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In these days of increasing Thought Police intervention in our lives, I had a rather interesting revelation: It dawned on me that so many of us already talk in code. 

No, I am not talking about the codes adopted during the war with the famous ( or infamous ) Enigma code that caused Alan Turing and his team of codebreakers so much consternation in WW II; no, I am talking about the code that families speak. 

Let me give you some examples. 

When I was a little girl, my parents bought some sleeping bags for my two older brothers. They were rather el cheapo, kapok filled grey sleeping bags and were so thin that my older brother complained " Gee! They are so thin, you could spit through them " 

Henceforth, in our family, a sleeping bag was known as a spit through.  If someone ever kidnapped a family member and we had to establish if that person was an alien, the first question we would ask would be " What is a spit through? " 


We were all keen members of the vegemite club.  Spread on toast, the down-under breakfast spread of a black yeast extract was known as " black stuff. " If you wanted vegemite on your brekkie toast, you would be passed the black stuff.  Only a family member would know that. 

Another important tip for would be alien kidnappers. 

As time passed, I have realised that speaking in code is something we do almost without thinking. Every family must do it. 

I remember when my late Uncle passed, his ashes were spread out to sea. My family were horrified. We all knew that he hated the ocean and he was terrified of sharks. All one would have to say was " what was Uncle Bob afraid of ? " and we would have all yelled " sharks! " 


We all have something that we hate. Uncle Bob hated sharks. I, for example am fearful of heights.

The same goes for my late Dad, known here ( now ) as Mr Redhead. He hated rats with such a passion that he could not bear to say the word. Everyone in our family knows what a four legger is because that is what Mr Redhead used to say. 

Family sayings, things I have written about in different articles. " Whose bright idea was this? " or " Oh no, not blue skies again! " or " telling the Cook Strait Cable " come to mind. They are an "inside " joke. Only a family member knows the story behind the saying. 

Which brings me back to the blog. 

As our community has grown, I have often wondered why new commenters come and then depart. They don't hang around. Why? We are a friendly bunch of people. 

And it dawned on me this morning. It is because we talk in code. 

And people who are new have no idea what we are talking about. It is a family thing. 

Take, for example, the term " gladwrapper. " 

Now we, in the inner circle, know exactly what that means. It means a joke so funny that we need to shield our keyboard from the explosive laughter of a joke well told. 

A Digger: a friend. A mate. Someone who we care about and consider as one of us. 

A Rainbow Rat:  a politician who betrays the bush . 


Even that requires explanation. In simple terms, a politician who has betrayed ordinary regional Australians to gain votes from minority groups.

I could write "  I hear where you are coming from mate. People are sleeping in spit throughs because rainbow rats have forgotten about the blackstuff and lamingtons. I am sick of the mozzies invading our campsites It's time to get back to the sheeps back and know that the black stuff comes out of the ground, as well as a jar, and the Diggers all remember Clancy, Ned and Breaker. It's time to remember the bushies, the bandits and the balladeers  " 

Most of us here would know what I was saying.....  that my friend would understand that it was time to stop transgender and LGBT campaigns. Let's get back to old fashioned Australia when no one had to sleep rough because migrants were taking our housing to the detriment of hard working Australians.

That we should never forget the history of our Nation and how the legends and poetry of the colonial era are part of our DNA. Australia was founded on the wool industry and coal, the real black stuff, has been funding it since the demise of the wool industry. 

 So I would ask you newcomers to learn our language. Embrace our diversity. 

If you are confused, ask. One of our helpful codebreakers will reply. 

However, one of the most perplexing questions is how a blog can be run by a person who identifies as a sexually confused transgender known as Monty who also identifies as a Manx fairy, a shady Australian woman, and a straight talking Australian male who gets her/his 91 year old mother to edit each post just in case it mentions big bright bouncing beautiful horse riding or abandoning a man known as Mr Redhead on a volcanic island. .  you get my drift. 

I ask you: would anyone take this blog seriously? . 

Ahh, the method in my madness.  I doubt the government will have us high on their agenda for surveillance because we are just a bunch of mad old cookers who speak to leprechauns and think that Brussels Sprouts are able to type ..... 

Humour is the last retreat of the sane.  

I mean really?

You guys must be bonkers! Welcome to the House of Fun. 





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