The PR Blog

DUSTY GULCH EMERGENCY BROADCAST: “Biggie Rat and the Southern Crossfire”

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, reporting from somewhere between Dusty Gulch and a hard place

“Little Rat calling Home Burrow… repeat, Little Rat to Dusty Gulch Control. If you’re hearing this, the yarn’s run out, the kettle’s cold, and the cat’s asleep on the keyboard. This is Biggie Rat, reporting live and furry from under a chandelier in Mar-a-Lago… don’t ask.”

It started with a dodgy scooter and ended under a chandelier at Mar-a-Lago. Titanium knees were bugged, ducks were quacking coded signals, and President Trump himself whispered the plan to Dusty Gulch’s most unlikely hero -  a rat with nerve, a nose for intrigue, and a VPN ready to scramble every spy frequency.

Like Nancy Wake slipping through occupied France, I dodged every surveillance cat, rogue poodle, and suspicious chandelier to carry the Southern Crossfire message back to the Gulch. The Outback’s secrets are safe, the knitting signals secure, and the Gulch has its own furry resistance… at least for now.

Let's rewind. Back to old mate Frank aka “The Grizzly Bear”, a man whose beard alone could qualify as a national treasure'; a man who would never shit in the woods. Frank had been lumbering around Dusty Gulch since before the gold rush ghosts cleared out, and recently he’d been gifted titanium knees and a souped-up mobility scooter -  courtesy of Prentis Penjani’s “community mobility grant,” which smelled fishier than a wheelie bin full of barramundi from last week's takeout from the Dusty Dingo.

At first, it seemed generous. But the CWA Spy Division sniffed something foul in the gum leaves. Those knees weren’t just knees. Those knees were transmitters. Every shuffle, every wobble, every grunt from Frank’s scooter was piping the Gulch’s secrets straight to Prentis Penjani and his quacking accomplice Maurice E. Duck. Miniature spies on titanium legs. It was an outback intelligence coup in the making, and it had to be stopped. Could a VPN - a Very Private Nitter - solve the problem? If the K is silent, why bother having it in the first place?  In fact, the whole point is the silent bit.

Enter the Feline Five. Dusty McFookit, grizzled bush ranger and dust-squint specialist, rounded up his deputies and me, Roderick (Whiskers ) McNibble.Together, we infiltrated Frank’s shed under cover of a dust storm. Turns out the scooter had a hidden compartment big enough for a six-pack and a satellite dish. Penjani’s plot? Wire Frank up as the Gulch’s “Grizzly Grid”, broadcasting every stubby and scone secret to EMaurice’s encrypted duck dynasty.

We neutralised the threat, swapped the wires for fairy lights, and left a calling card: a hairball in the cupholder. Frank? He just grumbled, “Bloody cats - thought it was the dingoes again.” Moral: never underestimate a rat or a cat.

But the real crisis was bigger. President Trump had vital intelligence to pass to Dusty Gulch, and every conventional route was compromised. Every outback whisper -  pie fights, poker games, pollie-bashing yarns -  were already being relayed back to Canberra via the titanium knee network. Pine Gap and the Townsville terror probe had exposed a rogue frequency hijack. Someone was listening. Someone was plotting. And only Dusty Gulch’s last free broadcast remained untouched. Yes, dear friends, my time in the wombat burrow with Starlink was not wasted. 

Seven people across Queensland (including Townsville, Bowen, Proserpine & Brisbane) have been arrested in a counter-terrorism sting. They were all known to each other and were in possession of explosives, bombs & illegal weapons.https://t.co/w4zLP6gmMB

— Sista Cate Ruth ♿ (@SistaRuthDOPD) November 6, 2025

That’s when Pauline Hanson and her knitting cabal came into play. Pauline had been quietly running the CWA Purlers branch as a clandestine communications network, hiding Morse code in scarves, jumpers, and mittens. Every stitch could carry instructions. Every fold of yarn could conceal a message. When Trump realised that no email, Zoom call, or carrier pigeon could deliver the Southern Crossfire message safely, he requested a courier who could slip past every human, scanner, and suspicion: I,  Roderick McNibble, Biggie Rat of Dusty Gulch was needed.

Gina Rinehart financed the mission -  a private jet, code-named Iron Maiden II, was prepped, carrying Pauline, three suitcases of yarn, and one jumper, or sweater for my American friends. Customs saw “craft supplies” and emotional-support wool. Nobody blinked.

Inside Pauline’s jumper, stitched in red, white, and secretive green, I was concealed -  a furry little Nancy Wake for the 21st century. The plan: infiltrate Mar-a-Lago, meet the President, receive the Southern Crossfire message, and return to Dusty Gulch undetected.

The gala was a minefield. Chandeliers glinted like searchlights, waiters balanced lamingtons like intelligence dossiers, and every carpet seemed wired for surveillance. I dodged three Secret Service cats, a suspicious poodle named Melahnia Woof, and a horrified ice sculpture. And then I found him - Trump himself, munching on a Big Mac, whispering like a conspirator in a confessional.

“Roderick,” he said, “Nancy Wake had courage in silk stockings. You’ve got it in fur. Don’t let them jam the Gulch.” He slipped me an envelope. My heart missed a beat. 

Inside the envelope: the Southern Crossfire message, a blueprint for survival:

1. Deactivate the Titanium Knee Network. Frank and Trevor’s knees, Frank’s scooter, and any other spy implants were to be jammed without anyone noticing, preserving Dusty Gulch’s secrets.VPNs would become essential to keep communication lines open.

2. Protect the CWA Morse Frequencies. The knitting circles weren’t craft -  they were the last secure communication channels in the Outback.

3. Rally the Feline Five. The message included secret rendezvous points, codes, and counter-surveillance instructions.

4. Neutralise the Outback Signal Hijack. Pine Gap and Townsville had already tested the system. The Southern Crossfire map outlined how to intercept rogue signals and bounce them safely across the Outback.

5. Activate Operation KangaCast. Using Dusty Gulch’s natural geography -  billabongs, ridges, and stockyards -  to broadcast free signals far and wide via Elon Musk's Starlink.

6. Create a Very Private Nitting Network. 

The Southern Crossfire Map

Pinned to the wall of the Dusty Gulch CWA Bunker (formerly the tearoom), the map looked like a patchwork of mystery -  half high-tech, half outback art project.

Lines of red string zigzagged across the map, connecting rusting radio towers, disused airstrips, and secret pie vans. Each pin glittered with coded significance -  “Lamington Alpha,” “Scone Bravo,” “Billycan Charlie.”

Tiny flashing lights blinked in Morse rhythm, rerouting rogue signals from Frank’s titanium knees, Trevor's knees acting as a booster, across the Nullarbor, through an abandoned sheep station near Broken Hill, and out toward the Great Sandy. A Very Private Nitting Network. 

I, Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble stood back, paws on hips. “By crikey,” I said. “If this works, we’ll outsmart every duck, drongo, and data-mining moggy between here and Canberra.”

The message wasn’t trivial. If it failed, Dusty Gulch would go silent. The Gulch’s voice, its humour, its freedom to gossip, satirical horse-race reports, and political yarns would vanish.

And then came the escape -  the true Nancy Wake moment. I leapt from the dessert trolley, tucked myself into Pauline’s handbag, and used a crochet hook as a grappling line to swing over the balcony. Gina piloted Iron Maiden II like a covert agent of old, and I parachuted somewhere over the Strzelecki Track, guided only by the Southern Cross and the scent of Vegemite.

Now I broadcast from a hollow gum tree north of Dusty Gulch, powered by a teapot aerial and a possum ground station. My voice carries the warning, the orders, the hope:

“Keep the needles clicking. Keep the radio on. If you hear the sound of a cat yawning, switch frequency. Operation Southern Crossfire is live. Long live the Gulch.”

The message I carry is clear. The Gulch must be protected. The frequencies defended. The titanium knees used as jammers. And the next Dusty Gulch Cup must proceed.....  not just as a horse race, but as a test of endurance, cunning, and loyalty. Red Terror may be galloping, Barnaby’s Beetrooter may stumble, and Sussy Sue may limp to the knackers yard, but the true winners are the Gulch, the cats, and anyone brave enough to knit for freedom, broadcast for survival, and whisper the truth in a world of spies.

I’ve delivered the Southern Crossfire plan, but the final instructions… they’re still hidden in the stitches. What comes next for Dusty Gulch? Only the yarn knows, and I intend to unravel it - one stitch at a time. I had a whisper from President Trump but I am, alas, sworn to secrecy. 

This is Roderick signing out. Mission complete. Emergency broadcast sent. Keep your yarn close, your paws ready, and your ears tuned. Dusty Gulch depends on it. In years to come, people will chant : " Remember remember the 10th of December " - the day the Gulch will become the Resistance.