Now Where Was I? Saving The Premier's Life.

Ah yes, there you are. I was wondering where you'd gone. Sit down and let's have a chat.
Fuck me if that doesn't sound like an invitation for a career change, not of your own volition.
It happened to one of the casuals here and it was a dark, dark time. He was a young bloke but probably the best in my team. The problem was he was only a casual employee and all casuals were given the arse. We ended up having quite a few emotional farewell drinks that Friday down at Bar Luca. I hadn't been there since Lerm dropped in for a couple back in April and it turned out to have a couple of moments. One of which was when Nathan Rees, the Premier of New South Wales, walked in and started having a couple of beers with his hangers on. Fair dinkum, these blokes are wimps. The footy was on and they had their backs turned, blocking other people's view of the plasma screens. Tossers. My bloke who'd been sacked that week was all for launching himself across the tables and punching on with the Premier. We were a few sheets to the wind at this stage and the young bloke (built like a brick shit house), was getting a bit emotional about his situation. It was angry emotional and not looking like a happy outcome. Probably very unhappy when you consider that people like Premiers usually have Hard Men waiting in the wings, keen to display their hardness when it comes to pissed young blokes wanting to land a few blows on the Premier's noggin. Mind you, all I saw was a couple of slimy little politicians who looked like they'd to water as soon as someone bunched a fist. Not like the old school Labor Party rough nuts who made it through pre-selection by beating ten shades of shite out of all comers during faction fund-raiser nights in the back bar of the Trades Hall. You know, those front line guys who bussed up to Brisbane to take on Bjelke Petersen's storm troopers when that old cunt was busily breaking up gatherings of more than two people through the use of nightsticks, dogs and rugby league front rowers. They'd jump off the bus, start swinging until they were overwhelmed by a hundred baton-wielding cops, spend the night in the lock-up getting beaten up again and then go down the pub the next night saying how much they enjoyed the whole experience. Mad buggers, but tough as nails.

Anyway we managed to calm the young bloke down and after some hearts to heart and profound advice (like go overseas and check out the girls, the drinks and the culcha), he managed to leave in a semi-positive if still slightly aggressive mood. Subsequent checks with the police show no evidence of him getting into strife.

There's a few blogs which I still can't pollute with my comments and that's pretty fucked in itself. Blogs belonging to people like Moko, Lerm, NatV, Flinthart, Bedes' Magic Tipping Comp, Rhino, YankeeDog, etc. are for some reason reacting like a fucking swine flu nazi quarantine person whenever I look like sprouting bullshit in their direction. Its not the fault of those good folks, must be some sort of corporate ninja block down here at the bureau. And its pissing me right off. I haven't gone all Havock yet but its getting close, I can hear the roar of that tsunami of feralocity rising in my mind like one of those ripping king tides which used to clean the eastern seaboard beaches of durry ends, beer cans and empty vaseline jars some time around New Years'. Ah, stuff it. Rant over. By jingies I must admit I feel better for it. I'll feel a lot better when I venture forth for a few sharpies in a short while.

Oh yeah, I'm still working up the next instalment of Ratsacking in Europe or whatever it is I've been posting. I need to consult my diary on a few minor points, like where, when and with whom.