Just a collection of things to help you to ask your own questions, find your own answers.
Male biology and women’s sport
Biology and sport, male biology competing in women’s sports.
I have to pause, that anyone could believe there is fairness in this after all the fighting for equal rights. Fight like cats and dogs and then we roll onto our backs passively, make women even less competitive than they ever were, yes I need to pause.
It’s all people, but Australian people, this intellectually handicapped country, they take stupid to a new level. Bloke on television, psychiatrist, arguing there is no difference, that it does not change the playing field. It was the last television I owned, years ago, I didn’t throw it or anything, just so repulsed I threw up a little and didn’t ever want to see another TV again (I have of course, but it comes with caution).
Simple experiment using professional athletes anybody can do, professional athletes so you know that this is a sustainable and repeatable study. You know the conditions are controlled, only a specific cohort are targetted, stages are monitored by medical professionals, records are kept. Without being peer reviewed we know this is peer reviewed.
The 100m sprint, start here, it is popular and easy to learn your researching skills. Search engine the women’s world record for the 100 metre sprint, you will get one answer, write this down.
I’ll help, 10.49 seconds by Florence Griffith-Joyner in 1988. This record has stood for 37 years.
Now, using that same search engine type in the top 10,000 men’s 100 metres sprint times.
Usain Bolt holds the record at 9.58 seconds ran in 2009, this record has stood for 16 years, getting on too.
Prior to 2009 the men’s record was broken repeatedly, almost yearly for a bit. Florence’s record replaced the one that had stood for four years by a lady named Evelyn, pre Evelyn the record stood for six years.
Where on the all time list of 100 metre times does the first women’s time sit?
At the time of writing I had to scroll to page 77 of the world atheletic’s all time list to eventually find that Florence sits comfortably and equally with 450 other runners at position 7660.
Gout Gout and another Aussie runner, but 17 year-old not fully developed Gout Gout in particular has pushed Florence/Women back further places. Absolutely smashed Florence’s peak of powers, peak of 100 metre women’s powers time.
It is the 100 metre peak of woman at this time, cannot argue until it is bettered. 9.58 is the peak of 100 metre man.
Serena Williams while at one stage being the most successful grand slam winner of all time was never the best player of all time, or even at her time. Serena said herself that she would be uncompetitive on the male tour, was surprised when she won a game off Federer maybe (may have just been points) in a fun exhibition match, she wouldn’t have won a game if it was serious.
In fact, I would argue, Serena at her prime would not win more than three games in a best of three set match against the current world 400 male player, whoever that is. Put whatever other current women’s player in place of Serena, all the same theory.
Unless it is Tomic or Kyrgios of course, these two sacks of wet fucking cement, the two biggest pieces of privileged arrogant pathetic pieces of shit to come out this country. And they have influence, holy moly, God help us all.
Kyrgios and Tomic, no two more perfect public examples of Wet Paper Bags in this world.
Nick Kyrgios and the inhumanity of the ATP tour
Nick Kyrgios, sack of wet cement.
Did I hear correctly? Did I hear that Kyrgios was complaining about inhumane conditions on the professional tennis circuit? Is this what I heard? Five-star accommodation, as much food as you want, air conditioning, hot water, cold water, clean water, access to gyms and training facilities, potentially getting paid millions at the end, likely already getting paid millions before stepping on the court, nobody shooting bullets at you or your kids.
Is this what I heard? I do not want to look it up, it is a waste of my time, everybody’s time listening to this tool. Kyrgios, for sure adds no value to this world.
Story time, so many to chose from, so so many places NIck should put his boots on the ground, stay there without his privilege on his back and then ask himself if the conditions that he is subject to are what he is trying to say they are.
I have a beautiful friend, McRoberts, it’s his real name. I worked with this bloke in Darwin at Catholic Care, he is 6 foot 4 or so, 105 kilograms maybe, easily noticeable that he is overweight. McRoberts jokes about his weight now, he doesn’t care that it isn’t as easy to get around as it once was, he is enjoying having abundant access to a basic safety necessity that for a long time he did not. It is clear he isn’t after any education on healthy diets, he is happy not having to fight to live anymore.
It’s enough, he is content with his life.
This man is beautiful, always smiles, is genuinely happy all the time, lives in gratitude to every moment of his new existence. A beacon of love, care and kindness in an environment that should be full of it but is lacking significantly.
Caveat here, the non-management staff at CCNT are, generally, ridiculously good at what they do. A few of the management too but as a collective the management in this organisation has no business being within the same city as vulnerable people.
McRoberts left South Sudan with a wife and a young child to escape violence, famine, a lack of access to clean drinking water. They went to a refugee camp on the borders of Kenya. Stuff, that our good mate Nick Kyrgios clearly knows something about, so much so these conditions are not inhumane like the ATP tour.
Refugee camp? More accurate, refugee city, there are tens of thousands of people in these things.
In the camp each family is allocated two kilograms of food per fortnight, I am almost certain it is one kilogram. One man, big man, his wife and a young child, two kilograms of food for two weeks.
McRoberts and his family were in the camp for over 10 years, it may have been over 15. By the time they received refugee status and were given the opportunity to come to Australia there was one man, a big man, his wife, a 12 year-old or so child and two more. The five of them were receiving two kilograms of food per fortnight.
While I write this, a think for themselves person will pick up some other key detail here. Refugee city, two kilograms of food for five people, terrible conditions, the family stayed here for over 10 years. The conditions, horrible conditions, horrible food insecurity was better than the conditions, horrible conditions and horrible food insecurity they left, this situation was an improvement.
I am not going to continue telling his story, really is just an introduction to life in a refugee camp from someone who knows it, knows inhumanity, knows it is not the professional bloody tennis tour. God, what an idiot.
Use your brain buddy. Be better, for the sake of everybody in your world, sadly stupidly influential world, be better. Look yourself in the mirror and say I need to be a hell of a lot better than I was yesterday, I’m a piece of trash.
The Australian Greens Party
The Greens party, environmentally friendly and all the rest, talking about spending up big on environmental policies, strategies, targets and many other words.
Yet, already, all over the place is being littered with their signs and the election date hasn’t even been called yet. To this point they have created more waste than Kathmandu and it hasn’t started.
I wonder how many of them have integrity written on those signs?
Moreon Photos
Photos, Maria, George and the people around them, a couple more things to say.
2022 Emma and I are at ther place in Alice Springs, trying to go for a bit of a walk but we are not walking at all. We take five steps, we stop, Emma takes photos for five minutes, we repeat, do this for an hour before I go my own way.
I am terribly bored.
Later that day we have a conversation, you are welcome to take photos Emma but I’m not going to join you. ‘But Fred, we need to take photos, they are important.’ Why?
‘Because when you are old and your memory is gone these will be the only things remaining of who you were?’ I’m not sure they are me if I don’t remember them Emma. The conversation went back and forth for a little while, no agreement was reached, no tense debate was had in the process.
It didn’t go anywhere because I didn’t really know how to explain myself at the time. I did too but I hadn’t reflected enough yet to truly understand my own position.
My position on photos, that they are not me when I do not remember them comes from the evidence in my world. Primarily the evidence that came with spending time with Oma and Opa in the retirement village. Secondarily, the time spent with you, all the people who have ever been in my life.
Watching the environment in a retirement home you see this all the time, families showing their loved ones photos of themselves from back in the day when they remembered who they were. Oma included prior to the cataracts surgery, Opa’s mind never failed him in this regard.
I would watch all of this, watch my Oma, none of these people had any idea who the people in the photos were, where the places were, what it felt like to be experiencing those moments. All the residents sat there with bored blank looks on their faces, most would nod off to sleep. Oma included.
After Oma had the cataracts surgery none of this stuff, photos and memories, came out, she was able to engage with us and we engaged back, real conversations, the best interpretation we could do. She never got bored, nodded off or looked for an excuse to leave unless we tried to bring the albums out again. Well, the exception of lunch and dinner, never seen a collective of old people move so quick. Meals were always a highlight of the day.
In normal interaction I have never sat there and shown people my photos from travelling, or even asked if they want to see. Occasionally I would write a blog depending on the circumstances and invite others to read it, but no expectation or care either way. Twice I did this. One with Anna when we went on our first big overseas trip together, it was the easiest way to keep her family informed and at peace knowing we were okay. The second the Solomon Islands with Sarah, this was fun to write, we had a great time.
I don’t offer because I have been the participant watching other people show photos, the participant when one of my partners has shown ours.
I watch the room during this, I see the faces of those not involved in the memory, they are the same bored and blank photos from the old folks home. Nobody is having a good time, there is no value in this, the photos take completely away from the stories.
The absolute point of travelling and life is the stories and the experiences, there is no story that comes with a photo, no experience worth talking about within a screen.
With Oma, and all my travel sharing, it is the stories and the conversation that held attention, invigorated the space, gave people purpose to be in one another’s company. We talk like this and energy enters the room, Oma stays, we don’t and we sap it of all life, just like a photo of the environment.
The tree without the photo is pure creation, life, love, giving and beauty. Within the photo it is a dead nothingness, it contains nothing of life.
Butterflies
I absolutely positively disgustingly desperately do not want to write this right now. The thought makes me sick to my stomach and my stomach is already struggling to process a good dose of mushies, yeah mushin’ buds.
The moment I wrote the Butterfly heading in DMT I knew I was coming straight here. I don’t want to be here, but just like the feeling of tossing me guts, I gotta toss this shit, move on, free up the trip for whatever comes next.
I hear many stories in my world, the social services world. Terrible terrible stories. But then, there is one that tops them all, this is that story, fucking disgusting.
I am setting the scene, I do not do many warnings but on this I do. But, also parent, you bloody well need to read it.
A three-year-old girl went to her parents one day, only just three, and asked them what is this thing between my legs?
The parents, after a little giggle and a discussion decided it was called a butterfly, rather than the more traditional description of vagina.
You know the outcome already don’t you?
A few months later the still three-year-old girl returns to her parents with a statement, Uncle has been playing with my butterfly and I do not like it.
Hahaha, ‘how pretty and beautiful you and Uncle getting along so well.’
Parents trust Uncle, loves that these two are playing butterflies together, they start to have date nights and Uncle is the babysitter.
I am not going to continue, this is enough, you know the outcome, you absolutely know it, I will go straight there.
Uncle repetitively raped niece, over and over and over and over and over and over and fucking over again.
He was allowed to do this raping because the girls parents did not treat her like a human fucking being. Can you imagine her life now? Can you possibly? I cannot.
The message is clear people, Uncle was not the only raper here, Mum and Dad equally raped their own daughter. One damn word, using the right word is the difference between what that woman is going through now and not having to go through it at all.
It is done.
One word, fucking hell, just the right damn word.