Madame Gillard and her Mummy Blogger's (Beggars) Banquet

Not a crumb from the PM's table for locals

Miranda Devine 
The Daily Telegraph
 March 06, 2013 12:00AM

THE insider-outsider divide in politics is rarely so starkly defined as it has been by Prime Minister Julia Gillard moving her campaign roadshow, if not her government, to Rooty Hill RSL.

It's a mere 47-minute drive from Kirribilli House, but so far removed from the sensibility of the political class that, when Gillard's luggage was delivered to the Novotel for the five-night stay, it bore the tag: "Prime Minister's overseas visit."

Bemused locals have watched as satellite dishes fill the car park, radio stations broadcast from the Fred Chubb lounge - yet sightings of the prime minister have been as rare as Elvis.On Monday night, Sky presenter Paul Murray captured a fleeting 23 seconds of footage on his mobile phone of Gillard and her entourage speed-walking through the RSL's Zest Wok n' Grill and disappearing into a private dining room.

Murray pointed out the prime minister had bypassed the opportunity to mingle with a couple of dozen locals dining in the bistro. 

Instead she chose a closed-door private dining room with a group of women he said looked just like her and were wearing the same glasses.

He wasn't far wrong. The five women handpicked by Gillard to feast on "vegetable tarte tatin" and Alaskan king crab were "mummy bloggers" who had previously dined with the PM at Kirribilli house in December, and none of whom appears to live anywhere near 
Rooty Hill.

This comment below found on the Woogsworld Blog site pretty well sums up the high esteem Labor's Madame Gillard is held in by the Australian people,the poster could have added that no matter what Madame Gillard promised these elite Mummy Bloggers in exchange for their glowing praise of her, would count for nothing as she is a well known pathological liar. 

Madame Gillard at the "Mummy Bloggers" Banquet.

The Bolt Report Premier Show for 2013 3313

Labor's Rooty Hill Jihad : "Good Luck BITCHES you will be lucky to walk out."

One guest was "Mrs Woog" of the Woogsworld blog. A former publishing executive who lives on Sydney's lower north shore, her motto is "Making the most out of the mundane". She posted a review of the dinner on her blog with photos of the PM's roasted chicken 
supreme, potato gratin and sun-dried tomato jus main course.

"We've met her a few times before," blogger Eden Riley, a dead ringer for the PM with her red bob and glasses, said after the dinner. 

"But I had my glasses before her."

They all had a lovely time, sequestered away from the great unwashed of Rooty Hill who were sitting a few metres away in the bistro or next door watching Murray's live show.

So far, so farcical. The PM's Rooty Hill sleepover is showing how out of touch and on the nose her government is with the people who were once Labor's core constituency.

Polls point to the unthinkable prospect that Labor could lose four safe seats in western Sydney, leading Opposition Leader Tony Abbott to claim this week that Sydney's west has become "Liberal heartland".

That sounds unwisely hubristic but when I spoke at random to about 30 people within a 5km radius of Rooty Hill RSL last week, not one had a good word to say about Gillard or her government.
They nominated three main complaints: jobs, the carbon tax and "boats". They see the government lacking integrity because of the broken promise on carbon tax and because of the way Gillard came to power after ousting Kevin Rudd.

They see unfairness in soaring electricity prices and job losses, and incompetence in billions squandered as a result of failed border protection.

I heard more clear-eyed political wisdom in Rooty Hill than you hear in a month of insider commentary on the ABC, which all week has been in a lather over the opposition's supposed "dog whistle" to racist western Sydney voters.

Here we go again. Opposition immigration spokesman Scott Morrison is under fire for making the obvious point that the government has lost control of Australia's borders to such an extent that there is no room left in detention centres, and so it has been forced to release asylum seekers prematurely into the community before their bona fides are established, and with negligible oversight or support.The Immigration Department didn't even know that Sri Lankan men were being housed in student accommodation at Macquarie University next door to female students.

This chaotic circumstance is a recipe for disaster, and sure enough, what emerged was an allegation that a 21-year-old Sri Lankan man had sexually molested a young female student as she was sleeping.

The case is before the courts, but it is extraordinary how the ordeal of the alleged victim has been played down by the compassionistas. It took 2GB's Ray Hadley to uncover the squalid living conditions of asylum seekers in a disused office in Parramatta, with 20 men sharing one bathroom.

Yet he was slammed as a racist, inciting hatred, by Greens Senator Sarah Hanson-Young. She just doesn't seem to want to face the inconvenient truth that the chaos created jointly by Labor and the Greens has resulted in more suffering, not less, for everyone involved.

No amount of mock moral outrage hides the fact that when the Howard government left office there were just four people in detention centres who had arrived by boat. Since then, thousands of asylum seekers have drowned en route to Australia. Those who have made it to shore have found themselves sweltering indefinitely in overcrowded detention centres, or left to fend for themselves in slumlord conditions in the community, forbidden to work or find any meaning or purpose to their lives.

In western Sydney, many people are first- and second- generation migrants. They are not racists and are not without compassion.

But they see the consequences of the government's bungled policies up close and personal, and they tune out insider justifications.

No wonder the prime minister prefers the company of mummy bloggers.

Labor's Rooty Hill Jihad : "Good Luck BITCHES you will be lucky to walk out."

What passes for the federal government of Australia and its "Dear Leader" Madame JuLIAR Gillard, are about to blitz for one week, what they claim is their electoral heartland in Sydney's western suburbs.

Polls show the Labor Green Loon "Independent" "Co Party" is on a hiding to nothing come the federal election, September 14 2013, PM Madame Gillard called some 3 weeks ago, this attempt to rub shoulders with and ingratiate herself and her party made up of bludgers, former Union officials and stand over  men /"persons",parasites,school teachers,spives, and Green Loons.

The Labor Green Loon alliance showed its Marxist World Government hand too soon, and their plans for the Australian People have been rejected almost unanimously by what Labor patronisingly refers to as "The real Australians" "Labor's True Believers" oh and that most ironic and mocking of descriptors "Working Families" but what they wont say publicly is what they really think of / call the remaining 30% of Australians who tell pollsters they are still going to vote on September 14 2013 for the Union GetUp financed Labor, Green Loon, Independent minority "Co Party" Australian Government, is that they HATE and despise them and see them, as do all socialist governments world wide, as "useful idiots" who's only purpose is to be manipulated,deceived and lied to in any and all manner possible,so as to ensure the re election of "The Party" at any cost.

"The Party" together with the unbridled support of "Their ABC and SBS" and  Faifax Media, this cabal of Union Bludgers,Parasites and Marxists will tell Australians just how good and proper it is to not be able to turn on heating and cooling in winter and summer since Madame Gillard imposed the Tax on everything, the same tax Madame Gillard said she would not impose upon the Australian people if she was elected into government in 2010. The Labor Green Loon "Independent" "Co Party" LIED.

Now these useless unemployable BUMS and bludgers plan to waltz into Rooty Hill  and rub shoulders with those they despise most and pretend to have the cure for the economic and social disease they have created and spread since 2007 with the election of Lu Kewen aka. Kevin "07" Rudd. seen below campaigning in CHINA of all places during the 2007 federal election campaign, WHY CHINA ? He was the Australian Labor Party's leader contesting the 2007 Federal Australian Government Election not a local Chinese Communist Party dolt trying to secure a bigger house by winning some exaulted Communist Party position, or was he waving the flag of the ALP for the 200 plus Chinese Communist Party members imported into Australia to door knock garner support and work for the Australian Labor Party in Chinese populated electorates in Australia during the 2007 Federal Election?

Lu Kewen aka. Kevin 07 Rudd Campaigning in CHINA in2007 .......WHY?

Good Luck, Socialist BITCHES you will be lucky if you can walk out.
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EXCLUSIVE: THE MAN FROM WESTERN SYDNEY    
The Brilliant Joe Hildebrand

Daily Telegraph
Friday, March 01, 2013 

There was movement at the station for the word had passed around 
That the polls from Sydney’s west had got away. 
They had flatlined for a while but now they’d started heading down 
And were sitting somewhere south of Batemans Bay. 
All the senior Labor strategists from Adelaide and Vic 
Wondered what had made west Sydney go berserk. 
The last time that it happened they just gave K.Rudd the flick 
But even that trick didn’t seem to work. 

Mark Arbib had made his pile when Packer offered coin 
To spruik his gambling interests on the Yarra. 
He’d finally had enough of kicking Labor in the groin 
And having to go further west than Parra. 

So Shorten of the Overflow came up to lend a hand 
No better hardman ever held the reins. 
His political ability was known throughout the land 
For turning Liberal losses into gains.

And one was there, a weedy bloke just draped over a stool 
Not saying much and sitting very still. 
The men in suits ignored him and presumed he was a fool 
As they gathered round the bar at Rooty Hill.

You could hear the pokies ringing like alarm bells in the lounge 
While outside the crawling traffic groaned in pain. 
In fact the room was filled with almost every urban sound 
Bar the rumble of an air-conditioned train.

But still the skinny fella on the barstool didn’t speak, 
Just sat there with a schooner in his hand, 
While the strategists around him plotted out their busy week 
Of trying to embrace the common man.

They pulled their hair and ground their teeth and wondered what to do 
And tore internal polling graphs apart. 
The weedy bloke, amid all this, had ducked off to the loo 
And that’s when one suit now spoke from the heart:

“He hails from western Sydney, that’s the place we’ve got to win. 
“Perhaps we should just ask him what he thinks?” 
The group fell quickly silent as they let the thought sink in, 
Then cheered and bought another round of drinks.

When the skinny guy was finished with his eventide ablutions 
He mistakenly had thought he was relieved 
But his peace was quickly shattered as they begged him for solutions 
To the giant pile of waste they had achieved.

They asked him this, they asked him that, and finally he paused 
And cleared his throat with one of those small coughs. 
“To be honest, if you ask me, with the trouble that you’ve caused, 
“My advice would be to simply bugger off.”

Exert from The Man From Snowy River ,The Movie.

The Man From Snowy River

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, `That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.'
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
`I think we ought to let him come,' he said;
`I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

`He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.'

So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.'

So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, `We may bid the mob good day,
NO man can hold them down the other side.'

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.