I recall a blog I wrote 10 years ago in reaction to advertisements which appeared on my page and which seemed to relate to the contents of the blog. Well, I suppose that’s old hat nowadays – that’s how social media marketing works.

That blogblurt was quite innocuous; although the title contained the words “weapons” and “campaign” and it did mention that the Man could be foolish. On my next visit to the site, I noticed an ad tag in the header: “Conservative Politics”.
Now, I had only one blog friend then, who hadn’t had a blog in months.   

Why and how was I so identified?
My conclusion is that it was done by machine, which I resent.

Politics are matters of the heart as much as the head. I do not believe that the intent of the intertwining recipe of intellect and emotion can be discerned by machine.

I cannot deny the utilitarian value of stereotypes; but I can resent it.
(Tough tofu, you word weed wimp – you are what you are labelled; machines don’t recognise slimy grovels… do they?)

Soo, check my tags out next week, let’s see if I garner any more Big Bro interest and labels.

Get off my back, Jack – political values change, like people; tolerance is elastic and the centre moves!
I am unique & and reject your label.
Wow! I am so radical…yeah right!


Wind up

I’m just a little tin soldier in your hand
I’m good for nothing, but to obey your commands
You’ll never really love me, I know
So wind me up, let me go     

Cliff Richard sang this love song in 1969.

The bit about  wind me up led me to think about the tragedies that we are seeing almost daily – young people being wound up by radicals and let go to sow death and destruction, hate and sorrow, fear and rage….

Words are as lethal as swords especially uttered by people of influence.

Dear me! Is this turning into an argument for censorship? We are already seeing the peopleswing to the right in many countries, in response to the horrors of self proclaimed Islamic extremists attacking any and every vulnerable target. Even the Pope is talking about it as a war!

Many fears, concerns and criticisms of Trump and Brexit have been expressed; some condemnations in extreme terms. The supporters of those reviled phenomena represent a potential majority of the  electorates in UK and US.

So if you get wound up, try to make your expressions reasonable and free of incitement to violence and gratuitous insult.

Birds in our Queensland garden

We live in the Redland shire, adjacent to Brisbane City, about 2 miles from the coast. We have just over 800 sq. m with 2 large jacaranda trees, a syringa, I think, some small as yet unidentified local trees, 2 large Delicious Monsters, 2 pawpaw paw trees and smaller shrubs, flowers and half a large granadilla vine. There is also a resident carpet python of over 2m in length, who we have not met, but know of him as he left us his old skin! Further evidence of his presence is the occasional heap of feathers, usually belonging to a dove.
I take great joy in watching the birds, who may well be fair weather friends. We  feed them daily with seed cakes and pieces of bread; strangely sought out by the honey eaters, as well as magpies and others.
This is the Australian Dove who feeds and is food in our garden!   

The Australian Pelican flies over occasionally – we love to see them on the water

The Black-faced Cuckoo Shrike is a shy visitor, who seems to just sit and watch

We have a family of Blue-faced Honeyeaters who are very noisy and quite nasty to a youngster who still has yellow eyes.

This is the juvenile Blue-faced Honey eater, waiting for a chance to have a nibble.

The Blue Indian Ringnecked Lovebird is an exotic escapee, who loves the seed we put out. Very pretty and quite tame; tolerated by the other birds so long as he is polite.

Galahs are common and are the Australian idiom for stupidity – they are a very pretty combination of pink & grey.

The Pheasant Coucal is a fierce bird – we saw one chase a Goanna (monitor lizard, like a leguaan) on Stradbroke island. It is the cousin of the Burchells Coucal (Reenvoel) in Africa

The Butcher Birds have loud trilling calls and whistles with an occasional cuckoo, cuckoo! There was a youngster about who used to take food from the hand, but was chased off by a dominant adult pair

The Crested Pigeon, which we call the kuifie duifie, lives here and struts and displays to just about anyone.

Crows patrol and hang around – some hate their noise, but we love

Figbirds love the syringa berries  

Indian Mynas are about, but not nearly as bossy as their African family.

Kookaburras pass through, staying for a day or 2, then move off

  Little Corellas fly over in flocks making harsh shrieks

Magpie Larks are sweet looking, tough individuals, who other birds don’t mess with. They patrol the lawn for snacks.

Magpies really do sing for their supper. If there is no bread in the basket or we are a bit late in the morning, they start shrieking and crooning in unison – quite entertaining. They are quite tame and come and sit on chair backs across the table from me, when I am eating on the verandah! We are very fond of them.
Noisy friarbirds are aptly named – they devour banksia flowers and shriekcroak their delight to all and sundry. 

The Noisy Miner birds visit in flocks to check out the scene but don’t linger – too much competition for food from bigger birds.
The Olive-backed Oriole is another lover of syringa berries. 

 A pair of Pale-headed Rosellas live in the neighbourhood and visit every now and then
Rainbow Lorikiets are nearly always there and are noisy and aggressive – only moving for crows and magpies. Amazing colours. 

The Spangled Drongo is a pretty bird with a sweet call – not as piercing as the early morning call of its African forktailed cousin.

The Sulphur Crested Cockatoo is one of the most common birds about and frequently fly over, shrieking harshly.

 Willie Wagtail is a pretty bird, not quite as delicate and captivating as his kiwi cousin.

The other visitor we have flies in at night  but is not a bird. Flying Foxes are quite numerous and in some areas near roosts, fly over in thousands just after dark. They patrol at low height seeking fruit trees and make quite a noise when they squabble over fruit.


A very elegant wife of an advocate objected strenuously to a $15 fine for failing to stop at a stop sign. She was represented per amici by a colleague advocate, who rolled his eyes but called her to give evidence.

The woman agreed she had not stopped completely but had slowed right down and checked carefully to see that the way was clear.

She argued that she had complied with the spirit of the law and felt she should not be penalised. I disagreed.

A magistrate could not allow autonomy in selection of which laws to comply with and the choice of when it was suitable to do so.

I confirmed the fine, regretting that I could not treble it to shake her blinkered views. She was incensed and wanted to appeal.

(extract from “A Rough Justice – Reminiscensces of a Rhodesian Magistrate”)

I suppose she was unstoppable..?



You might wake up some mornin’
To the sound of something moving past your window in the wind
And if you’re quick enough to rise
You’ll catch a fleeting glimpse of someone’s fading shadow
Out on the new horizon
You may see the floating motion of a distant pair of wings
And if the sleep has left your ears
You might hear footsteps running through an open meadow

Don’t be concerned, it will not harm you
It’s only me pursuing somethin’ I’m not sure of
Across my dreams with nets of wonder
I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love
You might have heard my footsteps
Echo softly in the distance through the canyons of your mind
I might have even called your name
As I ran searching after something to believe in
You might have seen me runnin’Through the long-abandoned ruins of the dreams you left behind
If you remember something there
That glided past you followed close by heavy breathin’Don’t be concerned, it will not harm you
It’s only me pursuing somethin’ I’m not sure of
Across my dreams with nets of wonder
I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love


Bob Lind 1965

Thank you for showing me there was poetry in music


The Church was a sanctuary where all could seek and receive refuge in the Middle Ages.

The function of  holy people was to interpret Gods’ ways to those in power. They did this by educating themselves so they could advise wisely. In turn they were protected by those in power because it was believed that they could invoke the Gods’ protection.

Rituals and liturgies were developed which ensured continuity which in turn gave comfort to the followers.

Much of the other work of the religious has been to care for the sick and the poor and it still is. Many people have been granted succour and sanctuary since time began.

Sadly as we know, power corrupts and few  can withstand the seductive corruption of power.

We should not let the sad perversions of power relations in institutions obscure the great good done by selfless servants of Gods.

Places of worship are still sanctuaries for many – places where we can escape the buzz, rush and pressure of modern life to think and pray and lose fears.


The origin of this philosophy (?)

We stand for quirks and whimsy; serious looks at silliness and silly looks at seriousness

The institution of Silly Socks on Friday occurred in Africa in the early 90’s. It was intended to place some focus on the silly side of serious, or vice versa, the internal debate rages on. Ex Africa aliquid semper novus.
There is one rule for aspirant followers: On Fridays, wear silly socks.
It is a very simple but strict rule:
No monotones, with one exception, different colours on each foot is acceptable.
If one forgets, rectification must be immediate.
If no silly socks are to hand, go sockless as the rule only applies if socks are worn

The same silly socks on successive Fridays is seen as counter revolutionary and unacceptable

We stand for quirks and whimsy, serious looks at silliness and silly looks at seriousness.

Our current campaign is a global war against that yoke of uniformity, the neck tie.

There can be no logical explanation why people continue to tie strips of cloth tightly around their throats and then dangle them on their chests.

As you can imagine, this will require some fortitude because it is an ingrained habit and the Big Kahuna likes to be told how smart he looks, not how idiotic and antiquated … so take care. May I suggest baby steps?

As you can see, this is faintly revolutionary blog!


This is a repeat of a blog by me a.k.a. Mickey Dee, published on 16 October 2005.


It’s a choice!

I am older and was nervous about blogging again but I am not anymore, because I choose not to be. So voila!

Rereading my old blogs (some over 10 years old) gave me a lift and injected some helium (ha! ha!). Not that I ever needed it in my head, being prone to unsolicited noise emissions and contrary viewpoints.

Remembering times from the early 90’s, I was called “windgat” by some colleagues, I think because I was outspoken. It was meant as an insult but I was quite pleased because it endorsed the fact that I didn’t go with the flow.

Not quite carefree but getting there.


*windgat is an  Afrikaans word