Ratty News Exclusive
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent (aisle seat, back row) Reporting from the Ratty Flyers Fling
In Longreach, the Flyers Ball is elegance under the stars - gowns, pearls, champagne flutes tinkling in perfect rhythm, and speeches that last longer than the sunburn on a tourist’s nose. It is a celebration of generosity, of polish, of refinement.
In Dusty Gulch, we do not often attempt civilisation, but when we do, it is in a manner uniquely our own: sequins glued to bicycle helmets, lamington holsters duct-taped to battered Akubras, and one particularly dedicated fellow who strapped a sausage roll to his forehead to “improve aerodynamics.”
The occasion was no mere dalliance with high society. " The Ratty Flyers Fling " exists to fundraise to keep the Orange Bi-planes aloft - the very same planes that ferried our kangaroos, Tadpole, ( who turned into a frog enroute ) and myself to Trump’s inauguration, in a daring feat of aviation and audacity.
That anyone might question why Trump chose to lend assistance is to underestimate the delicate art of gratitude in the face of extraordinary logistics.
When Ratty Airways reached Washington, it released a cargo of oranges in celebration. The crowd below erupted in cheers as Taddie parachuted down, his orange skin glinting in the sun.
Landing gracefully on the National Mall, Taddie was greeted by none other than President Trump himself. “Welcome, my special ambassador from the great land of Australia!” Trump proclaimed, shaking the tiny frog’s hand with vigour. Unlike the greeting we anticipate Prime Minister Magoo will received when he touches down later this month.
Since that day, Dusty Gulch has been taken over by forces of evil. Yes, dear reader, from our triumphant support from President Trump, we have become a town under siege. I myself, Roderick ( Whiskers ) McNibble, have been reduced to living in an abandoned wombat burrow broadcasting from a starlink satellite attached to the beer fridge out the back of the Dusty Dingo Pub.
Chaos is now the undercurrent of Dusty Gulch, but on the night of the Dusty Flyers Fling, it rose to the surface once more. Maurice EDuck, self-styled enforcer of order, and Prentis Penjani, his waddling lieutenant, had spent weeks preparing, as they always do, to impose rules that made no sense to anyone, including themselves.
As you know, poor Trevor the Wallaby had his knees confiscated some weeks ago , leaving him hopping unevenly across the oval.
The bin chickens, ever opportunistic, had been up to no good. Even the CWA ladies, normally paragons of calm, had been transformed into ducks for reasons I could not fathom, though I suspect mischief and leftover corned beef played a role.
Then the sky darkened with the first harbinger of terror: magpie season. The swoops began immediately, precise and unyielding, a feathery blitzkrieg against any headgear that dared claim authority. The townsfolk, initially panicked, rallied around a new invention: the Galah Hat.
This was no ordinary helmet; it was a masterstroke of local engineering, equal parts creativity, shed wisdom, defiance, and aerodynamic cunning. It repelled swoops with the elegance of a lamington launched from a trebuchet and the subtlety of a brolga squawking at dawn. I watched as entire flocks hesitated mid-dive, baffled by the spectacle of an entire town shimmering with galah plumes. Some magpies, overcome with confusion or perhaps shame, began to wear the hats themselves, tilting their heads with newfound dignity.
Meanwhile, Prime Minister Magoo and his entourage arrived - uninvited - in full pomp, claiming credit for the invention of the Galah Hat. This assertion was immediately questionable, given that Magoo was parading in a sombrero so vast it required flight-path clearance from the local council, and that his coordination suggested a high likelihood of swoop casualties.
The people of Dusty Gulch, clad in galah hats, sequinned helmets, duckbills, and glittering makeshift crowns, did not falter. They faced swooping chaos and political posturing alike with a calm born of long experience in the absurdity we now call government in Canberra.
Orange Bi-planes circled overhead, roaring their approval and scattering lamington crumbs across the racecourse. Bin chickens cackled from fence posts, clearly plotting future mischief, but their malice was tempered by the sudden, overwhelming aura of galah-inspired authority.
At that moment, I felt compelled ... compelled, I say ... to quote from the long-lost works of Clancy the 6th Cat, whose wisdom had been scratched into a Hills Hoist decades prior and smuggled out in a Milo tin:
“When the swoopers come, raise not your fists but your feathers.
Wear the hat of the galah, and the skies themselves shall bend.”
I recited these lines quietly to myself as a magpie dove past my ear, hesitant to strike. And indeed, the skies seemed to pause in reverence. The magpies, the sombreros, the turbaned politicians - all were momentarily confounded by the galah-clad defiance of the common folk.
Unfazed, Trump sent the Prime Minister a sombrero of his own, accompanied by a quiet, pointed reminder: when Magoo arrives in Washington later this month, no hat .... sombrero, turban, or otherwise .... will save him from the consequences of his inevitable swoop. The early signs are already there... no one escapes President Trump when he is cranky.
After Hakeem Jeffries lost it on MSNBC over Trump’s meme putting him in a sombrero, 47 went right back at him, this time with Trump popping up as part of a mariachi band.
— Barstool Patriot (@BarstoolPatriot) October 1, 2025
Trump is the undisputed king of trolling. pic.twitter.com/z4PUssRtwo
By nightfall, Dusty Gulch had transformed into a theatre of wonder and triumph. Magoo’s sombrero flapped hopelessly in the wind, while the Galah Hats held firm against the air’s mischievous assault. Ducks waddled strategically, ensuring that no shoe, knee, or lamington was left unguarded. But Orange Bi-planes hovered like sentinels, while kangaroos peered curiously from behind fences, their faces inscrutable. The ducks were utterly confused.
Maurice E. Duck, predictably outraged, attempted to enforce “helmet law” from the safety of a hastily erected podium. He was immediately set upon by a squadron of galah-hatted magpies, who chased him down Possum Lane in what may have been the most satisfying moment of the night. Prentis Penjani, flapping in mild panic, was last seen negotiating a truce with a particularly aggressive brolga.
The significance of the Galah Hat cannot be overstated. It was both weapon and talisman, a signal that Dusty Gulch would not tolerate swoops, censorship, or misplaced political credit. Sombreros, turbans, and self-important gestures were powerless before it.
It was the hat that redefined the night, turned the tide, and elevated the Fling from mere fundraiser to legendary revolt.
Thus was written the legend of the Great Hat Rebellion, when the galah, long mocked as foolish, became the crown of wisdom.
And as I scribbled furiously in my notebook, whiskers twitching from both excitement and stray lamington crumbs, I could only reflect that this was - in Clancy’s immortal words, and with all the seriousness a rat of my standing could muster - nothing short of magestical.
This article is satire. It uses humour, exaggeration, and a sprinkle of cheekiness to make a point. It’s not meant to be taken literally or as factual reporting. If you’re looking for straight news, this ain’t it. But if you enjoy a good laugh and a bit of honest reflection, you’re in the right place.
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