The PR Blog

In a top-secret cross-galactic reassignment leaked by sources wearing sunglasses indoors, Agents J and K of the Men in Black have been deployed to handle their most temperamental alien yet: Prince Harry.

Tasked with managing diplomatic meltdowns and navigating emotional wormholes, the agents are now stationed at an undisclosed Californian compound, code-named “Netflix Nebula.”

Experts warn: the subject’s volatility rivals that of a Zarthonian slime monarch in a custody battle. Their mission? Protect the prince, his privacy, and his podcast schedule...at all costs. And Agent H wants to bring back the neuralyzer. To wipe the public memory of the past few years. 

How a fearless squadron of female pilots turned plywood planes into weapons of war - and fear. These women flew under the radar - literally - to bomb the Nazis and change the face of combat

As the war raged on the Eastern Front, the Soviet Union was in dire need of pilots to combat the relentless advance of the German forces. In response, Marina Raskova, herself a pioneering aviator, proposed the formation of female combat air regiments. Thus, in October 1941, the 588th Night Bomber Regiment was born, later to be known as the "Night Witches" by their German adversaries.

What set these women apart was not just their gender but their method of operation. Flying Polikarpov Po-2 biplanes, these wooden-framed, canvas-covered flying machines were dubbed "crop dusters" by the Germans, hardly a match for the formidable Luftwaffe. However, it was precisely this underestimation that became their greatest advantage.

Operating under the cover of darkness, the Night Witches struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. Flying low and slow, their Po-2s emitted a distinctive whooshing sound, resembling a witch's broomstick, hence their ominous moniker. With no parachutes and minimal defensive armament, they navigated through the night skies, dropping their payloads of bombs on unsuspecting German encampments and supply lines.

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of one woman in particular. She’s 92 now. We call her Redhead -  not just for the colour of her hair, but for the fire that’s still in her spirit. She was just a child when the world went to war, yet she grew up to raise children of her own, then grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and yes, even a great-great-grandchild. Five generations held together by one woman who never needed a spotlight -  just a bit of commonsense, an honest tongue when needed, ( which is often! ) and a heart big enough to weather every storm.

Redhead didn’t fight on a battlefield, but she’s known her share of battles .... the kind that happen in kitchens, in school parent teacher meetings, and around dinner tables where love and stubbornness sometimes clash. She’s lived through wars and family skirmishes alike, and somehow kept us all stitched together with nothing more than fierce loyalty, dry humour, and a no-nonsense kind of love that never wavered.

There are thousands like her. Women who carried nations without ever carrying a gun. This tribute is for them ... and especially for our Redhead.

Mother’s Day, as we know it in Australia, traces its roots to the heartbreak and hope of wartime America.

Born out of the compassion of two peace-minded women during the Civil War, the first “Mother’s Day Work Clubs” weren’t about flowers or cards. but about caring for the wounded, no matter their uniform.

Adopted in Australia in the early 20th century, the day gradually took hold, especially after World War I, when a Sydney woman began collecting gifts for mothers grieving lost sons and husbands. It’s no coincidence that Mother’s Day often falls near VE Day, the anniversary of victory in Europe during World War II. Behind the celebration lies a deeper truth: mothers have always stood quietly at the heart of history, bearing both the joy of life and the sorrow of sacrifice.

By Roderick "Whiskers" McNibble, Hangar Correspondent at Large

In a tin shed somewhere beyond the Black Stump, in a town called Dutsy Gulch,  under a corrugated iron roof that’s more rust than shelter, a political storm is brewing. And it smells faintly of eucalyptus, woodsmoke, and yesterday’s meat pie.

Enter the Ratty Party: a larrikin coalition of bush rats, shed shakers, lamington libertarians, and retired school canteen warriors and CWA ladies. Their campaign? A great uprising of commonsense, crusty dignity, and suspiciously sticky election posters made from leftover marmalade.

Their leader, Dusty McFookit, emerges not in a suit but in a gravy-stained Jackie Howe singlet, quoting Lawson and scratching where it itches. His platform? Honest. Blunt. Slightly flammable.