Harry and Meghan – a non – Monarchist’s Perspective.

Now I’m not a Monarchist – ever since the Queen refused to invite us in for afternoon tea at Windsor when my wife Ann and I called in. That being said, I do like and respect the Queen for how she’s carried out her duties – sure there was the hideous misstep when Diana died, which rather gave the game away in terms of self-belief of position etc, but overall, she plays the role well. I only hope, which of course she won’t, she’s written a tell-all memoir, it would, I think, be a devastating killer diplomatically.

Back to Diana’s death. It’s always been rather obvious you don’t fuck with City Hall, Diana did and indirectly, it killed her. The Monarchy is a very British Royal / Aristocracy club – you may be invited to come for dinner, or a quick root, but you will NEVER be given full membership.

I think the reason Charles was ‘directed to’ Diana, is the Family knew full well, inbreeding was rearing its fatal head.

Now it’s not all the Family’s fault – the pressure from media, government and society is incredible and the old safeguards protecting the royal family from prying media have long gone. The media lies, doctors and photoshops everything possible about the royal family, in what is a multi billion dollar industry – witness Charles telling Camilla in what he assumed was a private encrypted conversation, that he wanted to be her tampon back in the 1990s. Only a few years before that, any reporter and editor would have expected banishment forever, a hundred years ago, beheading. The mystic is gone – it was still there with Princess Margaret during her wild philandering days, it was still there with the G&T Queen Mother, but our world changed. An example of the change is to think of President Kennedy – ‘everyone’ knew he was screwing the pants off any good looking woman he came across (if you’ll excuse the pun), but nothing was said publicly. Thirty years later, they were impeaching a President for a blow job under the desk.

Birthright? Perhaps Dylan has the best description – A Simple Twist of Fate. Who we are, where we are born – country, silver spoon, poverty, skin colour, we have no say, no choice. We arrive in a sterile hospital room, or a blanket in a tent under a desert tree, helpless in every way. Your circumstance is something you accept as a child, whether it’s poverty, wealth, a royal family, religious discrimination (male or female), or abuse by a Catholic priest. For most of us, it’s not until we reach our teens, that we seriously question taught belief systems and express genuine doubts about our circumstances, indeed for most of us, those formative years are just that – they form the prison of our beliefs and comfort systems for years. Even violence can sadly become comfortable as an insane form of stability.

So we have two young boys who’ve lost their mum twice – once as she’s shunned by the Palace and finally when she dies in the sordid Paris car crash. It was a train wreck and still is. For those of us old enough to remember the footage, whatever your thoughts on the monarchy, the sight of those two boys walking behind their mum’s carriage was and still is, gut wrenching.

Anyone who has been part of a blended family, in whatever role, knows how fraught with difficulty it all is, the path is exhausting for everyone. How much more difficult would that be for two teenagers in the British Royal Family spotlight?

One of those boys, William, at least had some sort of a future career path mapped out – he would / will be King one day, but Harry would have realised he was forever destined to open flower shows and do nothing without Palace approval.

People are pointing out the differences between Harry and William as if to say Harry got it all wrong. What arrogant, unfeeling nonsense. Most of us have brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, grandkids, they’re all different, all marching to a different drum and we learn to love and appreciate them for who they are.

William always struck me as being as boring as bat shit, but a thoroughly decent bloke, who’s perfect for the role of future King and his wife appears to have been the perfect choice. They’ve produced the prerequisite heirs, now they just have to keep opening hospitals and flower shows, until Charles either steps off the perch, or the British public make it obvious,they won’t accept Charles as replacement for Elizabeth – if I put my PR hat on, my advice to The Family, if they want to remain relevant, would be for Charles to gracefully stand aside when the Queen passes on and allow William to become King.

Charles of course, has a sister and brothers, of whom we hear (from a commonwealth country perspective), very little, they are seemingly stuck in some groundhog routine of opening fetes and attending charity functions, all very laudable, but I think it would drive most of us mad. Worse. You’re born into it, you do your best to play the role / your assigned part and daily, the press and social media rip you apart as a leech on the public purse, if you so much as fart, it will be headlines, if not two monthly editions of some supermarket magazine,

Let us then consider ourselves in relation to our parents – are we the same people? Do we have the same belief systems – politically, religiously? What if Harry has done his best, but reached the conclusion that it’s nonsense and he doesn’t believe in a monarchy? Of course, he would still love his grandma and his family, but could he go on living a lie? Could you or I?

What if it was his uncle Andrew who finally ‘broke the camel’s back’/ What if he thought, “Christ, one more tawdry dickhead I’m supposed to smile in photos with. I just want to be with my wife and baby and earn an honest quid. I just have to get out of this.”

Something happened before Christmas, which brought this all to a head. I still think it would have happened, but not in such an obvious rush and I come back to Andrew’s fall from grace. The fallout also seems to have been with his father – tellingly, there are no words of affection or love for his father, plenty for the Queen and the family, England and his genuinely beloved military. Harry’s Invictus Games is a stand out of decency and compassion, something all governments lack when it comes to injured defence force personnel.

And don’t we love to hate a strong woman! Diana we loved, with her doe eyes, caught in the spotlight look, all while she was playing her own game of survival. Meghan has the temerity to be different – I mean, she’s a woman of colour and an actress! Can anyone imagine what it would have been like for her in the Palace, where every word, look, or dress has to be approved by the very people who in all probability didn’t approve of her? It doesn’t take much to imagine advisers telling the Queen and Charles that it didn’t really matter if Harry married a black American divorcee, as he’d never be King. What the hell has Meghan Markle ever done to deserve the snide odium?

Harry’s decided to get out. He doesn’t want to live off the public purse, his escape will take a little time, but he’s determined. I think that’s admirable. I like them both, I think they are the future, and an excellent example of a hard working couple to younger generations.

Greg Ross


A poignant on point cartoon from a Dutch Newspaper

I discovered Twitter in late 2012, as I prepared a quixotic attempt for election as an Independent in the WA State elections. Unexpectedly, Twitter has become my major source of 30sec grab news, replacing two daily newspapers and regular viewings of ABC news and current affairs. It has also replaced Letters to the Editor, as my preferred method of stating my opinion.

I guess I could be counted as a fierce keyboard warrior, as although I prefer civil debate, street fights with trolls and far left and right wild-eyed fanatics is really quite pleasurable. I like to kill them with politeness and fact, but if they get nasty, I’m on, although sometimes, when they’re too far gone, too rabid for reason, you do have to block. Something that’s easier to do online, than deal with the nut jobs (often self – professed Christians from Queensland), who, having spotted your letter in the newspaper, obviously look up the electoral role and send you 30 pages of photo copied conspiracy articles, all of which seem to end up with Satan, God and me locked in a battle I hadn’t previously been aware of. Yes Narelle, the nutters were always there.

Anyhow, you’d have to be isolated in solitary confinement not to know Australia is on fire and political debate and division is white hot, with deep division as to whether climate change has anything to do with the devastation facing the country and opinion on the associated performance of the current Prime Minister, Scott Morrison.

A left of centre, occasional swinging voter and card carrying Chardonnay Socialist, I have no qualms in admitting that while Bill Shorten didn’t exactly float my boat, the thought of more LNP government was anathema and Morrison seemed too daggy to take seriously. Like most of Australia, expect perhaps the inner sanctum of the Federal Labor Party, I was stunned by Morrison’s victory – I hadn’t realised the nation really didn’t like Shorten. Although of course, I should have, the polls had been telling us that for several years.

Enter Morrison as Prime Minister and my shrug of the shoulders acceptance slowly turned to utter disdain, I’d never quite come across anybody so smug, self – centred and incapable, in short, he began to make my skin crawl every time I saw him, still does, even more so after the last two to three weeks.

I haven’t exactly hidden my feelings on Twitter, as an aside, there’s a delicious irony in the fact that newspapers probably wouldn’t print most of my Tweets (especially these days when newspapers across the country, in the mad scramble for advertising income, are staunchly right wing), however, commenting on various newspaper Facebook and Twitter sites, many of which have paywalls, one quickly becomes a Top Fan, all of which is, once again, tied up with the mad scramble for advertising dollars.

Then this morning (5th January), as I was looking at a photo of Morrison with the NSW Premier and her Fire Chief and struck by the screaming body language of all in the photo  (anybody who thinks the two of them like / approve of, or wanted to be anywhere near Morrison, has rocks in their head, or writes for the Murdoch media), I realised Morrison had reached the point of being shamed into doing what the nation had been demanding. In other words, he’s now organised what he should have done several weeks, if not months back.

On that basis, I’ve concluded it’s time to call a halt to the attacks and let the rescue, in all its forms, continue. Those of us who can, must contribute with cash donations and offers of accommodation. My wife Ann and I plan to do just that on our return from Europe in the second week of January.

The issue then, is can we trust the Australian media not to let Morrison and his woefully inadequate mob get away with what has been sustained, deliberate belligerent and at times atrocious behaviour? It’s blindingly obvious that Morrison will (and is), desperately try to re-image himself as caring and a long time climate change believer, a lie, but he’s proven he’s comfortable with falsehood.

He has time on his side and he knows it, at the same time, Labor is still lost in the wilderness, with, to quote Bob Dylan, ‘no direction home.’ The Greens don’t count any more, their vicious machinations against Kevin Rudd have now deservedly come to bite them, along with their insane stand against fuel reduction burnings.

Having said that, we really have no idea what the long term implications of this almost incomprehensible disaster will be in terms of how Australians, in particular, those hundreds of thousands directly, or indirectly affected, will act with their voices and votes. If anybody doubts that, look how quiet the majority of politicians of all persuasions have become. The LNP will be banking on time being a healer, however the financial implications for every person, or business caught up in the maelstrom of the horror, are almost beyond belief.

I’ve been impressed and pleasantly surprised at how Ch 9 and Ch 10 have begun to ask hard questions of Morrison and his ministry – those that aren’t still hiding on Bali, a boat, or a white board somewhere. ABC journos, for the most part, still seem sadly and shockingly determined not to embarrass the government, although, to my delight, Ita has just come out swinging. The Murdoch media and the east coast shock jocks won’t change from their fierce neutral stance on Morrison and their equally fierce daily attack on anything Labor or Green. The inexcusable and by now ridiculous war Murdoch is waging on the ABC may come to bite them, given the role the ABC has and continues to play for people across the nation.  If the mood and the zeitgeist of the nation changes, Murdoch and the Jocks will come down on Morrison like avenging angels, screaming out the banal “We’re For You” already in daily use on tabloids across the country.

So what approach should somebody like me take, given that I think it’s vital to give our civil and defence services clear air? I think it wise, for the time being, to stop commenting on things, with the proviso that if Morrison and co drag things up, or a knuckle dragging fuckwit such as Sam Newman fires up, then the gloves must come off. The same goes for the ludicrous silver spooned Georgina Downer and there’s something called Chris Smith, not to mention the insidious IPA – can somebody explain why the hell they’re a charity? If any of these sorts arc up, then of course they must be countered. On the other hand, if any of them actually roll up their sleeves and help, they should be given accolades.

Which rather segues back to Morrison. His PR team must be made up of failed media studies students and sad drunks still sobbing over the loss of linotype machines, so bad is everything they orchestrate. However, I don’t think they will be able to help themselves, especially considering their boss appears to have zero understanding of brand and market perception. I think, sadly, we can expect more of the same, in which case, the Morrisons and Reynolds etc, are once again fair game. I haven’t included Abetz and Latham  – 24hr nursing care is the answer there.  Whether the Australian public is as stupid as Morrison’s mob thinks, is very much a question in waiting. But at this point, as I wrote at the start of this opinion piece, the federal government appears to doing what the Australian people demanded and desperately needed, so I’ll keep the muzzle loaded, but the safety catch on.

Which leads us to the aftermath of this nightmare – the fires, not the LNP Government! – when hope has returned and we,  the tax payers, have rightly helped fund recovery for everyone directly involved, including all fire fighters, from the beginning of this nightmare. “Funding?” You say. Now there’s the Elephant in the Room.

I believe the government is going to have to introduce a levy / tax on all of us, including the multi nationals etc who pay no tax. The reality is, it doesn’t matter which side of politics you bat for, no government can dive into the Treasury and come up with the sort of money needed to deal with a disaster of this magnitude.

In summary, repair, recovery and help, both financial and emotional, are the only things that matter now. However at some time in the future, we need, as a nation, to round in all these bastards who’ve played ideological games in the face of peer – reviewed science and desperate, pleading experts, all of whom have been proven so shockingly correct.  Hopefully we will, at that point, have a strong, alternative government, ready to lead, in healing our wounded land, flora, fauna and people.

Greg Ross

Perla Batalla – In The House of Cohen

The King is dead, long live the King – the passing of a monarch and his or her replacement is signed, sealed and delivered before the State funeral even takes place, but in music, tradition, blood lines, even talent, play no part in replacement. Indeed, one could argue very successfully, that you cannot replace Beethoven, Mozart, Pavarotti, Ginger Baker, Wes Montgomery, Sinatra, Bowie and so on. The list is growing and sadly, in the next decade or so, we will lose a plethora of brilliant 20th century musos, people such as Neil Diamond, Elton John, Paul Simon and Bob Dylan, although I half suspect Keith Richards will still be stabbing out riffs when my now teenage grandkids are my age!

For many of us across the world, these artists are the background to our life stories, we grew up with them, their music frames decades of now poignant memories. We’re all saddened when we read of the death of a favourite singer / muso, although often the news is softened by the fact that age has wearied them, they’ve either only done the occasional appearance performing old favourites in recent years, or haven’t performed for years and have dropped from public view.

But every now and then, the mould an artist produces new music right up till the Seventh Seal scenario, then the loss is palpable, even shocking, despite great age, which segues into Leonard Cohen.

Breaking almost every mould, he kept producing new material until the day he died, literally. What’s even more fascinating, is his voice got better with age, his new works were as lyrically profound as when he tentatively first put quavering reedy voice to vinyl. To put that in perspective, the only comparable talent,  his equal, (lyrically and musically), Bob Dylan, lost any semblance of a voice a decade or so ago and has resorted to interpreting old standards, sadly producing little if anything new in the last decade or so, that could be considered anywhere near the standard of his magnificent earlier decades of work.

Musically, Cohen collaborated with several people over the last twenty plus years – people such as Sharon Robinson and Patrick Leonard and by the time of his last two records – YOU WANT IT DARKER and the posthumous THANKS FOR THE DANCE, his song writing had become the reverse of the Elton John / Bernie Taupin relationship – Leonard supplied the lyrics and others supplied the melody.

For the millions of Cohen fans around the world, since his death in November 2016, the loss has been painful and whilst there are some very credible artists around the world doing Cohen covers – Nick Cave (Australia), Imperfect Offering (New Zealand), Rufus Wainwright and k.d.lang (Canada), Madeleine Peyroux (USA), Janerik Lundqvist (Sweden), Gerard Kettel, (Germany / Europe) and of course, Leonard’s son Adam – they aren’t Leonard. But for all that, we want the music to live and new generations to listen to and appreciate his work. So who best to keep the flame?

For male singers, the task is almost a no win situation. The natural vocal range for adult males is that of the baritone, as was Cohen, but trying to sound like him comes across as a cover act – often great to watch and listen to, but ultimately you’re not getting the real person – either the cover artist or Leonard.

Then we turn to female artists, which to some, may seem ludicrous. On the contrary. Cohen’s voice always benefited from and needed women’s voices, to add not just harmony, but that haunting beauty so often heard in his work. The women who have sung with him are justifiable legends in their own right – Jennifer Warne, Sharon Robinson, Perla Batalla and Julie Christenson, Michelle Phillips from the Mommas and Poppas, plus of course the beatific Webb Sisters.

Jennifer Warne and Sharon Robinson would appear the obvious choices, they each have incredibly beautiful voices and often ‘own’ the songs – Sharon certainly does – she wrote more than a few of them! Sharon is stunning on stage, her phrasing and understanding of the lyrics is profound. The Webb Sisters also have beautiful voices, but their English folk sound seems more suited to back – up than lead – that may change, as their voices mature with age and they continue to experiment with different genres. Then there’s Julie Christenson and Perla Batalla, Cohen’s back – up singers from the late 1980s through to the md 1990s. We last saw them sing together in the glorious 2005 Lian Lunson tribute film, I’M YOUR MAN. Nobody who saw that film could forget their emotion charged version of ANTHEM. Christenson’s musical path has moved away from Cohen and there seems little likelihood that she would once again immerse herself in Cohen’s work, Batalla however, has continued to actively interpret, sing, record and perform Cohen’s work, pausing during the immediate period after he passed away. Understandable, as they were close – Cohen was Godfather to her daughter. It’s Batalla’s voice that has often stopped me in my tracks, with her versions of Cohen’s songs.

Perhaps it’s her Mexican, Spanish influenced ancestry that gives her a wildness, a sensuality, a roughness and intensity, I don’t know, whatever it is, her version of BIRD ON THE WIRE has long been a killer and I had long wanted to see her live.

The opportunity came late this year, Perla had scheduled a series of her IN THE HOUSE OF COHEN concerts across Western Europe for late November / early December and we were scheduled be in Europe in early December (for Christmas and New Year). With the help of treasured close friends (Gery and Aad in Holland), we secured tickets for her concert in Antwerp on Friday 6th December.

De Roma, in Antwerp, was in many ways, the perfect setting for Perla’s concert – saved from destruction and restored by volunteers, there were parallels with Perla’s mission of support for Cohen’s work – the old world charm and art deco interior was an astoundingly good match for both Cohen’s majestic works and Batalla’s intoxicating Hispanic delivery.

She was backed by a three piece band – Marc Prat (bass), Lluis Cartes Ivern (keyboard, accordion and percussion) and Dimitris Jimmy Mahlis (oud), the setting was Cohenesque in its simplicity – background curtains and subtle lighting effects, plus dried ice smoke – curling above her shoulder like a highway perhaps?

The band was superb, dangerous territory after the stunning  perfection of Leonard Cohen’s band during his last years of touring and this was an audience of Cohen fanatics – an inferior, too loud a sound, or one mistake with one word in a lyric and social media would light up for weeks! But the band, Perla and her voice were stars.

Her voice is sumptuous, decadent, sexy, deep, haunting, soulful, tender and powerful, to pinch a line from Leonard Cohen, it’s almost like the blues. A sort of combination of Jennifer Warne and Janis Joplin, bloody magnificent, tinged with the Latin elements of fiery emotional intensity.

There were two sets of about 45 minutes each, with a decent half hour interval. I sensed this is a work in progress, it strikes me that Batalla has realised what she’s got and is no doubt refining and adding show by show. She performed a Mexican song of lament about Mexican men in the US missing their wives and families, it was very emotional for her, the band and the audience. She was crying and so were we. I immediately thought of DEPORTEE, she would break hearts singing that powerful song.

Perla has been recognised by the United Nations for her work on Social and Economic justice and her Mexican / Argentinian heritage and consequent musical influences, are very strong. Cohen, apart from the obvious pervading influence of Klezmer music, was himself heavily influenced by Spanish music and almost without fail, Cohen fans are classic social justice chardonnay socialists. I am certain Perla could add more Spanish / Mexican / Argentinian music and influences to this spectacular HOUSE OF COHEN.

She also intersperses the song list, with anecdotes about Cohen. Here, I thought she was being overly cautious – most of the anecdotes are in the public domain and well known to Cohen aficionados, consequently they didn’t come across as particularly personal, more a followed script. I suspect she’s being mindful and respectful of Cohen’s privacy, but I would suggest, with the publishing of books such as MATTERS OF VITAL INTEREST by Cohen’s life – long friend Eric Lerner, there is room for Perla to throw in more of her own experiences, without in any way disrespecting Cohen, or his memory. As an example, the time in 1988, when she, Julie Christenson and Cohen went with the film crew to Cohen’s house on Hydra, there would have been some interesting observations and when they came across Axel Jensen at the harbour, I’m sure Leonard would have said something later, over a wine or two. And there’s a thought – a bottle of Leonard’s favourite wine on stage, Perla could share a glass with the band and talk about it. As always, the little anecdotes intrigue and add validity.

Perla, my wife Ann and me

Back to the concert, Perla did all the Cohen songs the audience expected, superbly, then she tackled YOU WANT IT DARKER. Now I’m just a very amateur tinkerer on the piano, I have the sheet music to that song, it’s very difficult to interpret it in anything other than a monotone. This band and Perla, took the song and turned into a driving, almost Creole blues. It was exciting, it was brilliant. I’d been sitting there thinking, “Perla, you are bloody great!” Then they threw this into the mix and I knew. Perla Batalla is the Keeper of The Cohen Flame.

Buy her music and if by chance, she and her sublime band pass your way, go, just go to the concert, don’t miss it.


Greg Ross © 2019

Greta, DB and Journos

Greta travelling on DB’s ICE

I feel the need for a little rant. I don’t understand why people get so uptight about 16yr old Greta Thunburg – you often hear people saying “Kids these days are lazy, not interested, buried in the phones etc, etc”. This kid’s got into it. What’s wrong with that?

My suspicion is that if she was stunningly beautiful to look at, all those angry middle aged men would have quite different opinions and be far more indulgent. Uncomfortable thought isn’t it? Good.

Now, it’s the latest ‘news’ surrounding her train travel  through Germany that has me fired up, because main stream media, including the bloody ABC – I mean of course Sky News is going to savage her without investigating, but the ABC? – have attacked her without reason.

As most will know, she posted a photo of herself sitting on the floor of a train with all her luggage. I liked the shot, she was looking thoughtful at the end of her year long journey. She said nothing about DB (the train company), however the media across the world and DB read the picture as a reprimand about not being looked after properly and did they all go for her!

DB responded by tweeting that she travelled First Class with them and they were sorry she hadn’t seen fit to make that public – more grist for the MM mill!

She did in fact travel First Class, LATER in her journey, after somebody in DB recognised her, but at the point where the photo was taken, she, along with a lot of other people, had been put onto a different train, due to DB cancelling the train she was booked on and consequently, she had no seat as the train was completely overcrowded! More on that in a minute.

She would have been perfectly within her rights, to have tweeted the DB fuck up – I would have – but she didn’t, that wasn’t the purpose of her tweet.

Now, it’s patently obvious most journos in Oz, NZ, the USA and the UK are unfamiliar with the German rail system,  if they were, the story would hopefully – well, perhaps not with Sky News – have been quite different, but what is shocking, is all the lazy vicious pricks calling themselves journalists, did no fact checking or research. Indeed, the irony is, they have carried on in exactly the same way journos accuse people on social media of behaving. In the vernacular of SM, these journos are trolls.

As anyone who regularly travels on German trains can tell you, cancellations, train replacements, late arrivals and sudden platform changes are a daily occurrence.  Inevitably, when your train is cancelled, passengers are put on to another train and guess what? Yep, you loose your booked seats. Worse, more often than not, the replacement train (if there is one!), is smaller (less carriages) than the one you were booked on, so there is little hope of finding a seat. People end up sitting on their luggage in the doorways – JUST LIKE GRETA!

German rail travel is brilliant, but it is often chaotic and I have noticed that German rail officials (conductors etc) are usually paralysed in such situations – they keep walking and ignore the chaos around them. I suspect it’s because Germans are so used to ‘order’ that they simply have no training / instinct to deal with failure. I should point out I’m not saying that as criticism, purely on observation of culture.

And as if to reinforce what I’m writing, two hours ago, (Monday 16th December), here in northern Germany, I took my wife and mother in law to the station (they’re off on a four day holiday). When we got there, a detailed announcement was made, telling everyone waiting to catch the Bielefeld train that they needed to be on the next platform (150m away). Everyone (commuters and travellers) dutifully trudged along to that platform.

Then a train arrived, marked Beilefeld, at the platform where everyone had been waiting! No further announcements.   Passengers talked amongst themselves, then everyone decided to rush back. Sure enough, that was their train. The driver popped his head out the window and asked a passenger what was going on! Welcome to daily train travel in Germany. Indeed, as I was editing this tale, my wife rang to say the train out of Bielefeld had been delayed, they’d been put another train that was slower and they would therefore miss the next connection.

There are lessons here for main stream media, although most are too arrogant to accept it, but perhaps you’ll begin to understand why we don’t trust you anymore.  

Greg Ross

Cohen’s Last Dance

When Leonard Cohen passed away three years ago, I felt a bitter sweet sense of relief. My wife Ann and I briefly met him the morning after his last concert in Perth (November 2013) and were shocked at his physical condition. The ultra-cool ageing rock god from the previous night had morphed into a small, frail, unfailingly courteous, but exhausted old guy. There was a telling exchange of eye contact between his personal assistant (Kezban Ozcan) and me. I wanted desperately to entreat him to stop and go home, but I didn’t and she eventually said “We have to go, the bus is waiting.” He smiled wanly and was gone.

Then in 2016, the wonderful Leonard Cohen Forum biennial meet-up was held in gorgeous Amsterdam and attendees were treated to something very special – Leonard had given permission for us to hear his new album YOU WANT IT DARKER before its release and producer / singer / song writer Patrick Leonard was there to take our questions.

The album was a startling revelation, an obvious good bye, with one song a salute to his lovers, his family and friends and his legion of long term fans – YOU GOT ME SINGING. I think all of us in the audience were stunned at the bleak beauty of the album and its clear message of farewell. At that point, most of us were not aware of just how close to death Leonard was, or the toll his battle with leukaemia had taken on him, he was indeed ready to leave the game.

Three months later, we awoke to hear that Leonard had moved on some two days earlier and following his strong Jewish faith, had been buried the day before in his beloved home city of Montreal. There was a hole in our world, but we had the music and the memories. Patrick Leonard had hinted at other works in the pipeline – orchestral variations and poetry readings, but with Leonard gone, there seemed little chance of anything seeing the light of day. In a way, the feeling for me these last three years, has been that it was final, but strangely unfinished.

Then some months back, came news of a new album that his son Adam was producing. I must admit I winced a little at the prospect, ungraciously worried that it might be a piece meal mish mash of discarded material put out for profit rather than posterity.

How wrong I was. Adam has done his father proud. THANKS FOR THE DANCE is simply beautiful. Stunning perhaps best describes it. Others will write of that messianic baritone filled with age and a wavering timbre of finality, but for me, this is the perfect finish. The tome I first opened in early 1968, as a 17yr old boy and have studied ever since, has now been read to the very end. The feeling is rather like that beautiful ending in the last of Peter Jackson’s Lord of The Rings trilogy, where they set sail forever.

To Adam, Javier, Jennifer and all involved, you have done the master proud, thank you all for this final dance.

Greg Ross

All Photos, apart from the album cover, by Greg Ross (c)

Ron Howard’s PAVOROTTI

We have much to thank the Italian town of Modena for – Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, the world’s best Balsamic Vinegar and Pavorotti, quite apart from a wonderful medieval history!

Mea culpa – I love opera, well, Wagner excepted, I’ve been fortunate enough to see Pavarotti, even meet him briefly, in fact if I allow the shameless name dropping to continue, I’ve met two other people featured in this documentary – Placido Domingo and Guiseppi Di Stefano, but enough of desperate attempts at self-promotion.

I didn’t know what to expect of this film, but I love Pavorotii’s voice and Ron Howard as a director, indeed Ron Howard introduces the film, welcoming Australian audiences in a short video clip at the start of the film. It is a documentary rather than a movie, deliberately staged in an operatic style, using concert footage over the years and it works, I found it utterly riveting, poignant, funny and moving. Perhaps more importantly, so did my wife Ann, who is not an opera person.

Fear not, this is no glossy tightly controlled attempt to create the new Messiah, it’s beguilingly honest featuring sometimes searing interviews with his family, faults are not glossed over. What comes through, is a driven, very human, funny, warm bloke with a voice gifted by the Gods.

I really liked this bloke, I would have loved to have dined and wined with him long into the night. I don’t want to spoil the film by going through various scenes, all I can say, is if you love music and theatre go, just go. In fact, I would take kids, who may have absolutely zero interest in opera – U2 will keep them happy. I defy anyone to sit watching and listening to Pavorotti, Domingo and Carreras sing (and interact) Nessun Dorma without tears rolling down their cheeks.

Pavorotti is to be released in cinemas on October 24th and I’d have to give a plug for the lovely art deco Windsor Theatre in Nedlands, part of the Luna Cinemas Group and the wonderful all singing all dancing Theatre Manager – his short, but in tune rendition of O Solo Mio as he flung open the doors was in the very best of theatre tradition, all that was missing was the Wurlitzer rising from the stage.

Many thanks to The Saturday Paper for the tickets – support for independent newspapers (and cinemas), has never been more important.

Greg Ross October 2019

Labour Hire Nightmare!

The System is Bullshit!

I woke up the other night, covered in sweat and screaming from a dreadful dystopian nightmare about FIFO work in a ‘Sliding Doors’ alternate world. It’s taken me a day or two to realise it’s not real and couldn’t possibly happen, in fact, it’s actually so off the planet and stupid, I thought I’d share it with everyone.

It all seemed familiar – lying on my bed in the donga, looking at jobs on Seek, when a half way interesting job popped up. ‘MC Driver FIFO 2/1, excellent pay and conditions, apply now,’ I did.

Next thing I know, I’m outside the offices of Concheater Labour Hire. It really was very impressive, pot plants and uniformed officious office girls everywhere. An imperious young woman sneered at me and said “How can I help you?”

I mumbled that I had an appointment to see a Wattic Hunt. “Take this file, sit over there and fill them out”.  It was quite strange, there was a quarter of a page dedicated to previous experience and four pages dedicated to any previous “This Prick Got Injured at Work” claims. (You can already see how removed from reality this is – prospective employers in the real world are not allowed to ask about prior claims).

Writing NA across those four pages, I signed the paperwork with a flourish and took it to the counter. A very busy receptionist interrupted her phone call and in a complete change of tone (she’d been talking up the benefits of Concheater to somebody) frowned at me and said petulantly, “Sit down over there (pointing with a ballpoint to a seat opposite), Mr Hunt will be with you shortly!”

I felt I should have apologised for being there, but didn’t want to take up any more of her precious time, so I meekly sat and waited as instructed.

“Greg? Good to see you, c’mon in, I’m Wattic Hunt.” I was fascinated, I was sure I’d met his twin brother at a used car yard in Victoria Park. We sat down in a boardroom – phones and laptops in the middle of the oval table, very plush chairs and water and glasses. Wattic was smiling at me. “Let’s have a look at your file” and so saying, he scanned through the pages. Then looking up at me, in a very serious tone, he said, “Our client is a major transport supplier to the mining industry, the position is only for the most experienced operators, so, what have you driven? Three trailers, four, or just two?”

I couldn’t resist, though I knew I should, “I must admit I’ve never driven trailers, only prime movers.” Wattic looked incredulous, then fixed me with a stare.

“We take our work very seriously, Concheater has a name as the number one supplier of experienced labour to the mining industry. We only hire the best and most professional people!”

“I’m with you,” I replied, “That’s why I corrected the mistake. Five.”

Wattic put his pen down and looked at me, completely puzzled, “Five?”

“Five trailers,” I replied, “One of them a power trailer.”

“We don’t have five trailers listed,” he said suspiciously, “And our client is a major provider of transport solutions to the mining industry!” I could see that not only was my humour not going down well with Wattic, but also his knowledge of the industry was wanting. “Were you a road train driver before?” I asked.

“No, my expertise is in the vital areas of Health and Safety and Human Resources,” Wattic somewhat disdainfully replied. I should have left then, but for some mad reason, I seemed glued to my seat. “So you’ve driven Kenworths and Roadranger boxes I see? And you’ve done FIFO work before, from your records?”


“When could you start? Our client has vacancies available immediately.”

“Well, I could start next week, if that was required, can I ask who the job is with?” Wattic looked across at me, then, with a tone inviting applause, he said, “The position is with Rollover Logistics at Wattafuckup mine site, you’ll be carting unprocessed bulldust on a haul road to the railhead, Concheater are the preferred supplier, should you prove suitable, at some point, you will be offered full time employment!”

“Sounds good,” I replied, “What’s the hourly rate?”

“$39.00, it’s 12hr shifts, 2/1, we pay weekly, you get your timesheet signed by the Rollover Logistics supervisor and faxed through to our office.”

“Hang on,” I said, “Drivers for Rollover are paid $40.00per hour and they get holiday and sick pay, I assume you’re not paying that?”

“Certainly not!” he indignantly said, “You’ll be casual labour hire on one hour’s notice, this is your chance to join a reputable company!”

“So you can fire me with one hour’s notice?” I said

“Of course!” replied Wattic, “This is the modern era of supply and demand and the other big advantage for you, is that you only need to give us an hour’s notice. You’ve got nothing to fear and everything to gain, you’re at the vanguard of the future for the mining industry, free to work where and when you want, soon everyone will be working under this system!”

“Are you on this system?” I asked.

“Of course not!” replied Wattic, “I’m management, you’re labour, this is labour hire remember, the system is both cost and staffing efficient, everyone loves it.”

A thought occurred to me, “What happens when the site is rained out? Do I get paid?”

Wattic smiled wearily at me, “I don’t think you understand Greg, we’re talking about efficiency and the use of resources, if it rains, you don’t work, therefore you don’t get paid, what could be fairer than that? If the rain sets in for two or three days, we stand you down.”

I looked at him, “Wattic, on a mine site, you have to report for work, blow in the breath tester and sign on. You then wait until a decision is made about work. That can be three or four, maybe more hours later.”

I could see Wattic was becoming impatient with me, “Greg, if you’re sent back to the camp after three or four hours, you won’t have done any work will you? There’s TV to watch, go to the gym – you could do with losing some weight. Come to think of it, we’d better book you a medical. Now we like to think we treat our people fairly, we book the medical, you pay for it, the cost is about $650.00 – see the girls at the desk, they’ll take your credit card. If you fail, well, that’s your problem. But! If you pass, after working for us for three months, we’ll refund the cost to you! It doesn’t get much better. Oh, did I mention that you get three shirts, which of course you have to pay for if you leave before three months is up.”

“Hmm,” I stammered, “Do I get pants, a jacket, boots and water bottles etc?”

“Greg!” said the by now thoroughly exasperated Wattic, “I’m offering you a chance to work with a major player in the Australian mining industry, you have to understand, you need to contribute yourself.”

I looked at Wattic, “Mr Hunt,” I said, “From what I understand, you’re offering me a position where I’m on one hour’s notice of being retrenched, working for $1.00 an hour less than the fulltime people I’ll be working with, doing exactly the same job. They’ll get holiday pay and sick pay, but I won’t and I’ll have to supply most of my own PPE and pay for my own medical?”

“Don’t forget the super!” He smiled triumphantly, “You get paid super on 38 hours per week!”

“Hang on”, I replied, “Isn’t it a 12 hour shift, seven days a week, two on, one off?”

“That’s correct,” said Wattic, “That’s a lot of money at $39.00 per hour!”

“But I’ll be working an 84 hour week, not 38 hours!”

“Greg, Greg, Greg!” said Wattic, shaking his head, “You’ll be working on penalty rates, so under Australian Federal law, you’re only entitled to super on 38 hours a week. I tell you what, how good is the Liberal Government! Business mate, business!  That’s why we’re able to offer these wonderful opportunities to people such as yourself. And your fellow workers voted for them, they could see the benefits of changing to labour hire, everybody wins. I tell you what the Church should replace the Virgin Mary with Michaelia Cash, how good is she?”

“Ah,” I replied, thinking I’d understood, “So I only get super on 38 hours, but I get penalty rates, so, everything over 7.5 hours is time and half and double time etc, that’s fair on the $39.00 per hour. I’ll accept that.”

Wattic leapt to his feet. “Mate, what the hell are you playing at? I can see why you’re a truck driver, this is all a bit too much for you. Let me explain.” He sat back down, the sweat still visible on his brow. “Your pay rate is the very generous $39.00 per hour, that is made up of a base rate of $29.50 per hour, it’s amortised and rounded up to the $39.00.”

I sat there dumbfounded. “Mr Hunt, you’re telling me my actual rate is $29.50 per hour, working FIFO at a mine site for two weeks? I can earn $33,00 an hour plus penalties driving a road train around Perth, why the fuck would I accept your offer? It’s bloody theft!  I tell you what Mr Wattic Hunt, Concheater are cunning as shit house rats, labour hire is a term for ripping working people off. You bastards want years of experience before you’ll even consider anyone, then you offer them $10.00 an hour less than an MC driver can earn driving around Perth?” By now I was aware I was shouting, banging the boardroom table with my fist, Wattic was calling the police, alarms were ringing and two burley security guards came barging in, “What’s up bro?” one of them called out. I yelled back, “This world is fucked, it’s bullshit!” They closed in on me.

Next thing I know, my wife is stroking my head, saying, “Calm down, you must have had a nightmare, it’s OK!” and she gave me a kiss. I told her what I’d dreamt, she laughed and said, “No chance, this is Oz, the land of the fair go.”

Greg Ross

© 2019


12 months ago, (19th August 2018), I experienced the worst flight of my life, with Etihad, from Abu Dhabi to Perth.

What a cock up of an airport is Abu Dhabi, a total shambles!  In the transit lounge, people from many flights, queued up to be x-ray security processed, with nowhere near enough facilities to accommodate the sheer numbers, although it was interesting to observe that anyone obviously Arabic ( in dress), was waved through ahead of everybody else. Announcements, in strangulated English,  were, like instructions in Chinese-made assembly kits, illogical and headache inducing. Passengers would look at each other with “WTF?” written all over their faces.

Finally through to the departure gate, then onto a bus transferring us to the aircraft, as we boarded the plane, we found the air conditioning wasn’t running, worse, we had to wait an extra 50 minutes for people who were caught in the transit lounge melee.

Then life got interesting. A woman came down the aisle, stopped were I was sitting and looked at me in obvious wide-eyed panic. Though not dressed to indicate her faith, in what I think was a strong Turkish accent, she stood in the aisle saying the seat next to me, the window seat, was hers, but I would have to go somewhere else. “Ah why?” said I. 5/1″ in all directions, she literally started to shake and tremble, calling out to crew members in an increasingly terrified voice, that I needed to be moved.

Two crew members rushed over. I said I wasn’t moving and that I specifically wanted an aisle seat, as it was the only way you could get any air on their air ventless planes, never mind the stark reality that the air conditioning wasn’t working! I did feel sorry for the crew, they were nice people. They found a seat for her (the plane was about 80% full). As they moved her, I said, “For God’s sake, please don’t put anyone beside me!” They smiled and didn’t.

And still we sat in about 40c with no ventilation. The Captain was a serious Arabic sort of chap, definitely not a relaxed, Pom, Yank, Kiwi or Oz, announcing there was a delay – we knew that. By now, agitated, hot, stressed people were using the in-flight magazines as fans. An engineer (his vest said so), came on to the plane three times. Now and then a trickle of more passengers would arrive, as they were cleared through the bloody transit lounge.

Then the coup de grace – two Australian women got on board, one, the original bogan – surely she’d got lost in the transit lounge at Denpasar and found herself in Abu Dhabi? As luck would have it, they sat in the seats in front of me. Then Bogan got up, said, “It won’t fucking fit!” and started kicking the bags she’d put under the seat in front of her! I don’t think the crew knew what to do – they, like the rest of us, just gaped. The ugly Australian in full performance mode.

Eventually Bogan sat down and said to her friend, “I still feel terrible.” Then she began to cough and splutter, “I hope I make it!” she said. I silently hoped for quite the opposite.

The plane took off, but it took around 40 minutes for the temperature to come down to bearable. Dinner was served, along with copious water – we were all dehydrated.

Immediately after dinner, Bogan, without so much as a polite word, or nod to me, lay her seat right back. Then the cretin lent forward to see her screen – there was nobody in the seat in front of her, so she had all the room in the world. I called for more wine. Thinking, ”God, she’s allowed to vote and might even reproduce!”

About an hour later Bogan stood up and promptly collapsed in the aisle. Crew members rushed over and started giving her oxygen, then dragged her up to the gallery area. I must admit I did think, “Oh, she’s not going to make it!” Then I thought, “Oh God, they’ll go back to that hideous airport! Live bitch, live!”

She did. They moved her friend and she lay down across the two seats, moaning, coughing and perspiring.

About three hours out of Perth, I began to feel unwell, worse, it became obvious things were a bit queasy below and I was haunted by the thought of running for the loo, dying of embarrassment.

Somehow, with the aid of water and Ibuprofen, I got through. As we flew over Perth, said Bogan told her friend, who had now rejoined her, that she was feeling much better. I bloody wasn’t!

Bogan was first out of her seat, long before we’d finished taxiing. She actually got down on the aisle, on all fours, complaining to her friend that everything was jammed in under the seat!

I passed her in the airport arrival corridor, she’d stopped walking and was breathing heavily and moaning, her friend was nowhere to be seen.

Eventually, we’re all at customs, Bogan saw her friend ahead of her and called out, “I’m not feeling well, I feel faint!”

All hell broke loose, as border patrol people came running. “Are you feeling sick? Where’s your card? You’ve written down you’re feeling fine, has this just started? You fainted on the plane?! Right, you’re coming with us!”

If I ever see Bogan, or Etihad, or Abu Dhabi again, I swear I’ll kill!

Greg Ross


Nobody could remain unmoved by the hideous morass of the Israel / Palestine conflict, a nightmare with no end in sight. The situation appears to be out of control, in terms of leader intransigence on both sides and that leads to the curious refusal of so many, to see the issue as anything other than Israeli bullying and warmongering, conveniently ignoring the stark reality that Arab nations have called for the extermination of Israel since it was founded and in various guises, terrorist organisations,most recently, the PLO and now HAMAS, have constantly sought to use terror attacks as their preferred methodology. That an Israeli warlord, such as Netanyahu should rise to power in the face of decades of terrorism, should surprise no one, yet Israel stands condemned, while HAMAS is almost seen as a peaceful organisation!

Seemingly intelligent thinking people appear completely blind to fact, choosing to see one side only. Pink Floyd founder, Roger Waters is perhaps the most prominent in portraying Israel as the ‘Monster’ of the conflict. His hatred of Jews and Israle is almost Nazi-like, yet here is a man, whose heart is undoubtedly in the right place – he cares about people, but he’s blindsided by deep hatred. His position of power, as an incredibly gifted rock god, is adding to the shocking rise of anti semitism across the world. He calls for other musicians to boycott tours to Israel, failing to understand that the very people who attend those concerts, are not Netanyahu supporters, they are the very people best placed to help bring resolution to the situation.

There are no simple answers to conflict within the region – the English and the Americans, in recent times, aided by Australia, have contributed insanely to the on-going instability throughout the region, politics and oil have created bizarre, dangerous liaisons, with the western world, inevitably led by the US, prepared to overlook violence, as part of whatever deal is going, whether it be for oil or military access and bases. Yet Israel is portrayed as the violent regime of the region.

I call bullshit. Does anyone genuinely imagine they would enjoy the same safety, freedom and civil rights in Palestine, or Saudi Arabia for example, than in Israel? Next time you’re on an Arab Airline, have a look at the screen in-flight maps, Israel does not exist. Imagine if you’re an Australian, or English, or American and your country wasn’t on the map, you’d be a touch stupid, if you didn’t understand the subtext of the message.

I am not an Israeli, nor am I Jewish, I do have the pleasure and honour of having some lovely Israeli friends. I vividly remember holding the shaking arm of one friend, when she found it too hard to descend the many steps down the Nazi built Waldbuhne Stadium in Berlin. We were all there to see the wonderful Leonard Cohen in concert. She had come from Israel to see the concert, but the Nazi stadium was terrifying to her – the sound technicians were actually sitting in what was once Hitler’s private box.

These are a people who desire peace, but having survived the unbelievable  extermination practices of the Nazis, twill never allow themselves to be persecuted and murdered again, yet that is still the avowed goal of many Arab nations, certainly the leadership of the atrocious murderous thug organisation known as HAMAS.

Yesterday that same lovely, gentle lady reacted strongly to a Facebook post, accusing  Israelis of being mass murderers, with the following post. An accusing, biased world needs to read her words and understand both sides of this conflict. This is her response, it was written on 23rd May 2019.

The finger on the “share button” is so easy, isn’t it? It would be advised to take an unbiased stand and perhaps ask an Israeli what’s the situation with Gaza — an Israeli would tell you that although Israel pulled out of Gaza in 2006, 13 years ago, to the last inch, The Southern part of Israel is under continuous shower of thousands of deadly rockets fired from Gaza.

An Israeli would tell you that it takes a rocket 15 seconds from launch in Gaza will it reaches Israel. 15 seconds to run for your life and find shelter. Day in day our, for 13 years. 

The finger on the “share button” is so easy, isn’t it? It would be advised to take an unbiased stand and perhaps ask an Israeli what’s the situation with Gaza — an Israeli would tell you that although Israel pulled out of Gaza in 2006, 13 years ago, to the last inch, The Southern part of Israel is under continuous shower of thousands of deadly rockets fired from Gaza.

An Israeli would tell you that a mortar shell takes only 10 seconds, and ask you to try and run for your life in 10 seconds.

An Israeli would tell you that upon pulling out of Gaza, Israel has left standing thousands of acres of fertile greenhouses, for the Palestinians to use for building livelihood and life. And then would ask you if you know that the Palestinians burnt them all down to ashes because they were “from the Jews”?

An Israeli would ask you if you know that the millions of Euros and Dollars of aid money pouring from all over the world to Gaza is used by Hamas, a terrorist organization which publicly calls for the destruction of Israel, to build infrastructure, but not the kind you have in mind. Not hospitals, not schools, no childcare clinics, no, only death tunnels, through which ammunition is smuggled to fire more rockets towards Israel.

An Israeli would send you to read about Hamas, and the Coup they launched in 2007, to take the reins from the Palestinian Authority, how they shot hundreds on the streets, through many other hundreds from the rooftops, and shot the knee caps of everyone whom they considered “a collaborator”.

An Israeli would tell you how it hospitalizes hundreds of Gazans who need medical care and can’t get it because money is used on death instead of life.

An Israeli would ask you, what would you do if you were sitting in your Florida home and Cuba fire rockets at you — would you be sitting in your home and do nothing or defend yourself?

This Israeli asks you to be more careful with the information you are sharing. I educate myself deeply about American politics before daring to comment on it. So please do the same. Thank you.

Addition: It’s now 4pm in a 42C day. Since the morning, 15 burning flying kites have been launched from Gaza over the border, immediately igniting massive fires that burnt down the entire wheat fields of the area (harvest was due only next month) and they’re so bad, they started evacuating homes.

I took my title from Bob Dylan’s song, the lyrics herewith:

Neighborhood BullyB

Well, the neighborhood bully, he’s just one man
His enemies say he’s on their land
They got him outnumbered about a million to one
He got no place to escape to, no place to run
He’s the neighborhood bully.The neighborhood bully he just lives to survive
He’s criticized and condemned for being alive
He’s not supposed to fight back, he’s supposed to have thick skin
He’s supposed to lay down and die when his door is kicked in
He’s the neighborhood bully.The neighborhood bully been driven out of every land
He’s wandered the earth an exiled man
Seen his family scattered, his people hounded and torn
He’s always on trial for just being born
He’s the neighborhood bully.Well, he knocked out a lynch mob, he was criticized
Old women condemned him, said he should apologize
Then he destroyed a bomb factory, nobody was glad
The bombs were meant for him. He was supposed to feel bad
He’s the neighborhood bully.Well, the chances are against it, and the odds are slim
That he’ll live by the rules that the world makes for him
‘Cause there’s a noose at his neck and a gun at his back
And a license to kill him is given out to every maniac
He’s the neighborhood bully.Well, he got no allies to really speak of
What he gets he must pay for, he don’t get it out of love
He buys obsolete weapons and he won’t be denied
But no one sends flesh and blood to fight by his side
He’s the neighborhood bully.Well, he’s surrounded by pacifists who all want peace
They pray for it nightly that the bloodshed must cease
Now, they wouldn’t hurt a fly. To hurt one they would weep
They lay and they wait for this bully to fall asleep
He’s the neighborhood bully.
Every empire that’s enslaved him is gone
Egypt and Rome, even the great Babylon
He’s made a garden of paradise in the desert sand
In bed with nobody, under no one’s command
He’s the neighborhood bully.Now his holiest books have been trampled upon
No contract that he signed was worth that what it was written on
He took the crumbs of the world and he turned it into wealth
Took sickness and disease and he turned it into health
He’s the neighborhood bully.What’s anybody indebted to him for?
Nothing, they say. He just likes to cause war
Pride and prejudice and superstition indeed
They wait for this bully like a dog waits for feed
He’s the neighborhood bully.What has he done to wear so many scars?
Does he change the course of rivers? Does he pollute the moon and stars?
Neighborhood bully, standing on the hill
Running out the clock, time standing still
Neighborhood bully.