Chapter 7: The Lang Hancock Appreciation Society
If only Centuries, delayed,
I’d count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s Land.
If certain, when this life was out—
That yours and mine, should be—
I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—
Emily Dickinson
Which Western country is the most insufferably woke? It’s a photo finish between two. The first is, obviously, Ireland. The very day it found its own identity, shitlibs from Silicon Valley rocked up and decided to base the European operations of their respective tech pathologies in Dublin - taking advantage of generous tax policies that, according to U2’s Bono, have been responsible for the “only prosperity they’ve ever known.” This, coupled with a culture of lingering hangover of victimhood (remember the signs outside English pubs? “No blacks, dogs or Irish”) created fertile grounds for the epic wankery we see on the Emerald Isle today, from the armies of pronoun-ed salespeople loitering in your inbox, to the IRA’s political wing Sinn Fein lobbying for transgender men to participate in women’s sports - to the behavior of its polyamorous Taoiseach (he is reported to have French-kissed 6 different men in 4 different nightclubs during 1 night out).
The second, tragically, is Australia.
*
I landed in a scorchingly hot Perth in February 2013. A ginger Australian customs official asked me my flight number, then pointed toward what they probably describe, in the manner of an occupational joke, as “the African line” - the thorough examination of the bags and the person, just shy of a body cavity frisk - the kind of thing you see happen to (mainly) poor Filipinos on those Border Security television programs. The little diversion increased an existing dread; I was going to meet someone in Melbourne suffering rapid onset social justice dementia, and will probably one day lead the Green Party there.
My friend drove me straight from the airport to the house of sometime Zimbabwean opposition leader Morgan Tsvangiri’s daughter in the suburb of Peppermint Grove, rumored to have been purchased with some of the alleged $25m Robert Mugabe gave Morgan to shut up after the contentious elections of 2008. “I know some of your kind that live here now, and they miss black people, so they go and drive past the liquor stores where the Aboriginals hang out,” my friend explained, “thought about introducing them to my Aboriginal friend Reggie Grainger but he’s only sober until about 11am.”
The conversation reminded me of some facts about the relationship between South Africa and Australia. Then, at least 200,000 white South Africans called Australia home. They liked Sydney the most, then Perth, followed by Brisbane and Melbourne - no ANC, no historic romance between political parties, and certainly no violent slaughter of farmers or suburban terror. In Sydney, wealthy South Africans, many of them wise Jews who gapped the country pre-1994, made even more money, and with that money purchased boats to mess around the harbor and surrounds in. Locally, these people are known as “boating fucking people” (“boat people” is an entirely different group in the Australian context).
That evening we changed into our dinner jackets. My friend had specifically asked me to break the back of the journey to Melbourne as he wanted me to attend, as the guest of a member, a gathering at a members club in Perth that occurred twice annually. It was known as “The Lang Hancock Appreciation Society”.
As the New Yorker magazine once described him, Lang Hancock was one hell of a piece of work. A bush pilot, he was forced to avoid clouds one day by flying near the gorges of the remote Pilbara region where he noticed the rusted colors of the rocks, indicating the presence of oxidized iron. When explored, the find revealed one of the largest deposits of iron ore in the world, so Lang became the Australian equivalent of a Texan leaving his house in the morning with a hammer, then returning home covered in the black stuff - before getting on the phone to order a gold-plated Cadillac.
Lang’s success - and he became fabulously wealthy - was only overshadowed by the things he said and the way he behaved. He had a series of liaisons with Aboriginal women employed as cooks or helpers at his prospecting locations. In South African and Rhodesian quarters, this activity is known as “mud-hutting”: one of Lang’s mud-hutting encounters resulted in the birth of a child who would come forward in 2002 to challenge his will. His legacy endures by way of his bubbly daughter, Gina Rinehart, once the richest woman in Australia (and the world), who has inherited his ability to speak her mind in defiance of Sutenbastud’s imposed boundaries.
The convenor of The Lang Hancock Appreciation Society was just as messy. His name was Cedric Parsons. Like Lang, Cedric made hundreds of millions of dollars in mining but with the cash came a decline in his temperament and mental wellbeing. He was institutionalized for a while and diagnosed with schizophrenia. During one of his many terms, he composed an elaborate schematic of a spacecraft that he traced from a NASA information book on the hospital’s library shelf, complete with 47 rows featuring individual seats evenly measured. One evening, he escaped from the asylum with his drawing tucked under his arm and took it to his local bar, where he approached his friends intending to establish the spaceship’s maiden flight manifest - with a discount for on-the-spot payments. The building of the craft, he boasted to his terrified friends, was nearly complete. “Maurice, obviously I like you so I was planning to give you 23F - window - for $500.00”; “No Wesley, you’re a cunt, you’re not coming.” It was said that he walked back to the asylum with over $3000.00 in cash.
A stroke felled Cedric in his late 50s. He had been forced to give up drinking three years prior and the general feeling was that his body couldn’t live with the insult. So he lost the use of both legs and his left arm - and from then on found himself more horizontal than vertical in a state-of-the-art rocket wheelchair that was accompanied by male Indonesian nurses who rarely lasted more than a month. Most of the time his voice was just a continuous moan that struggled to articulate words but occasionally he managed to string a sentence together. A smartphone with a dicky battery, my friend told me, but you never knew. Sometimes he was okay.
Cedric had known Lang well and regarded him as the only candidate he would ever support for Prime Minister of Australia. He had agreed with Lang’s position that Western Australia secede from the rest of the country, leaving bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs in Sydney and Melbourne without the wealth generated by the mining West. When Lang died, Cedric established the society in his honor, invited his own friends - some of whom had nothing to do with mining - then threatened them and their families if they declined. The stroke did not affect the routines of the society; membership continued out of fear. My friend was dreading the evening, and I suspected everyone else was too.
We arrived at the club, a handsome Victorian building surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns overlooking the Swan River. We congregated at the reception and there I met Cedric for the first time. He resembled a much bigger, football-hooligan version of Stephen Hawking with a full head of salt and pepper hair and an almighty scowl. He sat awkwardly in his mobile chair wearing a velvet jacket with a bowtie on skew. I introduced myself, careful not to extend a hand (I had been warned): “Waaarrrrggggghhhhhhhh”, he said, and then grunted a few more times.
A group of younger men were busy signing in before us at the desk, some of whom had crew cuts. All seemed to be dressed in tighter suits than you would ordinarily encounter in a gentleman’s clubs, but this was 2013, and the slim tie - the “slim Jim” - especially popular with Britain’s Prime Minister Rishi Sunak for reasons related to his diminutive stature - was enjoying a revival. One of the group, possibly of Greek extraction (I thought at the time) was laughing loudly, clapping his hands and whistling. After they’d signed in it was our turn, and one of our group, a nice man who had earlier introduced himself to me as Eric, spoke to the host behind the desk before we were told to go upstairs.
The long room featured an extended bar with black and white portraits of the Australian sport and framed jockey jerseys hanging on the walls. The counter ran the entire width of the room - at the other end were the younger group who’d also come upstairs. Cedric emerged from the lift and drove right past me, over someone else’s foot, before stopping and wheeling the rocket around, using his right palm to maneuver the stick on the control panel. A round of drinks were ordered and I started talking to Eric.
Half an hour passed before I heard Cedric grunt loudly. I turned around to discover that he’d positioned his rocket 180 degrees to face the young group at the other end of the bar. He was trying to say something. “Ebcun”, he droned, before shaking his head. His lips wobbled and a trail of saliva slipped out the paralyzed half of his mouth. His duty nurse gingerly wiped his face but was interrupted by another grunt:“EB CUNaaaaaarrrrgggh!” Some of our group turned to him and my friend walked over. “What’s that Cedric? You okay there mate?” “Wa…wa…aaaaarrrrggggghhhh!”
Everyone was now a little uncomfortable. Eric looked at his watch and my friend whispered over me to him: “Careful mate, remember last time Darren did that. Only an hour or so more.” Cedric was still facing the group and once again moaned: “EBCUN!!” This was louder, and so caught the attention of the other group at the bar. “Mate,” my friend grabbed me, “can’t you just go and see what’s wrong with him? Sometimes if you whisper calmly he responds.” I obliged and walked over to the rocket. “Is there anything I can get for you Mr. Parsons?” His eyeballs turned to me and he started breathing quickly. “Ebcun…t…”, he said again, softer than before, repeating a t or a d at the end we hadn’t heard yet. “Could you repeat that please?” I looked at his eyes. He was in bad shape, and my sudden concern that he was experiencing another stroke prevented me from noticing someone approaching us. I stayed bent toward him. “Llllll…ebcun…t…t…t,” he said again. Then, as if I had discovered a lost set of car keys, I turned victoriously to my friend and Eric: “I think he’s saying…Lebcunt?” At that point Cedric shouted, his loudest and clearest yet, “Leb…cunt!!!” His one working hand then moved from his control pad. With a trembling finger, he pointed behind me.
I turned and saw the dark-skinned man, having broken away from the group, now standing less than 2 meters away. Ignoring me he addressed Cedric, unsmiling: “You got something to say mate?” Cedric shouted again, this time addressing him directly - and this time, the elocution was perfect: “LEB CUNT!!!” Now everyone had cottoned on, including the Leb Cunt’s group, and they were walking toward us - all of them. Two bar staff suddenly wise to what was happening leapt over the counter to form a barrier between the groups. But the Leb Cunt was still eyeing up Cedric menacingly, and the latter wasn’t making any attempt to de-escalate. Looking directly at him, Cedric brought his right hand to his neck and drew his finger across it. “That’s enough,” one of the staff who witnessed Cedric’s death threat protested. Then the manager, having been summoned upstairs, appeared at our end flustered: “You’re out,” he belted to our group, “follow me gentlemen.” Just as we were shifting off someone in the group of younger men sniggered that “a retard shouldn’t be served alcohol” to which one poor idiot in our group replied cheerfully: “He hasn’t had a drink since the 90s”. My friend managed to wrestle Cedric’s right hand from the control stick, and had turned the rocket around to face the exit.
There wasn’t enough space in the lift for our entire group plus the wheelchair, so I had to wait with Eric and some others I’d who shaken hands with earlier. Whilst we were waiting, the Leb Cunt and two of his group confronted us. But it wasn’t the Leb Cunt who spoke; instead, one of the other tightly-suited bouncer lookeylikeys. “Mate,” he said addressing me, “dchya know thit yoar mate hes jis may-de en encridibly raysist rimaaak?” “I’m sorry about that,” I shook my head, “I really don’t believe it was malicious, I’m sure you can appreciate that he is severely handicapped.” “Thet disint metter! U sayhin thet hes condition is n x-cuus?” I looked to Eric but he was useless here. “No, but look…” He cut me off: “Neow, U’m tellin yoo, yoar mate coooud be n trubble heya.” Then he took out his phone. “Wots yer nayme?” I caught his eyes, and what I saw in them wasn’t the look of a coked-up bouncer about to lash out. There was something in them that spoke to genuine offence - he had been hurt, outraged and had no desire to hide it, or couldn’t. I looked over to the other tightly suited bouncer lookeylikey - and saw the same thing. Whatever primary instincts they had - ones that I presumed to involve beating up Eric and I - had been usurped by something else. I grasped: “If it’s offence you are looking for, I heard one of your group call him a ‘retard’”. The man’s eyes widened. “Hoooh sed thet?” “I heard it, on the way out.” I looked to Eric for re-assurance but he was useless again, standing with his face an inch from the lift’s metal doors. Bouncer lookelikey accosting me turned around to Leb Cunt: “U sed thet?” Leb Cunt shook his head. Fortunately one of the barmen returned again to check on our departure progress which coincided with the lift doors opening. “Sorry,” I muttered, stepping in. I looked at my accuser again before the doors shut. The incident had troubled him beyond fists. He was angry, but more importantly, he was sad.
Downstairs, the manager scolded our group again before another staff member prepared the ramp. By then Cedric looked shagged out and his nurses had lost interest in wiping his mouth. At the ramp, he was lifted into the van customized to accommodate his rocket and positioned to face the back window. The car started and Cedric and his scowl drove off.
*
An enhanced iteration of Sutenbastud came to Australia in the form of former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd.
In February 2008 Kevin made an apology in Canberra to ‘the stolen generation’. It was intended as a monumental shift between indigenous (Aboriginal) and white Australian relations - and the “left” cheered what they saw and hoped as a stain now lifting from their conscience. Sitting behind Kevin in Parliament that day was a woman called Julia Gillard who would also go on to become Prime Minister - and one of the most unpopular ones ever at that.
Kevin dressed badly, liked to pick his nose in public then eat it. He was the antithesis of Lang Hancock, or Mick Dundee. Keen on China and fluent in Mandarin, he probably wasn’t to know - or care - that the Asian commodities boom and other advances would result in today’s partial colonization of Australia by the Chinese Central Committee. What he was apologizing for was the snatching of Aboriginal children from their parents, up to 100,000 of them, on a theory formed in the previous century that Aboriginal children were dying in the care of their parents, so should reclassified as wards of the state or be handed to the Church. Things that had formed the country we know today - settlers - had, according to Kevin, destroyed the things we’d never known - the societal fabric of the Aborigines, their oral traditions, once passed through generations, now lost. Alongside the Aboriginal issue there were other racial fault lines, including the influx of Middle Eastern - mainly Lebanese - citizens. Greeks too. But the culprit was the white man and his destructive conquest, his culture, his drinking, promiscuity, and corruption. You could argue that this line of thought wasn’t new to the country: Former Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser was Sutenbastud too, if you remember his anti-apartheid positions and his once gushing endorsement of Robert Mugabe (Kevin himself had dangled a carrot in front of Robert’s nose: “Behave in the 2008 elections and you’ll get aid”. There was no mention of what happened in 1999/2000, so we can only assume Kevin had forgiven Robert for that one).
With his apology, Rudd was trying to lead the progress charge, for a broad set of gender and identity rights and recognitions. With the idea that a permanent state of reflection would prevent future genocide, exploitation, or even hurt feelings, so came the model of once alpha country looking inside itself, seeing (what it considered) many nasty things, and concluding that only an elaborate confession and compensation scheme could appease its conscience. The scheme also included Julia Gillard succeeding Rudd as Prime Minister.
Kevin’s premiership did little else but issue apologies, but in the apologies, it laid the platform for Julia, and Julia wanted to be a girl boss, to say all the things “strong” women - from Hollywood to Palestine - say when they address congregations of other young women. But this pursuit wasn’t particularly successful, especially when it appeared she couldn’t even do this at home. In 2013, Julia’s partner Tim, a former hairdresser turned estate agent, delivered a speech at a charity dinner in which he suggested that the ideal candidates to apply prostate examinations “were small Asian women”, presumably on account of the size of their fingers. Julia happened to be in the audience that night (Tim also served as some kind of “aide” to Julia, in the manner of former UK Home Secretary Jacqui Smith’s bearded permawanking husband David who purchased X-rated DVDs - “Mature housewives from Ipswich” - and expensed it to Parliament).
From that moment on Julia couldn’t be taken seriously and all of Kevin’s social justice surrendering was dealt a blow when a man in the old Australian profile, Tony Abbott of the Liberals (supposedly but not really the equivalent of the UK’s conservatives) became Australia’s 28th Prime Minister.
But Kevin’s ideals were not dead. What happened next demonstrated for the conservative citizens of that country the extent to which Sutenbastud influenced this corner of the world. In 2015, Abbott was sacked, and replaced by an Oxford-educated lawyer, Malcolm Turnbull, who attempted to disguise the fact he successfully lobbied for the Guardian newspaper to launch in Australia by creating the impression that his main focus was the economy. Turnbull was only ever Sutenbastud’s cuckolded Westminster conservative; for people like this, their real job is to out “left” the “left” opposition, not to pursue contemporary interpretations of classical economic theory - and it clearly didn’t worry him that Kevin had such a profound impact on members of his own party.
The conservative in-name-only deception was exposed in a diplomatic brush with South Africa. The Australian Minister of Home Affairs, Peter Dutton, who looks a little bit like a moon, said in March 2018 that white South African farmers should be treated like refugees and welcomed into Australia. These comments were a response to a tide of publicity involving white farmers murdered at the hands of black people in South Africa, raising the ire of Sutenbastud media and “fact checkers”, as well as that of black nationalists. Africa Check, the Open Society / Pierre Omidyar-funded data collection and review unit, has always claimed that it finds no evidence that white farmers are specifically targeted in its measurement disciplines, and it was also oddly cross, with one of its obedient nerd researchers “regretting” Peter’s proposal.
Of course, the discussion murders of white farmers has been convincingly won by Sutenbastud . When the ANC and the media could no longer deny that many white farmers were being attacked and murdered, in some cases with brutal abandon, the media produced a fake forensic analysis appearance and went out to investigate. Then it came back and said words to the effect of: “No, actually, there are murders, but there’s nothing to distinguish these murders from other murders.” This was condemned - for good reason. Afriforum, the Afrikaans rights movement, generated its own findings - with the answer staring the reader in the face. It finds that the majority of farmers attacked are elderly, between the ages of 60 and 70. This makes the attackers the luckiest in the world: of all random attacks, they always manage to attack the most vulnerable. Still - nothing to see here, move on.
Peter’s remarks served as a measurement, an acid test to locate how willing the country was to pander to the simulation of political correctness.
You saw it on the streets. At a rally in Melbourne, average Australians were asked whether they considered white South African farmers as suitable candidates for refugee status. “Noooooo-oh,” one Australian woman said, “they hev their own land - which they etchelly stole boy the way.” “Preposterous”, another woman remarked, “they are not being murdered at all.” In Sydney, a protestor missing one front tooth was especially lively; in an Australian accent, he declared “I’m a colored because of you”, directed at the news anchors, who seemed understandably puzzled, but it’s not good form to interview a man who was holding a bottle in a brown paper bag just before the cameras arrived.
The had wind carried Kevin’s sentiments over the Tasman Sea, to mesmerizingly beautiful New Zealand, resulting in the election of Jacinda Adhern, a woman who at the age of 27 had served as President of the International Union of Socialist Youth.
Jacinda is no longer Prime Minister but her tenure wasn’t as pristine as she and her supporters like to tell you it was. There were an extraordinarily high number of Sutenbastud incidents during the early stages of her campaign and subsequent victory.
In those early days, a story circulated that Jacinda had worked for Tony Blair. It is said that in 2005 she was in London and working for Tony Blair as an Assistant Director for Better Regulation Executive in the Department for Business and Enterprise, and on a review of Policing in England and Wales. Ah. But this story was quickly muted in the aftermath as her commitment to “diversity” became clear. Diversity, her advisors clearly woke up to realize, included people known as “Muslims”, so perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to trumpet around the name of a man who’d gone off and killed a million of them. In 2018 she formed part of a social justice axis that included London’s Mayor, Sadiq Khan, and Canada’s Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, in London, at a sideshow from the Commonwealth gathering. The three met and did nothing but agree with one another, surrounded by young smiling Muslims girls wearing Niqabs. You can just imagine someone like Hillary and Bill Clinton’s beautiful daughter, Chelsea, watching that in the company of some enormously intelligent Indian general practitioner (more about that shortly), clasping her hands together and screeching: “Inspired!” Not far from where this social justice romantic eruption was taking place, young black kids were being stabbed - or stabbing others. But Sadiq’s never been too bothered about this; at the end of the love-in he grabbed Justin Trudeau’s shoulders and squealed: “This man is one of the biggest feminists in the world!” Jacinda looked on, pleased as punch.
And then there was coof, and finally, judgment year both two countries swamped with Sutenbastud . You couldn’t squeeze a rizla paper between the two responses: Australia, despite being led by a liberal administration, issued emergency powers to state governors, in the case of Victoria - to Dan Andrews, an avowed Marxist unable to conceal his admiration for China’s Central Committee. The one image that stays is that of Shane Patton, Andrews’ Chief Commissioner of Police. Shane has a pointy, menacing face and an expression complimented by a black uniform he wore to threaten the public again and again on national television. He spoke as a man who’d tried his luck with acting, succeeding only as an extra, non-speaking part in the train driver’s cabin in Schindler’s List, before throwing the towel in and seeking the real thing. One of the better comments through coof was made in a letter in The Telegraph in August 2020: “from the heavy-handed response,” one Mr. Pontdexter wrote, “it appears that Australia is a land descended not so much from prisoners…as it is from prison guards.” Just like the ginger border security guy who had given me a hard time in 2013.
Australia’s response was guilty inheritance, central committee logic plus Sutenbastud - perhaps the most devastating combination in the world. The result of this played out in the streets, at the spectacle of the police kicking, punching, and harassing ordinary people. In 2022, the Labour candidate Anthony Albanese took coof off his campaign agenda, focusing almost entirely on climate change. Cynically you could argue that one atrocity pursues another, and to an extent, you’d be right. But you’d also be right to consider the lives of average citizens, battle-worn by the hell of lockdowns, terrorized by police, and demonized by politicians and media. At that point, you’d choose the atrocity that was least likely to keep you indoors, away from your family and friends - but watch this space. In this part of the world, Sutenbastud enjoyed seamless contextual renewal. Through a history viewed only through racial conflict, dispossession, and guilt, it was able to form for itself a future consistent with those of other English-speaking countries and some of the more radical ambitions of the EU.
In the early 80s, a former crocodile hunter called Malcolm Douglas started making videos of Australia’s magnificent northwestern coastline for the European market. It was a wild and dangerous place, and the camera followed as Malcolm boated his way through treacherous currents, mesmerizing German audiences. Until Sutenbastud encouraged a procession of victims to talk openly about their imagined problems and to adopt presentism as a reasonable perspective, this was Australia to the world - a land almost too beautiful to fathom, one that would appear completely alien to inner city youth were they to stumble across one of his gains videos on YouTube. In these videos, Malcolm is lithe, bearded, and nimble - spearfishing, crab trapping, battling opportunistic black-tip sharks, and handling poisonous snakes and giant lizards. That was Australia to the world, and we are poorer for the paranoid and troubled imposter that has replaced it.
*
The Leb Cunt was actually a Turk Cunt.
After the incident at the club, my friend, haunted by the experience, did some research. What he discovered, he told me a few years later, was an extremely naughty fellow. The child of immigrants, the Turk Cunt had found success in groceries and thought it would be a good idea to branch out into recreational drugs where he found similar success - which is where he was roundabout the time of the incident. Flooding the joint with ecstasy. His family were also naughty and but when an uncle was bust with a car boot full of vaccum sealed hashish, it wasn’t the Turk Cunt’s fault - at all. He still loved his uncle but the drugs - no fucking idea what the hell happened there, mate.
The incident with the uncle led the police to monitor him. This he did not like at all, and when a few years later the filth accused him of drug importation, money laundering and tax evasion, he turned around and accused them of Islamaphobia, racism and xenophobia. My friend sent me a photo of the Turk Cunt in 2015; to help with his campaign against the police, he had gone all Imam and was pictured smiling, sitting next to Aisha or Fatima - except you couldn’t even see Aisha or Fatima’s eyes because they were behind a metal strip in the burka, like a burka within a burka. Anyways, there he was, with a full beard, wearing a band-collared robe and talking about his new wife and his plans to donate a property of his to the local mosque. The filth eventually dropped its investigation, and the Turk Cunt moved his business to Dubai.
*Coming next, Chapter 8: Helicopters