Jaidyn-Jaxxon hates Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet. Apparently. I would have respected it more if he was chopping up Cloud Street with a copy of Catcher in The Rye, but still…ahhh…kudos, JJ, kudos.

About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
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129 Responses to Hater

  1. skink says:

    did you set fire to it afterwards?

    and then sacrifice a goat on the same tree stump, paint arcane designs on your naked body with the blood and ashes, and run around the neighbourhood screaming?




  2. Bento says:

    Who knew Bathox do merch?


  3. E.V. says:

    A TWOP tee-shirt would have been more appropriate for the ceremony/photos.


  4. WAtching says:

    I know that’s you JJ… eating the entrails of your enemy…


  5. SnoopDoug says:




  6. Snuff says:

    That’s just uncalled for. By way of an antidote I’d like to present this, but be warned; you may be there for some time. That one’s for you, DFOC.

    On a related note, years ago there was an upload of this scene, but some error developed and it hasn’t been working for some time. Fortunately I’ve found another one in the middle of this clip, which I tried to copy to Splicd but embedding has been disabled. So, the relevant section runs from 1:23 to 7:00. Enjoy.


  7. E.V. says:

    I’ve never read Winton, and the intensity of the hatred expressed here disturbs me. I’m curious, and I will start by reading his worst book. Any suggestions?


  8. pete says:

    The joke’s on you. That’s a school curriculum book and you’ve just buggered your resale value.


  9. Timposter says:

    Evidently JJ’s loathing for Winton transcends petty economics, Pete.

    He HAS however created excellent kindling. Winton for Winter. Yairs.


  10. Timposter says:

    Strewth, thought Jaidyn as the blocksplitter bit into the straggling woodpulpy remnants sitting on the hardwood, thats me long standin complaint with bloody Winton brought to a satisfyin conclusion.

    Yairs, he thought as the literary confetti settled on the old granite flags setting the ants frantic, that’s the way, the simple ways like back in Lugger’s Bluff before the bushfire and the old man’s suicide and the awful bloody dealins with modernity…just meself, a stack a Wintons, and my axe.


  11. vegan says:

    just did a search for twop at saigon airport and all the patti chong threads come up as a default.


  12. BrownBook says:

    It’s not over. Isn’t the movie just about to come out, in all its parochial glory?


  13. Bill O'Slatter says:

    JJ now writing the scripts for Myles Barlow. This one must be “Does school lit”.


  14. David Cohen says:

    ‘That wasn’t so bad’, he thought, as he left the admin building and went into the harsh mid-afternoon west coast light.
    The heat from the macadam wafted up his shorts and eddied: it was like being on the ferry jetty at Rotto before the breeze came in. He had wanted to tell the kids about the transcending moments of a young writer’s life, and thought of that day with Roslyn Kirby on the rocks.
    Above them, out of sight, ferries hooted and holidaymakers stretched their limbs, but he and Ros had forgotten their fishing tackle and were intent on each other’s salty essence amid the tangled lines and putrid bait…
    He didn’t normally do school visits these days, but a mate had asked him to talk to these kids – he had gone to school with the principal’s ex-wife – and he had a free arvo, and he thought what the hell.
    Getting away from the computer was a good notion, too, after that wanker had told him about that crappy website again.
    “Mate, they’ve speared you,” was the garrulous laugh over the phone – and after he clicked on the link he felt a stabbing in his vitals.
    So better to forget about that rubbish and talk to some kids – they weren’t consumed with jealousy, and had a terrible determination to lash out like a drunk deckhand who’d a pony or three more than they were used to…
    But that kid at the front was weird, man…the other nippers had called him a legend, and laughed at his questions…Christ, didn’t the teachers or parents monitor kids on the ‘net these days?
    If he’d said something like that his dad would have clobbered him with the strap he made from one of the belts at the whaling station.
    What had the kids yelled? “101”. Was Orwell still on the book list?


  15. skink says:

    I had hoped for a bit of Wintoning with an axe-wielding Swedish death metal theme


    • Natalia Fan #1 says:

      Foam gathered on the shining sand as the tide gently lulled its way landward. School holidays were here, so Clem and the other boys had made the long hot trek down to Shep’s Cove to fish. They reminisced about what they had caught last summer – whole schools it seemed of silvery whiting; bronze-scaled mulloway; the occasional Gummy – and what they hadn’t: Becky Price and her friends, with their lithe, tanned limbs and teasing smiles. Maybe this summer, they mused amongst themselves. With a few flicks of his rod, Scotty hauled in a good-sized flathead, which puffed and contracted on the sand before giving a final paroxysmic heave. “It’s a bewdy,” Clem said, stepping forward to unhook Scotty’s haul. As he bent over the fish, something in its scaly stillness caused Clem’s skull to prickle, as though the still fish augured further death. In that instant Scotty, dropping his rod, gasped and mutely pointed seaward, his finger trembling. Long wooden ships with dragon carved prows, as they could see even from this distance, rapidly made for the shore. They quickly retreated to the nearby dunes. Clem looked back as he ran, breaking out in a cold sweat despite the baking heat. Several hundred men disembarked from the now beached ships. Lean and tall to the last they were, with piercing blue eyes and flowing blond hair topped by horned helmets. Swords and axes, glinting in the noonday sun, hung from their rangy sides. Several of the men looked across from where Scotty had carelessly flung his rod, their eyes following the frantic trail of kicked-up sand leading to the boys’ hiding place. “De har sett oss,” said one of them. Another, taller than the rest and with a long red beard, apparently the leader, grunted: “Döda dem!” Detaching from the main group, several of the warriors issued blood-curdling screams as they ran toward the dunes. The boys stood transfixed – frightened, or unbelieving, or both – as the men quickly advanced upon them, the hafts of their axes raised high into the maddening sunshine….


      • skink says:



      • And of course the blood on the axe reminded him of his father slaughtering a sheep in that sun baked Merredin yard… and the yellow of their hair would have been like acres of wheat to the horizon, heat haze…


        • Natalia Fan #1 says:

          Yes, could go on for a lot longer with this. Temptation to write the violent scenes almost too much. I’m imagining vikings sacking Geraldton for some reason, or perhaps rowing up the Swan. Back to work.


      • Bill O'Slatter says:

        Soundtrack: Riders on the Storm sung by Jimmy Little.


      • WAtching says:

        Brilliant NF#1.

        I do like a happy ending.


      • Jaidyn-Jaxxon says:

        By the droplets of Gleipnir, he breathed, what a bloody raid. All around them, the smouldering remnants of castaway lives, the crimson-scorched wreckage of those free and easy souls who’d made it, to a fella, made it down that ever-secret, ever-winding road to the good times. Wasted but well spent, those long nights out under the waning moon with your toes dangling off the jetty, a dhuhy in one hand ‘n a Toohey’s in the other, just listening to that bubbling, rollicking trickle-tide between the treated timbers. Fenrir’s bane, he muttered to himself, those had been the days. Up until today, he realised – and christ almighty what a thought! until today when they’d rolled in, longboats cresting the rollers like chips on gravy, surging upward, forward, the barren stink of death already prescient in their wake, just like that old bloke – Jonno, or had they called him Snapper – so difficult to be sure, here in the lilting summer haze, the glassy ripples and refractions dancing across your eyelids as you squint out and across to the furthest horizon, to that leaping tumbling line that’s always shifting, so slightly that you can barely tell, so barely that you can hardly be sure of it at all. Just like Snapper. Or was it Deano? Deano, perhaps that was it. What a character he’d been, a sly dog that one, always puttering around behind the store, always on the lookout for that golden opportunity when the Tip-Top man went in to settle the invoice, or maybe just have a perve on Becky’s mum, that one fleeting moment, slippery as a turtle’s tongue, when he could make off with a sack of Sandwich Slice. And then of course we’d all rack off up the dunes to foister and cankle, our little bread boondys clenched up in our fists as we led a trail of unwanted crusts through the whispering spinifex like some Hansel and Gretel of the never-never. Those had been the days, alright, he breathily reminisced, they sure bloody had. Up until. He shouldered his axe. Bloody pillaging. He’d kill for a mead…


  16. The Legend 101 says:

    OMG is that a knife his holding in the first picture!


  17. The Legend 101 says:

    OMG WHY DOES YOUR FRIEND HAVE THIS FOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


    • orbea says:

      Oh. Okay.
      Or you can just go home.
      I’ll wait, okay?
      If you like.
      TLA waits in the warm darkness. He sees the warm glow of an IPhone in the darkness. Another tweet? A witty note requiring moderation, maybe. He cocks his head and sees it again – an Ipad.
      Water laps against the shore and some cnut calls across the estuary. He tweets some more while walking the Arro adn he;s so absorbed by the little puffs of ego that he doesn’t realise DFOC has returned until he touches his shoulder in the dark and he gives out a yelp of man touch.
      Sorry, he says, Didn’t mean to scare you.
      You didn’t, he lies.
      They head back up Beaufort St in an awkward silence. TLA smells the charred chorizo smoke on his skin. He’s still tingling from his touch. But he tweets instead.
      Is Ben Cousins corpse worth the cash? he blurts.
      DFOC says nothing.
      I don’t even know what a dead AFL perthonality is worth, he says with his heart halfway up his neck.
      Gotta be worth more’n WAFL, eh.
      Jesus, TLA.
      Not that there’s anything wrong with WAFL, he mumbles, but he cuts him off.
      Look, spare me the sympathy gig, willya, he says angrily.
      TLA stops in his tracks, dribbling.
      Listen, DFOC says, hissing in his face so close that TLA can feel the anger on his breath. I dont edit orright? I take the posts and put’em up no worries. I don’t need ths gig, or the money that bad. I’m not out here sellin meself every night feedin the family, its a hobby, using me acute sense of timin on bloated news executives. Orright?
      The lights of the kebab shop blink through the traffic. The graffiti tags blend into the background.
      I do it to get away. Simple as that. These days, its like the job is dead inside, lik everything’s gone, like even the air is dead, like that octopus on Walcott St.
      Sorry, TLA mumbles.
      I’ll see you later, how was Vietnam?
      Smells like fish, mud and formaldehyde. I think I’ve invented a new drink.
      Why does it always hurt so much?


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  19. The Legend 101 says:

    Wasnt apporite for posting here Orbea.


  20. Scotty A says:

    I liked Cloudstreet when I read it. It was a few years back now and Id just returned from 6 years absence so maybe that had something to do with it.

    Although, Satan is not my master, he’s just a good friend.

    What I dislike more than a Winton is a Winton lookalike dancing like a loon at Clancys with a T-shirt which says “I am not Tim Winton”



  21. The Legend 101 says:

    When is cloudstreet going to be on in W.A and what channel cause i think its on Foxtel.


  22. James says:

    I burned my copy. Best decision of my life.


  23. Jeez Louise says:

    Here I was thinking that I was the only person who didn’t like Cloudstreet. It is still the worst book I’ve ever read. Even Digital Fortress (a cruel test of endurance at the urging of Mr Jeez), Prey (freebie from Dymocks even though I said I didn’t want it and was again cruelly compelled by Mr Jeez), and a lame-arsed novel by Stella “I Should Have Known Better” Rimington contained unintentional hilarity, making them better than Cloudstreet. Thank God for Umberto Eco and Margaret Attwood.


  24. Jeez Louise says:

    No hard feelings, NF. You are so right about Mr Jeez, and yet so wrong about me being a book snob.


  25. NF#1 says:

    Radio National TV reviewer has just been gushing about the new Clodstreet series, starting on Foxtel this weekend. Apparently Showtime will not be releasing this to free-to-air stations, though there may be (?!) a DVD down the track.


  26. skink says:

    I am a bit confused by all this.

    Foxtel will get an audience of about 100,000 for this, which would hardly justify its budget. I doubt overseas broadcasters would be interested in watching colonial rurotards jump off a jetty in slow motion, so the only way they can recoup the money is by getting Seven and Nine into a bidding war

    reckon they’re playing hard to get.


    • NF#1 says:

      Showtime is apparently attempting to position itself as Australia’s answer to HBO. The exclusivity is meant to reel in new subscribers.


      • skink says:

        I would believe this if their productions were of similar quality to The Sopranos and The Wire, but I somehow doubt they will be hiring George Pelecanos, Dennis Lehane and Richard Price to write for them, and won’t have nearly enough gratuitous swearing, ultraviolence and shagging.

        if they did a Deadwood-style version of Clodstreet, I’d pay to watch.


  27. skink says:

    found these excellent curriculum notes for those that can’t be arsed to watch ten hours of soap opera:

    ‘Fish dreams of drowning. Note: sky and river as one.’

    that pretty much sums up the entire Winton oevre in one sentence.



  28. skink says:

    there’s time to invent a Clodstreet drinking game

    any time anyone says ‘strewth’, take a drink….


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