The PR Blog

A Stranger on the Line: Meeting the Boundary Rider

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Dusty Gulch Gazette

Last night I rode out past Dusty Gulch, further than usual, under a sky so wide it could swallow a station. The Honklanders - those blundering, honking, chaotic fiends - are now spreading beyond town limits, and this time, they aren’t alone. Reports had trickled in about swamp creatures skulking in the dust, Prentis Penjani orchestrating mischief in the shadows, and Maurice E Duck paddling through the mess like he owned the place. Odd colours flashed through the scrub, gates yanked loose, and posts left leaning like drunk soldiers. Proof was needed, and I was the one to go fetch it.

So many people from all walks of life have shaped our Aussie way of life, which makes us Australian, unashamedly and without apology. We were born out of true grit, sacrifice and reluctant citizenship in some cases, but our soldiers, our farmers, our women and our poets have celebrated the joy of being Australian.

We are from the land down under, and our poets’ voices still echo in the halls of our history and long may they do so. This is part of our celebration of the people who gave voice to being dinki-di, true blue Aussie. To Hell with those politicians and wimps who dishonour our ancestors.

As Australia Day approaches, I am reminded of a moment not long ago when ANZAC Day itself was quietly set aside. During the coronavirus lockdown, Australians were instructed by government decree that we could not gather, could not march, and could not honour our Diggers in the way generations before us had done -  publicly, collectively, and without apology.

Now it appears the 26th of January is again being dragged into manufactured turmoil. A small but noisy activist minority, aided and encouraged by Corporate Australia and elements of political and local government leadership, seeks to recast a national day of unity as something to be endured rather than celebrated. Perhaps the tide is turning -  but the pressure remains.

As ever, we are told that Australia should feel shame rather than gratitude; that participation in war was a moral failing rather than a grim necessity; that peace is best honoured by forgetting those who secured it; and that Australia Day itself should be replaced with ritual self-reproach under the banner of “Invasion Day”.

History tells a different story.

Another 26th of January is on our doorstep. Only a few more sleeps before we gather our daggy thongs, ( not from Woolies, of course) search out the shorts with the flag plastered all over them and order in a few slabs, a keg or 3 and assemble around the barbie at the appointed hour ( normally around 11 am ) to tell a few mate jokes and have one too many.

We'll dust off the cricket bat and ball while the missus makes the salads and the kids are reminded that beer always lives in the bathtub on Australia Day. Unless there is a frog in the bath of course.... 

" Oi !  Get your Dad a beer! " will resonate around this great dusty island and we will pull each other's leg and tell jokes about who had a convict in their ancestry.

Will this happen this year?

I reckon it will. With more gusto than for many years.  

Australia's White Australia Policy was a set of laws designed to restrict immigration by people who were not of European origin, especially targeting Asians - mainly Chinese - and Pacific Islanders. Those laws aimed to maintain Australia as a predominantly white, British-style society.

The roots of the policy trace back to the gold rush era of the 1850s, when thousands of Chinese immigrants came to Australia seeking prosperity. Their success in the goldfields primarily resulted from them taking all available ground, leading to tension with European miners and culminating in violent protests such as the Buckland and Lambing Flat Riots.

In response, the Colonies (now States) imposed taxes and other restrictions targeting Chinese arrivals. By the late 19th century, labor unions opposed low-wage competition from Chinese workers in industries including furnituremaking and market gardening, further fueling support for restrictive immigration laws.

Frozen Whiskers and Secret Missiles

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Senior Foreign Correspondent, Dusty Gulch Gazette Arctic Desk
(aka the only bloke stupid enough to go there)

The last time I saw daylight was somewhere over Norway, curled on a pallet of mystery crates marked “Definitely Not Missiles.”
Perfectly normal start to an assignment, really.

I am here -  allegedly as a journalist -  sniffing out whispers of something called Project Iceworm, buried in the Greenland ice.

I suspect something fishy. Or ratty. Or possibly both.

It all started when I started going through old unpublished articles and found one written by Monty but never shared.... until now...