#210: Shaddap You Face
Some books just make you chuckle at how crazy they are - and this is no exception. Written by our good mate Norm Barber, he of the non-flushing turds, ads written on toilets walls and Professional Bum, this tome is as hard to find as anything that he ever wrote, and with good cause. It's not that Norm couldn't write, it's just that he had absolutely no idea of writing an impartial book. Actually Norm couldn't write anything impartial really, I think he'd probably disagree with his own name.Norm hated, and possibly still does, anything to do with the Government and any form of social services. Actually, I'll alter that, Norm doesn't hate the services, he loves them, after all he's lived his entire life on the dole and is a self confessed leach, but what really boils Norm's piss are the people who have to deliver those services to the likes of, well Norm Barber. You know the kind, the world owes them everything, argumentative, arrogant, know it all - arseholes really. But that's our Norm. Norm is a bum. Pure and simple.
Having said that, if you live in Adelaide then try and find this book, and if you have a collection of Barber's musings, then let me know - I want to check out his 'How To Be A Derelict In Adelaide'. And post it. In the meantime, enjoy the words of Norm's preface to this fine, long out of print (and deservedly so) and incredibly paranoid tome.
Ahhhh Norm, if only you'd not taken all of those drugs back in the day. I hope he's learnt to flush though.
Comments
He was the culprit. It always happened on Saturdays just after lunch, when the man who sold shirts and ties wholesale on the second floor was in the store room next door with his girlfriend. I should know; I was the cleaner then. The dirty book seller did things unspeakable and that make my cleaning job there quite unpleasant.
You do 100% weird Norm an injustice by tagging him with that. I think he was sleeping on the roof of the building and became the scapegoat for anything bad that happened. He was based in the writers' centre and was publishing books criticising big money charities, I think.
Not sure where Norm ended up. Saw him last year hobbling around on sticks. Must have broken a leg or something. It would be great to have some photographs of Norm from the old days.
How to Be a Derelict by Norm is available at the South Australia State Library for free reading and copying.
Norm Barber is one of the finest provokers of Good Conscience we have ever known...
DONT WORK FOR JERKS OR THE MONEY OF JERKS.
Norman is a Canadian migrant who has never worked a day of his life here in Australia. Instead he found a niche as a professional charity scab and compensation fraud.
He has published many other LSD inspired dilerous rants on the internet some of which can still be found today by Googling " norm barber homeless". You'll find advice from him on how to defraud centrelink and how to not get a job. His philosophy on why organ transplantation doesn't work. Others about how the worlds economic problems would be solved if woman weren't allowed to work and were made to stay at home, cook and clean. I kid you not. You'll find his self titled "hate mail" page from his last page that got shut down.
Norman boasts that his homelessadelaideaustralia@weebly.com web page is out of Australian jurisdiction to do anything about because the server is based in America. Fortunately my lawyers wrote to the national library of Australia where somehow he'd managed to get his stalkers blog archived. It has been removed and will be reviewed again in 4 years should he try to resubmit, at which time my lawyers will submit a complaint again and his resubmission will be denied. On his page he claims the removal of his page from their archive was reduced. In fact it was only under review, he complained so they removed it permanently and told him to come back and try again in 4 years. haha
So unfortunately for Norman his page will not become any part of Australias history. Once he dies and the rental of his page on weebly.com goes unpaid his page and lifes work will be deleted forever.
Norman Barber is a drug addict and dealer himself, addicted to oxycontin for his "knee injury". He sells his prescrition medication to people like "piano playing paedophile wayne" for his tooth ache. Check out wayne butlers public posts on facebook. Norman can also be found at st bedes church in semaphore on Tuesday's and Wednesday's selling his oxycontins to older peolpe.
The reason Norman feels so safe been a keyboard worrier cyber troll is because he lives in the units directly opposite the police watch house in Elizabeth. Although laura Willows has since messaged me and says this is wrong. Her message can be found towards the bottom of this page.
Mr Smith is a convicted sex offended and is recorded in the sex offeneders register for committing acts of sexual molestation to young boys in foster care during the 1960's. For years now he has lurked the homeless support services looking for more vuanrable peolpe to groom and abuse.
The most recent target of thier victimization was Emma Hines. A woman 30 years his junior which both he and Norman Barber had sexual relations with, traded shelter for sex. Emma suffered serious mental issues which made it easy for anyone who abussed her to discredit her alligations. Emma use to claim that "lance armstrong raped her, followed her around and wrote stories about her on the internet". Nobody listened because she was "crazy", clearly it wasnt in her head.
Unfortunately Emma Hines is now deceased. According to Norman Barber and Mark Smith on their page she was murdered and point the finger at various other people.
On thier page they go into great detail about the events and circumstances surrounding her death. The police nor coroner have released any information and the investigation is on going. So how do Norman Barber and Mr Smith know so much? Why the continued obsession with her and why are they so desperate to piont the finger at other people. Aledgedly she died of a drug overdose, Norman Barbers oxycontins by any chance? Where were Mark Smith and Norman Barber on the night that Emma Hines died, they seem to know where she was every other day and night of her life.
When I've confronted Mr Smith about his web page he claims he knows nothing about the web page, that its all in my head, that I'm crazy and proceeds to tell people that i have mental problems. Funny because thats exactly what they did to Emma Hines when she cried out for help and exactly the same thing they say about me in the "adelaide homeless journal", some coincidence.
The notices on the gates of the west care premises warning that "anyone caught videoing or taking photos of other people within the premises without their written consent will be banned". Mr Smith is directly responsible for this. Mark Smith was caught taking photos and videos of people on the premises going about their bussiness. Washing, showering etc. Although this does not stop him activating the voice recoder on his phone and placing it on the dining tables.
Mr Smith is also well known in the stolen bicycle racket. He is always on the look out for high quality stolen bicycle parts. He wears a $300 bontragger helmet yet cannot afford to feed himself?
and Verity Kate Edwards
A formerly homeless man normam barberemembers his encounter with the Today/Tonight television program
The team at Today/Tonight are fuming. Tara Brown from Channel Nine beat them to the Norm Barber interview. So they’re digging in for the long haul and assign Verity Kate Edwards, Iron Man contestant and Seven’s dogs-body, to maintain friendly contact until they’re ready to pounce. Verity, a killer python addict, lives in a Protected Community back of the Wakefield Private Hospital.
“Just touching ground,” she says, in occasional emails, feigning interest in my organ transplant research. “Where do you live?” ask other emails, under other names.
“I’m not interested in an interview,” I reply, after twelve months of Verity et el. Channel Seven’s response is to send a camera crew into the Adelaide Hills, knocking on my ex-neighbours’ doors: “Have you seen Norm?” they ask. Friends warn me.
“I told you: no interview,” I message Verity. “Stop sending people looking for me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, “Please explain.”
I catch Verity trailing me a month later as I exit from the Southern Centre For Bio-Ethics. Her 52kg body, bulked up in thick coats, can barely fit into her Festiva. Her accomplice is the man who faked the Dole Army interview scenes. He disguised a shed then claimed it was a secret tunnel where the Dole Army emerged from at night to scavenge supermarket rubbish bins. He follows me in a black BMW with a secret dashboard camera. He sweats it out in the Findon shopping centre car park, hiding across the front bucket seats while operating the camera. But the heat is too much and he shamefacedly rises up and slinks away.
They fall in behind as I drive to the Job Network, following so closely as if trying to stage a crash.
I lose him near the empty wool sheds, but at Port Adelaide Verity stands in front of Centrelink, chatting comfortably with people at the bus stop. I climb the stairs to the first floor self-service computer area where another man waits, smiling. “Contact made,” he says into his phone then hides behind a cubicle, pretending to type. Then like creatures beholden to some mysterious circadian rhythm they abandon the chase.
I live in my car, sleeping on a rolled back seat or underneath trees in dry weather. Channel Seven knows my Post Box and plants spies outside. They email me claiming to be an organ donor posting research material. Their spy identifies me by their parcel I carry from the post office, and follows me to the Kensington Road lookout that overlooks the Adelaide Plains. He phones the camera crew.
“Still living in your car,” shouts Frank Pangalo, a Today/Tonight jock, trying to stop me closing my door. The chase is on. It ends twelve minutes later – the time it takes for my leaky radiator to empty. We’re at Hindmarsh Square in the CBD.
They rush my car. I stay inside. The cameraman presses his lens against the windscreen above which the boom operator dangles a microphone.
“We just want to talk to you,” says Frank, smoothly, but within minutes he’s thumping the roof and tapping my side window. He rhythmically rocks the car by thrusting his body against the door. “Norm, Norm,” he moans and cajoles like a used-car dealer then tries different psychological buttons: “Leech, bludger, anarchist,” (he has trouble pronouncing the last word). His phone rings, “Yeah, yeah, assassin, yeah…in his car” – his voice is for people in the street; his message for me: public humiliation.
My heart races; I need to urinate, my mouth is dry; I want to ask for mercy, but stay silent, motionless.
He finishes his script then repeats himself like a movie playing a second time. Our faces are close, separated by my driver-side window: we appear conspirators on a dark night. An evening rain sets in and he’s getting wet. He thrusts his pelvis against the car body and I pity him.
But he’ll look good on Today/Tonight; the editors will portray me as a scumbag: “Mr Barber prefers to play dumb with us,” Frank’s voiceover will describe this scene. But here we both know the score. I’ve become indifferent to this shock jock.
My heart slows to a healthy beat and my mouth moistens. Relief flows through my blood stream like when you bang your “funny bone”, and the excruciating pain triggers a flood of endorphins, those bodily opiates that ease pain. Sitting in the cocoon of my car, my panic becomes elation. They’ve done their worst and I’m still here, feeling good. Frank calls it a night and they return to the station.
I camp that night at Norton Summit on a slippery track littered with dozens of computers, lounge suites, a household of 1950s crockery, (individually wrapped in newspaper), and garbage bags of discarded hydroponic dope.
They see me at the bulk-billing skin cancer clinic three days later. People living outside over-absorb UV light; causing lesions that can be zapped off with frozen carbon dioxide.
At a shopping centre the cameraman gets a few seconds of my wobbly eyes. They slow down the re-play speed during editing making me look even more weird. They feature this doctored-up sequence in program promos across Australia during the weekend football games. “Australia’s Biggest Dole Bludger” they quote, from Leon Byner, an Adelaide shock jock. This fearless investigator later experiences an absence from radio after being caught offering protection from investigators, like him, for $10,000.
The final edit has an obese Amanda Vandstone saying, “…encouraging people to lie is a dreadful thing to do.” They obtain an art resume I wrote during the Adelaide Festival and beat it up as a real resume. They get a recruitment advisor, bathing his image in gold, to analyse it. They colour my leaflet, How To Avoid Work for the Dole, in an eerie gunmetal blue, and play subliminal classical music behind it – the music used to portray someone going psychotic.
They broadcast the eight and a half-minute segment on Today/Tonight. Then it’s over. I’ve passed through another test of fire, or, in this case, a trough of mud, and survive to become stronger.
this page is to document certain happenings at a certain group of retirement units owned by the Laura and Alfred West Cottage Homes Incorporated and administered by Anglicare in the form of Rude Rhonda M. Callaghan. To be fair, the incidents recounted below don't form the totality of the lives of those criticised. No doubt, there are many who can recount the kind and selfless acts done by Rude Rhonda Callaghan, Deidre Knight, Patricia Buhagiar, Ben Moore and that grass cutter.
The faulty security lights were eventually fixed after more than six months of not operating properly. They were easily and cheaply fixed. All the talk about digging trenches was untrue and a symptom of slack bureaucrats. The numerous electricians who fiddled with the power box were incompetent. Even the crazy grass cutter has got a new ride-on mower and which doesn't cut the grass at dirt level.
This website is a protest on behalf of people who are little regarded by the many bureaucracies that control their lives. However...
A nurse attending Wanye Butlers residents to cheak on the condition of his rotting gangrene infected limbs made a startling discovery.
She noticed clotted blood around the anus of his cat. When asked if he had noticed he avoided the subject.
The nurse took a closer look at the cat a saw that its rectum was herniated and bleeding internally.
After leaving she contacted the R.S.P.C.A and police.
The cat was ceased but died soon after from toxic shock.
Police are investigating.
I wish them the longest lives possible.
If i had one wish it would be for them to live a thousand life times, because they would still ammount to nothing but free loading dole bludging parasites of sociaty with no friends or stories of their own.
I wish them a slow natural death, counting every breath until thiet last.
As they reminisce the memories of their lives, their thoughts will not be filled of memories of love, success or achievments.
But memories of hiding out in public toilets, sneaking around taking photos of dirty blankets, complaints about free meals.
The thoughts on thier death beds filled with memories of the people they stalked and obsessed over, not shared experiences with close friends and love.
The gift of life, to live on this world of unlimited possibilities, yet they existed every day like the day before, like a dog chained to a kennel.
Simple pleasures known by most.
The taste of cold beer sweetened by the satisfaction of a hard days work, knowing of ones contribution to the lives of others. Concepts and feelings unknown to these males and their parasitic lives.
As consciousness ceases and the terrorfying dark of death takes hold they'll look into thiers hearts to find light to guide them into the darkness.
The search futile as they fall into the depths of hell.
Hell knowing on thier final breath they completely wasted thier lives, nfo comfort will they find.
As thier hearts takes its final beat no loved one will be holding thier hand or a final kiss goodbye. Their ears will hear no fairwell from friends.
A stranger will pull a blanket over thier face, a door will close, the end.
Enter eternity alone, forgoten.
They will meet the souls of those passed who they slander in death.
Hells retribution will begin.
Few will attend the funeral, no one will speak words of love or admiration for these people who wasted their lives.
People will attend to laugh and watch the dirt fall on their faces for final time.
Thier will be websites created for these peolpe.
The domains are already reserved.
The websites will not be flattering.
They will be remembered as the free loading mentally deranged parasites that achived nothing but hate.
Without a doubt
a GREAT FELLA
He's not a bad human being, but twisted this way and that from a life with people who are now mostly dead or brain damaged by the homeless drug lifestyle.