Dear Jo, Clare and multitude, yes it's the Australian connection celebrating the fifth--ish anniversary of its last letter (busy, busy, busy) by writing yet another missive. Don't be greedy-- please share this with any person aged enough to remember (or have the slightest interest in) us.

Well, here I am in the House of Pain with Dr Rupert Moreau conducting his vile experiments turning human beings into animals. Once we crack that we're going for the big one-- devolving animals into journalists.

Your letter was received with great pleasure and it is comforting to know that the UK ship of state is still up Excrement Creek without propulsion.

Like you good selves we have just endured a general election and Mr Robert James Lee Hawke and his 'Labor' Party have been returned for a recording breaking third season at the Kanberra Komedy Klub.

Mr Hawke (rumour has it that he glows in the dark) is an interesting phenomenon. A Rhodes scholar, he still, I believe, holds the world record for downing a pint. Much of his early career was spent fornicating and drinking. It is alleged that he has given up both activities to concentrate on politics. After many years as head of the ACTU (a sort of TUC) Bob went into politics, booted Bill Haden (one of the better people) out of the Labor leadership and swept into power on a wave of crinkly blue/ grey hair, Jingoism and stolen Tory policies.

By stealing these policies, the political right, called the Liberal Party because they're not in the least bit liberal-- has been thoroughly rooted. Unable to move to the left-- because brain transplants are not technically feasible-- and having trouble moving to the right for fear of falling off the edge, these pathetic souls have taken to internecine strife as to the manner born.

Above the hudder--mugger voices of sanity are at time raised. But then this might be wishful thinking.

We heard about Aidan's job and he, Kate and child may be coming out again next year. The person he defeated, Neil Swancot, -- or Swinecot as I tend to call him-- was a big wig in the Australian Journalists Association (the NUJ without the moral fibre, ha! ha!). For reasons that I am hard pressed to fine I never felt Swincot could be trusted further than Mother Theresa could throw Walthamstow Town Hall.

We are all being whipped into a rather spurious frenzy because next year is Australia's Bicentennial celebrations, as some dry wits would have it, 200 years of Aboriginal survival.

This threatens to be one of the more disgraceful orgies since the Golden Age of Calligula.

Vast sums of public money are to be squandered on tasteless, puerile and tedious activities to encourage us to squander even more money to benefit doner kebab salesmen, hotel owners, Nazi beer barons and the purveyors of appalling Aussie tat made in Korea.

A vast influx of septic tourists (septic tank! Yank) fearful of being zapped by tasteful terrorists in Europe is expected to wander about the place making it look untidy. While their wretched tourist dollars are welcome (I admit this grudgingly) I feel it would be much tidier if they just sent a cheque.

To encourage this form of tourism and appeal to the fuckwitted Yuppie fraternity---- I shall establish Improbable Tours Limited.

For a vast fee, clients will receive five T--shirts bearing such legends as "I climbed Ayres Rock", "I heart New York" "The Paradise that is Manchester", "Moscow is great mate", "Delhi 4 me" plus a selection of international car stickers, used airline tickets, blurred snapshots of the Taj Mahal and Great Barrier Reef and cheep trinkets.

A selection of friends will be sent postcards from various locations during the alleged holiday. Meanwhile the Yuppies can stay under a sun lamp in a caravan on Canvey Island and save up for a decency transplant and cosmetic IQ lift.

My Bicentennial thoughts are a bit grim. For sanity's sake I hope some decent individuals provide ways and means to escape its tacky tentacles. All this rather negative, cynical, world weary stuff masks the simple truth that things are trundling along in much the same as they ever have-- periodic explosions of alcohol consumption, the endless stream of copy to lay out and sub ("flush twice, it's a long way to the editor's desk," the bog wall suggests) etc.

Both Jenny and I are rather over tired of late and relishing the prospect of four weeks off in Oct. We have no idea what we are going to do as long as we do it somewhere else.

It goes without saying that work is vile, but I continue to enjoy the theatre reviews which, while not being conducive to a good night's kip, make up for some of the misery during the day.

There's a fair chance that we will roam north during the hols and visit D. Kennedy and clan in Queensland.

Ah Queensland!

As they say in the tv ads! "Beautiful one day, paradise the next."

Now there's an interesting spot and I commend it to your enquiring minds.

Queensland is run by a raving, geriatric loony called Sit Johannes Bjelke--Petersen (honest) and has been for about ten million years.

But as Herbert Lom observed in one of the Pink Panther movies! "Madness doesn't preclude achievement."

Sir Joh-- and his pumpkin scone baking moron of a wife Senator Flo-- believe that QLD is not really a part of Australia and that its institutionalised corruption , cruelty, bone--headed stupidity and down right nastiness must be protected at all costs from the scourge of socialism, homosexuality, honesty, other criminals, birth control and the general concept of equity.

It's a great shame, because Queensland is a physically beautiful place where every prospect pleases..

Joh-- who along with the CIA-- was a leading figure in the downfall of the Whitlam government, managed almost single--handedly, to win our recent election for the Labor Party.

First up he launched the Joh for PM campaign on a platform of flat tax and generally fucking over the weak.

The initial problem with this scheme, lavishly funded by mad mining magnates and brutish property developers, was that Joh's state premiership derives from his election as a senator and the Prime Minister must be drawn from the House of Representatives.

Undaunted by these minor constitutional problems the old wretch started to abused his National Party colleagues and, eventually, caused a total split in the National/ Liberal Party coalition which submerges relatively minor differences of approach in order to split the spoils of power at a later date when the fiends from the left have been vanquished.

Having poured enormously damaging scorn on his former pals the bastard realised that he hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of getting anywhere and pulled out leaving all his mates with a public standing on a par with a bucketful of rats arseholes.

My how we laughed!

One of the agreeable things about Australia is the almost universal contempt for politicians.

Some of our more loathsome businessmen, however, are very keen to make loathsome businessmen swashbuckling national hero figures. Unfortunately these people are sufficiently rich to be enjoying some success in this disgraceful campaign.

A group of friends contemplate establishing a polite terrorist group-- urbane guerrillas if you like-- to handle certain persons with extreme prejudice, profoundly rearrange certain architectural aberrations, improve arts funding and generally raise the level of debate about the state of the world. With your co--operation this noble cause could transcend international boundaries.

Would love a letter or news from or of Paddy, Chris, George, Keith Eley.

By the way, you may remember Alan Jones from the Ping--Pong Palace. He and his wife spent a few days with us last month during which we got very pissed and had a wonderful time.

Alan is living down in Melbourne, generally having a jolly time and would doubtless like to be remembered fondly to all.

I suppose this is a rather impersonal letter in some ways but then news of Shane's piles, Waynes' new surf--board of Bruce's doomed relationship with the fishmonger would have little meaning-- hey ho!

Well, I think I have maundered on enough and I dare say you have important signatures to forge, Clare probably has books to cook and the children will have to fence the day's bag of wipes, pocket watches and purses.

Should you-- or any of the same-- ever fancy a trip to the colonies we'll keep a welcome in the billabong, slaughter the fatted roo and generally offer a jovial swagperson--type greeting. Of course, we would not hesitate to rip the scab off a few ice cold tubes (I do hope you realise that no--one actually uses ludicrous expressions like that.)

Given that everyone has got to be somewhere, this is not a bad place to be.

Convey fondest Rs to all and sundry.

Will write in five years time

All our love Frank & Jenny