Socialist Alliance vs. Australia First in Newcastle

Well, sorta.

In the Third Ward, Zane Alcorn,* Thomas Cameron and Laura Ealing are appealing to workers to Vote 1 Socialist Alliance; the Australia First candidates are Nathan Clarke (‘nafe’ on the the world’s #1 white supremacist website Stormfront), Ian McBryde and Jim Smith. They come from an alternate, Whites-only universe, and are standing in a separate Ward.

    *In a previous battle, the rappin’ skillz, phat beats with tight cuts and incisive lyrics of Zane Alcorn, aka MC Doc Fruit, failed to set the electorate of Wills on its head. Zane got 624 votes in the 2007 Federal election, or 0.7% of the total, a reduction of 0.4% from 2004 for SA. On the bright side, Zane still managed to soundly defeat the CEC candidate, which is something, and the move north may well ripen Fruit’s appeal.

Elsewhere in NSW, SA is standing other losing candidates. Thus in Blacktown City Council Third Ward, Rachel Evans, Soubhi Iskander and Hassan Abaid are battling for power, while in Marrickville Council North Ward, Pip Hinman, Jill Hickson and Howard Byrnes are keeping the spirit of the (murderous) Che Guevara alive.

And in very late-breaking news, in the WA state election on September 6, SA member Julie Grey is running as an Independent in the North Metropolitan Region (for a seat in the Legislative Council). Julie is the only SA member running in WA, and is facing an uphill battle not to come last of the 33 candidates all vying for a seat in Parliament.

Can Julie beat Ben McKinnon of the Daylight Saving Party? Will Paul Augustson and Ron J McLean demonstrate that Lyndon LaRouche really is a genius, or at least more popular among the good citizens of North Metropolitan Perth than a devotee of Marx and Engels? Who is the mysterious Douglas Greypower, and can his magic overcome the allure of Socialism? Stay tuned!

About @ndy

I live in Melbourne, Australia. I like anarchy. I don't like nazis. I enjoy eating pizza and drinking beer. I barrack for the greatest football team on Earth: Collingwood Magpies. The 2023 premiership's a cakewalk for the good old Collingwood.
This entry was posted in Trot Guide. Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Socialist Alliance vs. Australia First in Newcastle

  1. If reporters want to know about my “rampant — and occasionally genuinely hysterical — bigotry”, they can call me on 0431 739 260 or email me @ [email protected]

    Want to know more?

  2. Ana says:

    hahaha, “Fear of a Black Planet” does Darrin really want a call from the Mongrel Mob?

  3. Lumpen says:

    I for one welcome our new overlords.

  4. @ndy says:

    “In the worlds before Monkey, primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when it’s feathers are grown. The four worlds formed again and yet again, as endless aeons wheeled and passed. Time and the pure essences of Heaven, the moistures of the Earth, and the powers of the Sun and the Moon all worked upon a certain rock – old as creation, and it magically became fertile… Elemental forces caused the egg to hatch. From it then came a stone monkey… The nature of Monkey was irrepressible!”


  5. grumpy cat says:

    Hi All

    Andy is the implication of this that liberalism and post-social democratic ‘third way’ ideologies are actually vastly popular and good on them? And will you be comparing sales from anarchist book shops with sales from freaky new-age ones?

    rebel love

  6. @ndy says:

    Sorry to bother you,
    Citizen taxman!
    No thanks…
    Don’t worry…
    I’d rather stand.
    I’ve come to see you
    on a delicate matter;
    The place
    of the poet
    in a worker’s land.
    Along with
    and land users
    I’m taxable too,
    and am bound by the law.
    Your demand
    for the half-year
    is 500 roubles,
    And for not filling forms – 25 more.
    My labour’s
    no different
    from any other labour.
    Examine these figures
    of loss and gain,
    The production
    I have been facing,
    The raw material
    I had to obtain.
    With the notion of “rhyme”
    you’re acquainted, of course?
    When a line of ours
    ends with a word
    like “plum”
    In the next line but one
    we repeat
    the syllable
    With some other word
    that goes
    A rhyme
    is an IOU,
    as you’d put it.
    “Pay two lines later”
    is the regulation.
    So you seek
    the small charge of inflexion, suffix
    In the depleted till
    of declensions,
    You shove
    a word
    into a line of poetry
    But it just won’t go –
    you push it and it snaps.
    Upon my honour,
    Citizen taxman,
    cost poets a pretty penny in cash.
    As we poets see it,
    a barrel
    the rhyme is,
    A barrel of dynamite,
    the fuse is
    each line.
    The line starts smoking,
    exploding the line is,
    And the stanza
    a city
    Where to find rhymes,
    in what tariff list,
    That hit the bull’s eye
    with never a failure?
    a handful of them
    still exist
    Faraway somewhere
    in Venezuela.
    I have to scour
    and tropical climes.
    I flounder in debt,
    I get advance payments.
    My travel expenses
    bear in mind.
    Poetry –
    all poetry –
    is an exploration.
    is just like mining radium.
    To gain just a gram
    you must labour a year.
    Tons of lexicon ore
    All for the sake of one precious word,
    how searing
    the heat of this word is
    the smouldering
    heap of waste.
    There are the words
    that go rousing, stirring
    Millions of hearts
    from age to age.
    Of course,
    there are different brands of poet.
    Famed for sleight of hand
    are quite a few.
    Verses they pull,
    like a conjuror,
    Out of their own mouths –
    and others’ too.
    What can one say
    of the poetry eunuchs?
    They write
    stolen lines in –
    not turning a hair.
    like that
    is nothing unusual
    In a country
    where thieves are enough and to spare.
    odes and verses
    Which with rapt ovations
    audiences greet
    Will go down
    in history
    as overhead charges.
    For the achievements
    of a few of us –
    two or three.
    It takes
    quite a time,
    to get to know people,
    Smoke many a packet of cigarettes
    Till you raise
    that wonderful word
    you’re needing
    From the deep artesian
    folk wells.
    the rate of tax
    grows less.
    that wheel-zero
    off the total due.
    I pay one rouble 90
    for a hundred cigarettes
    And one rouble 60
    for the salt I consume.
    I see your form
    there’s a host of questions:
    “travelled abroad?
    Or spent all the time here?”
    What if
    I’ve run down
    a dozen Pegasuses
    In the course of
    fifteen years?!
    You want to know
    how many servants
    I’m keeping,
    What houses?
    My special case please observe:
    do I stand
    if I lead people
    And simultaneously
    the people serve?
    The class
    with the words we utter
    And we
    push the pen.
    The soul-machine
    wears out,
    begins to splutter.
    They tell us:
    “Your place
    is on the shelf.”
    There’s ever less love,
    less bold innovation,
    strikes my forehead
    a running blow.
    There comes
    the most terrifying depreciation,
    The depreciation
    of heart and soul,
    one day this sun
    shall like a fattened hog in
    A land rid of beggars
    and cripples
    Dead by the fence
    have long
    been rotting
    Along with
    ten or so
    colleagues of mine.
    Draw up
    my posthumous balance-sheet!
    I tell you –
    upon this I’m ready to bet –
    all the dealers and climbers
    you see
    I’ll be
    a unique case –
    hopelessly in debt.
    Our duty is
    to roar
    like brass-throated sirens
    In philistine fog
    and in stormy weather.
    fines in cash
    and high interest
    on sorrow,
    The poet
    is always
    the Universe’s debtor.
    And I
    owe a debt
    to the lights of Broadway,
    A debt to you also,
    Bagadady skies,
    To the Red Army
    and to Japan’s cherry blossom –
    To all
    about which
    I had no time to write.
    did I undertake
    this burden?
    With rhyme to shoot,
    with metre anger to spark?
    Your resurrection
    the poet’s word is,
    Your immortality,
    Citizen clerk.
    Read any line
    a hundred years after
    And it brings back the past,
    as fast as a wink,
    All will come back –
    this day
    with the taxman
    With a glint of magic
    and the reek of ink.
    Come, you smug dweller in the present era,
    Buy your rail ticket
    to Eternity
    the impact of verse
    and distribute
    All that I earn
    over three hundred years!
    Not only in this
    lies the power of a poet,
    That it’s you
    future generations
    will think about.
    Oh no!
    Today too
    are the rhymes of a poet
    A caress,
    a slogan,
    a bayonet,
    a knout.
    Five –
    not five hundred –
    roubles I’ll pay
    You, citizen taxman!
    Delete every nought!
    As of right
    demanding a place
    With workers
    and peasants
    of the poorest sort.
    But if
    you think
    all I do is just press
    Words other people use
    into my service
    come here,
    let me give you my pen
    And you
    can yourselves
    write your own verses!

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.