One last look at that Sacred Heart

So Leonard Cohen has been a large part of my life for the last couple of years.

I really respond to his turn of phrase, and at the same time, the lyrics can be terribly sexist at times. He often plays into the ‘tortured male genius’ crap, and in so much of his music, the male is the protaganist, the women nameless/faceless sex partners.

So he’s well and truly welded into my life in that many of his songs feel like a part of my relationship, lyrics we both respond to, phrases that remind me of The Bearded One (I really ought to have a better pseudonym for him!), or of time spent together, things I wished I could have said so eloquently.

And on the other hand, I’ve spent countless hours railing at some of the lyrics, or trying to sift through them, arguing with and listening to friends and TBO, pondering the reproduction of certain aspects of masculinity within some of his music.

Further, I’ve long had a fear of singing in front of others. I mean really, really. I can do it around my sisters, but even then I’m not letting go. I used to sing – I started lessons, but I dunno. I lack the confidence. What sounds good to me might be terrible, and then…and then?? I’d combust with shame? So, all right it makes no sense, but it’s real enough.

Anyway, it’s a fear I’m trying to break, but it was to Leonard’s songs that I would shyly start to quietly sing along to when The Bearded One played them on guitar and sang. This process of saying shyly: “Um, my voice might be ok, and singing might be something I’d like to do” and beginning to actually do it, has been a big thing in my life, and Leonard is enmeshed with that experience.

So all in all Leonard has loomed large in my emotional life for a long time.

But last night I saw him perform at the Entertainment Centre.

My difficult relationship of exasperation/adoration gave way. I loved him.

It’s not my favourite venue (I’d go so far as to say that’s the first performance I’ve enjoyed in that space which strikes me as having all the warmth and character an over-sized shoe box) but last night was just fucking magic.

Here stood this man, with what? Forty years of song-writing behind him. Songs covered and recovered like Hallelujah (though don’t get me STARTED on the covers missing the whole POINT of the song!), songs recogniseably Cohen like Tower of Song, Chelsea Hotel, I’m Your Man…

I’ve never much idolised the brand of masculinity that seeks to elevate relationship issues and commitment phobia to hero status, and there are times where I’ve wanted to bang my head against a wall listening to echos of that in his music. Times also where his spitting, scathing contempt, his judgment about abortion, and his flagrant worship of the hard-on just make me both angry and bored silly.

But last night, as he bounded on stage and opened with a cracking version of “Dance me to the end of Love” I was overwhelmed to hear him sing songs so personal and reflective, so sad and beautiful.

Happily for my tastes and preferences, the self indulgent and the bitter, the ‘I’m SUCH a tortured poet’ crap and the ‘women are objects for me to fuck, but only while they’re young or else…yuck’ songs were left in the archives, and song after song evoked the sense that you were watching a man in his seventies reflect on his life, quietly, thoughtfully, humourously, and with grace and self deprecation.

Hearing his slow, creaking rumble of a voice emote lyrics like:

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love

at the age of 74, opening a concert in a country he’ll likely never perform in again, in front of fans who have waited so long for him and know it is the last time was incredibly moving. It felt like a personal invitation to journey with him through a shared reflection for the night.

Watching him self consciously take the piss out of himself by shuffling around after delivering the line ‘and the white man dancing’, made me warm to this funny, beautiful man and hearing him sing ‘I’m the little Jew who wrote the bible’ during The Future made my hair stand on end with joy at being there.

The lyrics of:

I see you in the subwayand I see you on the bus
I see you lying down with me, I see you waking up
I see your hand, I see your hair
Your bracelets and your brush
And I call to you, I call to you
But I dont call soft enough

were transformed by his voice into an aching ode of loss, time passed, memories and joy.

The tears started to sting at the back of my eyes hearing:

I walked into this empty church I had no place else to go
When the sweetest voice I ever heard, whispered to my soul
I don’t need to be forgiven for loving you so much
Its written in the scriptures
Its written there in blood

The poignancy of an old man’s profound longing for forgiveness from a loved one contained in:

Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee

I was overjoyed to be there, and to sit between my best friend and my lover, the two people who have shared my joys and frustrations with this music, who have spent hours listening to and talking to me about these lyrics to hear and watch this incredibly generous, humble and human performance.

I loved Chelsea Hotel the first time I heard it (the first time I head it was when my boyfriend played and sang it ((very well)) to me) - the lyrics are so unusual for a love song – so sweet and sad and funny and both sentimental and unsentimental at the same time.

The one segment that irritated me was “I don’t mean to suggest that I loved you the best, I can’t keep track of each fallen robin. I remember you well at the Chelsea Hotel, that’s all I don’t think of you that often”.

It shat me because I found it irritating to have Janis Joplin described as a ‘fallen robin’ and because it seemed to reduce her to what? One of the nameless faceless hordes who’ve fallen for his irresistable charms? Ugh.

But hearing it last night that’s not at all how it came off. I don’t much care, either, for masculinity protecting itself by pretending that emotion is for *girls and poofs* and pretending it doesn’t feel something which is what is always came off as, despite the fact his music is about emotion – but the emotion in that line last night was human rather than closed off – not being able to look squarely at the sensation of loss actually felt because it’s there and felt. And ‘I don’t think of you that often’ was delivered in self mocking irony – because of course he thought enough of her to write such a beautifully moving song.

By the second line in Chelsea Hotel I felt a tear slide down my face. I’m not embarrassed by this. Music moves me, particularly live music. People’s stories move me. A wonderful turn of phrase moves me. Here we had one very human man combining all three – and I was moved.

Everybody Knows was just so powerful – the lyrics, already both timeless and situated took on extra meaning when this wonderfully talented man in the last decades of his life sang them to an audience hanging off his every word, and this:

Everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this Sacred Heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

made me want to sob.

Anthem, a song I’m not all that familiar with was staggering in it’s timelessness in melancholy observations on politics.:

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.

And the heartwarming/heartrending call to action:

I can’t run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up
a thundercloud
and they’re going to hear from me.

Listening to Tower of Song performed at this stage in his life (after his admission of the financial need to tour after being thoroughly done over financially), you start to wonder how he could have written lyrics that would seem so apt later in his life:

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I’m crazy for love but Im not coming on
I’m just paying my rent every day
Oh in the tower of song

And this:

Now I bid you farewell, I dont know when Ill be back
They’re moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But youll be hearing from me baby, long after Im gone
Ill be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the tower of song

Yeah, no doubt.

While Cohen facetiously/self deprecatingly suggested that the success of Hallelujah came from the fact it had a ‘killer chorus’, for me, the climb of the melody and the lyrics in the verses has always been where it’s at and I couldn’t hold back the tears hearing him perform it, particularly the lines:

It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

and

There was a time you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

and

You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

(I can’t help feeling that those who seek to claim it for their religious sentiments have failed to ever listen to the song, but nevermind the bollocks)

and finally:

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

I suddenly found myself approaching Cohen and his music much like I would any human relationship, not expecting infallibility and perfection, but able to see what beauty was there. Being choked up by complexity of emotion, the poignancy of time, and loss. Laughing and taking joy.

His music is never easy, and there are many songs I downright dislike as much for the music/lack of complexity in the lyrics as for political reasons. (And those political objections stand and are valid). But, well, I’ve put a lot of work into understanding Cohen’s music and lyrics, and it felt like good background work because last night I didn’t find my musical Messiah, I found a fully human man, a warm, funny, engaging man who owns his flaw and arrogance, who seems humbled with age and love and appreciation.

A man with his voice and his words singing of life and love and loss and grief and joy and beauty and hope and desire. A man on his knees, a man holding his hat to his chest watching an old lover perform with sheer joy and admiration on his face.

I found a musical love – and love being love it is never uncomplicated, undemanding, untaxing. It’s always confusing and difficult, joyous and sad – but there are moments of sheer heady bliss, moments of quiet complex comprehension, moments of heart-bursting joy, moments where you feel so able to relate. And you just don’t forget those moments. They carry you through so much.

So while I’d love to have the poetry within me (or more accurately to make it come out of me) to pen an ode to Cohen for last night and how much it meant to watch him give so freely, I really have nothing except his own verse:

I walked into this empty church I had no place else to go
When the sweetest voice I ever heard, whispered to my soul
I dont need to be forgiven for loving you so much
Its written in the scriptures
Its written there in blood

If you force/co-erce or intimidate someone into ’sex’ for you, you are a RAPIST, ok?

OK SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNINGS BELOW:

Ok, so now these teenaged boys have admitted it. They did in fact rape this girl, in many different ways. Orally, vaginally, standing around watching, raping her until she bled. Oh, THEY won’t call it rape. No…they just…MADE her ‘have sex’ with them. Well – having sex sounds rather active, doesn’t it. They forced themselves inside her til they ejaculated. HEY: Newsflash, Hairdo, it’s not all about you – THAT AIN’T SEX YOU STUPID ARROGANT MISOGYNIST SELF INDULGENT PRICKS.

No…not RAPE!! They just told her to smile like she enjoyed it while they watched each other ‘fuck her’ til she bled. They just filmed it and called her a slut.

Seven teenage boys raping a girl.

Oh DO let’s hear what the lawyer has to say:

Well ONE boys parents forbade him to be taught about sex education

AND??? It’s the parents fault? Rape is SEX-ED for boys? Girls are sex-ed TOOLS now, like those banana-condom practising thingos? What EXACTLY are you saying?

And, says the lawyer, well, it’s not like it was planned!! (Really? They all just were lurking by the dunnies waiting for a girl who thought she was hanging out with one guy because they would like to have a nice game of HOPSCOTCH and a packet of Twisties??? They didn’t DISCUSS it??? They just each were as taken by surprise as the others, but went ‘Oh, YEAH, now you mention it, rape DOES sound like a spot o fun?’ AND do you think it makes the slightest bit of difference to HER that it was spontaneous gang rape/humiliation/victim-blaming and not planned? DO YOU REALLY?? Is she *less* raped?)

I would ALSO like to ask – when the ADULT COUNCIL WORKERS interupted, WHY did they not ask some fucking QUESTIONS? WHY did their interuption not spell the end of these matters? Why did they not protect this girl? WHY did they just wander off again?

And hey, SMH, the boys did not commit ’sex acts’ with the girl, they committed RAPE. Many times, in many ways, for the sake of humiliation and shaming.

And this sentence:

The girl had vaginal and oral sex in several different Sydney locations with the boys in acts that one teenager taped on his mobile phone and later sent to his friends.

Well no, actually. She did not. I have HAD ‘vaginal and oral sex’ many times thankyou and find it to be most enjoyable – what *she* “had” was an inability to leave, subjection to ritual humiliation and gang rape, by seven rapists. Planned or unplanned, you’re all rapists now. Seven arsehole teenaged rapists all thinking they had the right to degrade a young girl like that for their own kicks. If you rape, you are a rapist, if you were raped, you were RAPED you did NOT have sex – could we just get that terminology straight please?

Is any comment even necessary?

Trigger warnings:

This story from the Sydney Morning Herald of a group of teenage boys waiting for a younger girl, surrounding her, forcing her to perform oral sex, filming her, sending the footage on and saying she ‘looked like a slut’.

Can anyone explain Mad Max to me?

Trigger warnings:

I watched the first…thirty minutes or so of Mad Max the other day.

I hated it immediately, though I tried to push through the idiot over-acting, the completely nonsensical characters and the piss poor script-writing, thinking their had to be SOMETHING that made this movie legendary in Aussie cinema history.

I got as far as the scene in which the bikie guys caught up with the car, and well…you knew that they were going to rape both occupants. The scene shut down, and then came back to the woman, naked and roped like cattle, having obviously just been raped by – what was it? Like fourteen men? That was that, and I was out. Gang rape and ritual humiliation aren’t my idea of cinematic hi-jinks.

I’m not stupid, I know what the scene was there for – to set up terror, to set the stage for revenge, to show that all bets were off, these were men with no rules, no mercy. Except cinema LOVES that man doesn’t it?

And what do we have in store for Max? Well my prediction was the gang go after his family, kill his wife and baby and Max goes…well *MAD* and hunts them down like dogs and kills them. To draw such an orginal and profound parable: ALL men, pushed far enough become lawless and stop at nothing to achieve what they want to achieve.

Eyeroll doesn’t express it strongly enough. Head-desk doesn’t get to it sufficiently.

I’d just like to say to all fans of these movies and to all directors and script writers: FUCK. YOU. Women are NOT your god-damned story aids. We’re not your props to be violated to set the scene for you macho show-downs. We’re not things to be raped for a titillating thrill of “OH MY GOOD GOD, THESE MAN ARE *BAD*”

So…does anyone have any good reason why I should finish watching this movie? Why I’m wrong in my assesment of it? How,even leaving the hideous violence of the gang rape of a woman tied to a rope to one side, it can POSSIBLY be considered a good movie?

ALSO: excuse me prudish people who put the warnings on films so my kids don’t hear swear-words or see a consenting adults bottom: WHERE ARE MY WARNINGS ABOUT RAPE SCENES??? HUH?

Why does EVERY MOVIE with a scene of sexual violence not carry and explicit and specific warning of such?

I’m going to be writing to ask for just such a warning, and when I take the time to figure out who I need to write to I’ll put the details up here so you can also write to them.

Gerard Henderson, I really really loathe you

So, I read this, and I think I’m going to have to go and breathe into a brown paper bag. Henderson pulls out all stops on this piece of shit: Oh, but they’re PALE SKINNED!!! Oh, but they have IRISH fore-bears! OH but they don’t mention their other ancestors in doing welcome to country (probably because the Irish never OWNED this land fuck-knuckle).Oh but it’s OHHH-VERRR so what’s this discussion of Invasion Day (nice logic, but it was an invasion, and no matter how much you apologise, even if you ACTUALLY made amends – hasn’t happened yet – you don’t get to rewrite history or pretend it was NOT an invasion).

He sets rights advocacy as directly obstructing practical help, he *diagnoses* (being what? The neutral expert observer) that we’d all best move forward by embracing the inclusive patriotism**of Australia Day than by moving Australia Day to a day NOT celebrating white invasion.

My favourite piece of inflammatory troll-logic:

Any frank conversation about the appropriate date for Australia Day would have to take account of the fact that, in Mick Dodson’s terminology, many indigenous Australians have ancestors who were both invaders and the invaded. Such a discussion would also have to record that, far from leading their world to come crashing down, many indigenous Australians would not be around today but for their non-indigenous ancestors.

So now the technical fact that it takes two to make an embryo means you don’t have a legitimate complaint about the invasion, the theft of land, the genocide, slavery, apartheid (oh we didn’t call it that but we fucking KNOW it was), lower life expectency…shall I continue? Also, I note he didn’t address the number of children born from white men raping Indigenous women…

More delightful quotes:

Likewise, no truthful person would deny the disadvantage suffered by the descendants of those who were here in 1788 when Governor Arthur Phillip arrived.

Certainly some Aborigines, particularly those in the Northern Territory and northern Western Australia and northern Queensland, can trace their ancestry back to those living here in 1788. However, the same cannot be said for many Aborigines in the capital cities, country towns and communities which are not remote.

So you don’t suffer racism in a rascist society unless you can trace your roots to 1788?? Hmm…I seem to remember discussions of lack of record keeping as a deliberate strategy to obscure access to information for Indigenous parents seeking to find their children (that leaving aside the fact that this logic is FUCKED UP in the first place).

I’m at work so I have to go concentrate on avoiding a rage induced aneurism, but I just thought I’d take this opportunity to say Gerard Henderson, you are a deliberately misleading, bigoted old bastard.

And this “wave of patriotism” he’s so keen to applaud**? The flag wearing, beer drinking hooliganism we’ve never needed much encouragement towards? Yeah, I feel real fucking optimistic about the power for positive reform there.

**   See the first time I read this, I’d not heard about yesterday’s incident over at Manly. After reading this I’m even more appalled by Henderson’s article and logic. That was the ‘inclusive patriotism’ of yesterday he was referring to?? Yeah, ‘If you’re white and you know it clap your hands’ is so damned inclusive we should teach it to school kids to perform on Harmony Day. Fucking hell.

Perhaps we (like Berlusconi) need a different approach

Sylvio Berlusconi is in the media again for yet another idiot comment dripping with sexism, misogyny, arrogance and well, fucking idiocy. This is, you may recall the man who referred to Margaret Thatcher as a good piece of pussy. Perhaps it ought to make the news when Berlusconi manages to discuss women/women’s issues/politics involving women/anything having anything to do with/resemblance to/any contact with women and actually manages to REFRAIN from making a total fucking arse of himself.

You should really read the Sydney Morning Herald article though, as it’s like an all out competition for who can be the biggest clueless fuckwit. In the running we have Berlusconi himself, both for the original comment in suggesting that rapes would not stop until there:

“are as many soldiers on the streets as there are pretty girls”

and for his glibly arrogant defence of the comment:

“I believe that on every occasion it is always useful to use a light approach and a sense of humour,”

Hmm…well perhaps there are things outside the ambit of your experience which require you to get your head out of your arse, stop crapping on about your immutable theories on how things are best discussed in ‘polite society’, and you know, realise that rape is not, generally speaking something which anyone not a total fucking arsehole has a sense of humour about.

Second contender is Luca Volonte, head of the Christian Democrats who had this to say:

A soldier for every beautiful woman? Maybe Berlusconi thinks that all Italian men are irresponsible and unable to contain themselves – or maybe it is an admission of his incapacity to govern and guarantee public security.

Like me, most Italians are able to brake their bestial urges … he should avoid such comments and confront real problems of resources for police and public order.

Oh dear, so many problems. See it doesn’t really matter if ALL Italian men don’t rape, the fact that SOME do is a problem, and really, I WOULD in fact suggest it’s a REAL PROBLEM, wouldn’t you???

Granddaughter of THE Mussolini, Alessandra Mussolini shows a congenital lack of an ability to grasp with any clarity what is REALLY the ethical wrong in any given situation by retorting:

The fact is we need so many soldiers because there are so many ugly men

Ok, so it’s a bad thing for Berlusconi to suggest that rape happens because beautiful women are rape-magnets, and ’cause’ it by their beauty – it’s no better to suggest that it happens because ugly men can’t get laid, and *have to resort to rape*.

Do people HONESTLY not get that rape [of women, the only kind recognised in Berlusconi's comments] happens regardless of what the woman looks like/is wearing/is doing/where she is/how much she fights/how prepared she is?? That it’s got NOTHING TO DO with the woman, or with lack of sexual opportunity for men? That rape of women is about systemic lack of respect for women, often about direct punishment of women FOR BEING WOMEN, and that many individuals in such a system rape not because they are ugly and therefore lonely or misunderstood or the women is pretty and therefore tempting, but in order to rape? In order to degrade, humiliate, brutalize and overpower. And…it’s NOT FUCKING FUNNY. So Berlusconi, perhaps there are SOME SITUATIONS in which your desire to be lighthearted and funny are not appropriate?

And lastly we have whichever editor at the Sydney Morning Herald decided to go with the headline that Berlusconi ‘upset women’.

Yes, yes he did. I imagine his comments have caused considerable outrage amongst thousands of people, men and women. Let’s suggest some more suitable headlines:

Berlusconi proves again he’s a total arse with a piss-poor atttitude to women

Berlusconi comments provoke outrage (rape is not a ‘women’s issue’)

All agree that Berlusconi should shut his pie-hole

Rape not funny say all decent people

Any further suggestions?

I was a mini-Carson at four

When I was a little kid, I mean tiny, I used to sit and watch my female relatives. I’d sit and I’d Queer Eye these women, imagining that if my eldest aunt shaved a little weight off the back of her arms, could somehow plane off her tummy, and died her hair, she’d be reasonably attractive. I’d do this often enough to call it a fairly constant past-time.

I never once did this about my male relatives, and not because they were handsome and well groomed, but because before I was old enough for school, I’d well absorbed the lesson that men ‘were’, they did, they acted, they said whatever the fuck they wanted no matter how mean and they looked how they looked and that was that.

I’d absorbed the flipside lesson too well: women were there to decorate the world, to be shiny and pretty and in my view they were inexplicably failing. No silk stockings and impeccable fifties makeup in my family…yeah, you know, when you look at my family history, the fact that all those men were alcoholics and the women were the only way our family kept surviving, kept functioning – gee I wonder why they didn’t take the time to ensure they looked like pin-up girls before daring to show their faces in the morning. But even if it wasn’t for the fact that these women had had their livelihoods drained by caretaking self centred pricks and their offspring, it never occured to me to question WHY I felt that these women ought to spend valuable time on ludicrous rituals to make themselves more aesthetically pleasing to others, and WHY men just got the right to go about their business.

Watch this space…

So I’ve not had the time for posting lately and now I feel strangely dissociated from the blog.

But I’ve been thinking about the Friday Hoyden feature, and about how, years ago when I felt that all I read about in studying Critical and Cultural Studies was how fucked up the world was; I kept a list of ‘heroes’ to look at when I felt bleak.

I’m now reading Once Again to Zelda, a book that looks at literary dedications, then traces the story behind the dedication. I love shit like this, full of warm, funny, heartrending stories, stories of laughter and loss and love and pettiness – human stories.

One of the dedications studied is that of For Whom the Bell Tolls – dedicated to  Martha Gellhorn. Gellhorn was married to Hemingway for a while, but she was so much more than ‘Ernest Hemingway’s wife’. Being labelled and viewed as such infuriated Gellhorn, the only of Hemingway’s wives to leave him. (He had four).

This woman (whose story I will go into in the first post in this ’series’) was astonishingly brave, a writer in her own right, a feminist, an adventuror, and posthumously was again reduced to simply ‘Ernest Hemingway’s life’.

In thinking about this woman, reduced to ‘possession of” status, despite what Hemingway had taken from her, despite all her achievements, despite her flat insistence that she not be so reduced, I thought I’d like to start writing about women forgotten or overlooked, women I wish I’d known about while growing up, and to tell snippets of their stories, stories of courage and fire and spark and humanity, stories of rulebreakers and renegades, stories of forgotten (or ignored) Queens and activists.

And to remember Gellhorn with the respectful hat tip she was not accorded by society in life or in death, I would like to name this the “Martha Gellhorn Wall of Awesome”.

I dooooooo!

First up, I would love this blog for it’s name alone – to turn a shitty pop song demeaning women and their place in life, and what they’re ever worth to their partners: “Don’t Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me”, (ie, your girlfriends a raggedy old sexless dog turd and you’re with her from your sense of tired put-upon masculine nobility [poor menz], but secretly you wish that she was a hot sixteen year old, and personality traits/strenghts/weaknesses be damned, fuck your history, you wants teh sex with the pornified barely legal chicks!) into Don’t Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was Smart Like Me? I love it, and in my opinion, that (the *up yours* of it, the cheek, and the valuing of wit and intelligence) is way hotter than some jumped up pop tart wannabe.

Second, I love the posts I’ve read – I don’t get enough time for reading admittedly, but what I’ve read I have enjoyed immensely, and often wished I had written them myself.

This particular post – well I love me a blog post that juxtaposes two sets of laws/circumstances to highlight galling hypocrisy and the staggeringly comprehensive patriarchal control of society. You can buy a gun, yes, you can watch a child strip for your hard-on in public, but sorry, you can NOT buy a vibrator!

Regarding my own blogging, I’ve been a slacker, sorry.  Trying to get my head around 2009 and trying to take it easy while I can.

Get on the Athiest Bus people

Just read about this rather fabulous bus campaign in Britain.

And since I have a rare hour or two to myself I will leave you with the link and little to no commentary…except it’s interesting that a similar Australian campaign was refused…time to start again?