MAY 2009 The Political Issue

Cover illustration by Warren Popelier

FEZ SEZ______________________Politics=Hypocrisy, says Circusmouse
Bum's View___________________The world according to Jerry
FEATURAMA_________________'SPIKED' by Pete Wilmott
'IDOL PROMISES' _____________Kevin Rudd on Idol by Zed's Not Dead
'IT'S ALL ABOUT THE DOPE'_____by Dave Schwan
'IT'S OVER TIME' ______________Office politics by Circusmouse

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The Party Members
Fuehrer Zed
Gandhi Wildside
Commissar Circusmouse
Baron von Sharron



by Circusmouse

Politics and hypocrisy have had a tight relationship throughout history, but has our acceptance of this imperfect marriage grown with our own rising apathy? Or is it just me? What the internet has done for the online freedom of debate, opinion, conspiracy, conjecture, gossip and titillation is well and endlessly documented. Each day, a binary equivalent of a landslide of crap is poured into the ether. These days, it's so easy, a monkey can do it, and quite often they do, and it's usually in the form of a blog.
We have many self aggrandising bloggers in the Cairns area who think that because they know a councillor or two, or receive an automated email reply from an MP, that they have their fingers on the pulse and it's common to see political allegiances completely reversed on the drop of a tired old building, then jump ship again just as easily when their demands are not met.
At the other end of town, the local council has found the money to fund a $1 million guarantee to enable the only professional sports franchise in Cairns, the hapless Taipans basketball team, to play next season. The guarantee will be used to pay the players should the club go bankrupt again. This is a real possibility that one hopes doesn't happen. It's also worth noting that the current council is led by a Mayor elected on a platform of conservation and preservation of local heritage, and this same Mayor did nothing to save the Cairns Yacht Club. The CYC was anywhere between 70 to 100 years old (depending on your source) and the Taipans have only been around for ten.
Political bloggers are, in fact, doing us a disservice in their pursuit of keeping the bastards honest no matter how much they dress themselves up as 'real' media. All this opinion that thrashes around the internet gasping for attention, has not made it easier for their readers to find the truth or hold their elected leaders more accountable, but rather has further obfuscated it and brought about this current era of lazy and compliant journalism we enjoy in our mainstream media today. This is the true hypocrisy.
During research, I was stopped by something I found on the 'net. It was one line in a small section about common fallacies of the meaning of "hypocrisy". It explained that if "someone is a hypocrite, it doesn't make them wrong". I'm glad I found it, because it is a good way to end.

*

We found Jerry sucking on a bag of chicken bones outside the Courthouse. FEZ asked him how he voted in the State election last March.

Jerry: Are you taking the piss. How do I do that? Do you guys have any money?

FEZ: Here's five dollars.
Jerry: Give me ten.

FEZ: Who did you vote for?
Jerry: I can't vote. I'm homeless. I don't get a vote because I don't have anywhere to live.

FEZ: But if you could vote, who would you vote for?
Jerry: How do you do it? Got a spare cigarette?

FEZ: No, don't smoke. Do you know anything about politics?
Jerry: Most people's eyes work in reverse. Did you know that?

FEZ: What?
Jerry: I can see a long way away.

FEZ: Jerry, you've lost me.
Jerry: Your eyes get lazy. That's what they tell me. There was this huge big thing. Can you read this, they said. They got this little hook thing and worked out I am long sighted. Actually, my eyes are focusing on the rings of Saturn.

FEZ: Wow, that's out there, Jerry. Are you into that sort of stuff?
Jerry: Yeah, man. One of them has got one wheel that's fucked. I look at the photos. Man, that's Mars. The camera's from eye-level. It's like standing there. The camera's up there somewhere. Some of the pictures they get. You get the pictures where the Rover's gone. How can they fake it? Imagine if the Moon landing were fake? There's this magnetic field around the world. There's this belt, the Van, you know, the something belt. If this belt is there and kills living things, how did those guys get to the Moon. There's the International Space Station. We're too small, we can't get to the truth. I was on the Esplanade one night. I've heard that the brightest thing in the sky is the International Space Station.

FEZ: So, who did you vote for, Jerry?
Jerry: It was dusk. Did you ever see a satellite. They were all flying different ways. I don't remember. Different parts of the sky. That would be cool. I am trying to explain, the Sun's going down that way, you just see the reflection of the light. Small as stars, bu they were moving. I just used to sit on a car bonnet. Totally cloudless and cold. More like this time. Don't have to go far. Nice black sky. I've been looking at one of my philosophies. I believe that if you look into a sheet of paper and you go closer and closer and closer, the bumps on the crevices, things start to revolve around, infinitely you can look closer and closer and there are totally different worlds and the same going backwards, and we still can't go back enough.

FEZ: Goodbye Jerry.
Jerry: This is how many minutes and hours there are to Mars and Jupiter. You get out of the Solar System. Some of it is pretty mind-boggling. Five years at Light Speed is a pretty long way to Pluto. The Solar System is now a speck. It's a really cool thing to watch.

FEZ: Bye.
Jerry: It really puts things into perspective.

*

You probably haven't heard of me. Not many people have. But, then again, if you were around in the late 90s in London, there might just be a chance you recall my name; Pete Wilmott, celebrity and political writer on one of the big national UK papers. A few of my stories went global. Ring any bells? No, maybe not.
I was the correspondent on the now defunct paper, The London Herald (it's demise was nothing to do with me, I hasten to add). Look me up on Google sometime, you'll see the headlines featuring my byline: "Secret deal revealed: how the US bugged the Security Council," "Oil sheikh in cash for questions scandal," "Prince Charles caught red-handed: night of shame." Yes, that's right, they were all my yarns. I must say, I had a bit of a name for myself for a few years back then. I was living the high life, mixing with all the right types, snorting more gear than most people could ever dream of. Expense accounts, foreign holidays, hookers - it was all there for the taking, and fuck, did I take it.
Probably the reason you won't have heard of me is because the story that would have brought me fame and fortune never ran. It was spiked before going to press.
I live in Australia now. Nobody's managed to track me down since the incident. Except, for the guys at FEZ. FEZ man Wildside added up the pieces in the puzzle. He reckons it took the best part of six years research to find me on my remote South Australia farmstead. After a month of his hounding me, I agreed to give FEZ this exclusive.
The story begins about the time our circulation began dropping in '98. We needed a stake back in the market, to get those editions flying off the news-stands again. So things got dirty, very dirty. Our news team indulged in what is called in newspaper parlance as the 'Dark Arts'. This involved underhand tactics like trawling through celebs' and politicians' trash at night, bugging their phones and using beautiful chicks in 'honey traps' to lure politicians to bed to reveal all those juicy titbits.
But the scoop of my life was not down to any of those dirty tactics. Purely, it was down to being in the right place at the right time.
The night in question, I'd been on it all day. Whiskey and sodas, tequila, vodka shots, followed up by some grub down Soho. It was a balmy summer night in June.
I'd met up with some old pals down The Coach and Horses and we followed on to some sleazy little club where all the waitresses had their tits out and the patrons were all off their nut on drugs. It was about 8pm when I called the newsroom to see if any more copy was needed from me that night. As far as I was concerned, my working day was well and truly over. On the phone, the night editor told me to get over to Downing Street for an urgent press conference. "Fuckin' Hell," I screamed back at him. "What sort of clown do you think I am? Get some other prick to go." We argued for the best part of ten minutes, but I was getting nowhere. But I didn't really have a choice in the matter. I rang the missus at home, telling her I was going to be late and for her to give the kids a kiss goodnight. She wasn't surprised. Most nights, I fell through the door at some unearthly hour or other, if I turned up at all.
I hailed a cab, jumped in the back, and indulged in a little banter with the cabbie. He was going on about the Millennium Bug or something. It was as much as I could do to grunt in agreement. I wasn't feeling too good and ended up puking my ring up all over the back seat. Luckily he had the glass partition closed and didn't see the remnants of my curry oozing down the back of the seat. I jumped out at Downing Street, pitying the poor bastard who would be getting in the back after me. Pulling myself together, I showed my press card to the cops and huddled together with the five or six other journos all waiting for the call up. Hodges was there. He nodded hello to me and, in the way of small talk, started rattling off some crap about going to the Maldives for his next holiday. As if I gave a shit. And then there was Barker, trying to impress me with some story he reckoned the cops had given him an exclusive on. It was just like being in the playground again. Finally, we got the signal and shuffled into the press room where the big jug of water and biscuits had been laid out, like every other time before. I'd done these press calls so many times I was on autopilot. There was no question about being polite, which is why the dog shit I'd trodden in before I jumped in the cab, was now all over the plush beige carpet. That sort of stunt always amuse me in my dark hours.
Prime Minister Toby Shields turned up half an hour late as usual, dressed in that tired grey suit he had been wearing for the past year. He apologised for bringing us here at such an uncivilised hour on a Friday. "I am pleased you could all make it here tonight. It is with great pride that I wish to announce that my wife and I are expecting our third child next February," he said. "I would like to speak to the nation to ensure that the people of this great country realise that the love I have for my wife and children has no bounds. Such a loving, traditional family unit should be aspired to by every man and woman," he gushed.
I remember us all looking round at each other. What a waste of time it had been. A press release would have done the job. Hodges and Barker were first out the door as usual. Probably going back to the office to file copy straight away. I took one of the ministerial phones off the hook in the hallway and dialled through my copy from there. Simple, eh? If only it had been.
After such a big day on the piss, I needed the toilet. Right there and then. My arse was ready to explode. I'd been here in this building so many times, so I knew there was a loo on the second floor and told one of the aides, who said to give them a shout when I was done.
Fuck knows what happened. I must have passed out. Next thing I knew, I've got my head pressed up against the loo door, trousers around my ankles, shit all up the back of the cubicle. Obviously, more pissed than I thought then. I cleaned myself up, got myself together, and headed out into the hallway. Of course, trouble was, it was now gone midnight. Half the bloody lights were out and that aide who had been looking out for me was nowhere to be seen. I would have to press the wall buzzer and get a cop to show me out. So, I sneaked out into the hall. But, fuck, was it left or right from here? It all looked the same. Must be left, I reckoned, thinking back to my earlier entrance and reversing the direction. I crept along the passageway, but didn't have a bloody clue where I was. But, I could hear mumbled voices coming from one of the half-open doors along the way. I moved quietly on the carpet, venturing towards the sliver of dimmed light, until I was about six metres from the sound. It was coming from the room directly in front of me at the end of the hallway.
I dare not go any further. I had no intention of being caught snooping around the corridors of power at this deathly time of night. I'd probably kiss my career goodbye after this escapade anyhow. Instead, I pushed myself into a reveal of the door closest to the scene of the action and peeked along the hall. I looked to my left, directly into the room from which the sound had came. I will never forget the scene ahead of me. A mixture of sickness and unbelievable excitement took over. I tried to take in the magnitude of the situation, but to this day I know there is stuff I probably could not fully comprehend.
I was peering into a vast, cavernous room in which tapestries and manuscripts hung from the walls. At intervals along the wall, and about eight metres high, naked flames burned, all sinewy and orange, casting giant shadows. Ceremonial swords and daggers glinted in the flames. The floor was paved with flagstones at least a metre square, but the shadowy light stopped me from fully discerning where the walls ended and the ceilings began.
By now, my shirt was soaked through with sweat, but I dare not move, transfixed by this crazed vision. And then a cloaked figure moved into sight. The person was dressed head to toe in flowing white robes, with arms exposed. The figure turned around and there was no mistaking now who it was: Shields! Bloody Shields! Barefoot, he seemed tiny in comparison to his public persona. Perhaps he wore platforms. Mumbling repeatedly, it sounded as if he was uttering some invocation or other. Just out of eyeshot somebody handed him a mask, which he placed over his head.
Shields was now in some sort of trance. From beneath him an ornate stone bench table rose from an opening in the slabs, reaching waist height. Strapped to the table was a child of no more that 12 years old. A boy, I think. His mouth was gagged and his wrists and ankles bound by thick leather straps. He was totally naked. Shileds reached up to the wall for a dagger of indeterminable length. In front of him, the boy writhed helplessly, his eyeballs bursting at the sockets. And then it was all over. Blood, inky and glutinous, spewed from the boy's chest, the dagger embedded in his ribcage.
I'd seen more than enough and just needed to get out of this place before I spewed. I eased myself back, the way I came, feeling like Michael Caine on the coach in The Italian Job. One wrong move and the whole bloody lot would go down the mountain. I ran down the stairs to the front door, sweat pouring off me. I buzzed the switch, and security let me out. Once outside, I gasped a huge breath of damp London pollution into my lungs. Diesel fumes had never tasted so good.
But my problems had only just begun.
Next day, falling out of bed with a massive headache, I fixed myself a large coffee and thought about the previous night's events. I ran to the bathroom and retched. Then I rang in sick and began Googling furiously: Egyptian mask - the falcon head of Horus the Sun God, Child sacrifice - Masonic ritual, Toby Shields - Grand Master of the Westminster Lodge. I researched all day and into the night, leaving for work the next morning without having slept. After considering carefully my next move, I arranged to meet the editor. I told him the story and he looked at me blank faced, shaking his head in silence. Eventually, he murmured: "Wilmott, just drop it. This is going no further. Clear your desk and leave. Not a word to anybody." He was mates with the PM; his kids even went to the same school; what did I expect.
I packed my few possessions at work, jumped on the bus and headed home. I sat the wife down, told her everything and said it was best she and the kids go to her mother's for a few weeks, so I could get myself together. That night the phone rang at 2am. I reached down and lifted it off the hook. "What the f....." I blurted out. But before I had the chance to continue, a hushed, stern voice simply said: "Coming to get you."
That was all the warning I needed. It took me an hour to grab my passport, cash and cards. I drove to Heathrow Airport and boarded a flight to Ireland to stay with a mate, Tony, and let the dust settle. Arriving in the very early morning, I received a call from the wife. "Pete, the house was torched last night. There's nothing left. We've lost the lot."
But my wife was wrong. My dear Sandra and my kids, Jack and Jamie, were found in a burned out car on the outskirts of Hertfordshire two days later.
During the next couple of weeks, I made plans to head away, for good. I had some pals in Australia, and thought that would make a good place for the family and I to make our home for a while. But months turned into years and I decided to stay put. Funny thing is, you will never guess who lives down the road, about 200km or so; Lady Di.

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How's this for a conspiracy theory? It's all about the dope! Forget the oil and the conquest of the world, the real money's to be made in the drug trade. Entire countries, Afghanistan, for example, and the countries of the Golden Triangle in the recent past, are concentrating on the production of huge amounts of dope to sustain their struggling economies.
And their customers? You've guessed it, it's us in the developed West! The USA, Europe, Australia, Japan and a handful of others are the insatiable customers, the avid consumers of literally mountains of narcotics and other mind altering substances. For as long as we feel the need to escape from the pressures and pains of living by smoking, snorting, slurping, shooting and swallowing a pharmacy's worth of psychoactive substances, the producers will continue to feed our hunger.
I started mulling these thoughts in my mind after coming across a quote in a novel about the world opium trade: "Capitalism cannot survive without the drug trade". This simple quote got me thinking. How true was it? How much money did the trade in illicit drugs earn each year?
Afghanistan is a good example of a country that has little to export to the world's markets except heroin and it apparently supplies the major proportion of the heroin used worldwide each year. What interests me about this situation is the fact that Afghanistan has only reached the pinnacle of the heroin trade since the United States invaded and has been attempting to control the country. A very similar situation occurred in the Golden Triangle countries-Thailand, Laos and Burma-after the USA became involved in the Vietnam War.
Beneath the standard rhetoric about fighting terrorism and propping up world peace, people have been lead to believe that the main reason for the Americans to be in a country like Afghanistan is its proximity to the oil producing regions to the north, in particular, the Caspian Sea area. In the past, plans have come and gone regarding the pipelines to transport oil and gas from the wells to the ports whilst avoiding the territories beholden to the Russians.
Now I don't doubt that energy, be it oil, gas or whatever, is a reason for this action in Afghanistan, but as I've said it is impossible to ignore the drug trade. There are bound to be people within the American system who looked at 9/11 and the Taliban/Bin Laden situation as an opportunity to move in and influence the production and traffic of dope within the country. My basic understanding of such things is that there are small groups within the military and the various intelligence agencies who have become involved with the international drug trade and who use the massive profits resulting from such trade to finance the furtherance of their groups and to influence and pay for deals and deeds that may well go unnoticed and possibly unauthorised by regular government.
Mexico is another country that is experiencing unprecedented levels of violence and social unrest due to the involvement of many of it's citizens in the extremely lucrative drug production and smuggling industries. Mexico has long been a grower of reasonable quality marijuana and also manufactures much sought after pharmaceuticals such as barbituates, qualudes, etc. The proximity of Mexico to the cocaine producing countries of South America males it a vital link in the trafficking of these drugs to the US.
When one looks into some of the facts and figures relating to various aspects of the illicit drug business, it rapidly becomes apparent just how lucrative this business has become. Below are some statistics collected by the United Nations Office On Drugs And Crime and the USA's Office Of National Drug Control Policy. The value of the global illicit drug market for the year 2003 was estimated at US$13bn at the production level, US$94bn at the wholesale level (taking seizures into account) and US$322bn based on retail prices and taking seizures and other losses into account. The above figures show quite clearly that despite seizures and other losses, the value of the drugs increases as they move from producer to consumer. If compared to the global licit exports (US$7,503bn in 2003) or compared to the global GDP (US$35,765bn in 2003), the estimated size of the global illicit drug market may not appear to be particularly high (0.9% of the global GDP at retail level or 1.3% of global export measures at wholesale level).
However, the size of the global illicit drug market (GIDM) is substantial. The value, measured at retail prices, is higher than the GDP of 88% of the countries on Earth (163 out of the 184 that the World Bank has data for) and equivalent to about three-quarters of Sub-Saharan Africas combined GDP (US$439bn in 2003). The sale of drugs measured at wholesale prices was equivalent to 12% of global export of chemicals (US$794bn), 14% of global agriculture exports (US$674bn) and exceeded global exports of ores and other minerals (US$79bn) in 2003. Such sales of drugs were also higher than the combined total licit agriculture exports of Latin America (US$75bn) and the Middle East (US$10bn) in 2003.
There are more facts and figures to follow, but even those seen above go to show that there are huge fortunes to be made and much power and influence to be gained for those who are prepared to delve into the GIDM. Such profits make the so-called 'War On Drugs' seem like a pathetic, futile and fraudulent attempt to sway world opinion.
Governments, by throwing million dollar amounts at the problem, are seen by their constituents to be doing something about the scourge of drugs, but in reality, compared to the monies being made in the GIDM, they are barely scraping the sides of the barrel. In fact, corrupt politicians, police, intelligence agents and members of the military are becoming increasingly rich and powerful as they dabble in the dope trade.
In Afghanistan, as of writing, the brother of the president has been repeatedly named as an individual with connections to the opium/heroin business. President Karzai, whilst strongly denying such charges, has apparently done little to solve the problem. When such temptations can seduce generals and presidents who can blame the poor farmers who grow the poppies and other plants from which our drugs are sourced. In many instances they have little or no real choice in the matter, the only profitable crops being those that become drugs. Farmers often borrow money to purchase the seeds for next years crop from th eperson who will buy that crop and were the farmer to attempt to grow another product, he could expect to be punished because he is negatively effecting the profits to be made all the way up the sales ladder.
In 2004, a kilo of #3 grade heroin sold for US$1,600 in Afghanistan and a kilo of #4 grade heroin sold for US$4,000. In Pakistan in 2004, a kilo of #3 grade heroin sold for US$2,520 on average and a kilo of #4 grade heroin sold for US$4,076. Once again, we can see that the further the product moves from the producer, the more expensive it becomes.
In Columbia in 2004, a kilo of #4 heroin sold for US$10,149 and by the time that same kilo reached the US, it was sold for US$66,250.
Between 1989 and 1998, American drug users spent US$39bn to US$77bn per year on cocaine and between US$10bn and US$22bn on heroin. To arrive at these estimates we multiplied the number of users by their typical expenditure, and then converted the resulting estimates into 1998 US dollar equivalents. Prices for powder cocaine, crack and heroin declined sharply in the 1980s and have continued to gradually decline ever since, with occasional modest price spikes occurring and usually lasting for a year or less. Methamphetamine prices followed a similar pattern bu the price jumps were larger and lasted longer, particularly during 1989. According to the US Office Of Drug Control Policy, the cost of heroin at the retail level fell from an average US$1,974.49/g in 1981 to US$361.91/g in 2003. At the wholesale level, the drop went from US$1,007.60 in 1981 to US$139.22 in 2003. The average purity of heroin on the US market increased in that time as well, going, at the retail level, from an average of 11% in 1981 to an average of 32% in 2003, and at the wholesale level from an av. of 12% in 1981 to 46% in 2003.
Since the US moved in on the Afghan scene after 9/11, the country has become the world's largest supplier of heroin and the prices have lessened whilst the purity has increased. When the Americans initially arrived in country in force there was said to be a huge stockpile of raw opium waiting in storage for the best time time to convert it to morphine base and then into the various grades of heroin. This massive stash was not targeted and destroyed, but allowed to be moved to safer pastures to await refining. Quite possibly, such gluts were at least partially responsible for the price drops and purity increases when the product finally hit the streets of the US in large quantities.
As the war has continued in Afghanistan, so too has the production of heroin. Much has been said about solving the problem and many promises made, but talk is cheap and with so many reliant on the poppy for their income and power base and with a certain reluctance by the West to upset certain influential people, very little has been done.
With the world economic situation in the state it is at the moment, it would appear that in certain quarters, if not for the drug trade, things could be much worse. Quite recently, reports have been circulating from within related United Nations agencies that if not for liquid assets made available through drug trading, many more banks would have suffered further collapse. This appears to be further evidence of the importance to the economic system of the wealth generated by the drug trade.

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"2012"

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