It began, as many great revolutions do, with a plague.
Not of frogs, or locusts, or even Canberra lobbyists - But of rats. In Outback Queensland. A humble commenter on our blog was besieged. Rats had invaded his patch, feasting on his oranges, chewing on everything he held dear, and turning his once-serene home into a clattering chaos of claws and tails.
They were everywhere.
But instead of despair, the commenters found inspiration.
A good chuckle, even in the trenches, yes, even in the mud of the Somme, was what kept our ANZAC boys human. A joke shared over bully beef or between bombardments was an act of quiet courage. It still is.
And so it was that Dusty Gulch was born...
Read more: The Glorious Birth of Dusty Gulch - Ratty Airways and the Orange Powered Revolution
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- Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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He lived it the hard way - from the dust and danger of the outback to the trenches of Gallipoli – and wrote it plainly for all to remember.
There are men who live great adventures, and there are men who write about them. Ion Idriess did both.
With a swag on his back, a rifle in hand, and a notebook never far from reach, he wandered the sunburnt edges of Australia - from the opal fields of Lightning Ridge to the crocodile-haunted waters of the north.
And then, like a bushfire racing the wind, he lit up the imagination of a young nation still finding its story.
Born in 1889 in the sprawl of an emerging Sydney, Idriess was never meant for city living. His spirit roamed from the start - drawn to the scent of eucalyptus and the promise of gold hidden in hard, unforgiving dirt.
Read more: Ion Idriess: Bushman, Soldier, Storyteller: The Chronicler of a Vanishing Australia
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- Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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He was short, wiry, and came from the dusty outskirts of Clermont in rural Queensland. Half Chinese, all Australian. Quiet by nature, deadly by skill. His name was Billy Sing, and in the trenches of Gallipoli, his name became legend.
Before the war, Billy’s father gave him one bullet at a time to hunt kangaroos. There were no second chances. You hit your mark - or you went hungry. That quiet discipline followed Billy to the battlefield, where he became one of the deadliest snipers in the ANZAC ranks.
While artillery thundered and men charged, Billy lay still... watching, waiting. His war wasn’t loud. It came in the pause of breath, the twitch of a finger, the silence that followed a single shot.
This is the story of a man who made every bullet count. A soldier whose enemies feared him, and whose country almost forgot him.
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- Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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As the sun rises on another ANZAC Day in less than two weeks, and the trial of a war hero looms on the horizon, we stand at a crossroads...not just political, but moral, cultural, and spiritual.
The time is at hand. Our country, our heritage, and the very soul of our nation hang in the balance. Who will we trust with our future? The polished men who lie, profit, and smile as they sign away sovereignty and burden our children with a debt they never incurred? Or will we remember the men who once stormed cliffs and trenches not for gain, but for us? For freedom? For Australia?
This ANZAC Day, as we lay wreaths and whisper “Lest we forget,” we must also look forward. We must remember that bravery is not just a thing of the past. It’s needed now.
Urgently.
And strangely, it may come wrapped not in medals or uniforms, but in something as humble as a teddy bear. Because perhaps, in this moment, what we need most is what we’ve long forgotten: the courage to care, the strength to feel, and the grit to say no... gently, defiantly, but clearly. Maybe this year, it’s Teddy’s turn to hit that electric fence and charge the bull. And maybe, just maybe, we follow.
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- Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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Some memories shimmer in the mind like a heat haze, half mischief, half magic. This is one of those. A tale from childhood, when the world was big, the days were endless, and every fence was both a challenge and a dare…
When I was a little girl - maybe six or seven - my two older brothers and their friend Norman had a gang called The Silent 3.
Their clubhouse was a dusty old coal smithy at the back of our property, not far from the chook yard. It was a corrugated iron shed, long since abandoned and quietly rusting into the landscape. Perfect for a secret gang headquarters.
Inside, the floor was dirt, and it smelled of rust and mystery and was absolutely thrilling.
That smithy became the scene of a plot so bold it could’ve ended in heartbreak. Let me tell you what happened.
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- Written by: The PR Blog
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Read more: Opening Pandora’s Box: The Risks of Defamation Actions
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- Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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We All Need a Billy
In 1984, a tiny grey kitten named Billy adopted our family - and changed everything.
These days, it sometimes feels like the world could do with a few more stories like his. So I’ll take a little trip down memory lane, reminding myself - and perhaps you - of happier, gentler times.
Before Billy, we had known the quiet grace of a white Cornish Rex named Tripitaka - Tripi to us. With his great ears and gentle presence, he reminded us of the monk from the old Japanese television series Monkey. Calm, wise, and kind, Tripi was, in every sense, a small white god in our home.
And then he was gone.
My daughters were heartbroken. They sobbed and cried, and even now, all these years later, they remember that day—the day love left the room and took something with it.
As a parent, I could not bear their pain.
Enter Billy...
Read more: Not All Heroes Wear Capes - Billy the Cornish Rex: River Swimmer and Restaurant Bandit!
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- Written by: Op-Ed Ratty News
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Dusty Gulch Dispatch: Arrest of Wallaby Hero
A wallaby is arrested. A hero is questioned. A weasel chooses the wrong side. And Dusty Gulch remembers too late who actually climbed the tower.
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Investigative Observer of Chaos
(and occasional unwilling participant in pastry warfare)
Dusty Gulch rarely appears on maps. It sits beyond the last sensible turnoff, where reality blurs, logic quietly resigns with a dramatic sigh, and even the flies have formed a union demanding better working conditions and a seat on the foreign affairs committee.
Today, the Dusty Dingo Pub was not just a bar - it was the theatre of pure, unfiltered, gravy-soaked Australian drama.
From the corner, Dennis the Hat watched it all unfold, hat low, pint untouched - the sort of man who didn’t say much, but usually said the thing everyone else wished they’d noticed sooner.
Trevor the Wallaby - hero and still-decorated rescuer of Mayor Dusty McFookit (see: The Water Tower Incident, still damp in living memory and trotted out whenever someone whinges about “heights” or “leadership”) - now stood accused of the heinous crime of “killing honklanders.”
Yes.
Those honklanders. The smiling, note-taking visitors the government have backed so enthusiastically.
Read more: Arrest of Wallaby Hero! Trevor led off in handcuffs!
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- Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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When I was a little girl, my grandmother gave me a book - a collection of poems by C. J. Dennis.
I treasured it then, and I still do.
Even as a child I could understand his words. There was a delightful honesty in them - a plain-speaking larrikin voice that felt like it belonged to the ordinary Australian bloke.
That same voice stayed with me into adulthood.
Dennis wrote during and after the Great War, not as a soldier at the front, but as someone who listened closely to the diggers and their families - and gave them a voice. He captured the spirit of the men who stepped up, not with grand speeches, but with the simple humour and quiet steadiness that came to define the Australian soldier.
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