Barefoot in the Grass: The Last Lesson My Father Taught Me

My father passed away on the 4th of August, eleven years ago.

This year, the date slipped by quietly. There was no ceremony, no grand occasion. But we remembered.

Because some people are not remembered on one particular day. They are remembered every day.

One of our commenters, Frank, often honours our articles about our war heroes with the words, “Lest We Forget.”

Those words carry weight. They remind us that some things must never disappear into the noise of history.

But I have come to realise that remembering is not only about dates on calendars, names carved into stone, or moments of public ceremony.

Sometimes remembering is much simpler.

Thomas Pritchard, Australia's last "Rat of Tobruk"  passed away at the age of 102 on 3rd of August 2024. Pritchard was part of the famous garrison who held the Libyan port against a furious Nazi siege in World War II. 

" They lived like rats and  they fought like lions "

I would venture to say that the two most famous and well known phrases of our military history are “Gallipoli” and “The Rats of Tobruk”. One was a magnificent defeat. The other was a magnificent triumph.

Field Marshall Sir William Slim, 13^th Governor General of Australia and at the time, General commanding the 14^th Army said after the triumph over the Japanese at Milne Bay that “…..Some of us may forget that, of all the Allies, it was the Australians who first broke the invincibility of the Japanese army and it was the Australians who first broke the invincibility of the German army.”

In speaking of the defeat of the German Army he was speaking about Tobruk. 14,000 Australian soldiers embarked on an eight month siege defending the harbour town of Tobruk, beginning on April 10-11 1941.

From immigration policy to identity politics, energy to ideology -  the erosion of Western society is no accident. It’s part of a pattern.

Sometimes, you have to wonder: is all this just incompetence, or something more coordinated? Policies that seem to defy common sense are being rolled out with alarming consistency - not to strengthen the nation, but to fracture it.

One might start by looking at immigration. Not just the numbers, but the nature of it. Instead of families or vulnerable refugees, we’re seeing a steady flow of young, single, fighting-aged men, often from regions with vastly different values, cultures, and religious worldviews. There's no requirement to assimilate. In fact, it's almost as if assimilation is the one thing being actively discouraged.

And when ordinary citizens begin to express discomfort, the response isn’t dialogue ... it’s dismissal. They’re labelled racists, xenophobes, far-right agitators. Islamophobes.  Their frustration is turned into something sinister.

No longer patriots but monsters to be erased....?

Twenty-Five Teenagers. One Mother. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

When I was about twelve years old, my mother - known to my readers as Redhead -  was asked to do something that today would probably require a risk assessment the size of a telephone directory, a dozen police checks, several counsellors and enough paperwork to sink a ferry.

It was 1968.

She was asked to escort around twenty-five teenage fencers from Auckland to Christchurch for the New Zealand Fencing Championships. A distance of roughly 600 miles or 1000 km in new money. A long way back then with the transport available. 

No teachers. No security guards. No youth workers. Not even a committee.

One mother. One chaperone for the girls. 

Can you imagine the phone call today?

Swish, Swish... Off With Their Heads

When I was a young lass, I was a fencer.

No, not the farming type that wandered around the farm putting up wire and posts to keep stock in a paddock. I mean a swish swish, off with their heads type of fencer.

It's been over fifty-five years since I last stepped onto a piste, mask in hand and heart pounding. Back then, I learned quickly that no amount of reach or muscle could level the playing field against a male opponent.

But fencing taught me something even more valuable -  grace under pressure, discipline, and the quiet power of standing your ground.

My love affair with fencing began back in 1969 or thereabouts, when I started high school. I came from a tiny country primary school in rural New Zealand where there had been barely a hundred pupils. Overnight I found myself in a high school of almost two thousand students.

It was a culture shock. And that is an understatement.

Mystery Deepens: Who Are the Chookhouse Four?

By Roderick (Whiskers ) McNibble, Chief Investigative Correspondent, Author of " Do Rats Dream? " , currently no 7 on the NY Ratty Times Best Seller List. 

Dusty Gulch residents are once again peering nervously through their curtains following the sudden arrival of four highly organised chickens who have taken up residence in what locals are already calling "The Chookhouse."

The newcomers have become known simply as The Chookhouse Four.

Their arrival comes only weeks after the tragic disappearance of the infamous Dusty Nine, the flock of ducks whose unfortunate encounter with the Werewolves of Dusty Gulch has become the subject of songs, rumours and at least three highly inaccurate documentaries narrated by Lord Squawk Squawk.

What has everyone scratching their heads, however, is not the chickens themselves.

It is their bodyguard.