I remember when Armistice Day was commemorated spontaneously, reverently and universally. As I approach my 91st birthday, I would like to share my thoughts with you about the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour. 

As a kid at state (primary) school we were taught about the sacrifice of the soldiers who died in the war to end all wars and assembled at 11.00am to salute the flag, the Union Jack, and have 2 minutes silence with heads bowed. 

The Union Jack ceased to be the official flag of Australia in 1954 when the Flags Act was enacted, designating the Australian Blue Ensign as the national flag. Prior to this, the Union Jack was considered the national flag for about 50 years after Australia's federation in 1901.

But this was in the 1940’s when there were many veterans of WW1 still among us.

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month was instilled into us with the utmost reverence and seriousness.

When I was young, I had the honour of voting in my first election.  It was in New Zealand back in the 1970's when there were two parties that most people voted for. Right or Left, I voted for neither. I cast my vote for a thing called Social Credit. 

Now don't confuse this with the modern perception  of China's Social Credit system..... in fact the two could not be more different. In fact, the very name that was chosen was something that gave it a bad reputation before it ever really got off the ground. 

The Social Credit system, proposed by C.H. Douglas in the 1920s, aimed to solve a common economic problem: people often don’t have enough money to buy everything businesses produce, which leads to waste and financial hardship. Douglas’s solution involved giving everyone a basic income, called a “National Dividend,” and adjusting prices to make goods more affordable. By putting money directly into people’s hands and controlling the money supply through government rather than banks, Social Credit envisioned a fairer, more stable economy without taking away individual freedom or relying heavily on taxes.

You see, back then, I actually trusted my government to do the right thing.

Was  I right or wrong? I will never know. I have voted staunchly conservative in every election since then. Was it the folly of youth? But my young ideological brain rather liked the idea and I have obviously become far more cynical since those heady days of youth. 

E.D. Butler (1916–2006) was an influential Australian nationalist and founder of the Australian League of Rights, known for his opposition to international financial power and his advocacy for national sovereignty.

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.

The Australian Stakes – The Great Dusty Gulch Cup

From the Dusty Gulch Bureau of Equine Affairs – by Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble

The sun is high, the dust is thick, and the smell of oats, spilled beer, and ambition hangs heavy over the paddock. Welcome, ladies, gents, rats, and casual gawkers, to the Dusty Gulch racetrack... the only place where the fences are crooked, the odds are stranger than finding an honest politician at a press conference, and every horse is convinced it will outrun the apocalypse.

Today marks the return of the nation’s most unpredictable spectacle: the Australian Stakes, where old rivalries, new controversies, and the occasional rogue emu collide in a cacophony of hooves, slogans, and scattered hay bales. The crowd buzzes, the stewards nervously flip coins, and somewhere in the distance, the Dusty Dingo is topping up the kegs of Emu Brew.

Dust off your fascinators, fill your hip flasks, and brace your betting slips - because no one, not even the bookies, can predict what will happen when these illustrious nags thunder to the starting gates. Every finisher thinks it’s a champion; every loser thinks it was robbed. By the time the dust settles, the bar will be open, the photo-finish camera pawned, and the moral victories distributed like stubby holders at a Bachelor and Spinsters ball.

When I was a lad in Western Australia, the 5th of November used to be an eagerly awaited event. 

That was Guy Fawkes Night, commemorating the apprehension in 1605 of conspirators who plotted to blow up the British Parliament and were hanged and quartered.

Just the sort of thing a young Flysa could get excited about. 

The Catholic conspirators led by Fawkes, placed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords in order to assassinate the Protestant King James 1 during the opening of Parliament, and place his young daughter Elizabeth on the throne as a puppet Queen.