicts me; it's more a strong desire to not be a part of them. Do I really need to see the Apostles again given I've seen them before, and that was when there were nine of them. The answer is no.

A few minutes later I'm a happily blasting along the coast road again in splendid isolation. I'm marvelling that apart from people in cars, not another soul is around. Did I really just see such a multitude of people concentrated in such a small space where everywhere else is wide open space?
It's starting to seem I've suffered some kind of vivid delusion.

After descending from what we in Australia would call a mountain (known as a hill in most other parts of the world) I arrive at a town with a name as equally captivating as Port Fairy, if not even more so. It's Apollo Bay,  narrowly hugging a long scimitar of beach to where huge cliffs arise again in the north. It's still broodingly overcast but a few beams of sunlight are slanting down to colour parts of the beach gold, and parts of the long, adjoining park a bright green. I won't be going any further today, feeling as physically and mentally washed out as I do by the grueling ride.

I locate a large hostel called Surfside, which unsurprisingly is popular with nomadic surfies. The manageress is a pleasant and helpful elderly woman who never seems to stop smiling even when she points out a tree to me, which she complains is the nightly haunt of two koala bears who keep her awake with their ongoing altercation. Perhaps it's a territorial thing; although it may be simply a domestic disturbance. Either way, I'm surprised. I've always assumed koalas were always too whacked out on eucalyptus leaves to argue with anybody. She seems to like my lame joking that, given the circumstances, she should perhaps consider raising their tariff.

Maybe because she can see I'm a man with a sense of humour, she allocates me a large room with six beds with mine being the only bed that will be slept in. Jackpot! A private room at the cost of share room.

To be continued