Tag Archives: Australia

Rugby Player Not Charged Today

31 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Tarquin Tough

In a shock announcement , Tarquin Tough, the new head of the NRL said that no player has been apprehended and charged by police today for:

  • Drunken and disorderly behaviour;
  • Possession of drugs (pharmaceutical or recreational);
  • Possession of a firearm, licensed or unlicensed;
  • Assault (common or sexual or aggravated);
  • Grievous bodily harm;
  • Possession of child pornography;
  • Rape (actual or attempted);
  • Murder;
  • Manslaughter;
  • Or showing up late for training.

Mr Tough said that several players were facing the judiciary for unspecified misdemeanours like sponsorship violations and the League was likely to impose heavy fines just to impress on fans how poor they are in comparison with their idols – the ridiculously overpaid buffoons with poor self discipline and bad attitudes towards women.

He then mumbled something about a minor ram raid on an ATM, and a holday home on the Gold  Coast.

Football journos are currently checking to see whether the season is on, or off or whether it’s April 1.  Bat Masterson of the Daily Telepathy was quoted as saying “Give them a fair go, it’s not even lunchtime yet”.

Hell Hospital: Episode 9

12 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Hell Hospital

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HELL HOSPITAL

Episode 9

By theseustoo

Though still entranced, Elaine performed the ritual flawlessly...

The evil presence once more exuded itself into Elaine’s consciousness; it had done so with increasing frequency lately, especially when, as now, her assistants were on their lunch break. This time it stayed long enough to allow itself to be noticed by Elaine’s conscious mind. Elaine felt a certain amount of fear, mingled with anticipation as the dark presence communicated directly with her mind.

When Swannee’s corpse arrived at the morgue Elaine immediately recognized that this was the trouble the cards had warned her about, but the presence in her mind had lulled her into such a feeling of warmth and security that she could only allow herself to lay back and drift in the feeling as if in a cocoon; a strange awareness gradually grew in her entranced consciousness and she realized that she knew now what she must do; the presence had dictated the ritual to her entranced mind and, still entranced, she performed it flawlessly, uttering the incantation in an unknown, alien and ancient tongue as if it were the one she had been speaking all her life…

***** ******* *****

When Catherine didn’t return home for several days, it did not surprise her eldest boy, John; he’d been through the routine several times before and knew she would probably be kept in hospital for a few days at least, to enable her to rest and recover a little before returning home. Good boy and dutiful son that he was, he took over looking after his younger siblings like a real trooper; fortunately his eldest sister, Vivienne; little more than a year his junior; was quite a capable cook and helped him to organize the cricket team into squads to do the housework and shopping, which they fitted in around their normal school schedule.

Not knowing how to tell Catherine’s children about what had happened to their parents at the hospital, no-one really tried; everyone excusing themselves by thinking, someone else is bound to, anyway: The police thought that, as the incident happened on hospital premises and involved a hospital worker, the hospital would of course notify the victim’s family; they thought too, that perhaps in this instance discretion allowed them to waive this onerous duty, although it was normally theirs; but the hospital would surely want to inform the family themselves and, the chief inspector told himself, charitably, they surely had that right. The hospital, of course, thought the police would notify the family of the perpetrator and victims a crime as they usually do and so quickly relieved themselves of the burdensome task in a similar manner. When weeks passed and neither parent came home, though worried, John and Vivienne nevertheless carried on as if nothing untoward had happened, not wanting to upset the other children, especially the ‘littlies’.

Catherine was taken immediately to the psychiatric wing’s secure ward, where she was put into a padded cell and sat alternately thumbing a rosary and praying for her deceased husband’s forgiveness and babbling incoherently about a cricket team while she awaited psychiatric evaluation. After some time under observation it was evident that she was hallucinating; it was evidently some kind of religious delusion and Catherine appeared to be receiving instruction from two sources; one whom she referred to simply as ‘the Dark One’, and another whom she called, St Helvi… The psychiatrist recognized the name of the hospital’s patron, of course, but it was far too early to understand the significance of this name to his obviously delusional and manifestly psychotic patient. The police had ordered her to be kept in a secure ward and under constant 24-hour surveillance, but although the manner in which she had killed her husband had been dramatic, the psychiatrist thought the police’s instructions a little unnecessary; women who kill their husbands in a fit of jealous rage rarely commit further murders, but of course, he did not care to question police instructions too closely and obligingly obeyed them.

***** ******* *****

Swannee’s corpse had been laid out on the slab when it arrived; the blood drained out from his wounds, leaving him white as a sheet. But instead of telephoning the coroner to come and perform the autopsy, Elaine placed seven black candles around the cadaver; one at his head; two at his shoulders; another two at his waist and a final pair at his feet, uttering a strange incantation as she did so. Finally she made a motion as if pulling something towards her on the end of a rope, as she sang the final words of her chant, “Though you are dead, yet shall you live; the blood of the sacrifice has not flowed in vain; you are my servant and will do my bidding; now come to me, for I am your Mistress!”

Somehow the word ‘mistress’ seemed a little odd; but she didn’t want to further confuse with a gender anomaly a corpse who was, she realized, bound to be confused anyway at finding itself reanimated. But when she ordered the cadaver to sit up and it did so, she realized her meaning had been understood clearly. “Follow me!” she ordered, and led the now undead Swannee out to her car.

***** ******* *****

The incident had happened on a Friday so Loreen fortunately had all weekend to lay low and hope people would forget about the blonde strumpet who had lured her unwitting prey to his death, albeit accidentally. She had clocked out over an hour before she had seduced the unfortunate Swannee, so as long as no-one remembered her or recognized her, she thought she would probably be safe. She spent the weekend wearing dark glasses and dying her hair several shades darker… When she arrived for work on Monday morning, Paula caught up with her as she queued up for lunch. Catching hold of her elbow, Paula said, “Hey, did you hear about what happened to that kitchen-hand we both fancied? I think it happened just after you went home…”

“No…” Loreen said, as innocently as she could, “Do tell…”

After Paula had related the whole sordid tale, Loreen gave every impression of being flabbergasted, “Well I never!” she said, and then, “Poor Swannee… So who was this slut he was with anyway; did they ever find out?”

“No…” said Paula, “I was speaking with one of the policemen who came and interviewed everyone who was there; he said no-one seemed to know who she was; at first I thought it might have been you, but I checked your clock-card and you’d already gone off-shift… Like the new hair-color by the way…”

***** ******* *****

Warrigal Drops Into the Pig’s Arms

10 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

Brickwork cratering, exploding. Shit!! my face, then hear shot!

(Shotty?)

Face stinging, shit, left eye, swallow hard, GOGO GO! Low fool!! Twoshot! Fuck! Torn carpetlefthand and I lit outa there as fast as I could.

“I only came for a fuckin’ beer and some of them wedges.! What’s with this? Myall Creek again?”

Toohard shout and run, BLAMthreeshot TOOclose whizzzzzfzzfzzfzz by my ear and blew a wad outa the dart board as I flew by. If I can just make it into the lounge I stand a chance,  almost there, crashthrough swingingdoors, ??occurring to me?? Is this sport??. Shit! He couldn’t miss me from across the bar, FUUUCK!overbarstool, drinkers look notfussed. “Fuck me!” Who is this guy? What’s with the cannon? Why me?

My mind begins to race. I knew this pub was weird when I saw that bearded guy tie that alpaca up outside. What was that about? And the collection of oil dropping British marques in the car park; and that Black Series III Zephyr 6, (?) Chief Inspector Barlow must be about.

I go down, I hurt bad, in places. I’m goin’ nowhere!! justGOprone…. Armsoutspreadeagle….

“Get up ya bastard!” He kicks my ankle.

Keeping my hands out all the time I roll around, I’m staying on the floor. My ribs hurt where I crashed over the stool. I mean they really hurt, crackedbroken? I can’t see properly outa my left eye and the back of my left hand has a spray of pellet wounds. Shit!!

I go for comedy.

“Ya got me….,” big smile and a happy shrug but he’s not buying any of it.

“Get up ya bastard, I said!”, and not to leave it out, to finish his routine, kicks me again and I get another sharp pain to worry about.

Gingerly, ??noticing?? several aches sprainpains!! Left hand throbbing, slowly stand uuupp…

(You should see this. I mean really; I may be battered and broken but this guy is seriously fucked up. Stick with me right, because this is how it looked as I slowly lifted my head……,

The mad cannoneer has grubbywhite socks under cheapplastic sandals, cheap polycotton pants, beige; white belt. Knitted??, NO! Crocheted!! yellow polo shirt with a “Jaguar Drivers Club” cloth patch over the left tit! Sorry,  saggy tit. Seriously! Who is this guy? Why does no-one but me see this whole thing as seriously twilight zone.

“I really did only come in for one beer and some wedges. Honest mate, I seriously dunno what’s going on here. You coulda killed me!” a little too hysterically, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure.

“If I’d wanted ya dead, y’d be dead already. Quit whining!”

Then I see it! Casually but firmly held, as though it’s just part of his arm, is a hand tooled Purdey, Side by Side, All the Gods of Gunpowder! it’s a beautiful thing, perfectly balanced in his grip, both sinister blue steel gleaming barrels pointed at my guts. He had my full attention.

(No, fuck, there it goes…, )

What’s with that screamin’ pink drink and all the umbrellas in his left hand? I’m mad, must be! No, I’m dead! This is some outer circle of hell. I look him in the eyes.

Whatever…….

He fixes me with those rheumy gimlet eyes, the Purdey doesn’t waver, “Wha’did ya say to that bloke?” the “Best‘n’Less” spectacle indicates the punter I was talking to before the wall exploded.

“All I aid was, “Owning a collectable Jag is like standing up ta ya hips in a bath of used sump oil burning $100 bills one at a time”, it was a simple enough proposition and all too true, “I should know. I’ve had a few in my time.” I tried to extend my left hand, morepain!!! I pick out a pellet and flick it on the floor.

The Purdey wavered, did it droop? YESssjustslightly!!

“What have ya had?” his head drops on one side and he gives a dog like look

“Well over the years, many; but just at the moment I’ve got a 1987 Series III 5.3litre Sovereign, white with red; and a 1976 Series II 4.2L Coupe, red softtop with velour. Though I covered the velour with custom sheepskin.”

“The coup; carbs or injected?”

“Injected”

“That Sov.’s a beautiful thing to drive, (A deep sigh), lovely balance.” suddenly all the bluster’s gone from him. He slumps and breaks the Purdey, takes out the still smoking spent shells. “I’m sorry mate, really I am.” He’s trembling, lookin’ at the floor, “I just get so sick’a people taking the piss all time. I really do! I love me Jag, I love m’ Purdey. So I got this thing for British shit…, so what?”

He lifts his head and is just stood there, sobbing silently, shaking a bit. The old woman from behind the food bar comes out and puts an arm over his shoulder. Taking the empty, broken gun she hands it to this other dude who’s been standing around like some kinda factotem. First I’ve really noticed him.

The old woman turns to me and says, like this whole thing, it’s my fault!?!, “Merve didn’t mean no harm. Why’d ya gotta go and say them things in ‘ere? That’s just spiteful that is.” She takes “Merve”, apparently, out through the doors that say “Staff Only”

And I’m thinkin, I’m lucky to be alive, and lookin’ around the bar I see that all these other people are just lookin’ at me, like they think it’s my fault too. Well fuck that for a game of fuckin’ soldiers, “That bastard just shot at me!” I shout at no-one in particular, “Three fucking times for chrisake!”, I’m really mad now.

This grey haired guy stands and says, in a very final tone too, “Sit the fuck down you whining nonce, finish ya wedges and beer,. He didn’t hit ya did ‘e? (show him left hand), “Naaarh, that’s nothin’. Fuckin’ scratches” and he gives me his hankie to wrap round my wounded hand. My blood redly oozes through the pressed white linen, obscuring the monogrammed MJ in the corner. (So he’s MJ) “Thanks MJ” I say without really enough thanks. I go and sit down.

I need to put my poo in a pile. I take a long pull on my beer. Relaxing, my heart rate dropping as the adrenalin washes away, I look around. There’s a guy at the end of the bar reading Sophocles while he’s fillin’ ‘is face w’ wedges. So I stuff a few wedges in me gob for good measure.

“The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo.” I say, mostly to myself through a mouthful of half chewed wedges,. More beer and wedges. “These wedges are fanfuckingtastic!” I spray at the same guy I’d warned about Jag’s. “I mean, they’re really great!” He smiles slowly and nods like the penny shoulda dropped by now, but I’m too busy yaffling more wedges.

I swallow my last wedge and go over to the food bar. The old woman’s there and I say, “Can ya tell, Merve, is it?, yeah? Merve, that I’m really sorry. It was all my fault. I was a fool. Will he ever forgive me? Will ya tell him that?” (She smiles knowingly. She’s obviously played this scene before.)

“And can I have another plate of them wedges?”

“Of course you can dear, and I’m sure Merve won’t hold it against you.” She smiles that winner’s smile, hands me my wedges, “You can call me Granny when you come again.” She winked at me, the old biddy winked at me.

But she’s right, Granny is. I’ll be back and probably soon too. Merve could ride a warthog round the lounge in the nude singing “Friday on My Mind” shooting every second drinker in the place so long as none of ‘em was me and Granny kept makin’ those wedges.

(I swear, seriously, she winked at me.)

Now I gotta go and find outa ‘bout that Alpaca.

Live Sheep Export: Cruel, Ruining Local Industry and Exporting Jobs – Reuben Brand’s Update

07 Wednesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Reuben Brand

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Sheep transport - Dubai

By Reuben Brand

Live export is not only cruelly exporting Australian animals; it is crippling local industry and exporting our jobs. Writes Reuben Brand

After conducting numerous investigations at livestock markets and abattoirs throughout the Middle East, I returned to Australia with hours of footage and hundreds of photographs that document the inhumane treatment these animals endure at the receiving end of the live export trade.

These investigations were launched by Sydney Lord Mayor Clover Moore during a forum at Parliament House in Sydney, where I spoke alongside representatives from the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA) and the Australasian Meat Industry Employees Union (AMIEU).

Since my return I have been working closely with local meat processors and Australian meat workers who are now doing it tough due to the fact that there is simply not enough livestock to support local industry because they are all being shipped offshore.

The myths about why live export is important are many; the most common are as follows:

Myth: “Many people do not have the luxury of home refrigeration, and supermarkets are often inaccessible and unaffordable to those living in regional villages.”

Fact: Australia predominately exports to the Gulf region which, despite industry claims, is a very prosperous region for obvious reasons. Oil. The idea of “a lack of refrigeration” is not only an extremely ignorant and un-researched claim, but it is highly culturally offensive. People in the Middle East are not Bedouins living in tents, during my time living in the region I saw more luxury vehicles and high-rises than I see in Sydney or any other “developed” country. Supermarkets are very plentiful and very accessible, all of which stock a huge variety of chilled meat – with Australian chilled meat as the cheapest and most sort after of all.

Did I mention that Dubai has air-conditioned public bus stops and indoor ski slopes? But apparently no one has a fridge. Go figure.

Myth: “The supply of live animals is also important for religious and cultural reasons.”

Live sheep in a car boot - Dubai

Fact: Yes, there are religious celebrations that require live animals – only two times a year.  Eid al Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan and Eid al Adha, that marks the end of the pilgrimage to Mecca. Only twice a year – but we continue to send live animals 365 days a year.

I spoke to one of the young migrant workers at a livestock market in the region who told me he does not get paid by the local livestock company for his services. Rather, they give him a small amount of food and let him sleep in the holding pens with the animals. He has a Diploma of Associate Engineering and this is what he gets. This kind of cheap labour comes at a very high price and is all the more reason for Australia put an end to a trade that treats both humans and animals so appallingly.

The solid fact of the matter is that the live export trade is exporting Australian jobs (to countries that in some cases don’t even pay their employees) and is crippling our meat processing industry.

During a recent trip to Townsville and Dinmore in Queensland, I interviewed meat workers who are now either unemployed or have had their shifts cut right back and are trying to survive on government handouts.

In Townsville I watched as truck after truck, loaded with cattle, drove straight past the local abattoir. One local meat worker, who is now unemployed, told me that the export vessel docked in the harbour was not only exporting cattle, it was exporting the jobs of approximately 250 people who had just been stood down.

“Nobody is working today and yet there is a boat with thousands of cattle leaving. Thousands! You know, that’s a whole months’ worth of work for us,” she said.

According to Grant Courtney, President of the AMIEU, 40,000 people have lost their jobs and 150 processing plants have been shut down due to the live export trade – over 700 of these job losses have happened in the past six months alone.

“I can’t understand why the Government is sticking its head in the sand when thousands of Australian jobs are being lost due to this trade,” he said.

Another man I spoke to who lost his job at the local abattoir is now struggling just to keep his family afloat. His fiancé, who is also pregnant, has now had to go back into the workforce to try to support their growing family.

With no money for food or bills, no fuel in the car, debt collectors breathing down his neck and relying on donations to survive, life is becoming increasingly tough he bravely told me.

“Lately it’s been getting pretty bad… we’ve even had to go down to the local community centre and grab food vouchers… You start to appreciate things like that when people donate food and money vouchers so you can live.”

Shift cut backs and job losses at the processing plant in Dinmore now have workers pondering the future of the Australian meat processing industry. As one woman told me, if the Dinmore plant is suffering, which is one of the biggest in Australia, then she can’t see hope for the survival of any of the smaller ones.

“Every boat of cattle that leave this county, leave the Australian worker and I know what it feels like without work…it’s no good saying that the live cattle export doesn’t contribute, it certainly does. Because it’s just got worse and worse,” she said.

With a daughter who has a terminal illness and needs a surgery that could save her life, this woman courageously sat and gave a first-hand account of how the live export trade is affecting her life and many others who are now in the same boat.

Andrew Martell, a sheep farmer from central Western NSW, attended the live export forum at Parliament House last month and made some points during Q and A time – he also told the room that he receives the same amount of money for his sheep regardless whether he sells them to exporters or local industry.

Kuwait abattoir - 2009

So why on Earth would you want to send sheep offshore to be slaughtered and transported inhumanely when you could have it all done here and create much needed jobs in the process?

It is an absurd idea to think that all people in the Middle East buy their daily meat from a wet market – can you imagine how long it would take just to buy a single steak? Local supermarkets and butcher shops operate on a cuts and carcass trade where the outcome for the consumer would remain the same with a chilled meat trade.

Independent research, conducted by ACIL Tasman, shows that a sheep processed domestically is worth 20 per cent more to the Australian economy than one exported live.

According to the Australian live export industry this trade contributes $1.8 billion to the economy, so by using their own figures, if we phase out the live export trade and implement a chilled meat trade for export we could have an industry that injects $2.16 billion into our economy. Not to mention the huge impact it will have on Australian jobs.

A chilled meat trade is not only a sustainable alternative but is also extremely lucrative for all involved, be it farmer, processor or meat worker.

To view a video of Reuben’s investigation in the Middle East please click here

To view interviews of meat workers please click here

Reuben Brand is a freelance journalist who has worked extensively in the Middle East. For more information please visit his website at: www.reubenbrand.com

ABC of Cricket – the Voice from the Hill

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Voice

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On the way to the MCG, at the MCG and on the way home from the MCG

by Voice

As a young woman, the realization that in order to prosper in the workforce I needed to be able to talk about cricket came as a huge relief.

If you knew the extent of my lack of interest in the sport of cricket spectating, you might find this puzzling.  It’s hard to pinpoint the cause of this militant lack of interest. It might be a female thing; it might be a reaction to my father’s seasonal lack of availability, or to his one-eyed barracking. My father was your archetypal one-sided sports fanatic.  It was quite late in my childhood that I fully understood the role of the other team on the ground. Until then, listening to my father’s exclamations during the endless TV broadcasts, I thought the members of his team were the only actual players, battling blind umpires, unfavourable weather, or worse, the occasional unforced error, in an effort to claim their rightful title of match winner.

In any case, this early disaffection with the game of cricket was only reinforced as a University student, where endless discussion of cricket scores was lumped together in my mind with endless discussions about cars as uncouth “engineer’s talk”.

Fast forward a few years, and the burning ambition to be able to pay for food and rent found me working for a manufacturing company in a largely engineer dominated IT department.  As the cricket season commenced I reflexively turned off whenever the inevitable discussions started. But I couldn’t help noticing that I was spending a lot of time talking to myself, and this was highlighted during a period of relative inactivity for my group, when half the day was spent arguing  about cricket (and the other half perfecting the giant paper ball). It became painfully obvious at a farewell for one of our group, where the others bonded with management over a cricket discussion while I found myself a lonely outsider, that something needed to be done.

So I decided to bite the bullet and follow the cricket. I shamelessly enlisted the aid of a co-worker who had both demonstrated some knowledge of cricket and shown some interest in my company (no doubt confirming in the mind of many engineers reading this piece the dastardly use of feminine wiles by their female colleagues.) Over a coffee break I confessed the reluctance of my resignation to spending endless weekend hours watching cricket on the tele, half-expecting him to recoil in horror. It took me a while to realize the significance of his counter-confession that some weekends he himself had to miss the cricket and that on those occasions he just checked the score intermittently, but was still able to hold his own at work on Monday. Imagine my relief and delight when I realized it wasn’t strictly necessary to know about the cricket. All I needed to be able to do was to talk about it.

Riffing together we came up with the phrase “at one stage there…” as in “at one stage there Australia was 3 for 103” or “at one stage there Warne was 54 not out”. All that was needed was to check the scoreboard once during the cricket broadcast!

The day before the next lunchtime gathering I searched the newspaper for the cricket news. I arrived at work the next day with a few facts printed on the palm of my hand. After everybody had eaten enough to satisfy hunger, and the conversation turned to cricket, I surreptitiously glanced at my hand and announced “At one stage there Australia was 2 for 75.” This was greeted by a number of wise comments, and I was part of the group. Emboldened by this success, I further announced “At one stage there Steve Waugh was 75 not out.” This was met by a puzzled silence and I found myself on the outside once again. Later my ally explained to me that the correct pronunciation of  Waugh is “Waw”. Never having really listened to a cricket broadcast, I had somehow come up with the idea that it was pronounced “woe”. Since at that time Steve (or  Mark?) Waugh was captain of the Australian cricket team, this was a major blunder.

My second big effort was Christmas drinks at the pub, where I arrived unprepared but was thrilled to hear the cricket news being announced on TV, and immediately memorized the first piece of information. Later I proudly announced my hastily memorized factoid, and once again it was well received. Then somebody asked me “Who won?”  Unfortunately I had been so engrossed in memorizing that I had omitted to note this apparently important detail, and my face fell. An employee with all the social grace of, well, a young engineer working in IT, piped up “You can’t be very interested in the cricket if you don’t know who won.” The members of my immediate group, who by this time were in on the joke, were in stitches. I decided to own up rather than look a total moron, and by that time everybody had drunk enough to take it well.

Boxing Day 2008, and a couple I haven’t met yet are the hosts for the post-Christmas neighbours gathering.  The husband greets us at the door with “I was just watching the cricket”.  I have a moment’s panic; since I’ve been working at a small non-cricket oriented company the start of the cricket season has passed unnoticed. But through those earlier years of intensive training in cricket conversation I manage to avoid the crimes of appearing uninterested or asking who’s winning.  I settle on asking the score, and the moment passes safely.

Thankful for this reminder, and with job interviews pending, I search the web and find the ABC.Net cricket page. There I discover an invaluable innovation, the Live Game Log.  The first log entry is a summary of the state of play at the commencement of the day, and the follow-up entries are brief over by over summaries logged in real time. All the information needed to contribute to a cricket conversation available at your fingertips. At one stage there Kallis was not out for 26.

with thanks to Voice – for establishing  the perfect level of involvement …. and anticipating a rejoinder from Hung …..

The First Australians ?

19 Saturday Jun 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

There’s a fellow living in Brisbane by the name of Grahame Walsh. He’s just like you and me, no one particularly important, except in one very important respect. He is the world expert on the so-called Bradshaw Aboriginal Rock Art of the Kimberley. No one else even comes close.

Every dry season for the past several decades Grahame has made his way, alone most of the time, to the Kimberley to seek out and record what is perhaps the earliest available record of the human occupation of this continent. Surviving on silence and tinned tuna, he has amassed thousands of pages of notes and literally millions of meticulously catalogued images. He is responsible for the creation of the only working system for delineating the phases of this art.

‘It’s my life’s obsession, and I’ve devoted everything I had to it,” Grahame told a Fairfax journo a few years ago. “Health, wealth, personal happiness and friendship, I’ve sacrificed the lot in the quest. Now I’m 60, two buggered knees, my wife’s gone, and I’ve got no dough – but I’ve gained a higher understanding of the cognitive development of humankind than probably anyone else in this country.”

What makes this interesting is that Grahame has no formal art history or anthropological training, no degrees in archaeology, paleopsychology or cognitive philosophy, indeed no formal training at all. He was however, awarded an honorary doctorate from Melbourne University late in 2004 in acknowledgement of his life’s work. He is entirely self made, an autodidact; and like a lot of autodidacts he’s got some ideas that tend to get the hackles of more formally trained academics well and truly up.

Grahame Walshe: loner, autodidact and world authority on the Bradshaw art.

His ideas include the notion that the Bradshaw art is not strictly speaking “indigenous”. Grahame doesn’t think there’s any cultural connection between the art and the indigenous communities living in the Kimberley at this time. He may be right. Linguistic analysis seems to suggest that the current locals, while claiming both guardianship and a cultural connection, are none the less as separate from the artists as Grahame himself is. Further; physical analysis of the art has proven a minimum age of greater than 17K years. This was achieved by dating individual silicon grains in the fabric of a wasp’s nest built on top of an artwork. Not exactly a clincher, given that this doesn’t in any way actually date the art. Other attempts to date the material of the art itself have been unsuccessful to date as the pigments and binders used by the early artists have petrified. There is strong evidence to suggest that the preparation of these colouring agents and the binders is another lost technology. Current indigenous artists need to readdress their work from time to time to keep the colour in the work, whereas the Bradshaws have maintained their strength of colour over tens of thousands of years.

So what is it about the Bradshaws or Gwion Gwion, as the Ngarinyin call them, that makes them so compulsively fascinating to Grahame and almost everyone that claps eyes on them?

Well they’re different, really different!

More like rock art from areas of The Sahara, or South East Asia, than anything else in Australia; the Bradshaws depict such strange things as hoofed deer. Not at all common this side of the Wallace Line and suggesting that the artists had some familiarity with these beasts. The images incorporate such diagnostic elements as an “horizon line” and rudimentary perspective. These elements are almost entirely absent from later indigenous art. They also depict what are arguably large ocean going vessels carrying goodly numbers of people, 29 in one instance. In contrast archaeological evidence relating to the current indigenous people of this continent suggests that water-craft of any kind, obviously present at the time of colonisation, must none the less have been a technology that was discarded or lost after landfall and only re-invented many thousands of years later. Maritime iconography is entirely absent from later aboriginal art right up until the last few thousand years when simple river and harbour canoes begin to appear.

Ian Wilson in his 2006 book, “The Lost World of The Kimberley” suggests that the art may predate the movement of the current indigenous population into this country. He reminds us that at Glacial Maxima the lower sea level would have extended the coastal plain beyond the current shore and connected and enlarged Australia and New Guinea into what geologists and paleogeographers call Sahul. The Indonesian Archipelago would have been a continuous land mass incorporated into a huge low plain connecting the highlands of Malaysia, Sumatra and Java with Borneo, with an enlarged Sulawesi to the East across a narrow strait.

Wilson suggests that this may have created a kind of equatorial Mediterranean. A protected sea almost entirely surrounded by land across which the many peoples of this environmentally rich area would have travelled to trade and for the acquisition of new territory. The so-called Banda People or Bugis are sometimes called the sea gypsies and it is from their name that the expression “Boogieman” originates. One only has to think of the Bangkok water markets to understand the longstanding utility of a water-based way of life in Asia. Wilson suggests that maybe it was the ancestors of these Asiatic people that worked the Bradshaw magic; but that at some point, as the sea level began to rise rapidly along the low gradient Kimberley coast at the end of an ice age, these people simply filled their ocean going canoes and abandoned their Austral experiment for greater certainty across the Banda Sea in the north, once again leaving the The Great South Land empty until the next wave of colonisers arrived probably via a route to the north and down through New Guinea. Later indigenous art, while wonderful in itself, simply doesn’t have the dynamism and freedom of form and execution characteristic of the Bradshaw art. It’s driven by a different aesthetic and almost certainly has a different cultural motivation.

You see, we do just strut and fret for a moment and then we go, to be heard from no more; and I wonder who it was that executed these stunning works. These people that transformed thousands of rock overhangs into galleries of great art and then passed away leaving nothing but the art and a mystery still waiting to be teased out of deep time.

Graham Walshe is probably there now. I wonder what he’s found this year.

Warrigal Mirriyuula

5.2 The Umpire Raises the Ginger Part 2

14 Thursday Jan 2010

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OK, I know it’s a typo in the heading but it worked for me…

Australian coach receiving the O’Way Game advantage

I’m in Hobart an about to talk to the Aussie cricket team, you know, rev ‘em up, for the next game. The Bish has pulled some strings so I can get into the change rooms. I’ve been given some notes as to what to say as I haven’t got a clue about motivation or how to motivate others. Unfortunately as I walk in I trip and drop all the notes and when I pick them up they seem a bit messed up. In the change room I see their faces but only recognize one, the vitamin salesman, Dicky something. Always on TV telling me that the vitamins are clinically proven but then fails to say what they are clinically proven for. What he also leaves out is that a ham salad sandwich will supply you with about the same level of ingredients found in those expensive little pills.

Anyway I start “Who’s Thorn?” I ask. Dicky speaks up “There’s no thorn in our side Father” he replies diligently. “Well is says here Thorn needs to lift his game.” Just then an official approaches and reads my notes. He speaks softly so the others can’t hear “Er, um, Father, the letters must have scrambled when you dropped your notes, it’s North”. “Well” I continue “North your forms gone south so we need you to show us what you have got. The team and all the fans are behind you, we know you can do it.” The room erupts with a roar, wow, these guys are really into it.

“Now kick long to someone in a better position than you and tackle hard” I boast informatively. “But Father this is a cricket team we don’t kick or tackle” states Dicky. “Oh, well, get behind the service line and hit deep, only rush the net when you have set your opponent up” I say. “But Father that’s tennis. We’re cricketers” Dicky bemoans. “Oh, okay then hit the ball long, hit the ball high, hit the ball over the fence unless it’s still six and out” to which the team responds with a almighty cry “And finally” I add “Sledge the crap out of them” to which the team raises me up on there collective shoulders singing “Australians all let us rejoice…….”

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4.4 Epilogue – The End of the First Innings

06 Wednesday Jan 2010

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When the ICCB colonised Waterworld the indigenous inhabitants were rounded up and forced to work in floating ball manufacturies. Life was brutal and often short and revolution was continually being fomented.

Digital Ballistics by Warrigal

This is a Press Release put out by the Intergalactic Cricket Control Board (ICCB) from the president Sunil Galvatron.

“It is with much regret that I inform you that the ICCB Death Ball was attacked and destroyed at 1000 hours Central Galactic Time (CGT) by rebel forces led by a renegade priest who calls himself Father O’Way.

It further saddens me to inform you that in the fighting the Death Ball returned fire at the rebels and accidentally struck the Planet Joon, which just happened to floating by, destroying it and killing all 200 million residents. The ICCB regrets incidents like this and boy, we hate it when that happens.

The Death Ball and all those that sailed on her were killed in the exchange totalling 500,000 troops and our Commander in Chief, Lord Deaf Vision. Consequently we are advertising in Saturdays press for a new Commander in Chief so any of you evil Lord’s our there who are interested in the job, please submit your CV with two referees and anyone who can pass the police clearance need not apply.

As Death Balls are very expensive all fees have been increased to meet the cost of a new one. So juniors will have to pay 50 Galactic Units (GU’s) more per game and Under 16’s up to first grade will pay an extra 100 GU’s. Now don’t forget report to the coach on the dot at 1000 hours, wear plenty of blockout and bring extra water. The Canteen ladies as usual will provide the oranges.

To the rebels the Cricket Wars have begun and I have dispatched several Intergalactic Universal Destroyers (IUD’s) to exterminate, exterminate, oops sorry, resolve the conflict with you by communication and negotiation and if necessary extreme violence”

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Michael has taken Helvi to the repair shop so she can get a new arm put on after the other one was blown off in the fighting on the death ball. It’s a beautiful sunny day in the bio and I haven’t let Belinda out of my sight since returning. Without her I would be devastated and anyway Hung would have to invent a new girlfriend for me.

George has made a picnic hamper for us of stuffed vine leaves, olives, pita bread and freshly baked spanokopitas plus baklava for desert. George has also packed us a bottle of cold Verdelho. George has style I must admit.

Belinda and I head down to the river. Dave the guitar droid is sitting on the upper balcony of the Bats Droppings and is singing Van Morrisons Have I told you lately that I love you. It doesn’t get any better than this I thought to myself but there is something I have to thrash out with Belinda.

We pop the basket on the bench and I pour us some wine. “Belinda” I start “There is something I need to know.” She turns and looks intently in my direction with that beautiful radiant smile. “What is it Sandy?” she prompts.  I gulp nervously “Well, you know how I have been mirroring a certain story and in that certain story you turn out to be my sister and that you know we have been doing the wild thing for months now, please tell me you not my sister?”

Belinda starts laughing and is now to the point where it has become uncontrollable. Tears are running down her cheeks into her stunning cleavage and her ample bosom. “Oh Sandy, now firstly you have stopped mirroring that story and secondly no I’m not your sister. Remember I’m Glenda’s little sister and Hung introduced me into the story so he could do that gag about the soggy sombrero.”

Thank Gordon for that. I mean seeing that Lord Vision turned out to be Dad one just never knows. “Belinda, I love you, you know that don’t you?” I proffer nervously, I mean I’m a parish priest for zark sake, what do I know about love and women. “And I love you Sandy” Belinda replies and with that we eat our delightful meal taking in the river scene as the music meanders through the air and the sun warms our faces. Yes, something special has happened. Life will never be the same again. Just as that thought passed through my brain George comes racing across the green “Sandy, Miss Belinda, you need to read this” George proclaims “What is it George” I ask knowing I won’t like the answer “It’s a press release from the ICCB….

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Father O’Way goes to the Oval

26 Wednesday Aug 2009

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Grigor Ian Chant (2)

Grigor Ian Chan

Clouds are swirling through the sky as the wind blows cold from the north. Out of a large Cumulus humilis a man appears wearing a flat cap. He talks with a strong English accent “Sandy, Gordon here, I need you to do me a favour, know wot I mean, can you get my Stat-o-matic 4000 from my old mate Grigor?, I lent it to him last century and he hasn’t returned it, anyway I’m off now for a few pints of lager, know wot I mean, bye”.

I wake to smell of coffee that the beautiful Belinda has prepared for me. Only last evening I told Belinda that I was off to the cricket for the last days play. Belinda replied “Oh Sandy, can I come, I really wanna come, big time, you know, all the way, I love cricket” Well I suppose that makes one of us “Yes, of course you can come my little sweet pea” I utter. Belinda shrieks with delight “I’m coming, I’m coming, oohh, yes, yes, I’m coming, hmmm, ohh, yes, I’m goin’ down, yes, yes, the Big O [Okay stop right there, cut, Astyages here, Sandy you know that the analytical paranormalisation that juxtaposes the desensitisation of the syntax inferring Belinda is about to sexually climax over a cricket game is just scientifically flawed] [Jesus Christ give a guy a break, everyone’s a critic].

We have breakfast in the ground floor café when out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar face. It’s Grigor, Grigor Ian Chant. As he approaches I notice something in his hand “Is that a pen Chant?” I ask. “Morning Sandy, very desirable but no it’s a Stat-o-matic 4000 for Gordon. See you pop it in your top pocket and it transmits cricket statistics straight into your brain. So you can turn to the person next to you and rattle off stats in a most impressive manner. Can you pass it to the Bish so he can get it to Gordon?” I suddenly remember my dream. So that’s God, Gordon O’Donnell, the astrophysicist the Bish told me about. “Certainly old chap” I reply, “Off to the cricket you know, last days play, what, rather!” With this news Grigor erupts into laughter. Now I didn’t think my English accent was that bad. “Cricket Sandy, you? The man who hates cricket with a vengeance” Grigor bleats, Yes old boy, that is I “Er, um, Sandy old bean, I hate to tell you” Grigor boasts “but the crickets finished” “Finished” I gasp, “Finished, but cricket goes for 5 long boring days where hardly anything happens”.

I see trouble brewing, the Bish wanted me to streak or start a riot to slow the game down, oh shit, I see really big trouble brewing. The Bish will have to cough up 50 bucks to Basil Sauce and the Bish hates losing. Grigor can’t help himself now, talking advantage of my ignorance and the fact that his side won he pushed on “Well that’s your view old chap, but see we beat you inside the five days because we are a vastly superior team. You Antipodeans just don’t get it do you, we are the rulers of the game, we are bigger that big, we are blah blah blah, rant rant rant, rave rave rave…..”. I can’t stand this verbal debasement of our players and something makes me place the Stat-o-matic 4000 in my top pocket. It instantly tells me that England are rated 5th in world rankings, one behind Australia and that not one of their batters are ranked in the top ten, the best the bowlers could do was 9 and 10. The Stat-o-matic seems to tune to the needs of the person wearing the device, gee, I could even sound like I know what I’m talking about, I wonder if Gordon has one for horse racing. “Okay Grigor, now listen

Boycott Gets Hung Up over O’Way

09 Sunday Aug 2009

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O'Way tells it like it is - probably

O’Way tells it like it is – probably

So it’s back to England I go, more boring cricket, so the Bish has 50 bucks riding on it just so he can do his noodle over Basil Sauce. I hop a plane to Heathrow and sit next to this sprauncy looking bloke it a jacket and tie. “Hey mate, names O’Way, Sandy O’Way who won the cricket?” “Well old chap, names Boycott, mean anything to you? Seeing you’re a simple man of the cloth it was a no result” Boycott, isn’t that what you do when you won’t buy something at the supermarket like cage eggs, “Meaningless to me Pom, boring game played by bores”

The flight was long and strangely quiet. Me mate Boycott kept looking the other way and the in-flight movie was Flight of the Living Dead, very comforting. This gave me a chance to reflect on a conversation I had with the Bish that still disturbs me. One night after dinner the Bish offers me a glass of port in the sitting room. He gets out his pipe and stuffs some stuff in it, smelt like a skunk, takes a couple of deep puffs and holds it in. “Ahhh” he exclaims as he exhales “That’s better”. He proffers the pipe in my direction “No thanks your Worship, don’t smoke”. Anyway the Bish sits down and starts talking “You know Sandy, I’ll let you in on a little secret, there’s no such creature as God” Oh for fuck sake, a Bishop who doesn’t believe in God. “No God your Worship?” “That’s right, God is an astronaut, named Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell. He’s an astrophysicist that lives in another dimension. He’s studying astrophysics at uni and he and some class mates built this large box and made it a vacuum. The box is black on the inside and the class injected a large tube of static energy in the middle, mainly hydrogen and then fired an electric impulse at the tube. A big bang happened and thus the universe as we know it was created. Gordon and his classmates have been studying it ever since.” Christ almighty, this bloke’s a raving lunatic. “Gordon comes to Earth for the beer, he said he likes the spit roast on Joon and the women on Altus 5, these are other planets in his sector that he is doing his thesis on” Beer, roast and women, starting to sound like my kinda guy. “Gordon says just play cricket and you will be accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven” Pigs Arms! Bloody cricket, takes 5 days and still no one wins.

I meet the Australian captain, Ricky Punting, at the hotel where all the players are staying. “So Ricky, the Bish wants to know what’s up?” “Nothing Father” he replies “just need a bit of fine tuning” “Hey Ricky” I ask “Why do they call you Punter?” “Bet a journo told you that one. Look Father, there’s this bookie called John” [Stop, cut, Sandy here, Hung, Hung, HUNG! I don’t like the direction this story is taking [HOO here, Sorry Sandy, dozed off, look mate it’s like this, I’m the writer and you’re the character, so bad luck, anyway it’s a tough gig being a priest] Yeah, right thanks Hung, Ricky’s about to tell me he’s as bent as a two bob watch and all you can say is it’s tough gig being a priest, you try it mate]

“So Ricky, this bookie called John?” I prompt, “Sorry Father I have no idea what you are talking about but just remember, cricket’s a funny game” Funny alright, played in bloody heaven apparently.