I don’t mean to offer any wild or unfounded generalisations here, but absolutely everything leftists get their ruinous, destructive hands on eventually degenerates into a raging hell-swamp of idiocy and incompetence.
Unfair? Let’s run through the list:
Weather. In more sensible times, an oddly hot or unusually chilly day might have been the subject of a passing conversation with a neighbour. “Bit warm today,” you’d say, or “Cold one last night”. Now weather is political. Any temperature anomalies are presented as a reason to ban coal and tax air.
Sport. Formerly a means of escape from politics, sport in Australia is now drenched in leftist awareness-raising and social justice fussbudget nonsense. Tip: if the word “inclusive” is ever used by any administrator or senior figure in the sport of your choice, immediately abandon that sport. It is doomed.
The Liberal Party. It’s a living example of my friend John O’Sullivan’s celebrated law: “All organisations that are not actually right-wing will over time become left-wing.” Remarkably, this process is now so complete within the Liberals that Malcolm Turnbull isn’t even the most left-leaning among them.
Electricity. By rights, Australians should pay next to nothing for electricity. We have all the resources needed to generate reliable power at almost negligible cost. So why are ordinary households copping four-figure power bills? Because meddlesome renewables-addled leftists demand it be so.
The list continues: social media, the ABC, Australian comedy, Australian films, Australian music, Australian books … all previously worthwhile, now reduced to common leftist puke bins. And now leftie invaders are attempting to take over one of our most valuable volunteer organisations, the rightly revered Country Women’s Association.
“The Country Women’s Association is now under siege from city-based insurgents trying to force a swing to the left — starting with gender politics,” The Daily Telegraph reported last week.
“Progressives who have joined the CWA have put forward several radical motions at the organisation’s annual state conference, including a push to make gender-neutral uniforms ‘mandatory’ in public schools across NSW.”
This push is led by the CWA’s Sydney branch, which is loaded with students and yuppies who have little direct connection to the land. The CWA’s urban branches were originally established as support bases for country women who’d moved to the big smoke. Now, however, they’ve become strategic launching pads for the same leftist agendas common to any number of city-centric pressure groups.
Last week the city wing of the CWA tried to change the organisation’s constitution, which cleverly reserves CWA presidential nominations for women who are “living or have lived in rural or regional areas”.
That’s how ambitious are these city sisters. They don’t want to merely be active within the CWA. They want to run it — into the ground, most likely.
Should this push succeed, it would completely marginalise some of Australia’s most resourceful women. Anyone familiar with rural Australia knows that women run that show. Only a fool would dare challenge a country matriarch’s authority. I’ve seen it happen once or twice in my own farming family, and it always ends in total masculine defeat.
An uncle, for example, once impulsively bought an old Rolls-Royce. Most of the family men shrugged this off as an eccentric aberration from someone usually known for his financial caution, but the women were outraged.
My wayward uncle, you see, had committed the worst possible country violation. He’d bought that car without his wife’s permission. Needless to say, a certain vehicle was soon on the market. Some of us never even got to see it.
To safeguard the CWA and to preserve the contributions of these brilliant women, I’d propose a constitutional amendment. Rather than abolishing city branches, which given their long standing would be exceedingly difficult, perhaps the CWA could simply apply a test for all prospective members — The Aunty Moira Yabby Test.
A few years ago I dropped in on Moira, then in her 70s and living in the remote Victorian farmhouse built by my grandfather. Unloading the car, I gestured to the front of the property and idly asked if there were any yabbies in the main dam.
“Let’s find out!” Moira answered, and before I’d even set foot in the house she’d retrieved some rabbits from the freezer and begun chopping them up for bait.
Within a few minutes we had seven or so lines in the dam. Within an hour we’d caught a few dozen fat yabbies. Another couple of hours later, they’d been cleaned, boiled, shelled and we were eating them on the porch. There’s your test, city ladies. If you can scare up a yabby feast from scratch, with absolutely zero notice, you’re in.
Feel free to pursue whatever sustainable and inclusive leftist fantasies you desire, but get those yabbies on a plate first.
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