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Read or Condemn Yourself to Death by Ignorance

For those courageous souls brave enough to look and see what is,

who are unwilling to blindly accept

the lies and rules of tyrannical authority.

Wednesday 13th February 2019


Hope this finds you fit and well!

Here is a sampling of what crossed my digital desk over the last week.

Why Is the Citizen-Juror’s Judgement on the Law So Vital a Part of any Fair and Competent Justice System?



Imagine If Schools...

How Is Rex On Prozac?

Banking Royal Commission Report

Noble Rescue Dog

What Babies And Oldies Have In Common

Corrupt Billionaires Are Running The Govt

This Is How We Grow

The Little Boy And The Old Man

The big con the Banking Royal Commission entirely missed

Most Brutal Abuse

Why The Chicken Crossed The Road

And God Created Dog

Surround Yourself

Re Brexit, From A Friend...

I hope you get something from it!


Why Is the Citizen-Juror’s Judgement on the Law So Vital a Part of any Fair and Competent Justice System?

Definitive Constitutional Democracy is the means by which liberty itself is secured. See page 25 from DEMOCRACY DEFINED: The Manifesto ISBN 978-1-902848-26-6

IN THE GOVERNANCE of men and women, few, if any, matters are of greater consequence than the diligence and precision with which the judiciary observes and adheres to the definitive code of Common Law Trial by Jury, long established for the determination of an accused person’s guilt or innocence.

All governments, comprised as they are of human beings, are fallible. Governments are capable of passing bad or oppressive [i.e., illegal] legislation, and authorising and organising the enforcement of such bad laws. When Trial by Jury is disallowed or juries are limited in their role to decide guilt or innocence only on the evidence produced by the state [government] prosecutor of whether the accused had broken a law or not, any jury acting in this restricted way would not be able to protect good fellow citizens from unjust laws or the oppressions of the state. These ’show trials’ are observed to take place in fascist, communist, and primitive totalitarian dictatorships, in countries which claim to be ’democratic’. They are traditionally scorned for the mockery of justice which they are when compared to the democratic standards of Trial by Jury.


People who judge authoritatively what their liberties are, retain all the liberties they wish to enjoy. This is Liberty. Trial by Jury is a trial by the People of the country, distinguished from a trial by the government. The intention of this trial is to enable the People to determine their liberties; because, if the government determines the People’s liberties, then government has absolute power over the People; and this is the definition of despotism.

In recognition of these immutable facts, Trial by Jury was adopted by the People as the principal doctrine of the Law of the Land (legem terræ; common law; ref. ’Legal Definitions Unalterable at Common Law’ with attribution; Chapter Three). The People installed Trial by Jury by written Constitution (Magna Carta of 1215; the U.S., Australian and other Constitutions) as that tribunal which permanently establishes within the domain of the People, as opposed to the government, supreme judgement by citizen-jurors of the People’s liberties: of what is the law; with the power to achieve expunction of unwanted statutes by the mechanism of cost-free private prosecutions of government functionaries and personnel (Constitutional Common Law Articles 24, 36, 39, 40, 61, etc., explained in Chapters Four and Five).

To a degree achieved by no other constitution, Constitutional Common Law Trial by Jury responds to mankind’s unceasing need: to enforce just laws; to uphold the innocent; to protect minorities; to nullify arbitrary government; and to reject injustice.

Only people deciding the law for themselves in Trial by Jury responsibly establish their liberties. Concurrently (at the same time), by that singular act in Trial by Jury, jurors (not judges, the government’s beholden employees) decide which behaviour is anti-social, forbidden, of malice aforethought and punishable.

In the ideal and achievable society run by ultimate rule of the people themselves deciding the law as jurors, the mass of partisan, inequitable, criminogenic and venal legislation (extant today) is duly annulled, unenforceable and expunged. Hence, the number of prosecutions and litigation is greatly reduced. The pretext that Trial by Jury “clutters up the courts and therefore due process requires to be undertaken instead by government judges,” is wholly fraudulent; one of many such despicable deceits fabricated by representatives of criminal government seeking to abolish Trial by Jury.

However apparently insignificant the alleged infraction, the Constitution authorises that the citizen accused of any alleged infringement shall always have the right to recourse to a Trial by a Jury of his or her peers in order that injustices, whenever they occur, be annulled by fellow citizens acting as jurors; indeed, as the judges over the law. It must be emphasised that (however petty it may seem) the enforcement of any injustice by the state is an illegal act and it is not for government but the ’ordinary’ people at large represented by juries of indiscriminately chosen adult citizens to judge the justice of every act of law enforcement, including all regulations, ’misdemeanours’, by-laws, summary punishments, ’on-the-spot-fines’ and trivial rules. Trial by Jury enables the people to fulfil the necessity of eradicating vexatious laws and rules: the Expunction of unwanted Statutes (see Chapter Four).

According to common law and Constitution, for the necessary ascendance of Equal Justice, today’s plea bargaining, automatic fines, mandatory minimums and summary judgements are all profoundly immoral, illegal and anti-Constitutional. Citizens persecuted thereby have the inalienable right to elect (choose) a Trial by Jury and, if found Not Guilty of any act of malice aforethought are due (overdue) Amnesty and Restitution.

[End quote from DEMOCRACY DEFINED: The Manifesto.]
Best wishes,
Kenn d’Oudney. Coordinator.


I'm with Moya!

A one-woman assault on condescension.

The insults of age had been piling up for so long that I was almost numb to them. The husband (when I still had one): “You’re not going out in that sleeveless top?” The grandchild: “Nanna, why are your teeth grey?” The pretty young publisher tottering along in her stilettos: “Are you right on these stairs, Helen?” The flight attendant at the boarding gate: “And when you do reach your seat, madam, remember to stow that little backpack riiiight under the seat in front of you!” The grinning red-faced bloke who mutters to the young man taking the seat beside me: “Bad luck, mate.” The armed child behind the police station counter unable to conceal her boredom as I describe the man in a balaclava, brandishing a baton, who leapt roaring out of the dark near the station underpass and chased me and my friend all the way home: “And what were you scared of? Did you think he might hit you with his umbrella?”

Really, it is astonishing how much shit a woman will cop in the interests of civic and domestic order.

But last spring I got a fright. I was speaking about my new book to a university lecture theatre full of journalism students. I had their attention. Everything was rolling along nicely. Somebody asked me a question and I looked down to collect my thoughts. Cut to the young lecturer’s face surprisingly close to mine. “Helen,” he murmured, “we’re going to take you to the medical clinic.” What? Me?

Apparently, in those few absent moments, of which I still have no memory, I had become confused and distressed; I didn’t know where I was or why I was there. He thought I might be having a stroke.

The rest of that afternoon I lay at my ease in an Emergency cubicle at the Royal Melbourne, feeling strangely light-hearted. I kept thinking in wonder, I’ve dropped my bundle. All scans and tests came up clear. Somebody asked me if I’d ever heard of transient global amnesia. I was home in time for dinner.

Next morning I took the hospital report to my GP. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “It’s stress. You are severely depleted. Cancel the rest of your publicity tour, and don’t go on any planes. You need a serious rest.” I must have looked sceptical. She leant across the desk, narrowed her eyes, and laid it on the line: “Helen. You. Are. 71.”

I went home and sulked on the couch for a week, surveying my lengthening past and shortening future.

I had known for years, of course, that beyond a certain age women become invisible in public spaces. The famous erotic gaze is withdrawn. You are no longer, in the eyes of the world, a sexual being. In my experience, though, this forlornness is a passing phase. The sadness of the loss fades and fades. You pass through loneliness and out into a balmy freedom from the heavy labour of self-presentation. Oh, the relief! You have nothing to prove. You can saunter about the world in overalls. Because a lifetime as a woman has taught you to listen, you know how to strike up long, meaty conversations with strangers on trams and trains.

But there is a downside, which, from my convalescent sofa, I dwelt upon with growing irritation. Hard-chargers in a hurry begin to patronise you. Your face is lined and your hair is grey, so they think you are weak, deaf, helpless, ignorant and stupid. When they address you they tilt their heads and bare their teeth and adopt a tuneful intonation. It is assumed that you have no opinions and no standards of behaviour, that nothing that happens in your vicinity is any of your business. By the time I had got bored with resting and returned to ordinary life, I found that the shield of feminine passivity I had been holding up against this routine peppering of affronts had splintered into shards.

One warm December evening, a friend and I were strolling along Swanston Street on our way out to dinner. The pavement was packed and our progress was slow. Ahead of us in the crowd we observed with nostalgic pleasure a trio of teenagers striding along, lanky white Australian schoolgirls in gingham dresses and blazers, their ponytails tied high with white ribbons.

One of the girls kept dropping behind her companions to dash about in the moving crowd, causing mysterious jolts and flurries. Parallel with my friend and me, an Asian woman of our age was walking by herself, composed and thoughtful. The revved-up schoolgirl came romping back against the flow of pedestrians and with a manic grimace thrust her face right into the older woman’s. The woman reared back in shock. The girl skipped nimbly across the stream of people and bounded towards her next mark, a woman sitting on a bench – also Asian, also alone and minding her own business. The schoolgirl stopped in front of her and did a little dance of derision, flapping both hands in mocking parody of greeting. I saw the Asian woman look up in fear, and something in me went berserk.

In two strides I was behind the schoolgirl. I reached up, seized her ponytail at the roots and gave it a sharp downward yank. Her head snapped back. In a voice I didn’t recognise I snarled, “Give it a rest, darling.” She twisted to look behind her. Her eyes were bulging, her mouth agape. I let go and she bolted away to her friends. The three of them set off at a run. Their white ribbons went bobbing through the crowd all the way along the City Square and up the steps of the Melbourne Town Hall, where a famous private school was holding its speech night. The whole thing happened so fast that when I fell into step beside my friend she hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

Everyone to whom I described the incident became convulsed with laughter, even lawyers, once they’d pointed out that technically I had assaulted the girl. Only my 14-year-old granddaughter was shocked. “Don’t you think you should have spoken to her? Explained why what she was doing was wrong?” As if. My only regret is that I couldn’t see the Asian woman’s face at the moment the schoolgirl’s head jerked back and her insolent grin turned into a rictus. Now that I would really, really like to have seen.

By now my blood was up. At Qantas I approached a check-in kiosk and examined the screen. A busybody in uniform barged up to me, one bossy forefinger extended. “Are you sure you’re flying Qantas and not Jetstar?” Once I would have bitten my lip and said politely, “Thanks. I’m OK, I think.” Now I turned and raked him with a glare. “Do I look like somebody who doesn’t know which airline they’re flying?”

A young publicist from a literary award phoned me to deliver tidings that her tragic tone indicated I would find devastating: alas, my book had not been short-listed. “Thanks for letting me know,” I said in the stoical voice writers have ready for these occasions. But to my astonishment she poured out a stream of the soft, tongue-clicking, cooing noises one makes to a howling toddler whose balloon has popped. I was obliged to cut across her: “And you can stop making those sounds.”

After these trivial but bracing exchanges, my pulse rate was normal, my cheeks were not red, I was not trembling. I hadn’t thought direct action would be so much fun. Habits of a lifetime peeled away. The world bristled with opportunities for a woman in her 70s to take a stand. I shouted on planes. I fought for my place in queues. I talked to myself out loud in public. I walked along the street singing a little song under my breath: “Back off. How dare you? Make my day.” I wouldn’t say I was on a hair-trigger. I was just primed for action.

I invited an old friend to meet me after work at a certain city bar, a place no longer super-fashionable but always reliable. We came down the stairs at 4.30 on a Friday afternoon. Her silver hair shone in the dim room, advertising our low status. The large space was empty except for a small bunch of quiet drinkers near the door. Many couches and armchairs stood in appealing configurations. We walked confidently towards one of them. But a smiling young waiter stepped out from behind the bar and put out one arm. “Over here.” He urged us away from the comfortable centre of the room, with its gentle lamps and cushions, towards the darkest part at the back, where several tiny cafe tables and hard, upright chairs were jammed side-on against a dusty curtain.

I asked, “Why are you putting us way back here?”

“It’s our policy,” he said, “when pairs come in. We put them at tables for two.”

Pairs? Bullshit. “But we don’t want to sit at the back,” I said. “There’s hardly anybody here. We’d like to sit on one of those nice couches.”

“I’m sorry, madam,” said the waiter. “It’s policy.”

“Come on,” said my pacific friend. “Let’s just sit here.”

I subsided. We chose a slightly less punitive table and laid our satchels on the floor beside us. With tilted head and toothy smile the waiter said, “How’s your day been, ladies?”

“Not bad, thanks,” I said. “We’re looking forward to a drink.”

He leant his head and shoulders right into our personal space. “And how was your shopping?”

That was when I lost it.

“Listen,” I said with a slow, savage calm. “We don’t want you to ask us these questions. We want you to be cool, and silent, like a real cocktail waiter.”

The insult rolled off my tongue as smooth as poison. The waiter’s smile withered. Then he made a surprising move. He put out his hand to me and said pleasantly, “My name’s Hugh.”

I shook his hand. “I’m Helen. This is Anne. Now, in the shortest possible time, will you please get two very dry martinis onto this table?”

He shot away to the bar. My friend with the shining silver hair pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows at me. We waited in silence. Soon young Master Hugh skidded back with the drinks and placed them before us deftly, without further attempts at small talk. We thanked him. The gin worked its magic. For an hour my friend and I talked merrily in our ugly, isolated corner. We declined Hugh’s subdued offer of another round, and he brought me the bill. He met my eye. Neither of us smiled, let alone apologised, but between us flickered something benign. His apparent lack of resentment moved me to leave him a rather large tip.

On the tram home I thought of the young waiter with a chastened respect. It came to me that to turn the other cheek, as he had done, was not simply to apply an ancient Christian precept but also to engage in a highly sophisticated psychological manoeuvre. When I got home, I picked up Marilynne Robinson’s novel Gilead where I’d left off and came upon a remark made by Reverend Ames, the stoical Midwestern Calvinist preacher whose character sweetens and strengthens as he approaches death: “It is worth living long enough,” he writes, in a letter to the son born to him in his old age, “to outlast whatever sense of grievance you may acquire.”

I take his point. But my warning stands. Let blood technicians look me in the eye and wish me good morning before they sink a needle into my arm. Let no schoolchild in a gallery stroll between me and the painting I’m gazing at as if I were only air. And let no one, ever again, under any circumstances, put to me or any other woman the moronic question, “And how was your shopping?”


Helen Garner is an award-winning novelist, short-story writer, screenwriter and journalist. Her books include Monkey Grip, The Children’s Bach, The Spare Room and This House of Grief.

Imagine If Schools...
Imagine If Schools...

How Is Rex On Prozac?
How Is Rex On Prozac?

Banking Royal Commission Report

Noble Rescue Dog
Noble Rescue Dog

What Babies And Oldies Have In Common
What Babies And Oldies Have In Common

Between 10 and 50 years of age this is funny!

Corrupt Billionaires Are Running The Govt
Corrupt Billionaires Are Running The Govt

This Is How We Grow
This Is How We Grow

The Little Boy And The Old Man
The Little Boy And The Old Man

Listening and caring. Two WONDERFUL attributes.

The big con the Banking Royal Commission entirely missed
Kenneth Hayne

Opinion: How did a huge online fraud liability shift to merchants escape scrutiny?

Most Brutal Abuse
Most Brutal Abuse

Why The Chicken Crossed The Road
Why The Chicken Crossed The Road

And God Created Dog
And God Created Dog

Surround Yourself
Surround Yourself

Re Brexit, From A Friend...

Right - so now we know why Treason May is spinning it out for so long - she is dragging it out until 2020 when the Lisbon Treaty comes into force! Then we are truly sunk - mission accomplished!


IT IS FAR WORSE THAN THE SO CALLED ’DEAL’ - currently up for debate in Westminster!


PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW....... LEAVERS AND REMAINERS. Spread this around far and wide - even on Facebook.

The youth of this country needs to know the truth.

This below is what young folk do not know we are stealing from them!

What will happen if we stay in the EU” is a question no remainer will ever answer. Well, here it is, warts and all.

1: The UK along with all existing members of the EU lose their abstention veto in 2020 as laid down in the Lisbon Treaty when the system changes to that of majority acceptance with no abstentions or vetoes being allowed

2: All member nations will become states of the new federal nation of the EU by 2022 as clearly laid out in the Lisbon Treaty with no exceptions or vetoes

3: All member states must adopt the Euro by 2022 and any new member state must do so within 2 years of joining the EU as laid down in the Lisbon treaty

4: The London Stock Exchange will move to Frankfurt in 2020 and be integrated into the EU Stock Exchange, resulting in a loss of 200,000 plus jobs in the UK because of the relocation. (This has already been pre-agreed and is only on a holding pattern due to the Brexit negotiations, which if Brexit does happen, the move is fully cancelled - but if not and the UK remains a member and it is full steam ahead for the move)

5: The EU Parliament and ECJ become supreme over all legislative bodies of the UK

6: The UK will adopt 100% of whatever the unelected EU Commission and ECJ lays down without any means of abstention or veto, negating the need for the UK to have the Lords or even the Commons as we know it today

7: The UK will NOT be able to make its own trade deals

8: The UK will NOT be able to set its own trade tariffs

9 The UK will NOT be able to set its own trade quotas

10: The UK loses control of its fishing rights

11: The UK loses control of its oil and gas rights

12: The UK loses control of its borders and enters the Schengen region by 2022 - as clearly laid down in the Lisbon treaty

13: The UK loses control of its Planning Legislation

14: The UK loses control of its armed forces including its nuclear deterrent

15: The UK loses full control of its taxation policy

16: The UK loses the ability to create its own laws and to implement them

17: The UK loses its standing in the Commonwealth

18: The UK loses control of any provinces or affiliated nations e.g.: Falklands, Cayman Islands, Gibraltar, etc.

19: The UK loses control of its judicial system

20: The UK loses control of its international policy

21: The UK loses control of its national policy

22: The UK loses its right to call itself a nation in its own right

23: The UK loses control of its space exploration program

24: The UK loses control of its Aviation and Sea lane jurisdiction

25: The UK loses its rebate in 2020 as laid down in the Lisbon treaty

26: The UK’s contribution to the EU is set to increase by an average of £1.2 billion pa and by £2.3 billion p.a. by 2020

This is the future that the youth of today thinks we stole from them? They should be on their knees thanking us for saving them from being turned into Orwellian automatons, if we escape from control of the EU.


Until next time,
dream big dreams,
plan out how to achieve them,
be continually executing your plans,
enlist people to your causes,
travel and/or read widely, preferably both,
all the while observing what you observe
rather than thinking what you are told to think,
think well of your fellow man,
take time to help your fellow man,
he sorely needs it and it will help you too,
eat food that is good for your body,
exercise your body,
take time to destress,
and do the important things
that make a difference -
they are rarely the urgent ones!



Most of the content herein has been copied from someone else. Especially the images. My goodness some people are talented at creating aesthetics! The small bits that are of my creation are Copyright 2014-2018 © by Tom Grimshaw - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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