The ‘eastern front’ also used to look a bit like this…

The Eastern front  used to look a bit like this….

currently the Eastern Front looks a lot like this….

Incredibly, our heroes are still alive, and by any yardstick of human measurement, they’re doing pretty well. Better than a front line Ukranian conscript on the Eastern Front. (Actually depending on an individuals  eastern front perspective, for a Russian, the eastern front is actually the western front, but for the Ukrainian, they must share the sangfroid of being mixed up with past exploits by the armies, of Germany, France and Sweden, which is not much help on a batting average perspective). But, they are doing better than both Julian and ‘Benny-boy’, who seem to have fatefully served their nation by blowing themselves up in a Centurion Tank equipped with Lucas electrics. As to whether the Lucas electrics actually were responsible for the tanks immolation remains unresolved until the findings of the coroner’s report. And as the ‘accident’ took place in the wastelands of Maralinga, like Afghanistan and the general absence of coroners, there will be no report, which will save on red- tape and the burden of administrative costs.

On a Roto-dyne bound for who knows where, our heroes find themselves in the lap of the gods. But which Gods? Benign ones or angry ones, in Clifford the well-presented man from Mi6 it’s still too early to tell.

Retreat from Moscow! Another eastern front kinda experience

Ces flags down a de Havilland dragon rapide, in olden days it was like hitch-hiking, with no hitches.

‘Look out the window Ces’, Terry pointed out the window and to Ces’s surprise flying level with us in the Roto-dyne a De Havilland Dragon rapide. ‘I don’t believe it, one moment were flying with an antique from the 1960’s and you look out the window and it’s an antique from the 1940’s. Ces looked stunned, this is something out of a Chip’s Rafferty movie, next we’ll be seeing a flight of Sopwith camel’s or worse still a Focker’! What like that’? And Terry, lighting up another Camel as he did so, (because dear reader all aircraft before the 1980’s even hydrogen filled dirigibles all encouraged smoking) and sure enough spinning and carousing on our starboard quarter a Focker triplane weaved its way into view. For a moment Ces flinched, thinking that the Rotodyne would be a perfect target for the twin Spandau’s but realising this was some theatrical trick relaxed and said resignedly, ‘ well that takes the cake, and I suppose all we have top do is ask Clifford here what the game is, and we’ can all have a good laugh. Excuse I Cliff, what’s this with the flying circus, anything to do with your Majesty’s secret service’? To whit, to Ces’s frustration, he replied; ‘all will be revealed in good time’, and just settled back to being wooden and impenetrable. ‘I’ll be buggered’! Ces expired.  ‘It’s like dealing with our mates in Asio. It’s all invisible ink, secret handshake’s and bugging devices, you just cant get through to them, and in the end you wonder if they’re HUMAN’! Just as Ces made this last utterance in passion the note of the Roto-dyne turbine changed to a lower pitch, and we could sense that it was descending. Which could either mean one thing, we were about to land, or perhaps the ancient relic had given up the ghost. We checked to see what was happening outside and the rapide, and the Focker still trailed us… we were in company of sorts and just resigned ourselves to the inevitable.

A Focker DV V11 with a Sopwith. On loan from the AWM historic ‘aeroplanes that done good for ANZACKERY’ exhibition.

We’ve received quite a bit of interest in the Roto-dyne, particularly members of the Defense Establishment who are interested in purchasing any ‘spare’ Rotodynes we might have hanging about for use in forward defense of our northern shores. We forwarded their enquiry to the same task-force who were busy adapting the French Submarines and Australia’s Space Agency. Image depicted Rotodyne leaving Essendon Airport, prior to arrival of Beat- group “les Beatles’ c. 1964.

Below us a lone homestead, on its roof stencilled in sun drenched “Barnaby Downs”, and an airstrip. A few sheds, a water tank and a couple of trees. “Barnaby Downs’ Quent, ever heard of it?  Nup, reckon we must’ve flown into Western Australia, there’s quite a few big cattle stations out this way, but I reckon, taking a view of the desert it’d be about one ewe per hundred acres. This is not prime country, it’s just rooted’. The Roto-dyne circled, and we watched the Dragon rapide and the Focker triplane land, and then taxi to a lone hangar. From several thousand feet we espied a few older land rovers and a truck, and a few people who seemed to be wearing standard issue safari suits from the 1970’s. ‘A reception party of sorts’, murmured Ces.  ‘Do you know anything about this Cliffy’? Ces cleverly decided to use the pejorative and over- familiar term ‘Cliffy’ to ruffle the MI 6 man’s feathers. But he was as unruffled as a stuffed DODO. ‘ All in good time, all in good time’. Ces wouldn’t have a bar of it; ‘ Jeez Cliff for a pommy bastard your surely an engaging conversationalist. Have you got anything to say other than all in good time. I mean are you, or are you not a robot’?

‘Barnaby Downs’, a bit like Don Dale without the high security to keep “clients’ safe.

Cliffy just smiled in an oblique way and replied almost facetiously, ‘affirmative, I am not a robot’, just a servant of Her Majesty’s government’.

‘I’ll be buggered’, Ces fumed; ‘he’s about as talkative as Prince Andrew post interview, we’ll get nothing out of him’. The Rotodyne plunged earthward. The rotors began to slow. And before the four pneumatically and hydraulically augmented stabilisers deployed fully we hit the ground with a steadying ‘Ker-plop’. The engines cut, the rotors slowed to a lazy orbit and we sat stock still watching Clifford, the uncommunicative pom and the group of individuals across the tarmac who seemed to be a welcoming committee of sorts. ‘I don’t like the look of this Quent’, Ces muttered. ‘Nor I, fancy another Camel’?  Terry enthused, and realising that once again, all was not right, we eagerly clutched a Camel and lit up. ‘One last smoke before the final curtain’, Terry quipped, and looking across the tarmac, Quent opined; ‘but not till the fat lady sings’!, For sure enough, in the haze, diffused by distance we espied a fat lady dressed in jodhpurs, a broad Akubra, a tweed jacket and riding boots, in her hand a riding crop the other a whip. Who was this?  An apparition? A figure from the dark side? Quent gasped, ‘GINA’! And for a moment, our world collapsed.

Gina, more front than the Eastern Front.

Will this be the ‘Gina’ we think it could be?  Or are there more than one Gina in W.A? Could it be Gina Lollobrigida? Or Gina of another kind? Which Gina, but we know there is only one Gina in WA, the Colossus of Great Boulder, the one and only Gina Rinehart, (nee Hancock). Clifford unbuckled himself and opened the door, and without batting an eyelid, ‘this way’, we shuffled off into the blinding sun.

What sort of a greeting awaits our heroes? Will it be the kind reserved for members of the Uighur community, or just the one reserved for ordinary refugees? Find out in this next Pilbara inspired adventure, “ Woodside, Our- side and cover a Backside” or, “ Gina’s last stand will not be a head stand’…… Or ‘Entertaining Gina’?

This episode of pcbycp is sponsored by Heinz, manufacturers of Baked Beans. by Royal Appointment HRH Prince Andrew.

 Dear reader, we return once again to the existential drama of out heroes Ces, Quent and Terry as ‘forgotten people’. Left as it were to rot at the old Airport terminal at Maralinga. Sustained by Terry’s endless supplies of Camel cigarettes they know that they cannot survive on Camels alone and must find a way out or be ‘desiccated’. Which aint as bad as being “ Witness K’d” or even ‘ Assanged’, but pretty bad just the same. Which is a bit like culture policy, university funding and the general concept of imagination in public policy under the Coalition. We return to the old terminal, our heroes contemplatively blowing smoke-rings and deciding whether it may be death by starvation or lung- cancer.

‘Even just a rusty .303’. Illustration depicts forthcoming Sound and light extravaganza at the AWM, ‘How we held the line at beer- sheila’, to be opened by former Foreign Minister “Bugsy” Downer.

“Well if there’s no way out we might as well go on a bit of a scrounge and find some food, there’s gotta be something left behind by the poms, a tin of spam, some HP Sauce, a jar of Bovril’? Ces was a natural leader in a situation like this and it gave us some hope that perhaps in amongst the cupboards, outhouses, sheds and abandoned equipment there may be a tin of something to sustain us. We agreed to separate and go scrounge. Hoping that in our quest food will be found. For several hours we looked, down long disused corridors into dusty rooms, opening filing cabinets and lockers, upending waste bins and opening storerooms dark, disused and desolate. Through sheds reeking of diesel, dust and the images of posters long faded in the dry desert. But for all our efforts the search revealed what we already feared, the Poms had taken everything of value with them. In the end all we found was a bottle of phenyl, some matches and a tin of baked beans. Ces held the items up and examined them, “that makes about a serve of one teaspoon of bean for the next two weeks, or if it gets too crook, we just swig the phenyl and die of phenyl poisoning’. Either way we’re gonna die a slow death’.

‘Have another Camel’? Terry cheerily offered one and Ces, capitulating to reality lit it up and blew smoke rings lustily in the air. ‘If only they’d left us an old rifle a .303 or even a .22 we might have a chance with bush tucker, but at this rate we’re buggered’. They looked out beyond the tarmac, smoke still rising from the wreckage of the Centurion, and wreckage smouldering in a neat circle around it. ‘If only we had the tank, or even the twin Vickers we might have made a signal, or tapped out a code in morse, but we’re really stuffed this time…. And’ …….

In happier times

Clifford

No sooner than Ces had uttered those capitulatory phrases than we heard a rumble. A rumble that gathered in volume until the ground shook, and the papers and detritus, even the portrait of Her Majesty the Queen shuddered and rattled against the Burnie-board and Asbestos sheet wall. And then to our utter amazement an enormous helicopter, bigger than a Chinook landed scarcely fifteen feet in front of us.  And as the whirring blades turned everything into a maelstrom of swirling debris and the building shuddered to the cacophony of turbines, kerosine fumes and flickering lights.  We watched as the cargo door opened and out walked a thin grey man in a business suit. His tie neatly held by a tie-pin, and his hair carefully brilliantined, he emerged spotless and insouciant, and made directly for the old fly wire doors of the terminal. We stood with jaws agape, incredulity scoring our dust-begrimed faces, and then as if it were an average day in a suburban street he marched straight up to us, proffered his hand and said in a clipped, Oxbridge matter of fact manner; ‘Delighted to meet you Clifford form MI6, my superiors have instructed me to take you from this place for a debriefing’. And then, with a slightly conspiratorial wink he proffered us a neat white card and sure enough the Coat of Arms of Great Britain and the neat script Liet Col Thomas Clifford MBE Foreign Enterprises. ‘I suggest it is very much in your intertest to accompany me’.

Clifford at the MI6 fancy dress ball goes incognito as ‘just another chin-less wonder’.

What could we do? We followed him, climbed up the ramp, sat on a bench in the cargo bay and collapsed as the Roto-dyne made a perfect vertical ascent and powered its way across the irradiated sands.

The Rotodyne

Being delivered thus from evil made us feel quietly uneasy, but it was an escape, and a far better prospect than enduring more of Terry’s Camels, or the prospect of death by phenyl poisoning. We were alive and that was all that counted. And out of Maralinga at last. But where to? And why? We’d given up. The fact that we were in an Roto-dyne was stretching thge bounds of credulity. Such a craft hadn’t been used since the 1960’s. And we were too tired to recognise that the man who sat on the bench in front of us, in his Saville row suit, his brilliantined hair and neatly trimmed moustache was the very personification of a dapper fashion-conscious man of the 1960’s. Were we in a time warp? Was this the very embodiment of where the post Maralinga experiment with nuclear fission headed after the heady days of the 1950’s. We didn’t care, the Roto-dyne was taking us away, wiping the slate clean. No more the prawns of Sophie and Dutto, nor the play-things of Julian and ‘Benny-Boy’, we really were free, and flying. As angels do on wings lightly bathed in the ethereal glow of benediction. For once, we were the anointed ones and we didn’t care whether the bloke in front of us was who he said he was or just another of Angus Taylors flunkies..

‘Ya know’, Terry passed us another round of Camels, ‘I was once an engineer who worked on the Roto-dyne, and I gotta say the idea was sound, to provide a hybrid between a helicopter and a plane, and it surprised me the idea never really took off, excuse the pun’.

‘Why’s that’? Quent asked,

‘Well you see the niche market was not really there. It was an interim for intercity flight, and assumed that everyone would like the convenience of not having to go through the airport. You could just literally hop on, and hop off, but I think it never really grafted because it was expensive and people actually liked going to the airport’.

‘What’? Ces expired; ‘and going through all that rigamarole of passport inspection, baggage line- up and shit food’?

‘Yes, people associated airports with the Peter Stuyvesant advert lifestyle, whereas just going down the street and jumping on an Roto-dyne wasn’t considered jet-setting enough, and besides even in the Australian perspective, there’s nothing really all that EXCITING about hopping on in Melbourne and ending up in Geelong, Ballarat or Traralgon. It’s just not that sexy as an idea’. We all looked at Clifford, clearly no one had told him. ‘But that means this Roto-dyne aint gonna take us to Pommy-land or wherever Cliffy is supposed to come from. It’s a much shorter destination and from here? Where the fuck could he be taking us if it’s only a short hop. Alice Springs? Coober Pedy? I mean,. this is a pretty big rig, and it’d stick out like dogs balls, and if its top secret and MI 5 it’s a bit bloody obvious’!

Ces took the bull by the horns,, and tapping Clifford politely on the shoulder said, ‘Excuse I mate, but where might we  be heading’? Clifford turned towards us, and replied mechanically; ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information, suffice to say you are now officially on Her Majesty’s Secret Service’.

Rotodyne passes the Allen’s sweet factory

We looked at each other. OHMSS, what could be more old school. ‘Well bugger me’! Ces replied, ‘and I spose you’re gonna do the full James Bond and take off in a jet pack”? Clifford smiled thinly, and pretended not to hear, cept to say; “all in good time, all in good time’.

What was Clifford on about? Was this for real? What’s a Roto-dyne in the outback got to do with the price of fish in India? What is the price of fish in India? Find out in the next aerodynamically nuanced episode, “An Roto-dyne is fine for a short hop across the Rhine” or ‘A rotor short of the turbine’.

Dear reader,

another dispatch from the man they call ‘Frank’. From his lonely outpost on the grim North West Frontier, he sends us another message of hope. And begs the question, the land of the fair go? We tested his hypothesis and took our entire working liquidity out of  the pcbycp kitty and put it all on race five at Moonee Valley. We had a hot tip, and was assured it was ‘a cert’. When we returned to get our fortune we’d been told the horse, “Buckley’s’ had been scratched. We are not sure if Australia is still the land of the fair go, so we’re hoping to make it big at the Crown Casino High Rollers lounge. Only problem you need several million just to get in the door. We’ll report back when we’ve saved enough dole cheques and made a few more visits to Cash Converters… 

Frank writes….

товарищи

Bernie, a full-bottle Whistelblower. ‘Whistelblower’ is code in Australia for ‘Trouble-maker’!

Australia is truly the land of the fair-go! The second chance.

Take Bernard Collaery and Witness K. In 2004, motivated by greed, Australia placed listening devices in East Timor (Timor Leste)’s government offices. Witness K and his team carried out this travesty. To his credit Witness K’s conscience got the better of him and he became one of those unsung heroes, a whistle-blower.

Whistle-blowers encourage members of the public to go rat-baggy!

David Bowie, Heroes:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXgkuM2NhYI

Roger Whittaker – Finnish Whistler:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaPoBhiMkgs

Alex and Johnny stitching up the East Timorese, proves the little tin-pot nation lacks a sense of humour. The bond of mate-ship is secured by the principle of “having a go” at his wife, his car, his twin evinrude, his chain-saw whilst he’s not looking.

In 2013, the authorities raided both the houses of Witness K and his lawyer Bernard Collaery. It took less than nine years for the Australian authorities to finish their legal persecution in this case.
The U.S.A. opened Guantanamo Bay’s military prison in January 2002. Today 36 detainees remain. More than twice as long and no end in sight.

You can see why I, as an Australian, am immensely proud of my country. Australia, truly the land of the fair-go!

Trouble maker is synonymous with ‘Queue Jumper’!

In March 2018 the Biloela Family were arrested in a 5 a.m. raid and placed in detention. In June 2022 they returned to Biloela, only a bit over four years later.
Julian Assange sought refuge in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London in 2012 (effectively house arrest) and has been locked up ever since. Ten years and counting.

You can see why I, as an Australian, am immensely proud of my country. Australia, truly the land of the fair-go!

Julian Assange. Another rat- bag, lefty stirrer.

https://www.abc.net.au/news/2022-07-09/zachary-rolfe-to-return-to-nt-police-work-after-acquittal/101223644

In November 2019 Zachary Rolfe shot a young man in Yuendumu. He was immediately bailed out and stood down on full pay. Less than three years later, he will resume his job.

A second chance, Australia, truly the land of the fair-go!

Zachary Rolfe a BLOODY LEGEND and NATIONAL HERO! ONYA ZAC!!!

Who’s gonna take away his licence to kill?  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRrlFYg2QkI

до свидания

Frank

Studio portrait of Julian Assange painted whilst on secondment to ASIO

Dear reader, are you still with us? Are you still on the edge of your chair, polo pony or electrically charged vehicle? Do you still suffer pangs of anxiety as we await the fate of our hapless heroes? Led incredibly by Australia’s most decorated and Bravest soldier, “Benny-Boy Roberts Smith” and aided now in his quest for freedom by Australia’s naughtiest bad-boy Julian Assange?

Can Dutto survive?

Incredibly, our heroes now have a dynamic duo to protect them. A duo more powerful and arguably more sartorially inclined than Batman and Robin. And a duo determined to cast off the shackles imposed upon them by the forces of a selfish and disinterested federal government. A Government so impoverished it was thrown from office and replaced by arguably a reformist government that actually talks about inclusiveness and affordability as though they might really mean it. We know it’s too early to tell, but in optimism, there is hope. But perhaps a forlorn hope, for even as we speak, from the stygian bowels of the chambers carved in solid rock below Maralinga, Sophie and Dutto are at work to overthrow the new government and broker a deal with China that will make them global leaders and internationally famous in Australia.

So hold onto your false teeth, and strap yourselves in for this next instalment, For in space no one can hear you scream, but they can very clearly see you wet your pants.

Terry both smokes Camels and drinks Kerosene; ‘Good for the larynx’

‘Where have they gone’? Ces Whispered as the drew on another of Terry’s Camel’s.

‘I dunno Ces’, Quent pointed to the dust and the movement in the direction of the concrete pillar that marked the stairs that wound down into the subterranean city of Radium Springs. ‘I spose they’ve gone to blow up the exit portal and make sure that Sophie and Dutto never get out. Perhaps they’re gonna make sure they stay down there for’, he paused in wistful thought,… ‘for EVER’?

It was a grim thought. And in spite of all that they’d been through it triggered a sense of compassion for their twin nemesis. Which proved once and for all, that even the most inhuman creatures deserved a measure of sympathy.

Between mummification Boris always had time for a good cup of tea

‘I suppose if they’re trapped down there, and never get out they’re entombed and will be discovered years, decades, perhaps centuries later, and scientists will wonder what happened to the master- race of politicians who hid their deformities to form the rump of anti-climate policy for the Coalition. What will their epitaph be then Ces? Will history smile upon them’? Ces phlegmatically drew upon his camel and then flicking the stub into the corner sighed; “It may be perhaps best that the entire chapter is forgotten. What value could a cynical negative legacy be to future generations of young and impressionable Australians, other than show the pitfalls of power, greed, and short termism? What possible value could there be in that’?

Barely had Ces finished than the terminal building was rent by an enormous shockwave, the windows smashed, the doors blew open and the dust coating, ears, eyes and faces made them all look like dusted statues from a crypt set in a 1930’s mummy saga without Boris Karloff.

The dust settled, and they realised what had happened. Terry pointed to where the concrete portal stood on the edge of the tarmac and cried ‘Look’! And sure enough, through the gloom and smoke they saw the silhouette of the wrecked centurion, and an enormous crater, where once the portal stood. Quent looked at Ces. And Ces looked at Terry. Terry looked back at Quent, and pulling the Camel from his lips sighed; ‘I spose Benny Boy used too much Torpex this time’.

Will Julian and Benny Boy make it in to the ‘updated’ edition of the ‘Forgotten people’. Or will the editors forget?

‘Yeah and with Julian on board he may have been egged on to go that extra yard. And perhaps’…… The rest was self-evident, a tattered leather jacket and fragment of V.C Ribbon fluttered down metres in front of them. Benny Boy, arguably Australia’s bravest soldier ever, and his side-kick Julian Assange had blown themselves up. The evidence was there, and with it, the escape route for Dutto and Sophie permanently sealed. Is this the end for Benny-Boy? Will Julian Assange ever return to embarrass the three leaders who saved Iraq and Afghanistan? Can our trio now just walk off into the irradiated sunset And return to a more peaceful life? Find out in the intoxicating episode, ‘Julian’s quest may be quashed’, or ‘Implausibly, Ben Roberts final implosion was almost implausible, incredibly’?

An old picture of the Yuendumu Police Complex, in the olden days when it marked the exit from the ‘Tanami Track’.

Another one from Frank, and a source of some relief we at pcbycp can tell you.

Though we’re no closer to unravelling what kind of ‘Peace’ Frank was referring to it’s heartening to know, (thanks to the increased Police presence) that it’s very peaceful up in his neck of the North-West Frontier.  And heartening to know that the once dusty, corrugated Tanami track is now the ‘Tanami Highway’. A digital super-highway which is controlled for our safety by Police patrol cars. Cos on the North West Frontier lawlessness is just a by- election away. We shan’t say anything else lest it spoils Frank’s message, which is, as always,  poignant and  perceptive. But never ” performative’!…..He writes..

Hi again,

A song celebrating the end of the cold war-

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4RjJKxsamQ (Scorpions- Wind of Change)

During the intervention numerous upgrades to the Tanami Track were made under the banner ‘Stronger Futures’ under the guidance of Kevin Rudd. Example of intervention era signage depicted here.

I guess it never really ended.

Just got back to Yuendumu. All quiet on the Western Front.

Had occasion to travel back and forth to Alice Springs several times in the last few weeks.

I won’t talk about what the Wind of Change wrought to Alice Springs during the last half a century (better told by someone who lives there).

Further west, the Wind of Change has not left us alone. Many of these changes were discussed in My Yuendumu Story (out of print, a second edition not too far away I hope)

Tilmouth Well Roadhouse

No one refers to the road to Yuendumu as the Tanami Track anymore. It is now known as the Tanami Highway. No one mentions Napperby Creek anymore, everyone refers to Tilmouth Well Roadhouse. The signs at Charlie Creek (known by us as Kumanjayi Creek for a while) have been removed or stolen.

What used to be a poorly maintained corrugated track which it took us six hours to reach Alice Springs on, is now wholly bituminized (much of it double lane) and the trip takes us less than half as long. In the past we experienced occasions when we had to wait many hours or even a couple of days for a passer by to render assistance when we had vehicle troubles. These days a long wait is no longer a problem. A more likely problem is that passers by won’t stop to help.

There are still signs of the 25% of mulga trees that died a couple of years ago. This dieback is believed to have been caused by heat stress. Distributed in between the dead mulga however, there are now a large number of mulga seedlings and saplings.

Clumps of very tall Karnturangi trees, the desert poplar (Codonopcarpus cotinifolius), used to be sparsely distributed along the road. The tall trees have died, but after recent rains a forest of young Karnturangi has sprung up over several kilometres on the Yuendumu side of Napperby creek.

Artists Impression of New Police Complex for Yuendumu.

The mysteriously missing kangaroos are yet to be explained, but I have been told that several kangaroos have recently been sighted.

Another change is that during each of the several trips to or from Alice Springs I encountered at least one and as many as three police vehicles.

Donovan’s Trying to Catch the Wind:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xGblitaWMI

Chau,

Frank

Artists impression of new Alice Springs Police Complex.

PS- I did notice that I’d left off an ‘e’ on ‘glimpse’- tant pis.

In America a Peacemaker always carries a GUN

ഹാലോ മൈ ഫ്രണ്ട്സ് കൃഷ്ണന്റെ ഒരു നോട്ടം
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9OUUHOj9go
Blessed are the peacemakers.
A pox on the arms dealers.
Yuendumu is more peaceful than the rest of the world.
Shalom,
Frank

Dear reader, not since “Dig 10 feet” was carved into a tree on Coopers Creek, and the fate of the Burke and Wills Expedition was sealed, have we received such a cryptic message from our scribe from the near North West Frontier.

What could this mean?

How portentous could ” Blessed are the peacemakers” be?

the Pace-maker has made a HUGE contribution to peaceful lives since the 1960’s. About the same time NAPALM was made more readily available to Civilise and cultivate the principle of democracy and free-enterprise.

We thought long and hard about; ‘THE PEACE-MAKERS’?

Was Frank referring to the heroic deeds of Tony Blair, John Howard and George Bush in creating peace in Iraq? Or the heroic deed of the same fearless trio who gave Afghanistan peace for twenty years and untold benefits to corporates who were paid billions in ‘ keeping the peace’?

Peace is such a fragile thing, before you can say ‘Coca Cola” or ‘Panama papers’ it can just vanish. Like a mirage. like Lasseter’s Reef, or a ‘Gas- Led recovery! What is Frank talking about?

Perhaps he’s referring to the splendid, noble and courageous work being undertaken by the N.T police in keeping Yuendumu peaceful?

And the millions spent in equipping Yuendumu Police Station with “WORLD CLASS’ equipment, and constabulary trained in the field of valor.

In battle.

In Afghanistan.

Perhaps Frank was referring to ‘The Pace-makers’?

To ensure the correct level of public safety. Police trained to kill fine-evaders and jay-walkers for their own good. Police who wear medals to prove their loyalty to the RULE OF LAW, and principle. Police who wear black, possess guns, tasers smoke grenades and tear-gas, who drive Land Cruisers and resist the weakness of speaking native language lest their integrity and unswerving loyalty is compromised by the taint of ‘Nativism’.

Is this what Frank is referring to?

Pole-axed by the unanswered answers, the known un-knowns, and ponderable im-ponderables we have sent Frank’s latest missive to ASIO, the CIA and MI 5. And for good measure MI 6. We waited and waited. Time ticked methodically by. The sand drained from the hour-glass. And the last time we looked, both the morse telegraph and the semaphore stood idle, as if nothing at all had happened. Cause for cautious optimism you may ask?

To SAVE US in our hour of need!

Nothing of the sort. For if peace reigns at Yuendumu, it may also erupt in Ukraine. And that could only mean one thing. If we don’t sell Bush-Masters lickety-split we’re in DEEP TROUBLE! Our Subs are ancient. Even the patrol boats we gifted to the Pacific nations as a sop to ‘EVIL CHINESE IMPERIALISM’, (The Australian) are duds. And there’s nothing left for us to do but PRAY, BE GOOD, AND HOPE, that the United States may save us. And like Afghanistan, Iraq, Vietnam, and Korea, there might be a contract or two to SAVE US in our hour of need.

In war, the first victim is always TRUTH!! is this what Frank is talking about? But we all know that Truth, like Pravda, closed down in the late 80’s! Hence the conundrum. Is Frank making sense? Or is it FRANKINSENSE? There aint too many wise men about. We called ‘Dutto’, ‘Twiggy’ and ‘Clive’ and they haven’t returned  our calls. So we wait in vain. but for how long? Surely that’s the question.

The first victim of war is always ‘THE TRUTH’!

What was the question?

Dear reader,

The famous ‘Wattle Portrait’.

With so much at stake with Energy policy, or the failure thereof, and the vexed question of who’s submarines to buy, which prison to send Julian Assange, and why John Barilaro, wouldn’t be a perfect fit as NSW Trade Commissioner on the heels of Joe Hockey’s superb performance we are no closer in our quest. But we do now have, for the first time in years, two sworn and reliable allies who have come to protect us? Or perhaps more tellingly, see in our plight an opportunity for renewal, rapprochement or just release from the bounds of captivity.

Cheered as they are by the union of Julian and Benny-Boy, and impressed with how closely between them they have the defense and intelligence of Australia foremost in these imperiled times when  ‘the Drums of War’ throb and boom so menacingly, they still worry about how they’ll get out of Maralinga. And how will Benny- Boy and Julian, both marked men  travel with them and not be un-masked?  For even as we rested inside the dusty, musty interior of the Maralinga Air Terminal we knew that time, precious time was ticking by.

A legendary Australian performer makes indigenous culture accessible.

‘I dunno’, Ces replied, taking another drag from one of Terry’s camels; ‘this could just be another false start. I mean’, he pointed to the Centurion Tank.’ If that’s our only way outta here we’ve gotta long journey ahead of us.. last time I drove one as a reservist at Pucka, it took about one mile to the gallon.  And from here it’s about five hundred miles to Alice, and even when we get there, what guarantee have we got that we wont be arrested’. He pointed to Julian, who’d now pulled out of his leather jacket a whiskey flask, and was passing it to Benny, who just drained the contents in one gulp. ‘You see,  they’re mates. They’re both in for big stakes, and the likes of us are no more than a nuisance, I reckon, once they’ve used us to get out of here, we’ll be dumped or’…. he paused; ‘Worse’.

We looked at the infamous duo, now both puffing on Ecuadorian cigars, and Benny had produced a small pocket-sized photo album of snaps taken at the Fat Lady’s Arms, and once again we heard the guffaws as the dry desert  air was rent with their laughter.

Old Australia half crown postage stamp showing standard first nations person.

Same bloke who proclaimed; ‘Melbourne as a site for a Casino”

‘I dunno’, Quent said, ‘we could hide out here for a while, it aint that bad really, and over there’; he pointed to a Coke machine, and a chocolate dispenser. ‘Those machines may not be empty, and with the tank we might go Roo shooting and sort of live off the land or a bit’. The idea sounded tempting, indeed, the Air terminal, though long abandoned was not that bad. There was a portrait of the Queen, another version of the famous wattle portrait, and apart from a bar in one corner, the chairs and Formica table, gave it an air of an old café, including the drapes, somewhat faded of Aboriginals with woomera and spear. ‘That’s funny’, Terry pointed to a mural in the corner, where the declarations would be made for pommy personnel,’ that’s quaint’. There was above the console a mural with a bearded aboriginal elder and a spear, he was the same one as appeared on the one shilling stamp and the 1 dollar coin, and above the Woomera, a rocket,  and above the entablature, and the night sky, the caption, “ The Stone- Age welcomes the Space age’!

‘Nice touch that, Terry remarked,’ I know the bloke who painted that, went onto become a significant artist, you’ve probably never heard of him’. Quent who knew a bit about art challenged him. ‘C’mon Terry I reckon, I could give it a guess, was he famous’?

‘I mean internationally famous just in Australia’?.

First nations people represented as visually enhanced 3D holograms in exciting ‘Building Better Prisons’ initiative. Forthcoming NT Trade Fair NATO Summit.

‘Yep you’ve got it, his entire oeuvre can be summarised in just one word’,’ Bert’? Quent opined.  ‘Alby’? proffered Ces. “Nup none of them. This one was really. He didn’t need a pseudonym, he went by the name of Rolf’.

We left it at that and looked outside, Julian and Benny were inspecting the tank, and then they pointed to the concrete portal that covered the stairwell we’d emerged from some 500 yards distant. They seemed animated, and we weren’t sure what they were agitated about. But we could sense the urgency, something was bothering them, and as a consequence we were bothered.

‘The old bloke meme is a standard in both currency and appreciation of the ‘noble savage’ tradition of place-making’. ( NT Tourism,’ Building Better Prisons’ Brochure, forthcoming NATO summit)

Could it be Dutto and Sophie? Have they reached a rapprochement? Were they about to emerge, was our destiny once again to be dashed? Julian jumped onto the tank, it roared back into life, whilst Benny Boy, leapt up onto the side, and removed the tarpaulin from the twin Vickers that had lain idle for decades. With practiced hands he inspected the mechanism, and reached down into the storage bin at the rear of the turret and pulled out two belts of .303 ammunition, and as the smoke billowed from the exhausts, and the turret swung around to the stairwell, we assumed the worst. Sophie and Dutto were on their way, and as famously said there’s no anger more terrifying than the anger of an ex Queensland copper, and for Sophie? Anger is just another way of being Sophie.

Will this be the next last hurrah? Will they linger in Maralinga?

Rolf was instrumental in forging strong cultural ties between Australia and a diminished little country to the west of Europe. Seen here painting OWW, (Older White Woman) meme.  as part of NT Govt ‘Building Better Prisons’. Trade Fair NATO summit.

Find out in the next Centurion inspired episode; ‘Has the economy tanked when Sophie sits on the Fair Work Commission?”, or, “Tank tracks across the desert or a just dessert”

Dear reader, 

Once again, our heroes are in the thick of it. 

Julian arrives to rapturous applause as the headlining act at 2022s Glastonbury festival. He’ll be convering the Stone’s classic ‘Exile on Main Street’.

Do you think a lone Centurion tank could stop them? A tank that’s been sitting out on the dry dusty tarmac at Maralinga for over sixty years. A tank, though equipped with Lucas Electrics is still functioning? Just proof once again that military hardware manufactured to the highest exacting standards by Engineers from the United Kingdom are a reliable mainstay in times of WAR. Are those the drums of war you hear? Is it time with AUKUS to return to the glory days of Maralinga, Singapore and the shores of Gallipoli? We can only hope because fruitless blood and sacrifice are scrawled by every sage on histories  page to celebrate the failure of a grounded localised foreign policy above the obdurate requirements of standing in lock -step to whatever empire is running the joint. 

Portrait of Julian, Titled; ‘Exile’ rejected by Archibald prize judges as being; ‘too mainstream, white-bread, entitled and middle aged’.

But beyond the pan strategic, and the myopic with ‘Benny Boy’ at our heroes sides they know they are guarded by Australia’s most noble and decorated soldier. Strange as it seems after all they’ve been through, things just get stranger. Because, as you may recall from our last episode, emerging from the smoke, the cacophony, the roar of explosive devices and the great cloud of dust and smoke that gave our heroes cover as they made a run for it under Benny’s barking orders, they find themselves in the relative safety of the old Maralinga air terminal. And to their shock, and utter amazement they overhear a conversation. And incredibly it turns out to be a familiar voice. But can it be who they think it is? It’s just too improbable, but then ever since this sagea began the probability co -efficient has been thrown on its head. 

So let’s throw another improbability, like ‘Clean Coal’ or a ‘working federal ICAC’ on the barby, and enthral to the high stakes behind the scenes. Whilst we know that we are no closer in finding who the nefarious villain was who so cruelly defiled our Tea -lady Miss Culthorpe whilst she was on secondment as an intern in our nations parliament. 

Read on… 

Vlad, and Vlod, Could they STILL be friends?

Incredibly, the two of them were just slapping each other on the back, and laughing,  They clearly had been great mates for years, Benny Boy offered Julian a smoke, and Julian gave Benny Boy an Ecuadorian Cigar.  To see these two most improbably different individuals carrying on gave us hope. Hope that perhaps the same could be done on the international stage. Was that foolish to dream and yearn for a better geo-politik?  Vlodomir and Vladimir could be friends? The same could be achieved between Xi and Joe, and even in a pinch, the same could happen between Scomo and Macron though that seemed pushing it just a little too far.. 

‘How the fuck are ya’?, Benny Guffawed.  ‘Well pretty good since the time we shared that laptop at the Fat Ladies, and whaddabout the night out in Seattle when we were both seconded to the CIA, undercover to investigate Alexanders trip to Washington? And the tapes’!!

Emanuelle and Scotty, in friendship we trust.

They both convulsed with laughter. ‘How were we to know he was seriously into bondage as well as cross dressing, and then’, Julian who was in tears of laughter, his pasty face flecked with dust and steams of tears, inchoate, convulsive tears; ‘and then George Brandis walked in’ .. They collapsed again….’Well if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck’! Once again Julian and Benny Boy collapsed in fits of laughter, It seemed incongruous, one moment we were expected to get slotted, and now watching two comics going through their routines, ‘AAAgggh. Hha ha hhah’! They convulsed with laughter, clearly our bravest soldier and Asutralia’s most infamous leaker had some snidger times together, and more than that it was obvious to blind Freddy that though poles apart they were great mates. 

For us we were just perplexed and happy. Happy that we had Benny on our side, undoubtedly a man of courage and conviction, and also we had the smartest and arguably naughtiest man on our side too,. With Julian’s smarts in intelligence and publicity, we were sure to find out who defiled our tea-lady, and perhaps in a pinch even put an end to the evil plot by Sophie and Dutto to sell Australia off to overseas interests, not that there was much left to sell. 

Julian inspects the ‘underground megaphone’ sound system before going on stage.

It was Ces who broke the ice, ‘Ok Benny aren’t you gonna introduce him to us’?, Benny wiped the tears of joy from his eyes and said, ‘Well you know him but we are great mates, turned out both of us were working behind the scenes in Afghanistan, and after several sessions at the Fat Lady’s Arms we knew that whatever happened, we would resist’

‘Resist what’? Quent asked, ‘To resist the temptation to be dull, boring and  normal’, Benny replied with a grim look of determination. 

‘Oh…But I thought, I thought’, he pointed to Julian, still puffing on one of the Camels Terry had bought along, Ces was about to mention to Julian that perhaps he’d better look after his health, but decided against it….. ‘aren’t you meant to be in jail’?

‘Yeah, meant to have been in chokey for years’! Julian answered phlegmatically as if to say, in a sneering tone, ‘And what’s it to you? 

Studio portrait of Julian utilising ‘the Cloud’ for pre- publicity.

Ces was undeterred; ‘but I saw photos of you in chokey’,

‘Yeah mate that’s just a hologram. Even the Queen uses em now, and I’m actually working for AUKUS. The whole extradition thing is a sham, as they know I’m too valuable since Snowden took the Gold pass to Moscow, to have hanging around, and besides’, he playfully punched Benny in the Ribs ‘ with mates like these who could resist’? 

Who could resist?

Juiian praises the ‘Health and fitness regime at H.M Prison Belmarsh.

 Our world had turned upside down, with Julian and Benny working alongside, in cahoots, black was white and truth was stranger than fiction.  But is fiction all there is? Find out in the next compelling episode,  ‘Assanged and you’re out’, or ‘Is extradition just another way of saying I still call Australia Home’? 

Once again another scintillating piece for our scribe from the near north west frontier, in which the people obligingly prevail to turn the prison turnstiles. And from down here it’s looking good for prisons generally as we are reliably informed that the Department of Justice in the Police State has now grown to bigger than manufacturing will ever be. Perhaps it may nudge gas and clean coal as our biggest industry? Yes folks the wages bill alone for Department of Justice peck-sniffs has grown to several billions, and that’s just to keep mates engaged, at between 175 to 400 k on warming arses, filling in forms, going on junkets and making sure that there’s no trouble-makers like that tiresome bloke Assange leaking. No leaks from Victoria, cos in Victoria they indulge in the ‘correct use’ of corruption to ensure that you are safe.   There’s a rumour that Assange might be freed, but pursuant to a memorandum of understanding and commercial in confidence clauses for private prisons we are unable to print the negotiations at this stage. But if you go to the Port Phillip Prison,  Main Corrections facility, Admin centre, Sir Henry Bolte Wing, turn left at the Laurie Connell Leadership and Institute of Excellence Resource Wing, take the lift at the Fifth Floor, turn as instructed to a portrait of Her Majesty the Queen Cell, sign on the visitors register, pass the facility reception annexe, and then descend the flight of steps adjacent the Obeid Family Resource Centre, block 12, room five, you can see it printed on the back of a white board. (Bring your invisible ink ultra violet reading glasses and morse set for transcription).

There’s hope, from Frank, this questioning of Sovereign Risk. We looked at our portrait of the Queen painted in her Wattle Dress and it still stands proudly over the telly and just to the right of the flying ducks. No chance of Sovereign risk at pcbycp…

Frank writes……

G’day,

My friend Quentin Cockburn devoted his last entry in the Passive Complicity by Cockburn and Poole blog to Sovereign Risk  http://www.pcbycp.com/

Quentin’s style could be described as over the top, farcical fantasy, but don’t be fooled. If you scratch the surface, you will be rewarded with some perspicacious nuggets.

Not only has Quentin submerged some pearls of wisdom in the shallows of a non-sequitur sea but he is modest to boot and hides behind the anonymity and safety of a pseudonym.

Quentin Cockburn arrives at Yuendumu C. 2013

Quentin has visited Yuendumu and his perception and grasp of the assimilationist agenda that we are subjected to is awe inspiring.

The word ‘sovereign’ is used in a multitude of ways. My favourite is that sovereignty that Australia’s First People never ceded.

Quentin and Ces’s arrival at Yuendumu in 2013. They discuss accommodation options at the Police Complex

Then there is that tourist mecca, Sovereign Hill in Ballarat. My appetite for irony was satisfied some years ago when a gold exploration company was prevented from drilling in the Ballarat gold field. The company wanted to drill under a heritage site. The heritage site being century old gold mining workings.

As part of the worldwide energy crisis precipitated by the Ukraine war, in Australia, which with Qatar is the world’s equal largest exporter of LNG, much focus has fallen on the huge profits generated by multinational companies. Only 4% of gas production in Australia is locally owned.

Quentin’s arrival at Yuendumu is now a literary classic in Ukraine, but scarcely known in his native land.

Through price transference (overseas companies charging excessive interest to their Australian subsidiaries), these large multinationals don’t pay any tax to Australia.
One of the main arguments presented to desist from hitting the industry with super profit taxes is its negative effect on sovereign risk.

Heaven forbid that we discourage these multinationals from investing in Australia and further tightening their grip on our resources. We definitely should not increase the risk for these companies that Australia may claim a share of their loot back!

 Meanwhile at the Organisation of American States summit in Los Angeles, Cuba was not invited.

They don’t know what they’re missing:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wAoBVr-_pI

See ya’s

The humble Police Complex at Yuendumu at the time of Quentin’s arrival, before it was enhanced some 20 million later with ‘state of the art killing facilities, courtesy of highly trained officers inducted from our recent success in Afghanistan’, (NT Department of Justice recruitment brochure).

Frank

This episode of pcbycp is proudly sponsored by ‘Clive of India’ curry powder. Now available in handy ‘Sovereign Risk’ sachets and ‘Tyranny’ Tablet form.

Dear reader, 

Whatever we can say about Australia’s energy market, we can rest assured that we, as a trading partner  to great GLOBAL ENTITIES, we have preserved ourselves from the perils of  ‘Sovereign Risk’. 

What is sovereign risk you may ask? 

A great read for executives of Exxon and Shell. Foreword by Alexander Downer, (Lord Downer of East Timor).

It’s nothing to do with Prince Andrew, or the vexed question of Megan and Harry. Though we must admit these two pillars of our constitutional monarchy stand proud of just what can be done to preserve meaning in politics.  Sovereign risk is the deep fear that we all share for not being nice to multi–nationals, who exploit our resources for obscene profit. Multi- nationals like Shell and Exxon who treat Australia in much the same way the East India Company treated Indians and India, as a cash- cow that kept giving. And whatever could be gained through theft, corruption and bloody mindedness was immaterial to the benefit of the host country. 

To dare question them for obscene levels of greed not seen since Cortez would put our  state at risk as a safe haven for investment. Indeed to even plead with them to pay just a pinch of tax and not gouge us as citizens who own the assets is a bridge too far… Just as to hope that our trio ably assisted by the master of the dark arts ‘Benny-Boy’ Roberts Smith, may escape from the web set by their twin nemesis Sophie and Dutto. Could anything be worse? ‘Worse and Worser’, as Alice used to say. 

Let’s hope that we don’t get a sensible energy market resolution soon, cos at the end of the day the shareholders deserve better in risky times, cos remember they’ve taken the risk. There is risk in owning a monopoly you know.  And as they say in the classics, ‘who dares wins’, well at least that’s what Benny Boy says. 

Clive warning the ungrateful Indians about ‘Sovereign Risk’.

We return to our saga….

Before they could say anything, Benny Boy had the matter in hand. With actions more deft than those employed rolling wops of cliffs he fished mechanically into his rucksack. His mighty hands emerged with a brace of smoke grenades.. We could tell cos they were labelled ‘Smoke Grenades’, and without whispering motioned to us to bolt for the terminal when he gave the signal. A smoke screen for cover was our only chance. And we weren’t going to hesitate, it was all we had. 

Indian Advert for Clive’s arrival at the Mughal Palace for the first limited overs match. Clive’s, ‘The Grifters’ won 345 to 12

The tank was now only fifty yards away, (we are grateful for the British Government. And their initiative as part of the Anglo Australian trade deal to bring back imperial measurements, an initiative based doubtless on sound economic principles). And we could see the bogies turning, screeching on under oiled bearings, and the tracks, clattering through the guides. It was now or never, and from Benny, ‘Now when I say RUN you RUN for the terminal.. Fer Fucksakes RUN FOR IT!!!!

We ran, and ran, and just looking behind us saw the tank, Benny and everything else dissolved into a puff of smoke. We expected to see the tank fire off a round, but nothing happened. Gaining the terminal building and pausing just long enough to salute and stand to attention in front of a portrait of Her Majesty. A youthful looking monarch just as Dargie painted her in 53. We ducked for cover, and hoped that whatever happened to the tank and Benny it would be over with swiftly. To our surprise what happened next baffled us!

Clive of India, bit like his namesake in Australia, but with pommy affectations.

Clive having a go at the Maharaja of Eyesore for not throwing the kitchen sink in with the loot.

Dargie’s famous potrait of the queen in her ‘wattle dress’. The artist wanted either a ‘Mallee Root’ or a ‘She-Oak’ portrait but was knocked back by royal decree.

There was a barely a sound. At first we were unaware of anything other than the need for safety. Then, the  rumbling of the tank and the whoosh of the grenades filled our ears.  All was lost from view as the smoke thick and all encompassing just gathered in a great white haze. The tank, its engine still purring disguised any hint of activity. Then  above the din, we heard a dull percussive hammering.  And as we crouched in anticipation of an explosion, a fire fight or anything, we knew that fearless to the last, Benny Boy was up to something. The clanging got louder, then we  heard a sound like an angle grinder. then, another sound. Strange at first but familiar. Eerily familiar, until we realised that above the din a soundtrack was playing the chorus to Rolfs greatest hit; ‘Two little Boys’. Whoever had the recording was an ardent Rolf Fan. That made us respect whatever or whoever it was within the tank, and acknowledge their taste and maturity of artistic preferment. Then, above the banging, above the recording and above the din of the angle grinder, the meteor engine, the smoke grenade, we could hear, the sound of talking. At first we couldn’t discern what the talking was about. It was some kind of discussion . And what profoundly shocked us it sounded friendly with the odd jocular aside and some laughter. It sounded to all intents and purposes  a good natured conversation.  We realised whoever it was in that tank was a colleague, improbably of Benny-Boy. And as the smoke cleared we saw who it was…..his hair bleached more white than the discarded bristles of a bleached dunny brush. He waved within the smoke, and to our shock we realised who it was. None other than the architect of all our woes with espionage and counter espionage. The visage, sickly, and clearly unhealthy of Australia’s most famous evil doer, Julian Assange. I whispered to Ces, ‘he’s not a messiah is he’? Ces chuckled his reply, ‘yes indeed he’s neither, he’s just a naughty boy’!

Ben and Julian were embracing. It seemed uncanny and not quite right. But there they were, diametrically opposed on the political spectrum, but clearly great mates, and to our satisfaction waving for us to come over. 

Is this really Julian Assange? Isn’t he doing life in chokey back in the old country?  Isn’t he in a pommy place of penile purgatory for purposes  prejudicial to the pursuit of plausible prestidigitations? We can only conject, much as we must conject as to how Benny-Boy and Julian have anything in common. But conject we must, for as the day is long at Maralinga, the light of a thousand suns cannot uncover the truth behind who it was who defiled our tea-lady in the corridors of the Federal Parliament. And perhaps Julian improbably, may hold the key… or at the very least the key to the drinks cabinet in the Ecuadorian Embassy!

The East India Companys exploitation of the Indian people made it possible to build grand buildings, like the one the Duke of Buckingham gave to that emigre German Family from Saxe Coburg West Brunswick

Will morse be enough to uncover the purpose of the lone tank? Or will some other code be required to save our hapless heroes? Find out in our next indecipherable episode; ‘Is that morse you tap on your sweaty palms’? or…..’is that a morse key in your pocket or are you just pleased to sue me?