Our re-badged wines offer a distinctive individualised touch.

Perfect for a love “that dare not speak its name’!

Due to an unexpected windfall we have come into the possession of a substantial quantity of fine wine. We had no idea how the wine arrived, cept to say that as Clarrie left the front door of our (disused) milk bar to wander down to the dole office to report on his job seeking compliance, (we knew he’d be gone most of the day)  when he returned the shop was chock a block with grog. All of it was stacked in plain brown cardboard boxes. The Boxes had stencilled onto the uppermost side a label, ‘Benfolds Grange Hermitage’. We studied the boxes but could find no sign of ownership. Rather than argue the toss, Cecil suggested we open one of the boxes and to our surprise there was a letter  enclosed. 

It went like this. “Dear Mr Robb, in appreciation of all that you have done to propitiate the belt and road initiative we send you this gift of Benfolds Grange. These two dozen boxes are yours to enjoy and proof of your sterling efforts in supporting our policy of exterminating Uighurs and stomping on Tibetans. In this regard your blinded eye has been of the utmost service, Enjoy the wine. 

Nicer label than Grange, Its washable, and comes in eight different sizes.

P.S you’re sacked’. 

A red hot special for leadership Wannabees!

‘Well’, said Cecil. “I dunno who this Robb bloke is, but we might as well give it a try”. And in seconds flat we had the first, the second, then the third.  It pays to qualify the tasting process, and we decided it wasn’t too bad. 

For those who’ve tossed aside their Jack Daniels for something “Stormier”….

And then quicker than it took to bypass a credentialed Sheila for preselection  in the Coalition, or quicker than it took Julian Burnside to repudiate his allegiance to a homophobic club of misogynistic climate change deniers we had a brilliant idea. To  rename them, (cos we respect copyright) as our own. And unleash them to our faithful readership. 

A heavy drop with a hint of SUICIDE!

So there you have it. For for those looking forward to a bout of confessionals, feeling like drinking full form the body of christ, the blood of Tony Abbotts Paris climate deal redemption, then seek no further.  An exclusive offer to savour some of the most distinctive wines at a fair price.

“Hmm.. Is that the whiff of hypocrisy”?.

Each vintage has been sourced from the most exquisitely refined materials, bottled by hand with real cork and blessed by a rabbi, a reverend and a mufti who have as a basic preliminary walked into a bar.   And the verdict is “ Superb’.  Each wine is individually crafted to uphold a range of distinctive and exceptional characteristics. 

For the Club man or woman we present the “ Burnside”. The Burnside promises a balanced and informed palette with light touches of hubris and sanctimony. Once sipped you’ll saviour fully the delight of an aromatic wine with traces of bats piss. 

Yours to enjoy. 

And savour. 

We’ve been inundated with requests from highly placed individuals seeking preferment and influence through our highly sought after ecumenical board games.

Dear reader we shall devote the next two days to singular issues which DEFINE the spirit of OUR TIMES!. And also to endorse Cecil’s sensible decision to re-read, (and it will be serialised) H.G Well’s portentous tome, “Things to Come”.  Sadly Wells did not predict the about face by celebrated human rights lawyer Julian Burnside on his archaic, patriarchal, penis-wielding membership of an outmoded fetishistic all male club. “But Hey”, so are the members of most churches.  And like the clubs they purport to support, all of them, (RATBAGS ALL) still receive tax free status.

So in celebration of this apostasy of faith we bring you just for your enlightenment, this fragment of our popular board games, and hope that a patron may yet be found to make them a reality.

Ladders and ladders

‘Ladder and ladders’  was an exciting initiative developed by the Catholic Education Office to give kiddies the opportunity to exhilarate in the rapid promotion then on offer in all branches of religious life. Instead of the snakes that would adorn the more standardised ‘Snakes and Ladders’, the board consisted just of ladders. However, between the ladders and the ultimate rise to the top, were little snakes configuring  little circles. Within each circle an object, clearly visible” would indicate a “Sin”, a “Vile Act”, or a ‘Cunning little lie”. Each player had to traverse the series of ladders to the ultimate goal of being consecrated an archbishop, or  in some instances, (a Cardinal). After the ascent of each ladder, the player was asked, by the other players, ‘what they had observed throughout the upward journey’? Those who provided the most plausible fabrication, without repetition, hesitation or departure from the subject were allowed to move on. Those who offered implausible excuses were relegated to the bottom. It was a game that required absolute skill in obfuscation, casuistry and deflection . No copies of the game survive, but it is rumoured some exist as preparation devices for politicians about to undergo senate and parliamentary entitlement  hearings. 

Backyard abortion

The medical kit (colloquially sold in the U.K as the Backyard abortion kit) was a very popular item. Sales soared during the ‘American flood” of 1942-45, and again during the Korean war, when unwanted pregnancies and the dire consequences became commonplace. Designed as an adjunct to the popular ‘Doctor and Nurses Kit’ the ‘Backyard’ offered some interesting and novel features. These included a length of rubber hose, a small jar, a small bottle of ether and a pair of forceps. This all came with an attractive, (as standard in Doctor and Nurses Kit) uniforms and fake moustache. 

The kit was exceedingly popular in both Britain and Australia, as a consequence of being affordable. And  a boon for children improvising with bomb sites and vacant allotments to extend their range of their ‘imaginative play’. In spite of numerous protests from splinter and church groups the game was seen as an ‘inoffensive mirror to contemporary life’, (Archbishop of Canterbury) and children enjoyed mimicking the ritual of “letting the doctor in the back gate”, ‘sterilizing the coat hangar” and ‘helping dad walk to the pub’, whilst the procedure was in progress. 

Unfortunately, it became apparent at the Old Bailey that the notorious Mr Christie had adapted the kits for his personal use with dire consequences. The game was immediately banned as unsuitable, and all product destroyed, However it is rumoured the kit survives in Russia, with a minor change reflecting the current aids epidemic in the country.  The only difference being the ‘Doctor and Nurses’ uniform is substituted for prison guard uniforms. 

Julian pondering the imponderable. ” Is it Green”?

Newsflash. Just off the news desk a Cardinal has appeared in court on the charge of the   inappropriate poking of a fireplace.. The magistrate is deliberating, and the celebrated human rights lawyer Julian Burnside Q.C is standing as a character witness, for his greatest Human Rights Advocacy, “Himself”

Small Blessings, by Emily Brewin, Allen and Unwin, rrp $29.99

Reviewed by Joe Blake

Once again we ask you to raise your metaphorical hat to Joe Blake. Not content with preparing his fire plan, polishing his “are you safe?” terrorist alert fridge magnet and preparing his submission to be the next leader of the Merton CFA splinter group fire brigade, he’s got us into another book review. And this one is a corker!. 

As a consequence we’ve had to put on hold the esteemed bio from Alan Myers QC, “How I became Chancellor” till next week, and hope that none of our readership are discontented now they have their exclusive set of autographed board games as covered in last weeks thrilling instalment. 

Now, over to you Joe, (he begins)………

Once upon a time, the notion of class was always close to the surface in this country. The inequalities in society were recognised as part of its structure, not just the fault of the individual. Because of this awareness, social welfare payments – the dole, old-age pension, single parent payments – were set at a level so recipients could survive. No money was given to private schools. The list goes on. Class consciousness was everywhere. Working class parents worried about their kids getting an education, on two fronts: (a) would it be enough to allow their grownup kids to relate to people above them in social ranks; and (b) would these kids lose contact with their families and the peers of their childhood?

These days, that thinking has changed and the meanness of the Howard years prevails. Blaming the victim has become a new national sport, and lauding those who’ve enriched themselves (usually by cheating) is the new norm. When, in a recent interview with a Murdoch journalist, Tim Winton mentioned the concept of class, the response he got made him feel “as if I’d shat in the municipal pool.” Luckily for us, Emily Brewin hasn’t received the memo about the uncomfortable c-word, and she’s produced a wonderful novel to prove it.

Rosie, a former drug addict, is a single mum to Petey, who’s maybe 8 years old and high-functioning autistic. He’s a lovely kid, but his obsessions sometimes lead to tantrums. Determined to make sure he gets a better childhood than the miserable one she suffered, she’s studying year 12 at TAFE, with maybe uni to follow. In the meantime, the going is tough, living in a tiny inner-city commission flat and working in the supermarket underneath to get enough to live on. If you’ve ever been to those flats you’ll know it’s no fun: privacy doesn’t exist; a bad neighbour is multiplied by 150. It’s easy to lose your mojo here. Added to that, a new problem rears its ugly head. Her ex, the junkie who continually bashed her and sent her out on the streets so he can score, has just got out of prison and is stalking her. Eventually the pressure builds up so much she explodes, and Petey runs away and can’t be found.

Isobel, the other main character, has a different story to tell about class. She grew up in heavily-polluted Altona, where Dad worked in the refinery and Mum threaded plastic cables all day. Mum knows how bad it is to be poor, and she’s dead set on her kids getting the best education she can pay for, even if her hands are destroyed by all the extra work hours needed to get the money. Isobel is very bright, but she never fits in to her elite girls’ school; she’s just not rich enough. Despite (or because of?) not fitting in, she duxes the school, and enters Law at Melbourne Uni. While there, she meets (and marries) a man from Toorak, and life is looking up. They’re both ambitious, and sacrifice a lot for their careers; she even gets to be a partner in her prestigious firm. One day, though, she decides it time to become a mum, and goes into IVF. Coincidentally, everything at that time starts to fall apart. Her mum, who embarrassed her mightily in front of her snooty school companions, is about to die. Her husband becomes distant; it rolls on and on.

Towards the end of this wonderful book, Rosie and Isobel meet up, and, despite the odds, become friends. I won’t tell you about all the twists and turns, but it’s a great story, filled with perceptions and insights that show a hell of a lot of lived experience or some brilliant research. There are so many little details here.

This is Emily Brewin’s second novel, and let’s hope there are plenty more to come. Her debut was brilliant; this is even better. How far can she go?

Welcome to the era of “Pyro Porn”. 

The Jinks Creek Cottage

On Saturday evening possibly around 7.00 pm, Andrew Clarke’s vineyards winery, outbuildings, house, b and b cottage, fences, everything burnt to the ground. Everything he’s built has been turned to ash.

Andrew runs a successful winery. He’s passionate about his winery and his family, Abi, Charlie and Lucy are passionate about entertaining and welcoming all who visit and stay at Jinks Creek. 

The Winery, Andrew built every bit of it himself.

Because of this he has established an enviable reputation for running one of those establishments that nurtures the local community. We enjoyed Christmas and New Years Eve there.  Everyone in the district came along, and celebrated the kind of bond that keeps these tight knit, (I think that’s the expression) intact. As a sort of overarching bond the greater family who know their country and have a deep and empathetic attachment to the land. The sort of attachment the conservative press disparage native Australians for. 

Andrew also has a priceless asset. A bloody big lake. The lake is breathtaking. Three or four MCGs could fit into it. The largest body of water in the entire district, and doubtless with the right optics could be “Seen from the Moon”. 

Whilst taking water from his dam there was a photo opportunity to good to miss

Because of this, his lake is on offer to those brave heroic units of the airborne division (is there such a thing?) of the CFA. Like wasps or dragonflies they descend upon the lake, hover for a moment then fly off, their bodies distended with cool nourishing water, to then dissipate it on a field somewhere. To ensure us all that with the Air Wing in command we are ALL SAFE!

Since the horror of Black Friday we now have a calibrated scale of warnings to ensure public safety. Through Friday night Andrew and his family watched the flames getting closer. They watched the fires insidious creep. This was not the express train fire that destroyed Marysville.  This was a creeping barrage of ash, sparks and smoke. Grapes don’t like being smoked. Andrew knew that the 2019 vintage was rooted. 

But the storm was yet to come. 

Note dear reader, the canopy is intact, Good thing they waited long enough to capture the lpg cylinder explode.

The surrounding bush was tinder dry, and though requested on numerous occasions, had never been treated to a controlled burn. 

On Saturday about midday he was told to leave.  For his own safety. The CFA would protect his assets. And so, realising that the children and family were the priority did so. He could not return. Police from as far away as Moorabbin, had blocked the roads. Blocked the roads to ensure public safety. As the family drove back to the Princess Highway they were confronted with a convoy. A near neighbour described “Dozens of trucks and “units” sitting by the side of the road, crews hanging around waiting for orders”. It puzzled him. It reminded him of one of those scenes of the BEF, listlessly hanging around whilst the Wehrmacht overwhelmed the defences and pushed them to the coast. 

At this stage of the afternoon the wind had died down. The forest fire became a creeping undergrowth fire. Not a tumultuous canopy fire, but a steady encroachment. 

GOLD for the Pyro porn industry. An explosion and a devastating aftermath.

Since Black Friday bushfires are considered worse than boat people. In the olden days (“Smiley gets a gun”) the community used to fight the fire. That’s how they came up with the CFA. Now the CFA is centralised, organised and has situation control managers.  They work in offices in Melbourne.  And have white boards. And nice offices with computers and situation maps. Bit like the War Rooms during the Blitz. 

Any local would’ve said, “Hey fellas whilst you’re taking water from his dam, howsabout a load at the winery and around the house. They’re less than 100 meters from the dam. The dam that’s bigger than three or four MCG’s. The dam you’re using to save other people’s places”. 

No such thing happened. As the units sat idle and the strategy was defined by dot points and white papers the winery burnt down. A boy with a mop and a bucket could have saved it 

First thing Andrew knew was when he saw it on TV.  Good thing the fire could be  nuanced for a photo opp. Must’ve taken a day and a half to get to the winery but when it did it was worth waiting for.  A cracker of a photo, and on cue the gas cylinders in the cottage BLEW UP!

So that those in uniform may march on ANZAC DAY, and ensure that their investments are ROCK SOLID

All awhile helicopters were taking water from the dam to service somewhere else. Somewhere defined as strategic on a whiteboard somewhere. And the fire crews, crews from anywhere else, knew that by standing by they were doing their bit…just as we dug slit trenches during the war to protects us rom the Japanese. Like Iraq, we’ve fooled ourselves that with air superiority the enemy is tamed. 

The burning of the winery is not the CFA’s finest hour. It suggest an absence of initiative imagination and local knowledge on an abysmal scale. Fire policy dumbed down to draconian inflexible edicts and dot points.  The common sense of sticking a head outside and sniffing the wind, lost to a corps of sinecurist managers who enact their professionalism by staying well behind the front. So that others may seek the glory in “keeping us safe”.

Christ… Its Peter Dutton’s half brother!!!. The amusingly named Mr Crisp… he deals with the PR after the fires have done their business.

It all could’ve been saved. This man makes his livelihood form the winery. He’s put thirty years of his guts into it. The irony is that whilst his water may have saved countless hobby farms, (tax minimalisation schemes, and some very nice expensive third or fourth investment properties), there was no water for his own buildings and his business. He has lost the lot. But there is a silver lining. He can now deal with the insurance industry. They’ve always had a sympathetic ear and are generous to a fault. In the end, just like mates in the CFA, banking, water and energy industries it all boils down to priorities. His water is “somebody elses”. 

Decisions made from up high, that mere humans daren’t question. For our own good. That’s what defines the CFA these days. Gone the rough and tumble of a community organisation steeped in local knowledge and native intelligence. It is now 100 percent thoroughly professional. Nice uniforms and opportunities for stellar promotion in management. And with a bit of luck a medal to wear on Anzac Day. 

There’s comfort in knowing that in keeping us safe, others may prosper. 

The wash up from the CFA, is already a Whitewash. 

This dispatch arrived some weeks ago – end of January and has languished (hidden) in my inbox.  My apologies for not getting it out earlier.

Welcome to 2019,

Dangerous and worrying moves on the chess board of Global Hegemony, widespread record weather events (hot and cold) and so called Acts of God (humanity always ready to blame someone else), and too many bad things to mention, would be enough to cause us to despair. So every little spark of optimism is to be savoured.

The oft repeated ‘Things can only get better…. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTWm0s7ZwDY

I was privileged to be given a book ‘Desert Lake (Art, Science and Stories from Paruku)’ which deals with what we kardiya know as Lake Gregory in an inspiring cross-cultural way.

The school at Mulan and the Ranger Programme on the IPA (Indigenous Protected Area) which encompasses Lake Gregory, are reasons for optimism.

Not all that long ago Mulan was one of many Western Australian remote communities under threat of closure. Lest we forget Oombulgurri:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6ef-P8hgQI

Then Prime Minister Tony Abbott famously declared, when supporting WA’s former Premier Colin Barnett’s proposed closures, that his Government would not fund “lifestyle choices” Tony’s reward for his cultural sensitivity is his appointment by the current Prime Minister as special envoy on Indigenous affairs. Go figure.

A few years ago a Dispatch featured Kimberley musician Patrick Davis (accompanied by Steve Pigram) :

Rocky Old Road:
It’s a rocky old road that we travel
All the tricks that are tried are not new
They’re just wrapped in gift wrapping paper (Mr. Barnett)
And handed as favours to you
And no you can’t take all that you’re given
Oft times it means selling your soul
And all they can take has been stolen
…find you are the last one to know

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFAdylvx34c

“And all they can take has been stolen”

Alas Patrick Davies could not know that the assimilationists hadn’t finished:

The latest they’re taking is people’s life style choices.

Don’t hold your breath, it ain’t over yet. Well may the widespread protests (including in Australia’s large cities in the voter belt) have given pause to the assimilationists and transferred community closures from their immediate agenda to their hidden agenda, but it wouldn’t surprise me if closure by stealth isn’t happening somewhere right now, as you’re reading this. The price of freedom, is indeed eternal vigilance.

Ceremonies (funeral, initiation etc etc) are known by yapa  as “the Business”. The last few days large numbers of Yuendumu residents have been drifting back from Balgo (not far from Lake Gregory) in Western Australia. Teeth euphorically glistening out of red ochre smeared faces, they had just taken part in the annual Jilkaja business, during which a significant number of boys (including from Yuendumu) had been initiated. I’ve been told that 2,000 participants came from Western Australia, and 2,000 from Central Australia. Whatever the actual numbers, it was many. They made lifestyle choices.

Despite the concerted assault on yapa identity by the assimilationist behemoth, which is kardiya society, there, in a parallel universe, yapa business refuses to be extinguished.

The 50^th Anniversary of the incorporation of Yuendumu Mining Company No Liability (YMC) falls on 20^th February. This is kardiya business, albeit yapa owned. YMC may well be the oldest surviving Aboriginal owned enterprise in the Northern Territory and perhaps all of Australia. Now is not the time to dwell on the countless acts of corporate sabotage suffered by YMC at the hands of the Establishment. Up yours! We have survived!

On the 20^th February I’ll be starting long service leave. Yapa-kurlangu Ngurrara Aboriginal Corporation (YKNAC) the locally owned Yuendumu outstations/homelands resource organisation, is taking on management of YMC operations (now confined to running a store and fuel outlet). Myself I hope to cobble together ‘A Yuendumu Story’. Having arrived here with my family over 45 years ago, there is plenty to write about including the naming and shaming (subject to legal advice!) of the above mentioned saboteurs.

There are so many good books out there (my reading bucket list far exceeds the time I expect to remain on this planet with intact marbles) that I have no illusions as to the likelihood that many will read it (let alone buy it), but something I’m supremely confident of is that I’ll enjoy writing it.

Tadah for now,

Frank

And now a bit of music from two years after YMC was incorporated

Ike & Tina Turner – She came in through the bathroom window – Get back – Proud Mary, 1971
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yx0hY2NJNVA

Anticipating benediction by the Cardinal we had these funky logos printed for the games release. Sadly they were ” not compliant”.

Dear reader, in response to the enormous interest in our failed board games we have decided to print details of the games so that some enterprising soul may yet stump up the funds and make this educational tool a reality.  It needs to be appreciated in light of recent events. And we think gives a telling insight into how imagination is the missing tool of contemporary education. Which is why we are seriously worried about any attempt to take chaplains away from public schools. If you don’t believe it we have a character reference from John Howard as testament to the games credentials. And in anyone doubts us we have testimonials to prove it from the Catholic Boys Daily. (the Australian)

Finding Father Finnegan, ‘He’s visiting the orphanage, and no one can find him’

Release date 1966. 

Father Finnegan was released as a very popular adaptation of the father O’Malley game in which Big Crosby played the part of a parish priest  in ‘The Bells of St Mary’s’. The archdiocese of Melbourne and Sydney liked the idea, and thought they’d nuance the plot structure about a young priest and his unruly charges shouldering the  threat of imminent school closure, with a more localised version appropriate to Australian audiences. They proposed to make a film based loosely on the Bing Crosby story, but with Chips Rafferty as the lead, and Roy Rene as the rector in  Cinesound’s, “Father Finnegan visits the Orphanage’. The Ken G Hall production, facing severe post war austerity measures on film and local content was boosted when permission was grated by the Federal government to be allowed access to the entire complement of the passenger ship “SS Fiddle-sticks”, then brimming full with a boat load of post war British child migrants.

Finding Father Finnegan is a game of detective work. It consists of a board, a father counter, players counters, clues cards, clue pieces a clock and a spinning arrow.  The players are entrusted to find the father who is hiding in the institution. One player is the father but pretends he’s one of the ‘finders’. Whilst the players wait for their turn, they must cover their eyes with a copy of the Old Testament (which are supplied).  Each turn they play there are new clues, though not all of them lead to Father Finnegan. Reputedly the game was similar to Cluedo, but with one distinct difference. If the Father Finnegan is found in a short space of time quickly the children are safe, if prolonged searching the children disappear, and can not be found. And father, rather than being ‘found’  is just moved on. 

The Father Finnegan board game could not compete with inter- communion Bingo Championships for popular appeal. Prelate holds up a “blanque-Un”.

This game was a great favourite, but production discontinued in 1978, when the transmigration scheme ceased. In all over 150 thousand were produced, and some can still be at the Catholic Education Office, and in isolated instances in the archdiocese of Ballaarat, where it is still played today.

The game board was of the  simple fold type with of a plan of the orphanage, numerous sick rooms, a chapel and holes for hiding priests and children in. In addition to the previously described game pieces and Father Finnegan, each board held at  least a hundred children as little brown discs, and four bibles, a piece of rope and a long piece of rubber tube and a blindfold.  The game was activated by an arrow on a spigot, and each move would examine another part of the orphanage. Game counters included nuns, in which each player could block a thorough investigation and the player opposite would go back to one. 

A criticism of the game is that it took hours and hours to find Father Finnegan, was impossible for the children to ever win, and the nuns, were often broken as they were made of cheap cardboard, and had a habit of flying of the board the “wind was put up them”. The children game counters, little bakelite discs, were magnetised, so they could not move, unless instructed. A first for locally produced games technology. 

Due to unprecedented demand. 

After a lull of some several years we’ve been swamped, inundated with new orders for our boxed sets of our “old school” board games. You may remember when they were first released, these fascinating, original and groundbreaking games caused quite a stir.

We had it priced, packaged and promoted to sell. Original advance orders were very promising indeed.

Worried about the proliferation of online gaming, the loss of reading as a basic hobby of the young in nurturing the imagination, the games were envisaged as an educational and spiritual breakthrough. As a counter to the all consuming toll of laptops, gameboys, ipads, mobiles and the associated sludge of instant gratificational media.  The hollowing out the human spirit could be reversed and the leaching of the collective soul to crass materialism and consumerism stemmed. 

These games promised a “Revolution” in  re-positioning the whole concept of “Family Entertainment”. Old style religion would be “Family Fun” once again. Churches of the “True Faith” would be full once again.  Families would rejoice in the notion of original sin, punishment and retribution. Knowing that their children, and other people’s children, and children languishing in institutions would recognise the ineluctable glory of GOD!

Solitary children locked in rooms mesmerised by the spell of electronic media would be freed.  We knew these games would work because they were based upon old fashioned family values. The same values that have given us Family First and the DLP.

Our research indicated this board game would do very well with Baby Boomers, not yet released from the after-effects of being “nurtured in Gods’ name” by old men.

Re- badged and re- packaged as “the Cardinal Series” the games were pitched at middle suburbia and middle Australia. On each game box was printed in bold type, “Good ol’ Mainstream Australian values”.  Initial  market projections indicated sales would eclipse the eternal favourites of Trivial Pursuit, Chess, Monopoly and Old Maid. 

We also knew, (after extensive market research), that in the great tradition of eternal favourites, Test Match, and Scrabble, the general public’s cultural appreciation of the ancient rituals enshrined in the games, would lead to mass acceptance and the prospect of “Rivers of Gold”. All we had to do was establish the distribution network, and the games would literally sell themselves.  With rapt anticipation we released the series in all good Catholic bookstores and offered them for sale (under license) to be sold as a boxed set at church fetes, bottle drives, Easter Fairs and in special stalls at Communion. 

Then nothing happened. 

Rather than selling the games as anticipated we found ourselves in a maelstrom of unwarranted publicity. Then the vitriolic letters began to arrive. What began as a trickle became a flood. 

Taking the Church’s stance on abortion, this game was pitched to Suburbia. We knew it would be a best seller as it enshrined “Good ol fashioned mainstream Australian Values’.

The Archdiocese sent us to court over plagiarism and copyright. And it became clear via the letters and submissions made by previous players that we’d got the rules of the game completely wrong. 

People out there were incensed that we’d misunderstood the ancient rituals performed in the games. They said we’d taken it too far. There was too much fun in “Finding Risdale” and not enough emphasis on the fear of original sin and the promise of retribution. 

We tried to get Good Ol George Pell and Father Risdale to endorse our products as they came up with the rules to the original “Staying at Fathers Risdales House” Game. Sadly, they declined our offer. But word is out that they will soon be sharing another house together. Allegedly; A Big House”.

Also the winner of the game  was in the eyes of many correspondents, not punished enough. We’d misunderstood the principal tenet, that to Win, was to Lose.  That the winner, was encouraged to absorb themselves in loathing, hate, depression and suicide. We’d got that bit spectacularly wrong. Happily, the games have been re-branded, and they offer to the winner, nothing. Or perhaps Winner needs to be re-qualified as the person who “gets to the end”.  A truer reflection of the spirit of the game  and all that’s wholesome and pure about old style religion. 

We tried to get Cardinal Pell to endorse the product, but he’s not answering his phone. Possibly engaged in conversation  on his “Royal Telephone” to God. 

In happier times

Dear reader, you may remember the project we were involved in prior to establishing pcbycp. 

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the documentary it requires re-telling,. 

It’s a sage reminder of what happens when the management of a not for profit organisation, seduced by self importance, narcissistic hubris and delusional self belief sends things horribly wrong. For those of you who are sensitive we suggest you stop reading now. There are disturbing images conveyed in print that are not for the faint hearted. 

We became a “household name”

Way back in the noughties, we ran a horse training facility. The facility kept lots of people employed. Even people who were described by the employment agency as being “functionally useless” found satisfying rewarding work in our enterprise. The name of the facility, “Windy Hollow”, was promoted by  a dedicated group of young people. These young people came from a diverse background. All their parents were wealthy. So wealthy, they established a “Saddle Club”, where they could ride horses exclusively, and learn the fundamentals of comradeship, companionship and society in a nurturing environment. We organised the development strategy, as we felt that a profound grounding in social responsibility for spoilt over-indulged materialistic offspring would counter their tendency to be isolated and inherently anti social. We felt that this process was vital to avoid the schism between the “haves and the have nots” and the tendency for the elites to think that just because they have money, horses and tax free franking credits they can rule the world. 

The Saddle Club was entirely successful. It ended up employing thousands, never made a profit, but that was not the point, it gave meaning to people and established within that community a “ society”. 

Shady figures calculated our demise.

The Saddle Club staff, headed by Lisa, Carole and  Stevie  promoted the enterprise, and  their horses “Flopsy”, “Blossom” and “Tinker” became famous. We had a promotional theme song that went viral; “ Hello World”. Promoted on books, CD’s, Videos and merchandising. We became an “overnight sensation” and a “household name”. 

Our benign leadership ethos made it very popular, and we had enquiries from around the world to see this enterprise at work.

Mr Cocky and Mr Burns

Sadly, the General Manager didn’t see it that way. For the record his name was Joe Cocky. Mr Cocky pretended he was interested in horses. We subsequently found out that his interest was solely to use our enterprise as a springboard to a cushy sinecure where he’d never ever have to work EVER! He thought the whole enterprises sole function was to make money for himself. He eventually closed us down. Told all the organisations connected to the enterprise to “Bugger Off”! and before closing it down completely, got a job as Australian representative on the UN on Animal Rights. 

Our favourite horses, “Flopsy”, “Blossom” and “Tinker” were sold off to IDMC (International Dog meat Conglomerate). We were unable to form a collective and save them. He changed the equine association rules and promised we’d be SENT TO JAIL if we protested. Our dear horses were sent to the knackery. And  converted to dog meat. The infrastructure, stables, training yards and equipage sold in a job lot for one dollar to an obscure bidder by the name of Mr Carpet Burns.  When  we protested, we were issued with a suppression order, and made to watch the smoke issuing from the chimney of the conversion factory at the knackery. An image we can never forget. 

Mr Burns is well known for his brutal leadership. famously remembered for his quote; ” Cocky owes me BIG-TIME”!

Turns our years later, the wounds still deep and bitter, that the manager,  who closed us down, Mr Cocky got promoted to the top job in the industry, the International Equine Persons Institute. And is on a huge salary of four hundred billion million. Turns out he always had shares in the enterprise and made a fortune converting the facility to dog food. A blatant conflict of interest. 

Turns out whilst he was running our enterprise he was offered a lifetime of  free dog food at no charge by a business associate Mr Carpet Burns who is president of the international dog meat conglomerate. They now rule the dog meat world and have interests in horse studs and the racing industry as a sideline. They seduce politicians with free dog food, and tickets to dog shows.  

Though our future has been destroyed and the industry closed down, and we are powerless to stop his enterprise from ruling the world we take solace in knowing that somewhere in neighbourhood a little bit of “Flopsy”, “Blossom” and “Tinker” has nurtured a little household doggy. 

The final insult, our theme song,” Hello World” has been stolen!

But there is closure. On a street corner somewhere, a little bleached dog turd stands as a talisman of happier times. 

Lest we forget.