Imagine the joy of discussing life's great mysteries or the simple art of cooking a chicken with someone you've never met, whose face you've never seen, whose voice you've never heard.
This is the essence of online anonymity, a digital echo of the old-school phone calls with characters like my very own " Chicken Man. "
But now, our governments are stepping in, proposing laws that could censor these very conversations. If they can control our online chats, what's to stop them from listening to our phone calls next?
This move threatens the very fabric of our digital community, where anonymity allows for open and sometimes free-range exchanges.
Let me tell you about one such phone call when I met a free-range Chicken Man before the government wanted to listen in and cook our goose......
Read more: From Chicken Man to Censorship: The Internet's Anonymity Under Threat...What Next?
The Marshals have moved in. The posses are out in force. The lynch mobs are around every piece of tumbleweed, ambush alley or Acme shed. And by the way, Martial Law is different from Marshal Law. But in this case, is there much difference these days?
No one is safe from the hanging tree if you are white, heterosexual, conservative and can still have a laugh. Hell, even the black conservatives are in the firing line.
In a world where political correctness tiptoes on eggshells, navigating the fine line between being offended and being offensive has become an art form.
All I can say is no wonder the chicken crossed the road. She hoped it would be safer on the other side. Only it isn't. Because to get to the other side means you have to cross a highway of laws, hate speech accusations and lawsuits. The poor chicken rarely makes it. And, if she does, she is roasted for giving a cluck.
Every joke these days is reported to a moderator on social media because someone was offended. It seems to me that to laugh these days, is offensive.
Aren't we all in a bit of a bind?
We are in a world of uncertainty. Pain and confusion. We no longer know what is up, what is down and what is reality or what is an illusion.
We are stuck in the middle of so much fear and all we can do is stay quiet and try to be as small as we can possibly be.
After recent events in America and elsewhere, why would we not fear that things are very wrong?
We citizens are stuck in the middle of a global fight and, this time, there are no clowns to the left and jokers to the right.... we have rats everywhere and yes, I am stuck in the middle. Like you.
Read more: Stuck in the Middle with You - the rats are everywhere
Sadly, modern life, with its relentless march of progress, has seemingly put the final nail in small talk's coffin.
Read more: The Dying Art of Conversation, Chit Chat and Small Talk
Of late, I have been concerned about the introduction of " hate speech laws " and " misinformation laws. "
It got me thinking about the magnificent Navajo Code Talkers from World War II. When speaking in code, messages were passed and battles were won so that, in the war against evil, truth and justice could prevail.
During World War II, the United States military used a secret weapon that helped turn the tide of the war: Navajo Code Talkers.
These were Native American soldiers from the Navajo tribe who played a critical role in transmitting top-secret military communications in an unbreakable code.
The Code Talkers were crucial in the Pacific theatre, helping the allies defeat the Japanese and ultimately win the war.
Kashmir has long been a region of immense political, economic, and strategic significance. Its place in South Asian geopolitics stems from its location, natural resources, and historical disputes involving India, Pakistan, and China.
And isn't India coming up a lot in the news these days?
Are we seeing something start to form today as tensions are at a flashpoint? Something that has been on the boil for decades? What external forces will come into play? It is one of those hmmmm... moments in history.
In the early days of World War II, the Atlantic roared with the echoes of a daring naval confrontation that would captivate the world: the Battle of the River Plate.
On 5th October 1939 Britain and France assembled a force of four aircraft carriers, three battleships and sixteen cruisers to hunt down the Graf Spee. Part of this force, known as Force G consisted of the British heavy cruisers Cumberland and Exeter, the British light cruiser Ajax and the New Zealand light cruiser Achilles. This force was to patrol the area off the River Plate which separates Argentina and Uruguay..
In December, 1939, off the coast of Uruguay, the Allies clashed with the formidable German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee in a high-stakes engagement.
Read more: Clash on the High Seas: The Battle of the River Plate
Read more: A Christmas Fairytale for all of us... or is it a Nightmare?
As the sun sets on the Australia and culture of my youth, I salute the memories and legacies of over 200 years since the arrival of Captain Arthur Phillip, of a People who are fast disappearing into a sea of tik tok, facebook, instagram, and leftist ideologies.
Our language, our music, and our culture are being swallowed up and devoured by a zealous group of misguided, ill-educated and brainwashed ignoramuses who should have attended the Flysa Institute of Patriotic Studies.
Their student debt would be non-existent, and their education would have been infinitely more informed and beneficial.
But today, I wish to consider The Flysa Institute of Linguistic Studies.
As a child, we spent our Christmas holidays at a remote coastal sheep farm in New Zealand.
The car would be loaded up with camping gear and we would head off on the long drive to spend 2 weeks of fishing, mucking around in the shearing shed, hiking across the paddocks and exploring the rock pools at low tide.
Our Aunts and Uncles would already be there and our cousins would be smug that they had already scanned out the best places to build forts, swim and generally get into mischief.
The journey was always the same. The route to the farm took us over a long winding gravel road that circled its way from the coast to a peak and then would wind relentlessly down the other side to the small bay that was our destination.
My brother suffered from terrible car sickness and I would invariably go out in sympathy. It got to the stage where Dad would pull over at the same spot each trip and my brother and I would get out of the car, throw up and then get back in and Dad would pull out and head off again.
No one ever said anything. It was just part of the routine.
As the Xmas/New Year break approaches many people will have their eyes on the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race; a traditional event starting on Boxing Day.
One of the several unticked items on my bucket list is to sail in the Sydney to Hobart.
Back in the 1970’s and early 80’s I crewed on an ocean racer out of Sandringham Yacht Club in Melbourne.
The boat I was on was a Carter 30, an English design that could better be described as a Slow Boat to China rather than a racing thoroughbred.
Read more: The Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race - a Boxing Day Tradition in Australia
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