Blair Answering Chilcot (April24)

The rawness and haggard emotion was appropriate. Performance and inner conviction inseparable. A seemingly false memory—something that pre-dated the conversion in fact—had him the son of a lay preacher of some description. The accomplished, captivating presentation throughout the career always returned the hint. One recalled his advice to some notable—it may have been one of Murdoch's foot soldiers taking the rap for the boss: advised by Tony to make sure she got a good night's sleep before the ordeal confronting, for which quality sleeping pills were essential. One recalled the christening of Rupert's girls to tigress Wendy on the banks of River Jordan, wardrobe fitting the host in white gowns and Tony doubtless upstaging the professional actor, the Australian pretender Nicole, in his role of godfather... So far as psycho-drama went, you would have to say difficult to resist the man’s plea for understanding of his predicament in the run-up to the invasion shortly after the planes hit. The choking was proper, sharply delineated, without deflecting from the purpose. Sorrow, anguish or remorse, heavy conscience in attestable form; self-justification carefully modulated. Man could not in all conscience, &etc. If one wanted to be picky, there was perhaps a single moment, one troubling instant at 1:11 secs; for the remainder all the matter was given in due and appropriate measure, movement and progress sure-footed. The tragic results were substantial: there were so many British forces killed, so many injured... One hundred and fifty something British servicemen & personnel losing their lives; the injured a sizeable number (precise figures unavailable). Following upon which came the slide to the other side, the Iraqi component. One needed to return to the video more than once in order to judge properly and watch the entire forty-seven plus minutes. If one could give it musical notation, the point might emerge more clearly, the falling, descending note where Iraqi casualties were included at the end in that brief summary of devastation, at 1:11. Did he mention one hundred thousand in one of the subsequent, follow-up interviews; the radio possibly. When most estimates were tens of thousands more and possibly many tens of thousands again? In this first media presentation answering Chilcot, where he was preoccupied with the battle of good & evil, precise figures were a lesser matter. Before an Arab or Mid-East audience, where the man often found himself seeking absolution, no doubt better care would have been taken over that.

Brothers In Arms - Eidilfitri Night

Nearing quart eight at Tasvee after an oily supper of vegetables on Lor. 24 corner. Great buzz of lads congregating down by the lane.

       Shortly before departure brother Francis was ranting something at Doreen in English about the choice of wifi and phone bundle she had chosen. Fellow was in for an unexpected blast should there be a repetition. 

       Uncle Francis, I am not paying good money here to listen to your raving. You sound to me like a bully, poor sister of yours needing to put up with it. I don’t want to hear it again. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? &etc. 

       Bloody cheek. Member of some strange Jap sect with HQ of some kind here in Geylang that needed to be investigated. Silly old duffer. Sergeant Peppers, Dylan and a few other vinyls discovered in the spare room currently being cleaned for the reception of the younger brother Calvin was difficult to fit with contemporary Francis. They were his records alright, Calvin was ten years younger.

         Good gathering, the usual settled, even temper. Nan and dahl to soak up the earlier oil was the way to go.

         Chap at register a dead-set spitting image of the fellow here 3 - 4 years ago; the surprise was he had gotten younger. A brother or clansman of the other; alternatively hair dye and facial sculpting from Ramadan perhaps. (The latter transformation was a real matter.) A good many Chin heavy and coloured heads stumbling and blundering.

         They’d turned themselves into a tandoori joint at Tasvee, or at least accent was on the new item introduced to the menu. Almost the glory of 4 - 5 years ago the workingmen trooping past in the gutter and sitting. Couple of young lads departing, exiting by the hot plate, with one laying a light hand on the wrist of the other. How a Westerner observing would flounder.

         Earlier there had been a glimpse of a suspected shared ciggie; a second episode subsequently confirmed. After a few puffs the lad was ready to hand back, — But, no, you hang onto it.

         In the interim fifties were counted out for this lad. The threesome had awaited Fourth’s arrival, two slender teen-like figures and one more robust. Newcomer, Four, conformed to the majority.

         There was a brief moment where a possible question may have arisen of short-change. Hopefully it was not the case, nothing untoward transpired. One should never allow it lads, All for one and all that. Off they went together for their dorm.

         The Deaf was not at his perch tonight; couple of the older Chin shady characters in their youthful street wear blown through briefly.

         The dollars earlier might have been hangbao from the contractor, Bangla or Indian perhaps.

         The crowd clearing quickly, back to the pile-drivers in the morning, at least for the laboring class. (Management and others might be able to string a few days together.)

         A downturn by common consent on the street if not in the newspapers, where upticks reign in the media white-out here. One item from a foreign source did get through concerning the number of oil tankers sitting at sea by ports like Rotterdam and Singapore.

NB. Syed the Hadrami user, jail-bird, victim of sexual abuse at the orphanage when he lost his parents, lover of Ramadan when the men at the mosques sat in foursome around the common plate for the breaking of fasts, Syed commonly referred to the song of the title.

First Muslim MP in the Federal Parliament looking a chance down in Australia—an academic specializing in de-radicalization no less—likeliest another of the co-opted speaking through her hat. There has not been enough damage inflicted in the “crusader” countries, none in the mainstream anywhere acknowledging the blowback from a century of dastardy and subjugation. Chilcot Report just released forced to measured tones.  

 NB2. The above penned on the evening of Wednesday 6 July. Following morning a Tasmanian independent MP recently re-elected used stronger language describing the blood on the hands of the Iraq war-mongers. ABC online.

Election (Aust.) - Count Goes On

No, that's been my feeling for a long while — you couldn't script this stuff, this thing generally. Brought home in these circles where there’s so much pretend yellow-Anglo, and much else of grotesquerie. Did Pauline actually go to the clink? Recall the fish shop $$$$. Re: Derryn the publicity shot dyed definitely. 72 yr old you’re not telling me that chestnut. Come off it, Jose. They do extremely good colour now, you got the dollars, natural you’d never know. Chap here, wealthy Chin, spends $325 or $345 monthly maintainin his hair-piece. You think i'm making it up right? Hair-piece? What hair-piece? i challenged Gabby. What? Ricky?... Vain left-field boy playing for the other side, they suffer worse. But you've done the math unaided: near four big ones per annum. Skin, sculpting, tucks, dental, manicures you can only guess. Derryn and the other glossy dudes lovin the camera, it's big real big. Tone i reckon resisted; eventually backroom boys convinced him otherwise. That sharp-eye lass he had backstage. I asked you ages ago you never answered. Probably did it progressively, like aging grey by reverse osmosis, attuning the punters, the electorate, in the run-up before last maybe. Bill might touch up delicately, with Quentin's daughter on his arm the old Joe would need to do somethun wouldn't he? One a the things i like about Mal: Double Bay trims weekly do him, no colour, thanks all the same. Choppers first grade you mighta noticed, excellent row, you don't get them holding up into yr mid 60s, as you well know, no matter what wagyu & sirloin yr chomping. Too right about history of postals of course. And now only the busy shopkeepers & jetabouts popping into the electoral office after banking the day's takings. Bloody nuisance, but responsib. canna be shirked, they might be asked somethun at a dinner table.

Waiting Under Cover

Ni would be awaited under the covers. The stage set needed darkness, for which the window curtains were too narrow. Nights these two and a half or three months at Doreen’s one had made-do with only the windows nearer the bed covered. This morning for what was in mind a few of the plastic laundry clips would be employed to stretch the curtains right the way across and perhaps some added fabric sought. Eight o'clock morning sun on the eastern side of the block usually flooded the room–not what was required on the morrow. Usually Ni was received in the old tropical pink sarong an old girlfriend had brought back from Polynesia a number of decades previously. It was time for a change. A change was as good as a holiday. Disruption, surprise, ambush was important for what one wanted drawn from Ni. The young woman would be forced to follow another script and improvise, screen test unannounced. Ni's precious erotic reactions. Usually the toying took the form of withholding the sexual union, the coition for which Ni had been primed with some extended preliminaries. All this was good and well as far as it went; the purpose had been served. Now it was time for a change, a holiday. The rather poorly masked sexual hunger was one problem. More importantly the long established set piece of the sarong, often the hard-on, clutching, brief resistance from the gal, needed refreshing. It was like a tired room, or sofa was it an interior designer was employed to enliven. Give a little spurt to proceedings, introduce some tension, throw in a stretch of quicksand and storm. Usually, like one or two other Indo lovers over the stretch, Ni wanted to promptly remove her jeans or skirt, and then her blouse or tee, all rather perfunctorily early in the piece. There was concern about crumpling of course, getting back home on the train and passing muster. It was the same with panties, where it was more like soiling that was the problem. Usually Ni would be prevented, strong-armed indeed from removing the panties. Jeans could be peeled off, it was no fun rubbing against the hard fabric of denim; the top was a lesser concern. But in either case what was disallowed was the orderly disrobing like an office girl preparing for bed and thinking of the morning. Fuck that to be blunt. On the morrow now however precisely this was going to be allowed, in fact encouraged. First contact on the morrow was going to be under the covers with many millimeters, in fact the whole entire of naked flesh in immediate contact first off. Bang, like in a forest glade in Tarzan’s day. Door to the flat left open–there would be no hotel on the morrow, Doreen would have to cope if she happened home and Ni the same. Usually Ni messaged on leaving her condo and nothing thereafter. At the door when there was no-one to greet her she would be tentative, but proceed. Bedroom door closed Ni sheepishly approaches, opens. Right from the outset uncertainty and tip-toeing: Ni would not know whether her lover was in the kitchen, or the bathroom perhaps. She would look around the corner to scan the former. Whether the landlady was home would be an unknown too, no need spoil the fun. In the days prior Ni had been warned the old Chinese auntie must be respected, no loud moaning or Fuck me Pee! pleas. (The whole show did depend on Doreen in fact being absent at least in the morning, going off to work early. The week before she had departed early every morning. If she was at home it would be difficult bringing the thing off.) So, door slowly opened. Seeing her lover in bed in the darkened room Ni would enter and close the door behind her. Pee. Why you not...? She could not say exactly what. Why what not Ni?... Why you...? Bedcover up high and aircon the same. Ni would be hot from the walk over from the station. Sakit Ni. Come to bed.... There had been no mention of sickness the night before, another surprise; it would explain the lack of reception. If Ni had brought lunch she would want to settle that first, perhaps use the fridge. Was auntie home would be a question; she had expected so. Come to bed Ni. No.... Well.... Little alternative left her. And she did want to join in that bed after all after a long month of absence. What was the out-of-sorts? Ni would disrobe, folding her clothes neatly. (A chair or desk space as usual vacated in advance, Ni would immediately find for herself.) Well then, you had her where she was wanted now. The disrobing would not be observed, it had always been inconsequential. Disrobing had never really been of any interest, void of any sexual charge. Men were supposed to delight in it were they? Counter-case. The disrobing would not be observed, turned away, either toward the wall or under cover. Joined then, skin on skin first contact top-to-toe, Ni's enquiries might be answered. Not immediately, but not necessarily prolonged delay. The other would be prolonged as usual, in this new manner now. Sakit. Itchy.... Gatal: itchy was their “horny.” As in “I’m itching for it!” It had taken the best part of five years to twig. Not the kind of useage you found in the dictionary. In her throes Ni had often used the English “itchy”, Oh she was itchy, itchy Pee. She had never used the bahasa. The matter was understood well enough, but not properly comprehended in fact. The teasing, the withholding worked a treat with Ni. Yet the woman had never used the original term that she was in fact translating. Gatal was itchy: gatal poor thing, in serious need of scratching. The rice padi, the heat, the volcano steaming and rats scurrying in the darkness were strongly evoked.

Election Night (Aust) July2016

So what, Derryn's in on a platform of castrating sexual offenders, child molesters and pedophiles in particular? A new talk show on TV, "Good evening, I'm Derryn Hinch...." Still attached to the beard is he? Impossible to remove the trademark now, fella wouldn’t know himself, and then his fans?... Question, after five years in this sleek brush-back school of S-E Asia: is the Human Headline dyeing? Straight answer, Y or N? (Into his seventies now, come on! Googling the evidence is mixed. What’s the current?) Has he married a former TV starlet? Ida's too old, Nonie Hazelhurst maybe in the running, or is she too old too, I'm outta touch of course. Nicole too young, up here she'd be perfect for the part, excellent. One of the real surprises tonight was finally seeing frumpy little creased Shorty's support. Quentin written all over her: bones, eyes, proportions. In the hills of Montenegro they'd say he's over-reached himself Bill. It did strike some while back this pair of wise-guy marriages, Mal & Bill. Not suggesting anything untoward, the usual time immemorial dynastic dance. On that score you'd have to give Tone a tick, none of that malarkey in his case. Pauline. North Queensland again—8-9% of backcountry folk can get the silly old bag elected to the Fed. Parliament? Belting the Mussies now i guess. On the positive side Howard's friend Nikolic gone. Couple seats on some choice boards till the next tilt; they can always make room for military brass with pol. connections. Really don't wanna come back. Not even for a visit truth be told. Saw something in the news items about dogs in polling booths was it? and democratic partying and sausages. Give up these Ramadan pageants here for that? The cabbie at the table tonight, Jaf'aar's younger bro, forget his name, was nodding off. The cough syrup the Polyclinic prescribed he reckons (told him to chuck it and turn off the overnight aircon sure enough he uses). Fella told of his iftar meal over at the mosque around the corner. Four chaps around a large plate? he was asked. That's right, he answered. Every night for a month for those who wanna partake, free of course. Can you magine? Can you just paint the picture for yerself? Fifty plates like 750mm diameter, foursome surrounding sitting cross-legged on the tiling, bare-footed breaking bread, cupping the tea laid on. It was Syed the hipster Hadrami, from the Yemen, who first rhapsodized about the Ramadan feasts. Every year he looked forward to them. Junkie with a record, broken nose, jobless, having a secure welcome place at the board. Imagine. Not easy from down where yr looking. You want a sausage at a sizzle in place of that, coldie to go with it make you happy you reckon? Lads flicking between the footy and the results of that other game in town, the other entertainment, our precious democracy and way of life. I'm staying where I am ta very much, you can have it, sorry. Should add too they are big EPL fans here, the ManU Corp. captured them, Chelsea and City; in the recent season they all got onto Leicester of course. The Euro Cup would ordinarily have them salivating over their teas and Milos at the Al Wadi tables, rocking on, especially when they were off the leash through the night in Ramadan. But, know what? During Ramadan there can be permitted no distraction—dead TVs throughout. Stiff. Too bad, one old fan commented the other night. Can you imagine a blackout down there, electioneering blackout yeah, but cricket or the footy?

Attitudes of Collapse

The three loners at the Haig remain. While the old man can afford batteries for his transistor he endures. Being thrifty the chap runs them down to a whisper, so his hearing must be OK. Evenings he catches the breeze on the void beneath Block 7, where the thinnest volume is boosted. Newspapers some nights in that pallid light means eyes not bad either. When he is overtaken by sleep the man invariably slumps slightly to one side. Smiles, waves and cheerios without fail; an umbrella against the sun. (The drought goes on here. Doreen took a mid-afternoon shower today in an effort to cool off..) The tall Indian-Malay sometimes caught in the corner of the children's playground late night on one of the seats continues as before. An occasional red bull, an occasional chat here and there with acquaintances and sometimes a sit at one of the tables. Not entirely bereft; one never finds this chap sleeping out. The third on the fringe of the exercise yard was hanging his head low this afternoon. With one foot up on a knee, still the head bowed down so far. Dor knows nothing of the case. Like everyone else she knows the figure in his corner, his habits and routines; but Doreen knows nothing of family, where he sleeps, where he gets his money for his Anchors. Chap was capable of speech. Three or four times he had stopped on his bicycle to exchange greetings, never expressly asking for coin. Coin comes to him completely unbidden from more than one source no doubt, regardless of the drink; even from the Muslims no doubt. To date the man has not called out at any of the slinking past or skirting of his iron bench.

Celebration Nigh

Malls full throughout, people leaning along the walls of the corridors soaking up the freeze. The rich coffee tones of the carters at the street stalls had deepened some more, t-shirt competitions galore. Era's Batam pal, little stunted barrel flashing a smile in passing thought he wouldn't be recognized. In the handshake that followed when he was pulled up a suggestion of a deformed pinkie. Possibly just the bird-nest scale of bones. Chap had got himself the full month's work; Era went back after ten days, only able to scrounge hours here and there at something out at Tampines. Nene-grandma on a four-pronged walker with deep pockets in her dress. Woman has noticeably aged and slowed in these five years. A coin at one table, two dollars at another gran's table 7 or 8 years her junior. One of the younger mums in front came to chase her down with an offering; the oldie did not linger long with her hand out. A maid she looked with her two teen charges and kong-kong at table waved her on. For the mat salleh pointed avoidance, giving the chair a wide berth and walking on without slightest pause. The tee with the full Arabic alphabet from the Islamic Museum at KL prompted her not a jot. (Before other eyes that item could be a show-stopper and one half.) Earlier the Haig Loner was given a one and a couple of minutes earlier there at the market the Hindu lad selling the socks, belts and wallets another. This time for some reason lad had come out on an eleven day visa, raising suspicions at the immigration desk no doubt. A couple of sympathetic parties for the "Solo Aid" call-out. Some kind of better Hari Raya / Lebaran will be in-store for them in central Java.