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He stood on top of the world - literally.
But Sir Edmund Hillary never saw himself as extraordinary.
Born on July 20, 1919, in the quiet town of Tuakau, south of Auckland, New Zealand, Edmund was the lanky, shy son of a beekeeper and a schoolteacher. He spent his childhood roaming the countryside, more at ease with nature than with people - a dreamer with big feet and bigger hopes.
And yet, he would go on to become one of the most iconic figures of the 20th century. Not just for being the first confirmed man to summit Mount Everest alongside Tenzing Norgay, but for the grace, grit, and humility with which he carried that weighty title: hero.
“I have had much good fortune, a fair amount of success and a share of sorrow, too,” he once said. “Ever since I reached the summit of Everest … the media have classified me as a hero, but I have always recognised myself as being a person of modest abilities. My achievements have resulted from a goodly share of imagination and plenty of energy.”
In an age obsessed with ego and spectacle, Hillary’s story reminds us that true greatness often comes quietly - through courage, compassion, and the steady climb of a life lived with purpose.
Read more: Sir Edmund Hillary: A Life of Mountains, Missions, and Modesty
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Dusty Gulch was once a town where a man could steal a pie, charm a magistrate with a kale smoothie, and be out the door by lunchtime. But no more. The days of salad-bar sentencing are over, thanks to a scandal that has shaken the legal system to its composted core.
This is the story of how a town discovered its courts were in bed with lettuce - and how a rat, a duck battalion, and a retired colonel in camo Crocs are putting the bite back into justice.
Read more: No More Lettuce Laws: Tribunals, Tea, and the Return of the Sheriff
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A man with keys. Quiet shoes. A gift for discretion. He works in the dark, so others can sleep. Or so we think.
But while we watch him move, the Night Manager, the fixer, the front, we forget something older, colder, and far more dangerous:
The man or men who hired him.
Because behind every velvet-gloved agent is a faceless benefactor. One with no name. No file. And no interest in justice - only in silence.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest trick of all.
Read more: The Man in the Shadows: Why We Chase the Night Manager but Never His Master
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Why Churchill wouldn’t survive modern Australia - and what that should tell us.
A man limps into a room with a smashed foot.
He’s not polite. He’s not smiling. He’s in pain, and he says so bluntly.
“Help me. Now.”
But instead of reaching for a chair, someone corrects his tone.
“There’s no need to be rude.”
That moment captures something rotten in our culture. We no longer respond to urgency. We respond to presentation. Truth, suffering, even danger - none of it moves us unless it's delivered with soft language, wrapped in emotional packaging, and accompanied by a respectful nod.
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This Saturday, 19 July 2025, unless the Albanese Government does an about-face, Australia will fall under a binding international law that gives the World Health Organization unprecedented power over our nation.
Not next year. Not in theory. This Saturday.
On 19 July 2025, amended International Health Regulations will give the WHO binding legal authority over Australia without public vote or debate.
The WHO will be able to enforce public health measures in Australia even if no local outbreak exists, bypassing national sovereignty.
References to human rights and freedoms have been stripped from the text, replaced with vague terms like “equity” and “inclusivity”.
A new unelected national body will enforce WHO directives, supported by global NGOs and digital health surveillance systems.
Australians are urged to contact MPs, reject the amendments, and resist what is described as a globalist power grab.
Sign the key petitions urging the government to reject the IHR amendments that being circulated by CitizenGO and the Aligned Council of Australia.
You didn’t vote for it. You weren’t asked. There was no national debate, no referendum, no headlines on the evening news. Just a quiet betrayal buried under layers of bureaucratic sludge and globalist double-speak.
I’ve read the official document, the amended International Health Regulations (IHR) adopted at the 77th World Health Assembly, and let me tell you:
It is nothing short of a globalist coup.
Read more: Australia: WHO Will Be in Charge of our Health...
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It’s been a year since what many still call a Divine Intervention unfolded before our eyes... an event that left us stunned, reflective, and, for some, humbled. As Donald Trump turned his head to glance at a graph on a screen, a bullet tore past him, grazing his ear. A fraction of a second either side, a fraction of an inch, and we would be telling a different story. Instead, the world saw a man brush death by the narrowest of margins: saved, perhaps, by nothing more than a glance. Or by something greater.
A miracle, some said. A coincidence, others argued. But either way, it was a moment that stopped the world. And it made me pause and think: how often do these moments really happen? What do we call them when they’re small and private, when there are no cameras, no headlines, no Secret Service scrambling?
Divine intervention is the belief that a higher power steps in - sometimes grandly, sometimes subtly - to shape human events. It can look like a miracle, or like blind luck. Sometimes, it looks like a well-timed glance. Sometimes, like a stranger holding a door a second too long. And let’s be honest - how many of us have muttered, “Hell, that was lucky,” and moved on?
Read more: From Trump to Twain, Tree Stumps to Tea-time: Why the Smallest Choices Matter Most.
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Filed by Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
Bunker Correspondent, Scandal Ferret, Emergency Tim-Tam Consultant
They told us it was just about online safety. Just a harmless eSafety Commissioner, tasked with protecting citizens from nasty tweets, cyberbullies, and digital meanies. But the real operation was far grander. What began as a mandate to delete harmful content became a blueprint for deleting dissent. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you what happened just a few nights ago, here in Dusty Gulch.
I was sitting on the verandah, mug in hand, watching the wind pick fights with the gum trees, when I heard it: Zzzzap. Then a THUMP. Then a soft, dignified cough. From the shadows emerged a strange figure: fur smudged, tail smouldering.
He looked straight at me, eyes bright as optic fibre, and said: “Apologies for the entrance. Your transformer is poorly shielded. My name’s Didelphis Noxbridge. I come with tidings... and for tea, if you have any.” …the only possum in the southern hemisphere wanted by four agencies, two search engines, one ethics committee... and possibly the last living outlaw to wear both a monocle and a moral compass. Some say he’s a myth. Others say he’s Ned Kelly reincarnated in a circuit board with fur. …a digital bushranger ...Ned Kelly with metadata and a tail ... carrying secrets the cities forgot and courage the country still remembers.
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The guillotine has gone digital.
Once it fell in public squares to cheers and bloodlust; now it strikes silently, with a click, a post, or a line of code.
The mob no longer needs to gather - its outrage is algorithmically amplified, its punishment outsourced to invisible moderators and unaccountable systems.
As the 14th of July reminds us of the Bastille’s fall, we must ask: are we watching a new revolution unfold - not with pitchforks and torches, but hashtags and hard drives?
The People are singing again. And this time, their chorus echoes through firewalls and fibre-optic cables.
Read more: History Repeats—But This Time, the Guillotine May Turn Digital
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Filed by Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble — Investigative Rodent & Unlicensed Fridge Technician
Duck and Cover: Prentis Penjani Lands in Dusty Gulch
I’ve seen some strange things in my time : feral echidnas in fedoras, a rogue lamington ring in Betoota, even a dingo elected mayor in a by-election scandal involving meat pies and a miscounted raffle. But nothing prepared me for the moment Prentis Penjani waddled into Dusty Gulch. Cloaked in mystery, he brought with him a frozen fury that cracked the town clean open like a week-old pavlova. Duck? Diplomat? Deep-cover decoy? The only certainty is this: Dusty Gulch will never be the same again.
Read more: Operation Deep Freeze: The Duck Who Knew Too Much
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On July 6, 2025, in the dead zone of the Fourth of July long weekend, the U.S. Justice Department quietly published a two-page memo that stunned even hardened political observers. In just 735 words, the federal government declared the Jeffrey Epstein case officially closed. No further charges. No client list. No high-profile names to be exposed. No loose ends.
But the facts tell another story. And it’s messier, darker, and far from over.
The DOJ quietly ended the Epstein investigation, declaring no further charges, no client list, and confirming his death as suicide.
This contradicts evidence of powerful connections, surveillance systems, missing footage, and prior claims of pending disclosures.
Epstein’s financial records, blackmail operations, and ties to elites like Leon Black, Jes Staley, and Peter Thiel suggest deeper complicity.
Intelligence links and victim lawsuits accuse federal agencies of years-long negligence, suppression, and potential collaboration.
Despite claims of closure, hidden evidence, sealed files, and Maxwell’s secret cooperation reveal the case is far from resolved.
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The more we bury the truth, the deeper the innocent are buried with it.
It’s easy to look back at history and wonder how ordinary people didn’t see what was happening.
How could whole towns lie in the shadow of barbed wire fences and say they didn’t know?
After the Second World War, Allied forces marched German civilians through the concentration camps. Ordinary men and women: bakers, schoolteachers, shopkeepers – were made to walk past piles of corpses, to smell the stench of death, to see the emaciated survivors, to face what had been done in their name.
It was a reckoning. Not just for war crimes, but for wilful blindness.
And maybe that’s where we are now.
No one’s building death camps, but there’s been a different kind of war waged in the shadows. A war on children. On innocence. On truth.
Page 6 of 240
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