Take your misery elsewhere this Christmas

What can I say? My finger fell off. My mouse audaciously multiplied into hard drive destroying rodents. My grandmother’s sister’s niece’s pet budgee died of ague. I got a virus, a worm…and passed it onto the pc. The roof fell in… I’ve been busy.

So blogometry has not been on the top of my to do list. So I’ve been neglecting all you sweetums who roll in off the WWW expressway expecting something new and fresh only to be met by some old stuff. But hey! It’s the last few moments before the year’s end and with Xmas cheer pending you have to give me some rope. If you are fixin’ to season greet; season greet my way.

And a Ho! Ho! Ho! to you too.

In the break I’ve been fiddling with Ratbag Radio…and it works! It sure does. I now own my own broadcast strength radio station broadcasting –on a good day – 24 hours per day. So listen up and you can hear me (if you want). So I now gotta be here as well as there. And since I’m not master of time management (although I read a book on it once) I sometimes fall behind doing stuff and keeping up.

In reality – I must confess this -- I lost my voice. And it wasn’t laryngitis. Everything is voice. That’s’ how I write anyway: Voice. It’s about being in character. And mine –such as it had an existence anyway on these pages – went walkabout. “Where for art thou, Voice?”

My guess is that it got such a shock when it heard itself live-to-air on Ratbag Radio that it became a touch shy. Indeed, it was humbled and lost its edge – its arrogant, InstaPundit edge. That happens. Even to the best of us. Even to me.

But I’m back. Back at the coal face for a few days before I go off to a holiday spot to spend my Christmas by the beach and in a tent. From there –without web or email access – you won’t hear from me again until just before New Year when I will return to these pages and share with you what little profundity I cobbled together during the break.

But before I go I want to note the fact that many have found these last couple of months a difficult time. Poor dears, many have lost heart. Feeling so nervous and dense, they look upon the new triumphalism of George Bush or John Howard as cause for misery. You would not believe the navel gazing I’ve had to sit through while political angst like this is given full reign.

What can I say? “Pull yourself together!” “Get a life!” “Get over it!” “Don’t be a wimp!”

I can be very empathetic when I try.

Maybe you are similarly rent by despair? Overwhelmed by despondency, perhaps you can see nothing on hand to warrant your passion. Yearning for some at least half arsed ideological commitment your hopes and dreams may now seem dashed. “My ideals!“ you proclaim, “Whither my ideals?”

Well here’s a word of advice from yours truly: bulldust! I don’t mean to give offense but one of the merits of being my age is that I’ve been around the block a few times, and I can still refer to myself as the Peter Pan of the Left : the little boy who refused to grow up.

I can’t help it, I’m still stuck with the same passions I had way back when…when I discovered what capitalism was –and still is, because any number of reforms won’t change it much at all. Essentially it is still the same as it was I first came to hate it.

So that’s my word of advice: you gotta hate and hate passionately. That’s’ the knack. You have to have something festering inside you, a driving hatred that won’t flinch otherwise all the ideals in the world aren’t worth a brass razoo.

Sorry, but that's how it is.

Maybe you’re shocked. “I can’t do that! I’m not like that.” Then more’s the pity. If you can’t hate the systematic slaughter of the people of Iraq for the sake of a few more cheaper barrels of oil then I must ask you to take your misery elsewhere for the company it craves.

Peace on earth? Goodwill to all men? No thanks. Bring the troops home and I may consider it.

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