The PR Blog

Her rags to riches story is tied inextricably to politics. She loved to be close to power; the more she had of it herself, the more she felt entitled to another dose of it. She craved attention and adoration so much that she once admitted, “My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.”

She demagogued her way to a cult following among those who depended on the favors she dispensed and stepped on anyone who stood in her way. A law which obstructed her ambitions was, in her view, a law to be bent or broken. Any fair assessment of her must note that she delivered numerous vapid harangues and gave away lots of other people’s money, but she never invented, created or built anything.

No, I’m not talking about Hillary Clinton. The woman I have in mind, however, was sort of the Hillary Clinton of Argentina. Her name was Eva Perón, known affectionately by admirers as “Evita.” She is not yet forgotten, a sad fact that requires a refresher on just who she was and what she stood for.

Our family has a long history of a practice known as  " pissing in your pocket. "  Before you get all in a tizz, it is not what it seems. It ultimately means to deliver praise in a rather over-the-top manner. 

First things first, no, we Aussies aren't advocating for peculiar methods of personal irrigation. Instead, this idiom is all about telling someone how bloody marvellous they are and praising them for a job well done.

If someone says that you are pissing their pocket, it means that you are exaggerating, but it is well received. 

Our family actually and actively piss in each other's pockets as a form of compliment and praise. In fact, up until recent years, pissing in each other's pockets was widely practiced by most Australian families. It is to compliment and praise on steroids. 

Warning: Reading this could ruin your life!

I first noticed the bastardisation of English diction on Mark Scott’s ABC Radio National a few years ago. Never imagining anything could be more annoying than Aunty’s extreme Left bias—a condition they deny, but worse there is, much worse. Akin, perhaps, to the Black Plague which spread by the hour, consigning the innocent to squalid gutters, and so to should follow all practitioners of the infuriating fad called vocal fry. And to think that taxpayers’ have funded this dreadful croaking noise that occurs on the last word of a sentence and most ABC presenters have deliberately absorbed this hideous affectation.

Most believe this nonsense started in the US by glamorous airheads like the Kardashians and other idolisers of foolish fashion. Anything to be different these days, no matter how damned ridiculous it may be. Glottal fry has been mutating in the porridge-brained trendoids for a few years now. Most people don’t notice it right away and if they do it is passed off as an unfortunate speech impediment worthy of sympathy, as would be a foot growing from your ear. But such nonsense should not be passed off with indifference; it’s a bloody annoying abomination of the voice. It makes me, a normally passive sort of bloke eager to commit evil upon the cretin in practice.

The world's rich and famous, plus an army of publicists, hangers-on and mendicants, are attending the COP28 meeting in Dubai, the ostentatious 7-star play-ground capital of United Arab Emirates where even the police drive luxury sports cars.

We peasant classes sitting at home note that climate royalty, including King Charles from UK, John Kerry from USA and Blackouts Bowen from Australia, are all flying there burning vast amounts of carbon fuels. Fittingly, these hypocrites chose to meet in the richest and most wasteful artificial city in the world wallowing in wealth derived from oil, gas and air-travel tourists.

I recently watched the Netflix Mini series " The Railway Men. " What a great tribute to the Railway employee who saved thousands of lives during the Bhopal Gas Tragedy. 

The incident, one of the most devastating industrial disasters in history, occurred on the night of December 2-3, 1984, in the city of Bhopal, India. The incident not only left an indelible mark on the affected community but also raised critical questions about industrial safety, corporate responsibility, and the environmental impact of chemical disasters.

The catastrophe unfolded at the Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL) pesticide plant when a lethal gas, methyl isocyanate (MIC), leaked into the atmosphere. The gas quickly spread across the densely populated city, affecting thousands of residents while they slept. The immediate and severe health effects included respiratory problems, blindness, and various other life-threatening complications.

They Marched in Silence and Their Voices Weren't Heard.

It was a cold October morning in England's north. Their goal? To walk to London, over 300 miles ( about 500km ) from their dying home in Jarrow. It was not a journey for the faint of heart or the meek of mind. It was a march for their right to work. Their right to feed their families.  Thousands volunteered, but only 200 were chosen.  Their job? To represent the people to the government that apparently represented them. 

The British government had decided to close the shipyard and steelworks. 

It was the act of defiant men in great need.  

How many men today would march for the RIGHT to work? Or are they too busy gluing themselves to the road for climate change?