Archive for January, 2010

Busting the “asylum seeker” rort

Last weekend I was really bored. The American hip hop video clips with all those bikini women on Video Hits were making me a feel a bit funny so I’d turned the television off, I’d eaten so many tomato sauce sandwiches that I was starting to feel sick, and the linen cupboard suddenly had a child-proof lock on it so I couldn’t make a cubby house. Susan was starting to get really grumpy with me moping about the house and was threatening to call the electorate office to see if there was anything I could do to help out, so I called up Nick Xzennophone to see if he could play. Nick’s wife answered the phone and said he was out, but after I asked her why I could hear Nick in the background whispering that he was out she put him on the phone.

Xzennophone told me that he’d love to play but was too busy researching the asylum seeker issue because it was going to be a big one this year. I asked him what asylum seekers were and after he told me I was overcome with sympathy for the poor sods. But after Nick suggested a coalition with the Greens who hold a similar position to us I instantly decided that I was anti-asylum seekers, or anti-immigration, or anti-whatever it is the Greens are for. The Greens can pass around the friendship bong with whoever they want but I’m going to maintain the intensity of Australia’s borders.

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Mental health and markets: two kinds of failure

It’s nice that the Federal Government has given a gong to Pat McGorry, but our country’s commitment to psychiatric treatment remains at the level of mere lip service. I read with interest a recent newspaper article reporting on the Federal Government’s scheme for giving subsidies to private psychologists. This program began in 2006, in response to widespread evidence of a ‘crisis’ in mental health. Psychiatric problems constituted a vast percentage of overall health burden in Australia, yet were systematically under-funded (in proportional terms). The then-Howard Government arranged for psychologists operating in private practice to be subject to Medicare rebates for the first time. The aim here was to allow the private system to pick up the slack for an over-burdened public system. These are the results:

MEDICARE spending on psychological therapy will blow out to $1.5 billion by 2011, twice its budget allocation, according to a new analysis.

Despite the huge investment – three times the original five-year estimates when the scheme began in 2006 – the Federal Government has not released any evidence that the consultations are improving mental health…

Long consultations with psychologists grew fastest – by 32 per cent. But they were used disproportionately by city dwellers, with country people only about 60 per cent as likely to attend them.

The analysis also shows patients are being hit by out-of-pocket expenses likely to be prohibitive for those on lower incomes – an average $35 for 50 minutes with a psychologist.

This result is not surprising, and I’d like to touch on two related points to elucidate the origins of this costly failure:

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Fielding: Christmas Island ‘more like motel than detention centre’

FACILITIES at the Christmas Island detention centre are akin to a motel with inmates receiving better treatment than many Australians, Family First Senator Steve Fielding said.

Sen Fielding said he was amazed that detainees were given:

+ A car park near the back door

+ Adjoining rooms near friends if desired

+ Use of a swimming pool

+ Small bars of soap in their en suites

+ Use of a kettle and complementary tea bags, instant coffee, sugar and UHT milk

+ Portable televisions to watch WIN, Prime and ABC 1

+ Free breakfast which they could order on a card and have it delivered on a tray through a little door at the front of their rooms.

“”They even had a choice of not having bacon with their English breakfast,” Mr Fielding said.  “How much does it cost the government not to include Australian bacon because of their non-Christian requirements?”

Refugee advocate Less O’ Dogooder, denied the conditions at Christmas Island were as luxurious as Sen Fielding described.

“The swimming pool is nowhere as big as it looks in the pictures and the busy wallpaper and burnt orange carpet look like something from my nanna’s house,” Ms O’Dogooder said.”.

“And no one told the detainees that a continental breakfast consisted of a stale crossaint and a little variety pack box of Corn Flakes. Continental sounds a lot more impressive than it is, it’s a misleading term - they couldn’t even choose Coco Pops.”

Mr Fielding said that even without the choice of Coco Pops, detainees at Christmas Island received better treatment than many Australians got from the Government.

“There are Australian rapists and murderers doing it a lot tougher in Australian jails than those queue jumpers enjoying holiday camp conditions at Christmas Island.

“Charity should begin at home,” he said.

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Shopping centres shouldn’t stop at banning politicians

The ABC reports: “Some of the country’s biggest shopping malls are hoping to be politician-free zones during the upcoming federal and state elections.”

I’m not sure what bothers me the most about that intro; the fact that part of our democratic process is to be curtailed by people who condone spruikers with PA systems, or the fact it refers to shopping centres as “shopping malls”.

I’ll put the Americanism aside and focus on the first point. Why ban politicians from shopping centres while on the hustings? That’s the best part of an election campaign. The practice has given us great moments in Australian political history like Bob Hawke’s “silly old bugger” remark, John Hewson’s cake-shop GST gaffe, and a baby throwing up on John Howard.

The beauty of shopping centre appearances is that they can only be stage managed to a point. Even when the party hacks reckon they’ve lined up suitable attractive white-Anglo working mums and dads to shake hands, offer babies to hug and ask the right Dorothy Dixers, there will always be some child, nuff-nuff, wog, pensioner, youth or building worker who will turn the script, and possibly an election campaign, on its head with a left-field question so stupid it’s brilliant – the reaction to which provides news outlets with the perfect soundbite, vision or pic that will forever haunt a candidate.

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Just when does it become “un”?

On the 26th of January each year the countries of Australia and India both celebrate their national days. I’m spending this particular 26th on the subcontinent, observing Republic Day activities which will this year allow Indians to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the creation of the independent Republic of India. I’ve spent enough Australia Days at home to know what’s going on there: everyone’s chilling out in their own way, enjoying the last real fling of the summer holidays before work starts back proper; and the media’s gone into super-patriot mode, re-hashing all of the usual tired cliches about how awesome Australia is and what it means to be Australian (hint: starts with “B” and ends with “BQ”), while a significant portion of the population cringe just a little bit. In recent years, especially around Australia Day itself, there seems to have been a growing gulf between those who love Australia to death and those who the former aggressively dare to leave if they don’t love it. The latter simply want to point out that it’s possible to love your country and acknowledge its faults at the same time. It’s curious that a day intended to unite Australia tends to somewhat divide it instead.

In the ex-Portuguese territory of Goa, an opinion writer by the name of Joe D’Souza, writing in the Herald, has written an honest report card on the country he loves, and I’m wondering what the reaction might be if a similar article appeared in an Australian paper.

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Down and dirty

So, I’ve been busy. Apart from welcoming a new Baby Rogenous into the fold late last year, I’ve been arsecrack deep in manwork — something of a radical departure from the poncy stuff, like blogging, with which I prefer to fill my idle hours.

Anyway, chief among my domestic projects has been the construction of a sandpit to hold three 1000lt water tanks I scored for Christmas. The job, up until the weekend, had involved digging out part of the lawn in my severely sloping backyard and building/propping up a level timber box. This left me with a large hole to fill — too large for me to be able to afford all the expensive packing sand I’d planned to sit the tanks on.

The classifieds in the local paper came to the rescue, with one woman — who we’ll call Jane — advertising a metric shitload of free cleanfill for pick-up not far away. So on Saturday morning, at what I assumed was the reasonable hour of 10am, I grabbed my phone and called hers.

After about 10 rings, an extremely hung-over-sounding man answered:

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Steve goes to the electorate office

I’ve got a bit of a love/hate relationship with the summer Parliament holidays. I love them because you don’t have to work and you can sleep in as late as you want and you can sit in front of the TV in morning in your jim jams eating Coco Pops and watching cartoons and you get presents from Santa at Christmas time, but I also hate them because a few days after new year’s eve I start to get bored and Susan gets on my case about lounging around the house and whining about having nothing to do even though I lie to her and say I’ve got heaps to do and that Nick Xzennophone’s going to call up any minute and invite me around to his house to play. And every year, no matter how busy I try to make myself look busy (this year I started constructing the Mother Of All Cubby Houses in the lounge room using bed sheets and the next-door neighbour’s nailgun), Susan always eventually insists that I go in to my electorate office and help out a bit.

I didn’t even know I had an electorate office until two summer holidays ago. That year, when Susan told me to go there I thought she was saying “electricity office” and I called her a stupid idiot, poked my tongue out the side of my mouth, crossed my eyes, and did the crazy sign with my finger around my ear. After my two weeks’ grounding Susan drove me to my electorate office and told me to help my office manager do whatever needed to be done.

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Trevor’s Film Review: Good or Shithouse

Welcome new year to you. I wont use ‘pwned’ because that is so 2009 and I like to stay with the times. I’ve finally got around to finding a player that plays DVD’s from hard rubbish. I thought it was time I gave this ‘fad’ a go. Wayne still has his beta max and a fine collection of porn for example “Farmer’s Daughter’s”. (I also went to the pictures)

Farmer’s Daughter’s: Good. A coming of age story about a farmer who is in debt to a bank and is about to lose his farm in the midwest. He has 3 lovely daughters (one is a virgin) and one day a man knocks on the door whose car has broken down on the highway. He tells the farmer he is a travelling salesman and after a few drinks comes up with a plan to save the Farmer’s farm. You see, he sells porn and together the farmer films his daughters having sex with the travelling salesman so they can sell the film. Top watch.

Avatar: Shithouse. Just proves that gimmicks still work in the 21st century. Before James Camerson’s next film he will hand out cool aid.

Man on Wire: Good. A story about a frog who can leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Tyson: Good. One for all the family. A story about a boy genius who knew at a young age he was destined for gaol. But fucken hell he can punch quick. There is footage of him being trained by old man Cus and he punches the heavy bag 5 times quicker than a blink.

Nineteen 84: Confusing.

Just Married: Good. Fine acting from Brittany Murphey RIP and Ashton Coucher. A story with many turns and with a twist of lemon. Intelligent film making with original storyline and premise. The cinematography is par excellance.

Accidental Goat Sodomy: Shithouse.

Juno: Shithouse. Boring dialouge. Boring actress. Sounds like it was written by a stripper. Not original.

Sherlock Homes: Shithouse. Sherlock Homes went after the hound of the baskervilles not a bloke who could do devil magic.

Deadwood: ? My DVD player doesn’t have subtitles.

The James Reyne Story (Starring James Reyne): Good. What more could a bloke want?

Thanks for listening to my film reviews. If you want to debate my points there is a comment section below. All you have to do is type in your opinions and make up a name for yourself. Please provide a valid email address if you’re a bird so I can chat via email later on.

(Dear website owners. I noticed on the page were I wrote my topical debate there is a message from Wordpress:

WordPress 2.9.1 is available! Please notify the site administrator.

You’ve been served)

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The Dangers of Amnesia

Opposition leader Tony Abbott says:

 

”It would help to bolster public support for immigration and acceptance of social diversity if more minority leaders were as ready to show to mainstream Australians values the respect they demand for their own,” he told an Australia Day function in Melbourne last night.

He said for all the misguided and sometimes cruel treatment of Aborigines, the ethnic typecasting and occasional snobbery that still existed, Australia had rarely seen domestic discrimination based on race or culture.

Is Abbott stupid, or just plain lying?

 

Or is there, perhaps, something else in operation here, something at a different psychological level? Perhaps this ‘forgetting’ of racism is actually a repression, both personal and cultural, an attempt to sweep an ‘unacceptable idea’ under the carpet in order to preserve a fragile, narcissistic image of ourselves. The idea of racism is still unacceptable, as Australia is yet to have ‘worked through’ the bloody, traumatic aspects of its history (and present). So many on the Right still regard the mere admission of racism in Australia’s past as a kind of ’self-hatred’ or some such.

Bringing such things is all the more urgent when, a few days out from Australia Day, the Herald Sun is attempting to drum up ill-feeling in response to the manufacture of halal Vegemite:

Muslim leaders have congratulated Kraft for introducing the labels, but Family Council of Victoria secretary Bill Muehlenberg questioned the company’s motives.

“This is a private company trying to make money,” Mr Muehlenberg said. “I don’t think they care a rip about offending the tastebuds of Muslims.

“Why do we have to keep bending over backwards to please minority groups? There are only 300,000 Muslims in Australia out of 22 million people, which is a very small percentage.

“Of course, there’s a case for making allowances for different cultures, but aren’t we getting a bit carried away with political correctness here? It’s ridiculous.”

Mr Muehlenberg feared the halal labelling was also a sign of “Islamisation” of western countries.

It’s not very clear why somebody representing a ‘Family Council’ needs to comment on Vegemite’s marketing decisions. What is clear is that Vegemite has already been Kosher for years (apart from a brief period in 2004), and the only objections were from Stormfront and other fringe-dwellers from the conspiracist, wanna-be fascist crowd. This is the company kept by our man from the ‘Family Council’. It is precisely this evidence of racism, as old as it is entrenched within Australia, that Mr Abbott finds so objectionable that he must deny it altogether. But the cost of repression is neurosis, and that is what we see in the Australia of today, and we will have no clearer example than the young people who, on the 26th of this month, will drunkenly brandish flags and slogans, whilst older heads among the commentariat fervently inform us that Australia is not racist, has never been racist.

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A very Fielding Christmas

Happy new year, everyone! Welcome to the year 2010, which began at exactly midnight on 1 January; being, of course, the 2,010th anniversary of the resurrection and celebrated by people of all races around the world.

In the Fielding household our Christmas celebrations always begin on the eve of the big day itself, with lots of carols singing and hot Milo. Our house is decorated with tinsel and plastic leaves and we always have a great big Christmas tree in the lounge room. The tree, of course, a highly symbolic symbol of the death. Under the tree are lots and lots of presents from Susan to me, Susan to the kids, the kids to Susan, and Susan to Susan (I get Susan to buy her own presents from me because of that time I was in that big crowd of people doing Christmas shopping and I felt a bit funny and I curled up up on the floor in the foetal position screaming and hit that security guard until that nice policeman came.)

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