Alan Jones in his home at Fitzroy Falls in the Southern Highlands
Alan Jones in his home at Fitzroy Falls in the Southern Highlands (Image: AAP/Private Media)

Luke Smeaton writes: Thank you for sharing your favourite lots from the auction of the contents of Alan Jones’s erstwhile residence (“Alan Jones is auctioning his possessions. We chose our favourite items”). It took longer than I had anticipated to scroll down to something racist in the collection, but I didn’t need to go beyond page one to find a disturbing collection of “blackamoor” figures and a pair of racially stereotyped bronze figures “in the 1940s style”. My favourite, however, is the lovely Lot 250: oil-on-board depiction, Figures on a Beach. I wonder if it reminded Jones of his own legendary work: Figures on a Beach, Cronulla, 2005?

Paul Wayper writes: Interesting to see Alan Jones selling out — er, selling some bits of his estate. I think we need to know why. Why is he cashing up? What’s going on in the Jones media circus?

I did look for integrity in the catalogue — that seems to be perpetually on sale, but it wasn’t on offer. Is it already paid for? I also see shred of decency is already gone…

Marcus Barber writes: Upon perusal of the catalogue one can summarise thus: so much faux, so little time. That said, the standouts are a combination buy: three wooden dodos and shadow of Oz umbrella. Surely no other items so delightfully capture the fading of the white male shock jock on Australia’s stage?

Bryan Lewis writes: I think the pair of cast metal champagne buckets would make great his and hers Goesunders, for that quick pee in the wee small hours…

Steve Cornelius writes: My choice is the concrete standing Buddha figure on timber stand (from Lot 207). I envisage this in my garden, directly facing the window of my study, where it would be a constant reminder of the joys and benefits of the contemplative lifestyle to which I, like Mr Jones, have devoted most of my life.

Failing that, perhaps instead one of the three (!) “blackamoors”, not so much for their intrinsic appeal but more for their potential to provide a gratifyingly intense fuck-you message to any of the infernal cancel-crazed wokies and scruffy leftist rent-a-crowd dole-bludgers who would label me “a racist arsehole”. Any one of these blackamoors would severely piss off all the right people who’ve never done a decent day’s yakka in their godforsaken lives. God save the que king!

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