VCAT submission 16th October 2018 re Darebin RSL

This is my submission to the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal (VCAT) in opposition to Darebin RSL's  application to add fifteen extra poker machines and extend their opening hours:

If I walk five minutes from my front door to the south, I find the Junction Hotel, with a pokies room open until 4am. If I walk 5 minutes to the North, I find the Cramers Hotel, open till 4am. To the east we have the Olympic Hotel with similar opening hours. Why does the CIty of Darebin need another pokies venue with extended opening hours? 

I speak as someone who has suffered harm from poker machines; much of this harm happened at the Darebin RSL. My losses have amounted to hundreds of dollars, if not thousands. This venue is a three minute walk from my house. I am someone who tends to gamble in the early hours of the morning, as do many others, and I don’t want the temptation of another late opening venue on my doorstep.

 I have self excluded from the RSL via the Australian Hotels Association. This has proved pointless, as my self-exclusion has never been challenged by venue staff. When my wife and I brought this up with venue management, they answered that banning me is impossible as they are too busy & have too many excluded gamblers on their books.  My understanding is that their only resource is a wall bedecked with dozens of small photographs of excluded patrons, tucked away in an area rarely checked by venue staff. Is this a venue that practices responsible gambling?

 The Darebin RSL is a private club, requiring all guest members to sign in before entering, but in my experience the front desk is never attended. Anyone can wander in off the street straight to the gaming area without meeting a staff member. These lax procedures directly caused me harm from gambling.

I have self-excluded from all the gaming venues in Preston, and have been refused entry by door staff at Cramers Hotel, which proves exclusion can be effective with adequate care and attention.  

The Darebin RSL positions itself as family & community friendly by offering cheap meals and entertainment, but this is standard practice for every pokies hotel in the region. It’s simply an enticement to get more punters through the door. Buying a $10 meal is hardly a saving if the patron then loses $300 on the pokies. And lose they do - last year Darebin residents lost a total of $4.4 million on these pernicious machines at the Darebin RSL. That’s $30 per head of population. When you consider that the vast majority residents aren’t draining their wallets here, one must assume that a few are burdening vast losses.

What community benefits result from the increased opening hours? Long after the kitchen closes, the entertainment ceases and even the TAB shuts, the pokies will continue flashing away. The RSL forecasts additional revenues of $3.3 million by extending their hours to 2 am.

Where does this money actually go? The organization positions itself as not for profit. Why has it only committed to a paltry $15,000 to the local community? 

I met with  a local school principal yesterday morning, Mr Mark Tierney of Sacred Heart Primary School in Bell St, Preston. He told me that the RSL asked for his support for this application, based on their contributions to the school. However, when he checked there was no record of any support, financial or otherwise. Four local school principals have chosen to object to the application rather than support it.

The Darebin RSL claims that it cannot be commercially viable without poker machines. However, the Coburg branch operates 3.5km away without a gaming license. In WA there are 129 RSL sub branches, none of which have machines. Why does the RSL in Victoria have such an addiction to these machines? To quote from their website “The RSL was formed in June 1916 by troops returning from WWI with the purpose of preserving the spirit of mateship formed amidst the carnage and horror of battle, to honour the memory of the fallen and to help each other whenever required.” There’s nothing matey or honourable about being transfixed by these machines for hours on end and trudging out with an empty bank account. 

If a single RSL branch gets $4.4 million from gambling losses, one has to question the financial model and the ethics of the organization. Poker machines are tools for siphoning money, often from those who can least afford it.

My trip to the AGM

My name is Stuart McDonald. I’m a poker machine addict, and a member of the Alliance for Gambling reform. Inspired by my wonder colleague Dr Susan Rennie, who made a powerful speech at the Woolworths AGM  regarding their ownership of pokies, I decided to nominate myself as a director of the Western Bulldogs Football Club. The Bulldogs operate poker machines, as do all the other Victorian AFL clubs apart from North Melbourne. I love my footy club, but I hate the pokies.

Nominating as a board member is really simple, although the club hide the information deep in their website. You just hunt around, download the appropriate form , print it out and get two fellow members to back your application. I struck a slight problem in that almost all of my friends are hippies, greenies and party animals who have no interest in football. I go to the games on my own. Luckily, the Dogs were hosting an open training session just before Christmas. I went up into the stands at the Whitten Oval and approached a couple of ladies and said ‘Excuse me, but do you like poker machines?’ No, they did not like poker machines and they happily countersigned my form. Thanks Gladys and Glynnis.

Since I was at the club’s home I dropped the forms off at the front desk, but to make sure they got them I posted and emailed them through too.

A couple of days later I received a call from the rather agitated CEO, Ameet Bains, in which he strongly discouraged me from running. His main argument was that board elections were usually uncontested, and that for me to run would cost the club $25,000. I wavered, but after I called Susan Rennie and a brief pep talk, I hardened up.I ran. It later transpired that the $25,000 had been spent on employing two scrutineers from Ernst & Young, but more of that later.

The three board nominees were myself; Chris Nolan, an advertising executive; and Matthew Croft, an ex-Bulldogs player.

I arrived at the AGM at the appointed hour. My speech was first up. The first part consisted of me reading  this document , as it had originally formed my nomination pitch to members, but the Bulldogs hierarchy only allowed me to put the first two paragraphs on their website. Then I launched into a very angry speech. I told the club their ownership of poker machines was shameful and hypocritical. I detailed how gambling had affected my life so adversely. I asked for a concrete, five year plan to get out of the poker machine industry.

When I got down from the dais, there was a smattering of applause and a look of shock from some attendees, especially a group of well dressed elderly people in the front row, mouths agape. I tried to connect with some of the attendees, but many averted their gaze, and it was impossible to talk while all the other speeches were on. There were a lot of speeches. I had been told that the AGM was only going to last for an hour, and it lasted well over two.

What surprised me was that a large part of rest the AGM was devoted to little old me. I must have really struck a nerve.

The next speaker, board nominee Chris Nolan, spent the first part of his speech belittling me as a ‘single issue candidate’ who didn’t have the experience to run as a board member. He then made a very long and very boring footy club speech about how wonderful everything was at the club. He defended the club’s stance on poker machines, and told us they ‘aspired’ to get rid of them but only at a time of their choosing.

I waited for the next nominee, Matthew Croft, to make his speech but he stayed rooted to his chair. I have no idea why he didn’t speak. Did he have laryngitis? I found this strange, and I wonder if anyone else at the AGM did so too.

We then went to the vote. This process was rather quaint. Everyone was given a different coloured card with the names of the three nominees. They were asked to raise the cards with their chosen nominees above their heads, as club officials roamed around to collect them. There were lots of Matthew Croft and Chris Nolan cards, but few, if any ,for Stuart McDonald. I wonder if the ballot had been private rather than so public, would I have received any more votes? There was an unsettling element of groupthink.

Peter Gordon then talked for a very long time. I love Peter, he saved our club from extinction, but by golly he could speak underwater. He devoted several minutes of his speech to my campaign, particularly a comment I had made on bigfooty.com where I’d accused the club of ‘treating members like mushrooms - feeding them shit and keeping them in the dark' over the failed Edgewater development. I must have really pissed him off because he defended himself strongly against my attack.

The tone changed when Mr Gordon said that I reminded him of himself, and that he was ‘ambivalent’ about my stance. He got nostalgic and went back to 1988, when he became determined that our club should stay at the ancestral Whitten Oval when the then VFL wanted to move our club to Princes Park in Carlton. He reminded the listeners that he was a single-issue campaigner himself, and even though he didn’t know how to change things he formed a grassroots campaign. I get the impression that even though I’m a pain on the arse, he respects me.

After a while, it was announced that Chris Nolan and Matthew Croft were duly elected to the board. I’ll have to take the club’s word on that, as the voting tallies weren’t announced, nor was there any mention of the proxy vote. I found it a strange and amateurish method of running an election. What did the two scrutineers from Ernst & Young do to earn their $25,000? Easy money.

I had my two children, aged seven months and two years with me, who behaved very patiently for what must have been a terribly boring outing for them. I had been told that the AGM would last an hour, but two hours later, after the umpteenth speech, the kids were desperate to go home. As was I. So I left without mingling and chatting to the board and members, unfortunately.

The club's report of the AGM is here; I’ve been airbrushed out of history. Perhaps a man dressed in red white and blue will bundle me into a car one day as I’m walking down the street and ferry me to a remote Bulldogs camp for ‘reeducation’

Stuart

Bulldogs board nominee

My name is Stuart McDonald. I'm originally from Ireland. When I migrated to Melbourne in 1999 I soon realised I needed to choose an Aussie Rules team. I lived first in St Albans and then Sunshine, becoming an adopted Son of the West. I fell in love with the sport and with the Doggies. I became a member and travelled to Docklands to cheer on the boys every week they played in Melbourne. I had a spell back in Ireland but returned to Australia in time for Bev's reign and our glorious finals run. I'm a social club member and I was lucky enough to be at the MCG to watch our Grand Final victory. Through bigfooty.comI've sponsored a number of players over the years.

I'm a primary school teacher. I have three children aged sixteen, two and six months. The two year old is mad about the Doggies and accompanies me to games. I love the footy - but I hate pokies.

The Western Bulldogs operate 63 poker machines across two venues, Club Leeds in Footscray and Club Dromana. Community members lost nearly $6 million on Bulldogs pokies in 2016/17. The Club operates these pokies, despite research which tells us that 40% of this money comes from people with gambling addiction. About 60% comes from people experiencing harm with their gambling.

I'm a pokies addict. So are many others in our community. That's not surprising. Poker machines are deliberately designed to ensnare and addict users. Their sole purpose is to extract money from the user as quickly as possible.

I've lost thousands of dollars to these misleading and addictive machines over the years. Some of this money was lost at venues operated by our club. I consider myself fortunate. Other people have lost tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars.

The pokie machines operated by the Western Bulldogs are responsible for immense harm within our community. They contribute to family violence, divorce, alcoholism, criminal behaviour and suicide.

New AFL chairman Richard Goyder has declared he hates the pokies and has established “Project Fruit” inside the commission which is aiming to reduce AFL club dependency on pokies revenue. The Bulldogs should be a leading advocate for reform through this process and ultimately join North Melbourne in being proudly pokies free.

This club stands for community. The sons and daughters of the west do not want our club operating these machines. Our club captain Easton Wood has publicly stated he "couldn't stomach" gambling. We have record membership and many revenue streams.Help me kick the pokies out of footy. We don't need them. We don't want them.

Regards and Go Dogs!

Stuart McDonald

Cool Change

The cool change just blew through Melbourne. All day the temperature has been hovering in the discomfort zone - mid thirties in the day, then a sticky twenty-five at night. It's been a still, airless day covered in a blanket of soft cloud. The weather has been drifting from the hot, arid interior on the back of northerly winds.

Just before midnight,  as the maligned Bureau of Meteorology predicted, the wind shifted to the south-west. Cooled by the waters of the great Antarctic Ocean, the weather suddenly plummets by a good ten degrees in a couple of minutes. We open doors and windows to greet the change and welcome it into the house. It arrives not with squalls and vicious rain or thunder, as it often does, but just a gentle breeze.

The cool change. Something you never quite get used to as an immigrant to this land. For days the wind can blow hot like opening a fan forced oven door; then just as suddenly whip round with sheeting rain.

Embrace the change. I'm off to bed, with new hope of sleep.

 

Responsibility

On Sunday afternoon, I walked to the Brunswick Library. I needed to hire out a book called "The Slap" by Christos Tsiolkas. This is because it's a very good book, and also because I was a quarter of the way through my own copy when I inadvertently left it at Southern Cross Station.
In the toilets, along with a packet of Chicco D'Oro coffee.

So I hired out 'The Slap' and read a little of it in a comfy chair in the library. Then I was called by nature to answer an urgent call, one that required a lengthy sit down on the porcelain throne. The library provides such facilities and I went to work, reading 'The Slap' as I did so.

The toilet was peaceful but I did seem to hear one person enter and leave, quiet like.

After I had finished my business and exited the cubicle, I was faced with an unusual sight: there was a bloody sanitary napkin, aka fanny pad, right in the middle of the floor.

Thoughts immediately crowded my brain, first of these being 'Wha...?'

Had a bloody/bleeding woman taken a wrong turn, suddenly realised she was in the wrong bogs, thought 'Feck it!' and whipped the offending item out and surreptitiously dumped it on the floor?

Was it a statement? An art statement? A test for me? A practical joke?

Had some poor bloke suffered a terrible injury forcing him to wear lady's jam rags? Perhaps he'd been riding a bicycle when he suffered a seat malfunction, sending the saddle post straight through Biffin Bridge. That would smart a little.

Still, no excuse for depositing his butcher's dishcloth right on the floor, no matter what sort of pain he/she was in.

I kicked the offending item to the wall and went to wash my hands. Just as I was about to leave I was overcome with a feeling of civic duty.

Responsibility.

What if a child or a disabled or a sensitive person walked in and saw that on the floor?

I'm of a sound and steady disposition, but others could be psychologically broken by such a sight.

I knew what I had to do.

I got a load of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, scrunched them up, and gingerly picked up the blood sponge and deposited it in the bin.

Responsibility: a six syllable word that's moderately easy to say, but means so much. I had done my duty.

Later, I went to the supermarket and picked up a packet of dried French lentils. The bag split and the contents started to spill on the floor.

Did I leave the bag on the shelf, to continue to cause a nuisance to staff and customers? No, I picked it up and sealed the split with the firm grip of my manly hands. Then I took it to the checkout operator and explained what had happened.

I'm RESPONSIBLE.

Good chat up lines

I've been working at meeting more memebers of the opposite sex, so these are some of the chat up lines I've been using on ladies recently. I've been getting mixed response. I use them in clubs, pubs, the supermarket, parkland, doctors' surgeries and front porches and even through open windows.

Have you ever been to this venue before?

Where is this venue we are at?

Can you help me, I'm lost, is this a food outlet?

What time is it? Is that a good time for you?

Have you ever been to the moon?

Have you been to another planet?

What's the highest number you have ever counted to?

Can you see me? (Duck down) - playful move

Do you piss standing up?

Do you believe in me?

Where do you see us in twenty years time?

Where is your mother?

Have you ever killed someone?

Can I cut your hair?

Why is your nose like that?

Do you want to go for a walk around the club?

Can we please swap shoes?

Do you belong to any societies?

Have you ever seen a monster?

Have you ever found something and kept it?
If so, what was it? Was it a coin?

Do you like blood?

Can I kill you?

Wallet

So I went to the YMCA gym on Saturday night. Yes, Saturday night. When ordinary people are at the pub, I was pumping iron. I'm a member of the YMCA, young man. I'm looking ripped and gnarled these days, like a young Johnny Weissmuller. After I'd finished my contortions, I went for a swim and sauna.

When I got back to the change rooms, my socks and shoes were lying scattered on the floor.

"That's strange," I said to myself, "why are my shoes and socks lying scattered on the floor?"

The answer soon made itself apparent. Someone had broken into my locker. There was no sign of a forced entry, but the door was swinging open.

I had placed my wallet inside the pocket of my attractive and practical yellow cycling pac-a-mac. I went to the pocket. It was gone.

I looked through my sports bag and everything else was there - my keys, a lottery ticket I had just purchased, a bottle of ALDI Old Tawny Port ($4.99 and not bad at all, as I later found out) and all my clothes.

But the wallet was gone.

I felt a bit sheepish as it clearly says on the lockers 'DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES.' They must have a history of break-ins. You're supposed to sign anything worthwhile to thieves to the staff behind the desk. Oh well.

The attendants were very helpful and helped me look round about the lockers and in the bins, but in vain. I filled out an incident report at the gym and then headed up to the police station. A lady constable took down my details in a black book. She told me should would definitely call me if she found my wallet.

The thief had only taken about $7 in change. That's all I had. I hope whoever it was spent it wisely. Meanwhile, I've got to apply for a new bank card, driver's license (learner class, I'll pass someday), bank card, library card etc. And when I do get my cards, I'll have to get a new wallet to put them in. It's the inconvenience that gets me. Thieves are so inconsiderate. It's as if they don't care about other people, eh?

The gym is beside a railway track, so the next day I decided to search in the long grass by the cuttings, just in case my crook had taken the money & chucked the wallet. Almost immediately, I found a five dollar note, a little damp but otherwise sound. I later used it to buy a dozen free range eggs at the supermarket.

Then I found an attractive red lady's handbag, with the price tag still on - $29.99. It came from a local shop. Maybe a shoplifter had discarded it. I hung it on a fence so that a lady might take it, as I had no use for it.

The last item I found was a dead rat. This put me off further searching. However, the previous findings have encouraged me, and I might hoke around in the railway cuttings again. I doubt I'll find my wallet, but maybe I'll find another banknote.

What would you rather do?

1.

Would you rather live as a battery hen for 6 months and receive $1 million at the end of it or just live your life as you are now?

You can communicate with the other chickens and become friends with them but at the end of the 6 months they are all killed.

2.

a.) Be chased by a swarm of invisible bees that only you can see, which sting you every time you think about sex for the rest of you life. The bees sting you arpound five times a minute. The sting effect lasts for 24 hours.

b.) Have your head swell up to twice its normal size like a grotesque balloon whenever you engage in sex. Your appearance is quite off-putting for any prospective partner. As soon as you achieve orgasm, your head deflates to its normal size.


3.

a.) Be chained to an annoying man for one day (Tuesday) the rest of your life, who carries a notebook & writes down everything you do this day. He reviews the day between the hour of 10pm - 11pm where he tells you how he thinks you could have done stuff more efficiently. You can argue, but that only adds on extra minutes. You can't harm him. He arrives at 7am and leaves at midnight.

b.) For half a day every week, between your voice is amplified so that it becomes really loud & everything you say comes out in a huge shout. It's as loud as a Metallica gig or an air raid siren. Everything you say can be heard several blocks away. This happens between 9am and 1pm.

4.

a.) Have your whole immediate family - mum, dad, brothers, sisters - become hardcore junkies. They decide that heroin is the best thing ever. They love it so much that they sell all their possessions and yours to score smack. They even turn their house into a sort of shooting gallery and it becomes all full of junkies, all passing out and being sick everywhere. Even your pets become addicts.

b.) Have your whole immediate family - mum, dad, brothers, sisters - become hardcore scientologists. They decide that scientology is the best thing ever. They love it so much that they sell all their possessions and yours and give the money to scientology. They even turn their house into a sort of scientology temple and it becomes all full of scientologists, all being silent or humming and contacting aliens. Even your pets become scientologists.

5.

a.) Go back to grade 1 knowing everything that you know now. You just have to go through growing up trying to convince everyone you're just an ordinary kid.

b.) Go back to grade 7 knowing everything that you know now. You just have to go through your middle years trying to convince everyone you're just an ordinary teenager.


6.

a.) Be forced at gunpoint cut off all the fingers on your right hand, have a guard roll them in flour and batter, deep fry them in front of you, and then make you eat them.

b) Be forced at gunpoint to bite off a genteleman's balls and eat them raw, with a little soy sauce.

7.

a.) Be forced to change allegiance to the team you hate the most - buy a season ticket, wear all the replica gear, have their most hated player become your favourite player, tell all your mates about how much you love them. And your team now becomes your most hated team.

b.) Eat a catshit sandwich

8.

a.) Become enslaved down a silver mine where you never see the light of day, as your slave owners keep you chained up underground all night. All you ever do is cut & haul rocks. If you are too slow you get beaten. You work fourteen hours a day for no pay. After a few years you die from overwork. You never see anyone from the opposite sex or have opportunity of escape. You never have any holidays.

b.) Be crucified to death immediately

9.

a.) Be forced to hunt down & kill a random child, you are just given his name and address and you have to do it otherwise you will be killed. The child lives in upstate New York. Once you kill him, you'll be given a new identity and be safe from prosecution

b.) Have your face become a giant grinning crocodile face, all covered in thick scaly hide

10.

a.) A set of two dice that you roll once every morning. If you roll a double six, then you become official Lord Of Nudity for the day. No sechs, unless the other party agrees, but anyone has to strip entirely naked in front of you if you so command it. Providing they are above legal age, no paedos please.

However, if you roll snake eyes (double 1) you have to walk around entirely naked for the day as a forfeit. If you own the dice, you have to use them. Oh, and all the other combinations just mean an ordinary day.

b.) No dice

11.

a.) Have a small talking bird that who can read your mind and, once per day, will fly on to your shoulder and loudly announce what you are thinking about. This will always occur at the most awkward or embarrassing time. You cannot kill or otherwise get rid of this bird, and he will appear out of nowhere. However, he is restricted to one embarrassing revelation per day.

b.) Have the emotions you display reversed. For example, if you are actually sad, you will be smiling and laughing, but if you are happy, you'll be in tears. This is permanant.

12.

a.) Have your mum & dad throw a big birthday party for all your friends & family, but when you got there the room is decorated with pictures of your mum & dad doing sex. Some photos, some good quality oil paintings. And then they strip naked and start doing sex in front of everyone as your birthday cake is brought out.

b.) You have to leave work early every day, as something weird happens near the end of the day. A big portion of your work colleagues turn against you and start chucking stuff at you, then this extends into outright violence with quite severe kicks and punches until you leave the workplace. Once in a while, random people from outside the workplace come in off the street and join in too. It's a really frightening experience as you never know why it happens. Police ignore your problem.

13.

a.) Get to ride on a mechanical elephant for the rest of your life :- top speed 60 kmh, weather-proof little cab on top, laser eyes for shooting at pedestrians (set to stun), fully road legal with rego, able to climb right over small cars (but no crushing)

b.) Be pulled around the sky in a carriage by six flying unicorns for 6 months, go wherever you want, unicorns are on go-faster pills and never get tired.

14.

Would you rather piss gentle, cool streams of solid gold or shit $100 bills from your clacker?

15.

a.) Everytime you enter a supermarket to buy anything, a ghostly talking dog turns up who follows you around the aisles, criticising your purchases. He has the power to either refuse two of your purchases at his choosing, or manipulate your wallet/visa card to ensure that you are temporarily 85 cents off your total at the till, leading you to leave an item back. He has a voice & manner like Richard E Grant, and most other shoppers think he's your dog. He also shits on the supermarket floor.

b.) At a random point each afternoon, you are overcome with the urge to believe that the nearest person to you is the living embodiment of a god who can grant you whatever you want out of life, but only if you prostrate yourself before them and worship at their feet. You are overcome with the urge to offer them little gifts, like 20 cent pieces or keyrings or Mentos, as a sacrifice. The feeling is so strong you can't overcome it, but it only lasts 10 minutes. After 10 minutes you snap out of it and can either explain yourself or brush it under the carpet. This might be difficult if you work afternoons.

What would you rather do?

Rapist?

Sitting here at Stanstead waiting for a flight to Kuala Lumpur - Melbourne. (emigrating, sorry, forgot to tell you, blog readers.)

I'm listening to the bloke next to me's mobile phone conversation. Young bloke, early twenties, quite articulate, big skinny fella:

"Yeah...welll....what do you want me to do? Hand myself in? Yeah...Hampstead...Ok...Are you going to arrest me...OK, well if that's what you want. I'm in Stanstead....Yeah, there only is one terminal...OK see you soon."

What on earth can he be talking about?

Then he phones his mum:

"Hi mum.....yeah I'm Ok but look...I have to tell you something....I'm about to get arrested. Yeah look last night, yeah, there were loads of us right and we went out....then we went back to Jasmin's...there were loads of us, we were totally smashed and I sort of lay down next to Jasmin....and I rolled on top of her...


"Yeah, she's made a complaint. Sex. Yeah sex mum. She's made a formal complaint. I'm going to face the music. I'm off to the station now. I've lain down next to her loads of times and if she didn't want anything to happen she would have said..."

(yeah right mate)

"Anyway my defence is that we were all totally smashed.....Kevin? Yeah he knows, he's alright. He's a mate from work..."

And then he got up and walked off, presumably to face the music.

I'm on Jasmin's side, like.

What Every Soldier Should Know

What Every Soldier Should Know - The best free videos are right here

What Every Soldier Should Know

To yield to force is an act of necessity, not of will; it is at best an act of prudence.
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau

If you hear gunfire on a Thursday afternoon,
it could be a wedding, or it could be for you.

Always enter a home with your right foot;
the left is for cemeteries and unclean places.

O-guf! Tera armeek is rarely useful.
It means Stop or I’ll shoot.

Sabah el khair is effective.
It means Good Morning.

Inshallah means Allah be willing.
Listen well when it is spoken.

You will hear the RPG coming for you.
Not so the roadside bomb.

There are bombs under the overpasses,
in trashpiles, in bricks, in cars.

There are shopping carts with clothes soaked
in foogas, a sticky gel of homemade napalm.

Parachute bombs and artillery shells
sewn into the carcasses of dead farm animals.

A graffiti sprayed onto the overpasses:
I will kill you, American.

Men wearing vests rigged with explosives
walk up, raise their arms, and say Inshallah.

There are men who earn eighty dollars
to attack you, five thousand to kill.

Small children who will play with you,
old men with their talk, women who offer chai—

and any one of them
may dance over your body tomorrow.

- Brian Turner

Korean Ginseng and Long Balls

I was in Poundland yesterday when I noticed a small section selling vitamins and minerals. At a quid a time, you can't go wrong, eh? So I stocked up on cod liver oil. I thought I'd buy one more item, a novelty I'd never tried before.

They had Ginko Bilboa - "improves mental alertness and memory" - or Red Korean Ginseng - "improves energy levels and vitality."

Since I'm as smart as a guardsman's helmet I passed on the Bilboa. I went for the Ginseng.

Now I've heard about this stuff & we all know what "improves energy levels and vitality" is a euphemism for, eh? It's for helping out 'down there.' In the fruit basket.

They say that as man ages, and his testosterone levels go down, his interest in the doing of sex declines. Well, as I approach my twenty-ninth birthday I can state it's not quite as simple as that. Sometimes, I feel like a fourteen year old fellow who has landed a Saturday job in 'World of Bras.' Yet at others I'm like a geriatric, world-weary habitué of the opium den. Peaks and troughs, you see. And at the moment, I'm in something of a form dip.

It's not that the equipment doesn't work, oh no, it's just that sometimes I can't be bothered switching it on. I'd rather read a novel (Moby Dick at the moment, thanks for asking) than chasing fruity ladies down the pub. Which may not be a bad thing.

However, I can report that the Korean Red Ginseng does indeed "improves energy levels and vitality." Now, all I need is a good lady friend to help me prove this. No pushing girls, and if you leave the queue, I'm sorry, but you have to go to the back.

Another thing I've been suffering from is Long Balls. You know, like Larry David's long balls:



No one likes old man balls. So recently I've found a solution to this problem.

You get a bag of ice and put in down the front of your trunks. Recently, I've been freezing a bit of water in a little Tupperware container I usually use for mixing dry mustard or egg and onion. I nestle this down in the grundle area, right by Biffin's Bridge.


At first it smarts a little, but soon you forget it's down there. I like to watch 'Countdown' with my balls iced. At the end of the show, those boys have retreated back where they came from. Like a hermit crab slinking into its carapace.

Ben Fogle

You know that Ben Fogle?

Well, he doesn't understand that yeast produces the alcohol in beer & similar beverages.

He thinks that making beer is like making instant coffee. You take a spoonful of coffee, add sugar and milk to taste, and stir it round to make a drink, yes?

He thinks that if you take malt, hops, water & yeast etc., and then stir it round for long enough, you get an alcoholic drink. He understands that yeast is one of the ingredients, but he thinks that by adding it you produce some chemical reaction in solution, rather than a biological & chemical one.

He can't grasp the concept that the yeast is made up of living organisms that transform the sugars present into alcohol, no matter how you explain it to him.

It's strange that someone like him could have such a gap in his knowledge.

He believes the same about wine; you just stir up grape juice & yeast for long enough and hey presto! you have wine. Which is true, but he doesn't understand why.

Unfortunately, that's the last time I'm going drinking with him. It's been a long, difficult night. I've blocked him on Facebook and deleted his number from my phone.

On Meeting a famous Irish politician

It was a bright, frosty morning in Belfast and I decided to blow off the cobwebs with a tramp around Stormont estate. Soon the clouds thickened and I decided to catch a bus back towards town. The 20A service pulled up at the estate gates and I got aboard.

I had no change so I offered the driver a five pound note. As she handed over the change - two pound coins and a twenty pence piece - the vehicle pulled out to pass a parked lorry. I staggered slightly and spilled the money. It rolled down the bus. A schoolboy helpfully stamped on the twenty pence to arrest its progress and I retrieved one of the pound coins by the feet of an elderly woman.

However, the other pound coin landed near a middle aged man in a business suit. As I watched, he casually bent forward, picked up my coin, and placed it in his pocket.

Well! Our eyes met for a moment. Then he took out a book and started reading it, oh so carefree. The book was called 'Crisis Management: Planning for the inevitable,' by Steven Fink.

There was an empty seat behind him and I sat down. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned slightly, half facing me.

"I believe you have something of mine?" I enquired. Calmly.

He turned a little more and looked me in the eye from behind his glasses.

"No, I don't believe I do."

He looked familiar. His spectacles were expensive looking. He had broad shoulders and thickish black hair. He had thick, almost winsome lips, and a fleshy head, like a Beluga:


He seemed confident, even a little pugilistic, and in his business suit he reminded me of one of those rugby union players who walk straight off the playing field into the executive boardroom.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?," I asked directly.

"You may well do. I'm called Brian Cowen. I'm the current Taoiseach (prime minister) of Ireland. I took office on 7 May 2008, and I heads a coalition government led by my Fianna Fáil party that includes the Green Party and has the support of independent TDs.^I have been a Teachta Dála (TD) for the constituency of Laois–Offaly since 1984."

"Well pleased to meet you Brian but you didn't happen to see a pound coi..."

"Nope." He cut me short before I finished the word. After the briefest of warning glances he turned round and finished reading his book.

I was in a state of turmoil, chewing my bile, but I kept my thoughts to myself. It was only a quid I'd lost, but it was the principle of the matter that galled me.

Cowen rang the bell as the bus neared the city centre. He got off on the Albertbridge Road. It was far from my destination, but I resolved to follow him.

He didn't notice as I trailed him across the street. He entered a Fish and Chip shop. The shop was called 'For Cod and Ulster.'

The place was empty, and he walked straight up to the counter. "Two sausage please," he commanded of the young girl behind the till. She passed the order to an older lady behind her, who commenced the deep frying of two fat, greasy bangers.

I made my presence felt by tapping Cowen on the shoulder. "I'm sure you have something of mine,"
I spoke softly but steadily from close behind his right ear.

He turned round. For the first time he looked contrite, though perhaps that was due to the frisson of fear I detected.

"Look friend, times are h-h-hard," he stammered.

Just at that moment, the girl brought him his two sausages, with a few free charity chips mixed in, as is the wont of such establishments.

"That's £1.30"

Cowen handed over a quid - presumably my quid - and then fumbled in his pockets for change. Eventually, he dug out a few low denomination Euro coins and placed them on the counter.

The assistant eyed them then shouted over her shoulder, "Sandra, do we take Euros?" to the older lady.

Sandra shook her head in reply.

The girl looked at Cowen. He looked at me, head tilted forward from under his glasses; like an overgrown plaintive, scolded puppy. A pleading schoolboy look.

He didn't have to say anything. I took out my wallet and placed thirty pence on the counter.

The girl took the change and asked "Anything else?"

"Could I trouble you for some tomato sauce," Cowan asked hopefully.

"We've only got sachets. They're 10p extra."

He started toward me, but I didn't wait. I slammed a ten pence piece on the board and strode out of the shop.

I made my way to the city centre. Later, I saw Cowen in the the Cornmarket. He was busking. He was singing in a Sean-nós, a-Capella style. The song he was singing was "Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore" .

He had an upturned begging hat at his feet. It was almost empty. None too many German tourists around at this time of year.

On reflex, I nearly dropped a coin in the hat, but I caught myself on.

Email to Jacobs

From: thebresker@gmail.com
To: jacobsconsumerservices@unitedbiscuits.com

Dear Mr Jacobs,

My boss bought me a packet of Jacobs Cream Crackers for Christmas. I was delighted when I unwrapped the package on Christmas morn, as I've always wanted to try these interesting looking savoury treats.

However, I had some trouble applying the cream to the wafer. I have a refrigerator well stocked with both single and double cream. At first, I tried pouring the cream over the surface, but it kept running off. Then I tipped some cream into a bowl and dipped the cracker into it, but I found this unsatisfactory. Finally, I hit upon whipping some cream into stiff peaks, and ladling this onto the cream cracker. This was quite tasty.

However, when I went back to work after the holiday, I told my boss what I had done and she derided me. Apparently, you are supposed to eat crackers with toppings such as cheese and butter rather than cream. I have since tried this and found the results to be delicious.

May I suggest that you change the name of 'Jacobs Cream Crackers' to 'Jacobs Cheese/ Butter Crackers'? It would end much unnecessary confusion amongst consumers.

Yours faithfully,

IS McDonald

Last Night's Dream

I had moved to London, but it looked more like Melbourne. I was living in some sort of large corner building, maybe a disused hotel. It had lots of rambling rooms. I lived at the top. My housemates weren't very social. They sat about in individual rooms wrapped up tight in sleeping bags. The rooms were dimly lit. Some of them were watching portable TVs. It reminded me of the old lady watching 'Words and Pictures' in 'Threads.' I had to pass them to get to my room. They barely acknowledged me.

There wasn't any cutlery or dishes in the house, but what upset me was the lack of glassware. So I hit upon an idea.

There was an old colourful kitchen cupboard, like the one in the picture above. I dragged it down the road, across the way from the bar. I encouraged people entering & leaving the bar to leave me their glassware. Soon I had loads of glasses, and quite a few jugs too - jugs full of some sort of cherry cocktail. I brought it back to the house. The cocktail didn't seem alcoholic. I gave some to my housemates.

Later, they opened a huge new branchline of the London Underground just for Charles, Camilla, the other members of the royal family & the Cabinet. This was in light of recent unpleasantness. I went down to have a look. There was an extra new tunnel and platform but no-one was allowed to use it, as it was reserved for the dignitaries. There was a lot of shouting and unpleasantness on the platform. It disturbed me to see commuters turning on each other, as I didn't understand who could support such a strange transport policy.

I didn't get on a train but went home. There was a lot of natural light spilling into the underground station from somewhere.

A new non-job

I got a job today...but only for today!

A woman rang me from an agency on Friday, gave me an address in an industrial estate. After some hunting I found the premises. A data processing company. They never told me what they do, but they appeared to be concerned with junk mail & spambots. Or something.

Anyway, they sat me down at a PC and gave me a huge pile of ballot papers relating to the nat west community fund.

See, all these coves and covesses and even junior coves had been filling in charity nomination forms for the 'Wye Retired Horse Relief' and 'Macclesfield Sea Scouts' and 'Snails for the Blind' etc etc etc. The winning charity gets £3000 from Nat West, see.

I had to go through hundreds of the bloody things ticking off their local Nat WEst branch and favourite charity on an internet browser. It was more corrupt than FIFA - the same handwriting appeared on dozens of ballot papers. They were all block votes for the same charities, too.

Anyway, at 4pm I asked the manager about arrangements for the rest of the week and she said 'Sorry, Nat West have cut the funding. We won't need you any more. And it's snowing so you can go at 4.30.'

Hmmph.

Ah well. The bloke working with me says they do that all the time. He was only there for the day too. But he assures me we'll be back.

He's a nice bloke but he smokes rollies two at a time. In this weather, he smelt like damp burnt socks.

There were loads of unfinished flyers. Who will complete them?

I quite enjoyed being at work. There were some nice ladies who smiled at me and even talked to me. I must apply myself to the high-rolling world of business.

Some thoughts on the current global financial situation

David Cameron has been in China telling the natives how to behave. Not in the field of human rights, well barely; but in terms of commerce. He wants the Chinese to spend more money, so that more cash starts flowing around the global economy.

Some wags have suggested that he force opium upon them as of old, although there is some truth in this jest. For the opium wars were not just about one substance of use & abuse. Back in the mid 19th century, the British were all over tea. They were positively addicted to it, an addiction which has continued to this day. Unlike today, tea cultivation in China and Sri Lanka was at an early, experimental stage. Some cuttings had been smuggled from the east, but the only people who knew how to grow successful tea plantations were the Chinese.

The Chinese tea planters had no interest in trading with the British; all they wanted was cold, hard payment. And they refused to take this payment in any form other than sterling silver.

The British Exchequer started to worry about this one-way flow. How could they reverse this imbalance in trade and claw back some of their precious reserves? Their answer was to flood China with addictive opium, a crop they could grow in the far-flung outposts of the empire.

When the Chinese provincial governors realised the debilitating effect the substance was having on their people, they tried to ban it. So the Empire moved in and forced them to accept by force of arms.

That was one way to reverse a balance of trade deficit. But it's neither practical nor sane today, and not just because the People's Liberation Army's is made of sterner stuff than their 19th century equivalent. However, the money is once again flowing into China and not coming back out.

Some nations are doing all right. Germany has a healthy trade with China, but then Germany still makes stuff. Like luxury cars. And like the Chinese, the Germans have come under fire for not spending enough. Too much sensible saving.

Now Cameron doesn't say what he wants the Chinese to spend money on; just that they should. I suppose the idea is that if we can get them hooked on great British exports such as shortbread, Ginsters pies and whisky they'll get us out of this fiscal black hole. Apart from Rolls Royce engines, the biggest UK export seems to be Premier League football at the moment. Everyone goes crazy for that. But all that does is line Wayne Rooney's nest with hookers and gin.

Or perhaps he wants some of the cash to flow back into the City of London, so that the bankers and hedge fund managers can gamble it on the next big venture. Where will the next bubble be found? In the developing markets in the far east?



So - is this what global capitalism is founded on? Is this the whole shoddy mess stripped bare? Everyone in the world has to buy stuff, stuff that we certainly don't need and might not even really want if we stopped to think about it. We just have to do our duty and buy tat to appease Mammon.



The citizens of China and Germany might laughingly point out to Cameron that our spend, spend spend culture got us into this shitstorm in the first place. Are they not wiser to put some away for a rainy day? Look at the example of Norway, which rather than spend all its oil wealth on needless fripperies decided to save it.

Despite the warnings, we continue to throw the money around. The tills will be ringing hot this Christmas. I was in my local Tesco this Sunday past, and the place was rammed to the gills. And the trolleys were creaking not just with essentials but with luxuries. Kia-ora, Dairyleas, Time-Outs, Blue WKD, all that sort of extravagance. The government may be cutting back, but many of us are far from poor:

The UK is the fattest nation in Europe .

UK restaurants throw away 600,000 tonnes of food a year; the general population throws away 12 million tonnes.

While in some Asian countries 40% of children are malnourished.

So how come such an extravagant, wasteful nation as the UK can be so deeply in fiscal deficit? Surely if we can afford so much luxury, so much needless food, so many pointless car journeys, so many DVD box sets we never watch, so many Jimmy Choos - surely we could afford to pay off our own deficit? Maybe we could be a bit more like the Norwegians or Germans. We could take the money we spend on all the crap & plug the hole in the economy. Because this deficit doesn't mean we'll have less fancy goods. It's all about cuts in services - education, healthcare, refuse collection, social work, even street lighting. Things which matter.



But to suggest such a thing would have David Cameron and our wise economists recoil in terror. For as we've seen, the world economy relies on us buying stuff. Even though the UK produces little of real value, we have to keep the money moving and moving and sloshing so that all those jobs in the retail & service industries are protected. And those at the top take the lions share of the money sloshing around and use it to buy more useless products but on a grander scale, until someone points out that the emperor is wearing new clothes and the bubble bursts. As with the American sub-prime property market.



For the last hundred years or so, the political battle has been between the left and the right. Between the free market and regulation, between socialism and capitalism. The left has been widely discredited, whether through the totalitarian horrors of Stalin, doctors working as factory operatives in Cuba, or the broken power of the unions here in the UK. Yet socialist China grows in wealth and influence, and if we're relying on them to save our economy, what does that say about us?



Surely it's time for some alternative economic system, some third way. And I'm not talking about Tony bloody Blair or the Lib Dems. Back in the days before the recession, people were seriously challenging the overuse of the world's finite resources with a green, ethical philosophy. Now we're being told the only way to get out of recession is to churn them out and buy them up. It doesn't feel wise.

Soup Review

This is a new soup from Baxter's. It costs more than normal soup, presumably because it has a tiny amount of brandy and lobster in there.

I found it on the shelf at Tesco. In the soup aisle. It was with all the other soups in tins. The packet soups are lower, to the left.

At first, when I tried a spoonful cold from the tin, I thought to myself 'This isn't going to pleasant.' It tasted like mashed pilchards in tomato sauce.

But after I'd gone to the trouble of heating it in a pan, it got better.

Very thick, quite filling. It is a weird mix of fish and tomatoes, though. A bit like spaghetti marinara, but without the spaghetti bit. I'm just not sure if fish and tomatoes work well together. They are from different realms of the earth.

I prefer pasta marinara with a cream and cheese based fish sauce. I use whale milk to make this, when it's in season. I disguise myself as a Minke calf and shuffle in amongst the pod, squeezing the teats of great lactating cetaceans.

I'm having a pint of tea and and some oak-smoked cheddar as an accompaniment. They are the soothing cello to the harsh discordant kettle drum of the lobster bisque.

Last swim in the sea

I just went in for what will be my final swim of the year. It's ok when you're in the water, but when you get out it's bloody FREEEEEZING.

Plus, I could see some folks eyeing me anxiously from the shore. They stared and pointed and pointed some more.

When I got out an old bloke in a pacamac told me off, saying he thought I was off to top myself.

"You should leave a note pinned to your bike," he said. "We couldn't see a towel or anything so we thought you'd gone in to......you know......"

Yes, a big note pinned to my bike saying "I AM NOT OFF TO KILL MYSELF" would definitely reassure peole. It would not arouse suspicions at all.

Then, when I was cycling off, a car pulled up beside me and a bloke wound down the window. "Were you just in swimming? Out to the buoy and back?"

"Yes," I replied.

Silence. He had a big dark angry head on him & looked wild upset about something.

"Why?" I enquired.

"Oh we just had a 999 call, I'm from the coastguard," he replied grumpily.

I just cycled off. What does he expect me to do, climb back in the sea and start drowning?

I'm fed up with people trying to rescue me from myself

On the cycle home I realised I couldn't feel the fingers or toes. I got indoors and spent half an hour under a hot shower but am still cold. The tips of my fingers were purple. I'm currently wearing a woollen jumper with a hot water bottle undrerneath.

It's not worth it, is it?

Though in the name of charity, I may make one final effort, later in the year

I'll let you know, and you WILL sponsor me.