It’s been the Week of the Female Politician, be they dead, injured or just dopey. Snatcher Thatcher’s despatchers gave us some great moments of light entertainment, while on the local front, a Labor wannabee has us scratching our heads.

Irony is the theme running through all doin's of the week.

Also, here’s a show stopper for you: believe it or not, the Magpie gives a big heart-felt thank you to the Townsville Bulletin this week – because for so long now, The ‘Pie has longed to find a use for that grand old phrase ‘morally bankrupt’. With it’s Tuesday front page and just plain juvenile editorial, The Magpie can now say that the paper has hit rock bottom and is …. yep, morally bankrupt. The old bird will get ‘reprehensible’ in there somewhere too, but that’s later.

Resident Rembrandt Bentley wonders where the NZ gay reform laws will lead, The 'Pie throws in the odd bit of trivia, all here in the usual trivial nest at www.townsvillemagpie.com.au

First, a few small matters, starting with a postscript on Rolf Harris.

It was no great journalistic feat on the Pie’s behalf to name him some weeks ago as the ’82 year old Australian entertainer who lives in Worcestshire’. It was hardly a ‘Where’s Waldo’ guessing game, more an elephant in the room. And The 'Pie does not make any comment about guilt or otherwise, how would he know? The issue was and always will be why the mainstream media were so universally coy about doing so. There are various theories about that, but The ‘Pie is of the old-fashioned opinion that when journalists censor themselves in this manner, that is the start of the slippery slope and any claim to transparency and fairness is lost. Yes, there are some times when discretion is required and desired like digitally covering the lower area of a Boston bomb victim who had his legs blown off. The Rolf Harris issue is not one of those matters.

There was a moment of unintended gallows humour from a Boston walloper, briefing the media about the lockdown of the city as the hunt for the bombers went on. He said that people should lock themselves inside their houses, and quote ‘if they see anything suspicious other than a police officer coming to their door, they should call 911 immediately’. '... other than'? Damn suspicious at any time, those door-knocking police officers.

But there is precious little to laugh about in the specific and the overall situation in the United States. However, one commentator, the respected New York Times’ Thomas Friedman, has made a memorable clarion call for commonsense and courage in these terrorist times. If you want your spirit uplifted a bit, read his wise and inspiringly defiant words here.

Across the Atlantic in London, the mood was far more lighthearted.

The Iron Lady became the Ironic Lady as Maggie Thatcher was trundled up to St Paul's amid much pomp and ceremony. The 'Pie, watching the whole thing on Sky in case there were some fireworks, was genuinely mystified by the almost universal crowd reaction. To a person, they clapped and many gave a little cheer.

Was this irony or what?

The question for the old bird was: was the reaction applause for a life well lived, good on yer, Maggie - or was it approval that Baroness Thatcher was at last no longer walking amongst us, and good riddance? One could safely assume that as she started the long haul up Ludgate Hill, where she was in the heart of or very close to London's financial district, the applause was more of a 'thank you dear lady' from many an Eton spiv and Essex wide boy - it was her monetary policies that freed up the market enough to allow spectacular profit taking and profit making. (It also those same policies that lay the groundwork for some of the most damaging financial collapses of the past 20 years.)

Didn't notice a single turned back along the route, either, but then decidedly pro-Thatcher coverage was probably at pains not to allow the odd protester their moment of comment..

There were a couple of unscripted moments of whoopsey. 

Queen Liz was greeted at the steps of St Paul's by -was it the Mayor of London? - who was decked out in a long flowing robe that would make Jenny Hill go green with envy. His job was to say ‘g’day Betty’ to the Queen, and then lead her into the cathedral, carrying the ceremonial black-sheathed Sword of Mourning.

However, after greeting the Queen, our man, as required by the script, turned to lead the royals into the cathedral, but, probably playing to the crowd, twirled away from Liz much too enthusiastically, and the lower part of his robe smote queenie hip and thigh. For a moment, Her Maj seemed surprised and not sure what had happened,  and then looked as though she was about to give someone a bunch of fives to whomsoever had the temerity to touch up the royal presence. But when she realised what had happened, she favoured the back of the retreating mayor with a look that would do Julie Bishop proud, and then said something no doubt cutting to the adjacent Berk of Edinburgh. He chortled away merrily with a no doubt cutting quip of his own along the lines of  'what a f..kwitted prole' -chortle wheeze. Indeed, Prince Pip kept up a megawatt smile and cheerful banter all the way up to their dress circle seats.

The main fun then ... since nobody dropped what appeared to be an eminently droppable coffin ... was to watch members of the congregation trying to check if they were on telly with furtive glances up, down and around. For The 'Pie, there was a guessing game of 'now who IS that?, familiar from his time in Blighty in the 70s,  and then a jolt of recognition through the wrinkles (theirs, not The Magpie's).

The murmured commentary, with all its inane detail, did tell us one thing hitherto missed by The 'Pie. We were informed that once the service was over, the family and close friends and dignitaries would head into the town for a private knees-up before moving on to the crematorium.

Ah, so the Lady who was not for turning was now for burning. Life and death can be so poetic sometimes, one wonders what Christopher Fry made of it all. Fry was the English playwright who shot to prominence in 1948 with his verse play The Lady’s Not For Burning, from which is Maggie drew  her witty play on words. But of course, you both knew that, forgive the pedantic ‘Pie.

But  most startlingly comic moments came when the old girl had been suitably smarmed over by the Bishop of London - who chose his words veerrry carefully - and she was carted out to the waiting hearse.

Once aboard, the hearse not so much left as took off!

Fair dinkum, after all the slow drumbeat marching and solemn and measured pace of the service, you'd be excused for thinking that Mark Webber had been brought in as the hearse driver. The small cavalcade of three or four vehicles accompanying the hearse was tracked through the streets by a camera helicopter which seemed to have trouble keeping up.

And if it was Webber behind the wheel, it was a couple of Casey Stoners who were the motorcycle outriders. In their yellow fluro safety jackets, they stole the show. These two had been designated to keep leap-frogging the cortege to ensure intersections ahead were clear. The effect was that once the hearse was through a crossroads, travelling at speed but in a dignified way, these jokers took off at a rate of knots, whizzing past an oblivious Mrs Thatcher in an unseemly drag-racing style and at speeds that would, under other circumstances, attract the unwelcome and expensive attention of Mr Plod.

All that was missing was some Keystone Kops frenzied tinkly music.

All in all, a good night's entertainment was had by all - swapping the Tv over after the hearse had got the chequered flag, Stephen Fry's (no relation) QI seemed plodding by comparison, but the night's irony wasn't over. The QI episode had obviously been recorded quite sometime previously, and suddenly, someone made a jolly and decidedly uncomplimentary quip which referred to a scary 'Margaret Thatcher mask'. One does wonder how many of the behind-the-scenes BBC beavers will be burning the midnight oil expunging such references.

.....

Local matters.

The big ‘will she or won’t she?’ question took an interesting … nay, baffling … turn this week.local Labor insiders are asking if Mike Capt Snooze Reynold’s sister-in-law Cathy O’Toole will keep her candidacy for the federal seat of Herbert.

Toyt Abbott fan Cathy O'Toole.

The ‘Pie constantly hears that although Ms O’Toole has stood in the Labor Party Employment queue the requisite time to get her shot at a taxpayer-funded retirement plan, she isn’t cutting the mustard keenly enough for some of Labor’s backroom bears.

But at the moment, endorsed she is, but the events of this week go to prove that her apparent strategy is, as the kamikaze pilot said at the flight briefing, a bloody funny way to fly an aeroplane.

There must be something in the water up this way that has a strange effect on the DNA of female wannabee politicians.

First we had wannabee state member and current Townsville Mayor Mullet making racially-tinged statements about the Port of Townsville ‘falling into Chinese hands’.

Then we had the Greens Gail Hamilton, having a gallop for Herbert, choosing to make her maiden public policy comment on the evils of chocolate Easter eggs made from the cocoa beans picked by child slave labor (actually, a timely comment on the relevancy of the Greens).

And now, we have Ms O’Toole embarking on the cunning strategy of seeking to boost her electoral chances by praising - wait for it - Tony Abbott!

Although not wishing to fall into the Astonisher’s permanent state of adjectival frenzy, The ‘Pie was astounded to read Ms O’Toole’s pious Letter to the Ed in Tuesday paper. Well, the opening line was a bit of a jaw dropper, which read: ‘Tony Abbott is to be congratulated on his brave and committed vow to place the Department of Indigenous affairs into the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet – in effect creating a Prime Minister for Aboriginal Affairs.’

Kerrr-ikkey!! Whose writing this stuff for her – Peter Lindsay? Ewen Jones? Mary Vernon?

The rest of the letter was a load of the usual empty guff about ‘real transitional change’ , ‘genuine respect’ and ‘cultural competence’ – whatever the hell that is.

This letter prompted The ‘Pie to peek behind the political curtain for some enlightenment. This is what the old bird has learned.

Labor knows winning Herbert is a lost cause, but will throw some money at it in an effort to lift Ms O’Toole’s somewhat bland, foot-soldier profile. They’ll do this with a view to putting her name out there, and after being duly walloped in September, she will then be pre-selected for the state seat of Townsville, where Labor believes – through the Campbell Newman job cuts and the relative invisibility of LNP member John Hathaway – they have a real chance. And good luck with that.

Given the Tuesday letter, a cynic might believe she is getting sage advice from her brother-in-law, Capt Snooze, along the lines, ‘Look, Cathy, start banging the indigenous drum straight away, doesn’t matter what most think, they’ll forget - but Palm Island is crucial for the state election. Let’s face it, all I had to do every campaign was turn up a couple of times on the island before an election, tell ‘em anything, and they’d get me home. That way, you don’t have to actually do anything you said, and you don’t have to worry about for another three years. Worked for me’.

But then, only a cynic would believe that, wouldn’t they?

Staying in cynic’s corner this week, here's a similar question: was she or wasn’t she? Was our Mayor Mullet a somewhat stunned mullet when she took a tumble and injured both her ankles recently in BrisVegas? The story is that our svelte and buff mayor was in Brisbane on business when she managed to go A over T while walking down a ramp at the Sheraton Hotel, consequently breaking or at least badly damaging both her ankles. Somehow. At one stage after her return home, she was doing her Neil Armstrong imitation in a couple of ‘moon boots’.

Some see it was a Emily’s List Labor solidarity thing, and Mayor Mullet was channeling Julia Gillard’s spectacular acrobatic nose dive during the PM’s Indian trip.

Others have a different slant, like Mongrel the Barrister. In his usual boofheaded fashion, Mongrel reckons, ‘Mayor Mullet was in Brisbane seeking some southern comfort when she was accidentally pushed over by a couple of other delegates at the occasion, a Mr Jack Daniels and a Mr Johnny Walker. Perhaps getting in shape for another preshentshun at the VEighths, eh, Jenny? hur hur hur.’ Mongrel remains a worry.

These are of course totally scurrilous rumors which would only appear in a gutter blog like this one, and certainly not in her favorite organ she grasps so eagerly every morning, that of course  being the Daily Astonisher. The Mullet insists to talkative colleagues that she has been ’on the wagon at least for six weeks now’. The ‘Pie has no reason to disbelieve you, m’dear.

And while we’re around council matters, it will be interesting to see if Local Government David The Kid Crisafulli will look south to NSW for inspiration. The ‘Pie wonders if this new planning approval law might be imported north. That’ll give a few fat arses a bit of a much-needed hurry-up.

Bentley this week has been much exercised about those progressive New Zealanders and their same sex marriage laws. He believes their so progressive that many a rural Fred Dagg now lives in hope of a long overdue reform.

Now, before anybody starts getting in a lather of indignation and politically correct apoplexy, Bentley tells The 'Pie he is just reprising a time honoured shot at the Kiwis, and this is not some sort of running commentary a la Corey Bernardi on any issue. As he says 'For Christ sake, it's just another kiwi sheep-shagger JOKE. That's kinda traditional around Anzac Day'. The 'Pie is of the opinion that if you're the political correct and easily offended type, what the hell are you doing reading this load of codswallop, anyway. Go away, the old bird thinks it's funny. Nice lookin' sheep, thet one.

And a must see is this hilarious, witty and right-on-the-money speech in the NZ parliament by Maurice Williamson on the effects of gay marriage on the Shaky Isles, so good it made one wish for the good old days of wit in the Australian Parliament.

Now to a matter which is decidedly NOT funny.

The Townsville Bulletin has given up all pretence of being a serious community citizen, or for that matter, a newspaper of objective reporting and responsibility.

Some background: In January, Karen Marrs was driving near Collinsville with her daughter 18-year-old daughter Kimberley when she momentarily took her attention off the road.  The car crashed and Kimberley was killed. This week, a still grieving Ms Marrs appeared in court, and pleaded guilty to a charge of driving without due care and attention. A thoughtful Magistrate Howard Osborne recognized the sad reality of the situation, fined Ms. Marrs $400, but while recording a conviction because of the gravity of the event, did not disqualify the grieving mother from driving.

Now that is a solid and sad enough story in itself, which allows the reader to take whatever lessons they choose from it. That is if you treat your readers as being of enough intelligence to be allowed to make up their own minds.

That is obviously not the  the Bulletin’s view or policy.

So reporter Samantha 'The Milkmaid' Healey got out the stool and started milking this one for all it was worth, even arranging a weepy posed photograph with the grieving mum and sister holding a pic of the deceased.

And the story, the likes of which The Magpie has not before encountered in the news column of any paper with which he has been associated, featured the loaded and subjective  terms ‘hauled before court’ and ‘dragged through court’, along with the headline ‘ Petty and cruel’.  Insulting stuff for the authorities involved. You couldn’t get further from proper reporting and closer to a outright Alan Jones-type commentary rant if you tried.

Bulletin editor Lachlan Heywood -
yet another patronising editorial.

This continues this week’s thread of irony, in that ‘petty and cruel’ is exactly how the Bulletin’s morally hunchbacked and intellectually shallow treatment of this story can be described.

The paper is now so inexcusably arrogant that it doesn’t even try to hide the spin, and now deigns to hector us about how the paper thinks justice should be administered in this state, which is in some sort of laissez-faire style which has obviously not been thought through.  This front page and the supporting muddled-headed editorial is nothing but emotive commentary fawning to their perceived readership and nothing to do with balanced reporting of facts. And it certainly was cruel and petty all right … particularly to the hapless Ms Marrs.

The Magpie has reason to know of the depths of anguish of a grieving mother – a close friend lost her 33-year-old son in a motorcycle accident recently – and The Pie now well knows the vulnerability and anguish of a person in that situation. But he would never attempt to claim that he understands fully the gut wrenching days and phantom-filled, sleepless nights of despair all that entails.

For Ms Marrs, that is all the more keenly cutting, given that it was she who was responsible for what happened to her daughter. Like the rest of the people who hear of her story, The Magpie is deeply sympathetic and wishes her strength - but because this is about the paper that so cynically used her, sadly the facts had to be repeated.

But her daughter did die, Ms Marrs did admitt culpability, she she did go to court and she accepted what society would see as a just penalty. The authorities, those heartless bastards as painted by the Townsville Bulletin, had already shown what compassion was within their scope. They particularly did not bring a charge of dangerous operation of a motor vehicle causing death, a far more serious matter and well within range. The magistrate worked hard to strike a balance between compassion and civic duty. And even allowed himself the compassion to allow the defendant to keep her licence.

When someone dies in circumstances such as these, someone must face court to get society’s verdict. It is totally irrelevant if the victim is the perpetrator’s daughter, and to suggest that a mother’s grieving is penalty enough is so intellectually and morally wrong in a democratic society, it is astounding that those with pretensions to support police, law and order and the rule of justice can come up with this cruel, self-interested hoax.

And they’ve made this poor woman a victim in a different way which they didn’t have the wit to forsee – or they just didn’t care. While forever grieving and handling her guilt for the rest of her life, Ms Marrs will now have the added burden having been of being manipulated into being convinced that she has been hard done by. So she can add indignation and resentment to all the other emotions she will have to handle. And all just because the Bulletin said so.

Given the issue at hand, the court outcome was about the lightest and fairest that could be considered. The authorities can’t pick and choose and neither should they be able to – a man called Fitzgerald made sure of that. And that is as it should be.

The whole tenor of the Bulletin piece displays all the depths of a drunken discussion late in the afternoon at a BBQ attended by a group of lurching Text The Editor types. And this story shows that it becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between the minimal values and intellect of texters and the values and intellect of the people supposedly trained and paid to do fair and balanced reporting.

Disgusting.

And reprehensible.

But The ‘Pie believes he should end on a lighter note after all that harrumphing. So he will tell you about a name he came across in a court transcript recently (totally unrelated to the above). Let’s call the surname Smith, and the given names were John Thomas; the court transcript also informed us that he was known as ‘Dick’. Probably since his schooldays, poor mutt.