The PR Blog

On December 9, 2019, tragedy struck New Zealand as White Island, an active stratovolcano located in the Bay of Plenty, erupted. 

The eruption led to the loss of lives, severe injuries, and left an indelible mark on the nation's history. 

White Island, also known as Whakaari in Maori, is an active volcano situated about 48 kilometres off the eastern coast of New Zealand's North Island. It is a popular tourist destination, attracting visitors with its otherworldly landscapes and unique geological features. 

Back in December 2019, White Island erupted. My heart reached out to those who were caught up in that very frightening and dangerous situation.  

A place that used to be known for tourists taking selfies and the harvesting of sulfur suddenly gained worldwide attention as a scene of horror and terrible suffering. 

Tomorrow. we will have an article about that terrible day.  But for now, I would like to share my memories of the time my parents, Redhead and my late Dad, went fishing. Off White Island. 

It might be a family failing that we always try and see the good in bad situations but that is the way we are. For me, just because a place is now remembered as the home of tragedy, I cannot help but remember when it was a place where my Dad could have ruined a perfectly good fishing trip. 

The old saying of " don't let the truth get in the way of a good story " is now pretty much the mantra of the Main Stream Media.

We are living in a time where so many have become the foolish young oysters eagerly walking with those that seek to consume us.  The old oyster knew the trap was being set but could not do a damned thing to stop the massacre ahead.

It is clear to me, when reading the poem again after so many years, that the Walrus and the Carpenter were speaking rubbish, yet the young oysters hear without listening to the actual words and ignore the warning signs that everything the Walrus and Carpenter were saying was a sinister trick . As Simon and Garfunkel sang years ago “ They hear what they want to hear and disregard the rest. “

Her rags to riches story is tied inextricably to politics. She loved to be close to power; the more she had of it herself, the more she felt entitled to another dose of it. She craved attention and adoration so much that she once admitted, “My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.”

She demagogued her way to a cult following among those who depended on the favors she dispensed and stepped on anyone who stood in her way. A law which obstructed her ambitions was, in her view, a law to be bent or broken. Any fair assessment of her must note that she delivered numerous vapid harangues and gave away lots of other people’s money, but she never invented, created or built anything.

No, I’m not talking about Hillary Clinton. The woman I have in mind, however, was sort of the Hillary Clinton of Argentina. Her name was Eva Perón, known affectionately by admirers as “Evita.” She is not yet forgotten, a sad fact that requires a refresher on just who she was and what she stood for.

Our family has a long history of a practice known as  " pissing in your pocket. "  Before you get all in a tizz, it is not what it seems. It ultimately means to deliver praise in a rather over-the-top manner. 

First things first, no, we Aussies aren't advocating for peculiar methods of personal irrigation. Instead, this idiom is all about telling someone how bloody marvellous they are and praising them for a job well done.

If someone says that you are pissing their pocket, it means that you are exaggerating, but it is well received. 

Our family actually and actively piss in each other's pockets as a form of compliment and praise. In fact, up until recent years, pissing in each other's pockets was widely practiced by most Australian families. It is to compliment and praise on steroids. 

Warning: Reading this could ruin your life!

I first noticed the bastardisation of English diction on Mark Scott’s ABC Radio National a few years ago. Never imagining anything could be more annoying than Aunty’s extreme Left bias—a condition they deny, but worse there is, much worse. Akin, perhaps, to the Black Plague which spread by the hour, consigning the innocent to squalid gutters, and so to should follow all practitioners of the infuriating fad called vocal fry. And to think that taxpayers’ have funded this dreadful croaking noise that occurs on the last word of a sentence and most ABC presenters have deliberately absorbed this hideous affectation.

Most believe this nonsense started in the US by glamorous airheads like the Kardashians and other idolisers of foolish fashion. Anything to be different these days, no matter how damned ridiculous it may be. Glottal fry has been mutating in the porridge-brained trendoids for a few years now. Most people don’t notice it right away and if they do it is passed off as an unfortunate speech impediment worthy of sympathy, as would be a foot growing from your ear. But such nonsense should not be passed off with indifference; it’s a bloody annoying abomination of the voice. It makes me, a normally passive sort of bloke eager to commit evil upon the cretin in practice.