Tag Archives: Alan Jones

The Apology, conclusion

At last we reach the end: it was a 43 minute press conference (click here for video) and a 23 stanza, 184 line poem (click for part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4).

He ends with some denials. ‘I’ve never ever
called a person bitch. It’s not my lingo
(I just read out letters). And I’ve never
likewise called her liar. It’s a thing, though,
the way she promises no tax forever,
she says East Timor, then Malaysia. Ringo
changed his tune less often. Fuel watch!
Liar’s an awful word, but she’s a botch.

‘I didn’t say that women are destroying
the joint – I know it’s on the tape like that,
but I meant just some women. It’s annoying:
I defend them, fund them, I go in to bat
for women ‘cos they don’t waste time enjoying
red wine and cigars at lunch. My hat
is tipped to tough ones who excel in arts.
I don’t despise their gender, just some parts.

‘I’m here to face the music, clear the air
in person, not on paper. Them that flogs
their products on my show will see I’m fair.
I thank you all for coming. Go the Dogs!’

Go, not so little poem, to Lord knows where,
but first to readers’ eyes by way of blogs.
It’s Jones who speaks in almost every line:
The words that do not please are surely mine.

Finis!

The Apology, part 4

Nearing the end of my versification of Alan Jones’s ‘apology’ press conference. Click here for Part 1 and here for Mr Jones’s press conference, from which – believe it or not – a lot of this is taken verbatim:

‘Put Julia in a chaff bag – yes, it’s true
I said that. I said, Drop her out at sea.
But not to drown out there in the big blue.
No! See if she’d swim home! Analogy!
And metaphor! That’s what my dad would do
with damaged goods out in the bush, you see.
I bought the chaffbag jacket at the bash.
Those poor beleaguered people need the cash.

‘If I must be belted up, well here I am,
off my own bat. (I don’t know how this chap
got in there – he’s a liar and a sham.)
It’s like Gallipoli, we face the shrap-
nel from Turk Gillard. It’s like Vietnam:
dark humour as we hear death’s dark wings flap.
No joke, that phrase that I, naive, repeated:
Our backs are to the door. And now it’s sheeted

‘home to me. But think of Kevin Rudd.
Like him or not, he was Prime Minister,
and his own party trashed him as a dud.
This bit’s best left unsaid, but it’s so sinister:
Holy Nelly, the ALP slings mud
and don’t apologise. This one’s a mini-stir.
I spoke unwisely. Now they’re hurling stones
and tweeting flak to silence Alan Jones.

Are we sure the tape wasn’t faked by them?
Did I say this awful thing? Or am I clean?
Julia said her problems as PM
weighed heavy on her dad. What did she mean?
I do not say aloud, at least pro tem,
that she meant he felt shame. I know she’s been
shown up as a liar many times.
A good dad would feel bad about such crimes.’

Dear patient reader, not much more to go.
He meant no harm. He likes her and her dad.
It was no joke, but echoed people’s woe.
He don’t remember making such a bad
remark. He made it at a private show
and was recorded by a total cad
who may have faked it. It was mostly true.
Others have done worse. He’s true blue.

Tune in again in a couple of days for the thrilling conclusion – surely. The Press conference went for 43 minutes. I should be able to bring it home in under 23 stanzas. The bits that made me start out on this enterprise are yet to come: ‘I didn’t say women are destroying the joint,’ ‘I didn’t call her a liar, and ‘I’ve never called anyone a bitch ever.’

The Apology, part 3

Continuing my exercise in versification (click here for Part 1 and here for Mr Jones’s press conference, from which a lot of this is taken verbatim):

‘It’s incumbent on me now to make a call.
I rang The Lodge and there was no one there.
I’d speak to her: A father’s death’s no small
loss, no tiny cross for her to bear.
She is a human being after all.
Her migrant parents gave more than their share.
I’ll more than happily praise her father’s name,
but don’t say I’ll deny he died of shame.

‘That speech last week would have been better made
without the phrase attributed to me.
It was no joke. It grew from the first grade
frustration felt out there, black parody
responding to the way she has betrayed
us all. It was a wail at arvo tea.
I don’t dislike her: we swapped birthday greetings.
I just pass on the spleen from barbie meetings.

‘There’s no excuse in hindsight. Here’s the context.
This was a Sydney Uni private dinner,’
[The invite called it public – what the hecks!]
‘a rollicking affair, we all were in a
mood take the mickey, throw off checks
and balances. But still, I’m no beginner.
That shouldn’t have been repeated but it was
by me and some sneak journo from the Oz

‘or Tele who was taping the whole do.
I’d say to her I understand her grief
and hope I haven’t added to it. Who
would wish that on her? There is no relief
from my remorse but I’ll say one or two
more things. Some tweeters had a beef
with me and said they hoped my prostate cancer
would return and kill me. Now, my answer

‘is, I’m fair game so why not Julia Gillard?
You won’t hear me complain, you’ve got to cop it.
I don’t condone my comment, but it’s still hard
that I get singled out. You’d all say, Hop it!
if I said, Lay off Abbott. There’s a shrill guard
round the PM, oh the poor wee moppet.
No joke to say her father died of shame.
That’s no excuse for saying it, all the same.

‘I’ll tell you now of anger that’s deep-seated.
The carbon tax! The mining tax! She lied
about the Socialistic Forum. I get heated
about an anguished mother whose son died
because of Gillard’s batts. She’s lied and cheated.
Australian Workers Union? Watch her hide!
I’m personal. You must front and say sorry.
Simple as that. You have to. Don’t you worry.

I’m up to page four of the 11 page transcript, which this follows closely, though the transcript does start repeating itself around about now, so I may be more than half way through this opus. To be continued.

The Apology, part 2

Continuing my exercise in versification (click here for Part 1):

Guest speaker at a Young Libs’ dinner bash
he called on them to rally round their leader
because the enemy, ‘this woman’, could still smash
their hopes at next election. So he kneed her
hard, ‘She lies, she lies!’ He grew more rash
and said her old man died of shame. But, reader,
one diner was recording every word:
that phrase went public. Hornets’ nests were stirred:

a Murdoch headline, no deniability,
a facebook regiment of joint destroyers,
a dot org that’s fed up with his scurrility,
a Twitter tag a weapon to deploy as
sharp as knives: Vulnerability,
thy name is Jones. He can’t enjoy his
private vitriol put out to air.
He knows he must apologise – fair’s fair!

And so it goes. He mounts the podium.
‘Some days,’ he says, ‘you must man up and say
you got it wrong. I’ll face your odium.
I shouldn’t have repeated it, OK?
I loved my dad and’ (take a pinch of sodium
with chloride now) ‘I didn’t mean – no way –
to dilute a daughter’s grief, not even hers.
You should eat crow while hot. The gorge stirs:

‘It should not have been repeated. I, through you,
apologise: it was said, it’s unacceptable.’
[So hard to say! He could have said, ‘Screw you!
I made a nasty joke and some contemptible
muckraker made it public. Tell true, you
pious mob, who hasn’t been susceptible
to such a thing? I said he died of shame.
I’m not the first, but I cop all the blame.’]

To be continued as time and the need to do socially useful things allows.

Coffee substitute

I often hear people say they don’t function well before the first coffee of the day. I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve just discovered, far too late in life, that if I dabble in doggerel when I first sit down at my desk in the morning, I can tackle whatever else is on the agenda in much better spirits and possibly with more of my mind on deck. The last couple of mornings I’ve been playing with telling a story, provisionally called ‘The Apology’, in ottava rima. I’ll probably keep going with this, but since I’ve been falling behind in my blogging, here’s what I’ve got so far:

I sing of Alan perched behind his mike
who speaks for those who listen by the phone
and feel they’re powerless, know what they don’t like
and come to him with hope that he’ll atone
for what they’ve suffered, stopper up the dyke
of what assails them, be their megaphone.
Oh, he obliges, takes their bitter cries
and amplifies truths, misperceptions, lies.

Pink with righteous anger he declaims
that those in power mostly get it wrong
(except of course his friends and those whose names
he’s paid to praise, but that’s a different song).
He fearlessly attacks, he mauls, he maims,
wreaks bloody vengeance for his listening throng.
I speak, of course, in violent metaphor.
He’s not a man to wade in literal gore.

He helps the sick, and pleads the poor man’s case,
has thirty godsons, backs a worthy cause
or two, and then stirs up his talkback base
to hate not policies but people, pause
for news and ads (that’s dollars he must chase)
then on to Greens and Gillard, clenching jaws,
women who destroy the joint. He goes:
‘Jew-liar’, ‘climate science is on the nose’ …

He urges louts to take Cronulla back
from vermin who infest its virgin sands
but when the flag-draped rioters attack
with baseball bats, he’s quick to wash his hands.
‘The PM should be dropped at sea!’ – a crack
he gleefully repeats. Thank God no bands
of bagmen do his bidding. Then one night
he goes too far and lands up in the shite.

#destroythejoint

Just in case you haven’t been following the fabulous response to Alan Jones’s colourful pronouncement that women are destroying the joint, I recommend you have a look at the Twitter hashtags #destroythejoint and #destroyingthejoint. Oh how much better exuberant sarcasm and just plain fun and celebration is than outraged defensiveness!

There’s a great photo gallery at Daily Life. I particularly like the images of Marie Bashir, Eva Cox and Penny Wong.