Jefferson signs the first patent for the “Liberty Belle”, Virginia 1772

POTUS making History

Dear reader, we’ve been inundated with enquiries from politicians, lobbyists, an entire phalanx of journalists from the Murdoch press, the entire faculty of Western theory from the Ramsay Institute in response to our hard hitting article on planes that made the American War of Independence something really special. 

Indeed, we are indebted to the president of the United States, for the heavy lifting. 

Though we’d been assiduous in documenting this whitewashed period of American history, it was the Don who gave us coverage. We are indebted to him, as doubtless the government of Iran is for giving them the green light on NUKES!

Slaves working on perfecting airframes prior to assembly, Washington 1778.

But critically, and we think you’ll agree with us, there is scant information on how these aircraft were used operationally, What power system guided them, and to what purpose these primitive aircraft were envisioned.  Indeed we ask ourselves the same questions in relation to Australian government defence contracts and the recent decision to purchase very expensive unmade French submarines that wont be operational for years. We are assured via the Property Council and those who own parcels in the Opal or Mascot towers developments that the investment is safe, and cept for the odd billions that must be kept secret for our collective good, we cannot explain the benefit to the public at large, nor encourage them to question an absence of transparency, 

Faster than you can incarcerate a Uighur, or condemn an aboriginal boy to a lifetime of imprisonment we give you the first details of Planes that made America GRATE. 

First the British side. 

The Bristol Brexit

Long before the era of Farage and Johnson, an inventor John Bristol, was commissioned by His Majesty forces in North America to provide a low cost alternative to a bomb vessel. A bomb vessel, being a lightly built shallow bottomed boat that could sail in shallow waters and equipped with a mortar, get close to the enemy and inflict considerable damage. Bomb vessels were difficult to manouver, dangerous in high seas, and unreliable. 

Bristols brainwave was to develop the fist ever VSTOL (very Short Take Off and Landing) aircraft that could be launched from a cliff. Consisting of a primitive wing, a volunteer and two 200 kilogram anvils the Brexit wold be dropped from a very high cliff onto the enemy. The 500 litre hogshead of gunpowder would be lit during the descent, and the “ pilot” jettison himself just prior to impact. 

The principle shortcoming of the Brexit was its lack of strategic worth, and perceived more as a terror weapon, paradoxically both terrifying to the troops that used it in as much as the enemy. 

The Cuthbert Cornwallis

Designed by Brigadier Cuthbert of the Royal Artillery, the Cornwallis was a ramp launched catapult weapon. Armed with a Brown Bess  and observer, it was launched over enemy strongholds and whilst in flight capable of reaching hitherto inaccessible corners within the enemy territory.  Unfortunately it had a tendency to stall, killing both the pilot and observer. A 300 plane super squadron had been planned, but an absence of available barrels during the 1778 elections the operation was shelved. 

The Poodle

A defining moment in Anglo American relations. 

And the President

Dear reader, by now some of you may be aware of the vexed question of diplomatic relations. How the UK ambassadors private description of the US President as ‘inept’ and ‘dysfunctional’ was leaked to the press. And how in the consequent furore, the diplomat was encouraged to take a leap by the presumptive PM Boris Johnston. On both sides of the Atlantic, pundits have sought to mark this as a new low in diplomatic relations. And a new low in the exercise of balanced protocols in favour of a more dynamic exercise of power nuanced though the principles of hubris, narcissism, immaturity and short-termism. The truth of the matter is that they’ve got it all wrong. 

The President of the United States is the man of our time. And the presumptive PM Boris Johnston, is the right man to lead UK from the wilderness to the uncharted waterfall that lies at either corner of the flat earth.

Toys

And gladly their collective vision repudiates the evil, misdirected conspiracy of scientists and historians to subvert the course of western civilisation through the principles of objectivity and clear mindedness. Because of this, we the public have been hoodwinked by elites who seek to destroy our understanding of things as they REALLY are, with fake news and crony-ism. Trump and Johnston, are symbols of our release from the curse of objectivity. The latest intelligence on Trumps repudiation of the Iran nuclear deal clear evidence of bi partisan clear sightedness of a common objective.  We await further analysis from the good folk of the Catholic Boys Daily. ( the Australian). 

But it was last week when the President staged his fantastic and worthy fourth of July the facts were revealed. One hundred and twenty seven years before the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, the Americans possessed a formidable airforce. No wonder the British coveted them, and it defines a moment in our collective history buried under the weight of FAKE NEWS. 

What were these aircraft you may say? 

They were formidable and untried, and  yet, at that moment of need their contribution was inestimable. As Washington said himself, “ in their finest hour.” 

And it is not to be forgotten the British possessed their own aircraft. 

First ever VTOL Aircraft

The following, just a snapshot of the aeroplanes that contributed so much to the war of independence, 

On the British side, the Cuthbert Cornwallis. 

No I squadron Cornwallis and Brexit.

And the Bristol Brexit

Note Cow bells on wings, First use of acoustic psychological weapon in warfare.

On the American side, the Liberty Belle

The Potomac Pusher

First ever Amphibious Aircraft.

And the legendary Bunkered Hill

And none finer than the Galvaston Grater

An aeroplane that made America Great. 

A good concept that was ultimately shredded

First ever Rocket powered interceptor.

And history.  A correct understanding of history, a tale of enlightenment that makes America truly free and Great. Just like Britain will do when they dump the interfering EU in favour of am alliance with the US. To do to them what 1776 did to George 111. 

Is-e-real Folate, patron saint of prejudice.

Dear reader it’s hard to keep abreast of what brand of religious intolerance we should be following, harder still to identify potential risks within society that may make us more “un- Australian”.

So in a paean to the past we pen this portrayal of good old fashioned prejudice so that we may reminisce more fully on a purer society. This piece is entitled empathetically, “Spastic Boots’. May Is-e-real folate lead us once agin to this promised land.

Spastic Boots

It was pretty plain he was gonna be called “spastic boots”, cos he wore calipers. Might have been the last of the polio generation. Or maybe he was just born “spazzo”. 

Some kids are like that, just a bit different. 

A bit like “One Ball” who failed the school medical. It might have been kept confidential but after lining up in your jocks on the stage of the school hall and having doctors in white lab coats asking you to cough and fiddle with your goolies, before passing you on. It was impossible for “ ONE BALL” to escape the mirth and sudden immortality. When your moniker is frozen at “One Ball”. Nothing can erase that fateful moment. It’s like the death of Lady Di or JFK.  Everyone who was there knew that moment. And it became crystallised as an eternal truth. Even now, good folk not intent on intimidation wave to him upon a chance encounter in the  street, “G Day One Ball”. And “One Ball”, with scarcely a hesitation strides purposefully onwards acknowledging the greeting with a cheery “Hullo”. There’s a nostalgia to such encounters. It’s ‘old school’. That’s why “Spastic Boots” was allowed to just hang around being pathetic and different.  He wasn’t a real spazzo, it’s just he was different, and he sort of accepted it. And we sort of accepted his lower status. 

We’d all have a good laugh when the Spastic bus would make its turn into Mitcham Road. You couldn’t miss it. It was Blue, the same blue that bureaucrats give to the interiors of  mental asylums and waste paper baskets in the tax office. And just in case you didn’t get it, it wasn’t big like the Bedford that took us to swimming or excursions. This was a little pint sized Bedford, sometimes a smaller Morris that was squared off at the back. And in the front, up top in a special moulded nacelle above the driver where you’d have the destination on a ribbon in bold white letters against a stark black background it just said ‘SPASTIC BUS’. And just in case you missed it, on the back in bigger letters sort of stencilled and half rounded it said with emphasis ‘SPASTIC BUS’.  And the driver who looked like he part timed-it as the delivery man for the Herald in the afternoon, wore a cap like chauffeurs or junior officers wear. And a grey dust jacket. Just like the one the paper delivery man wore as he tossed bundles of papers out at the newsagent.  And pretending not to notice us, he‘d just look fixedly ahead, and pass us by as though we  didn’t exist. Clearly it was important and serious business taking the ‘Spazzos’ to the ‘Spazzo Centre’. Where they’d spend all day stacking matches into matchboxes, putting clothes pegs in baskets or tearing up rags. Cos we knew that was just about all Spazzos were good for. They could never aspire to do real jobs, like deliver papers or be a policeman. That action alone branded him, and we rose to the challenge. The call would go out, “Here comes the Spazzos’ and as it paused at the lights, we’d race over to the chain mesh and round hollow section steel pipe fence, and perform our sacred ritual of the Spazzo bus’s passing. 

With howls and hoots and a unconscious sense of the Brueghellian we’d do ‘Spazzo walks’, conduct self administered ‘Spaz-attacks’ and ape-like, pretend to walk/crawl all awhile hoping that the Spazzo’s would be looking at us through their goz-smeared windows, goldfish-like with wide stupid blinking eyes at the antics being performed in their honour. To acknowledge our greetings, our enthusiasm, our inclusiveness, our welcoming into the bossom of our society as they passed. And when they did pass, and the blue bus faded into the distance we all opined the sadness that the performance must be shelved again for another day, and all that idiocy would soon be tamed by the dull metrics of education, the strap and the requirement to do what we were told. This before the era of multiculturalism gave us a taste of another world in which other people lived out a life of mystery. Incalculable mystery. Where some boys we has been told didn’t even have real dicks, and went to the toilet with a sort of kind of nozzle that was popularised by wine casks. Such thoughts made us gulp in suppressed wonder at our luckiness to be raised “ normal”.

Till then we only had a few amongst us to be amused by. Mathew with the hydrocephalic head we nicknamed ‘Bowling Ball’. Peter the kid who had the uncanny knack of pissing under the teachers desk, we nicknamed him “Puddles” The kid with incurable ringworm we called ‘Hole in the head’, and Sharon Keep who was smelly, but not a patch on Brett Ellingham who was dirt poor, smelt, became ‘Brett Smelingham” and wore plastic sandals cos his parents couldn’t afford shoes. But we tolerated them, never invited them to our parties, and knew they’d ever be good at cricket, footy or anything. But we felt a sort of proprietal custodianship, they were “OUR” spazzos, and they were special. Not special enough to go to the Special School but special enough. 

Nowadays, every kid has an allergy. Is on the spectrum. Are on drugs to abate their HDHD. They suffer psychosis, their neurosis, their eating disorders, their bulimia and their self harm. Their desire  to get out of this narrowing world of standardisation, consumerism and instagram. No wonder they want to be somewhere else. The standardisation of conditions and conditioning, and the dull uniformity of pity disguised as dignity re-badged as the NDIS. Marginalised and subjected to the dull abnegation of charity. Oh for the sanctity of the Spastic Bus.

Now we’re all bit spastic.

To be compartmentalised as Is-e real Folate would have it. 

Excuse us all, we’ve been a bit slack, as a consequence of School holidays. Yes indeed, for those of us not benefitting directly from the single greatest policy initiative EVER in the life of Australian Parliament (TAX CUTS)!, there is solace in reading once again a fascinating book review from our luminary of the near north Joe (Quentin) Blake.

More important than literature, poverty, humanity, everything according to the mandate given to the Coalition in the last election for TAX CUTS!

Joe gives it to us, boots and all.  And for those in thongs who will not benefit from the single biggest policy initiative in Australian political history, they can grow envious, or just shut up and DIE!

Take it away Joe….

Milkman, by Anna Burns, Faber and Faber, $29.99

Reviewed by Joe Blake

TAX CUTS will assist Christopher Pyne in his Post parliamentary lobbying!!

Before I start, I should give you a bit of a warning: a lot of people call this book “That bloody Milkman.” In other words, there’s nothing easy in it. For a start, there is really only one proper noun in the book; words that normally get a capital letter, like names of people, places or countries, just don’t make an appearance. People are known by their job, position in family, characteristic behaviour or something else that identifies them, like “oldest sister” or “maybe-boyfriend”. Places are known by their location, like “over the water”. 

All of this means that the writer has to be very skilled to (a) make her meaning clear; and (b) not bore the pants off the reader. Who better than an Irish person for such a task?

Christopher and Julie Discuss the benefit of TAX CUTS to ensure that we get the governance the lobbyists PAY FOR!

Without being told explicitly, we gather that the story is situated in Belfast in the 1970s, in the time of The Troubles. Knowing this, we could expect to earn about paramilitaries, renouncers, oppression by the state, and of course we do, but that’s only the start. What we really learn is how these things affect the hearts and minds of every living being; how the fear engendered permeates every interaction, even between members of the same family.

Our heroine in this story (of course she has no name, and known only as “middle sister”) is 18 and not married. Now in this society, that’s a disgrace, and a great source of worry to her Ma. She should have been wed at least two years ago, so she has to hide her relationship with the man she likes but is not committed to, her maybe-boyfriend. They spend a lot of time together, but neither knows what the next step will be. Perhaps they’ll go and live together without tying the knot, like a few others are doing?

DONALD made America GRATE through TAX CUTS!!

Maybe-boyfriend is a mechanic who loves cars, and this obsession leads him into political trouble, unlikely as that sounds. He brings home some car parts and, as is his wont, proceeds to work on them in his lounge room. His mates, gathered as usual for such an occasion, are totally impressed by the vehicle; it’s a prestige car, and pretty rare around here. All goes swimmingly until one of the mates gets a bit narky. “Hang on,” he says, “But that car comes from over the water. There’s going to be hell to pay if someone finds out.” As we discover later, he’s right.

Middle sister, meanwhile, has problems of her own. She has a habit, annoying to others, of reading while she walks, so she walks a lot. One day, while indulging her favourite habit, she’s offered a lift by the eponymous character, Milkman. He’s one scary dude; for one thing, he’s more than double her age. For another, he’s a leader in the resistance, so he doesn’t take no for an answer. Despite knowing all this, she refuses his offer, but he still manages to talk to her. He knows all about her, particularly her maybe-relationship. Despite being married, he wants her for his girl. After he accosts her a few times, everybody believes she is involved with him, so she’s alternately shunned and feared.

BORIS will make the UK Greater still through TAX CUTS!

In this environment, everybody is watching and judging everybody else, and those judgements have severe ramifications.

Despite the difficulties this book offers, you should seriously have a go at it; the rewards are worth the effort. It provides so many insights into a community under pressure, and how those pressures result in unexpected consequences. It’s not easy but it’s brilliant. I’m not the only one to hold that opinion; this book did win last year’s Man Booker for the world’s best novel in English.