The PR Blog

The story to be told is about Mrs McFookit’s visit to Asia, on an undercover mission to locate, if it exists, the imitation lamington factory “allegedly” producing third rate lamingtons done on the cheap by child labour.

The cover story was a visit to her family home, to touch base with family and friends, which worked quite well as a cover for the actual reason for the visit.

Too far to go by boat, so Ratty Airways were approached for the flight. Arrangements were made, packing was done, preparations completed by all involved, and soon liftoff in the orange bi-plane.

The flight from Dusty Gulch went smoothly enough in the Ratty Airway orange bi-plane, powered by the astonishing Whiskers Propulsion technology, making Ratty Airways the envy of all other airlines in the world. This was especially so now that the deliberate “fuel crisis” was launched to ensure the fuel companies made even more obscene profits, as compared to Ratty Airways working as always at cost only for the residents of Dusty Gulch.

In-flight meals were outstanding: fresh scones with strawberry jam and cream, freshly baked lamingtons, washed down with icy cold Emu Ale if desired. This is part of the Dusty Gulch Emu brand of beers.

Who pays the Ferryman?

In the old myths, no soul crossed the river Styx without an offering. Today, we often leap without looking, ignoring the toll collector at the edge of the water.

But the crossing always has its cost,  whether we pay it or someone else does. Some of our current governments have a habit of not even knowing the price of anything and the value of nothing. We are ruled by algorithms and announcements. But we are human - and humans live in the cost.

Wars are dissected by body counts and budgets. Policies are passed with a calculator, and lives are led under a spreadsheet. We know the price of everything. But who still speaks of cost?

Price is clean. Price fits in a column. Price is what politicians debate and treasurers announce.

But cost ? Cost is borne. Cost is lived. Cost is the long, quiet aftermath. And that of course beggars the question: where is the value? 

Port Arthur Was the Horror. What Followed Was a Mistake.

I was 3,000 kilometres away, teaching in a small town in New Zealand, when the news broke on 28 April 1996.

 Images from Tasmania. Thirty-five dead. Twenty-three wounded. Families. A café.

The horror was undeniable.

But even then, something else settled in alongside it -  a hard, unwelcome certainty.

This would not end with the crime.

As we mark another anniversary of the Port Arthur massacre, we remember the victims. We should. Their loss stands beyond argument.

What does not stand beyond argument is what came next.

In this world of misery and mayhem, violence and vitriol, chaos and calamity, I often think of a man I call Mr Beaconsfield. 

Redhead and I met him in Tasmania, Australia,  when we were on a motoring holiday 14 years ago. We had visited the museum dedicated to the Beaconsfield mining disaster. For those of you who do not know of it, the Beaconsfield Mine collapse, occurred in Tasmania, on ANZAC Day, April 25, 2006. The incident gained international attention due to the dramatic rescue efforts and the survival of two miners who were trapped underground for an extended period.

It was a gold mine, and the collapse happened about 925 metres underground. Three miners were initially trapped: Todd Russell, Brant Webb, and Larry Knight. Unfortunately, Larry Knight lost his life in the collapse.

The rescue operation became a major focus for emergency services and mining experts. The two surviving miners were located in a small steel cage that had been partially buried by fallen rocks. The rescue operation involved drilling a borehole to reach the trapped miners, and communication was established with them through a small PVC pipe.

By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble

In a stunning turn of events this ANZAC Day, the two-up rings fell quiet.

Not gradually. Not respectfully. Just… stopped.

In their place came a chant.

Low at first. Then gathering weight. Then impossible to ignore.

One word. Over and over.

“Fookit… Fookit… Fookit…”

Earlier in the day, polite applause at Welcome to Country ceremonies had already been drowned out by the same rhythmic murmur. Most assumed it was just a few blokes who’d started early and peaked too soon.

They were wrong.