Dear reader, 

we’re not sure if this latest missive from our scribe from the North West frontier is on the right tram.

We’re not sure if they have trams up north? 

Perhaps they use them to transit more efficiently prisoners in conjunction with Transurban and Serco the rivers of First Nation’s Australians that must be processed and conditioned by NT incarceration. This efficiency, (unconfirmed at this stage) would be a Nation Building Exercise worthy of greater  acclaim.

Whatever the case Frank, is confused. He’s equating medals as some sort of tawdry honorific. This is clearly an example of a false- hood writ large. We at PCBYCP love medals. They’re both shiny and unquestioned as a mark of pedigree and service. As kids we all used to scrounge the Corn Flakes Box and find our token. Tokens are like medals. They hold us in standing amongst our peers. On Anzac day we’d proudly wear our father’s medals to demonstrate that we were delighted to be proud of our committment to a great cause. If we hadn’t rescued Sth East Asia from the ‘yellow peril’ they might not have known how lucky they were to be part of a great empire. And recently in Afghanistan our serving men and women won medals by the kilo for delivering the boons of civilisation to benighted masses unanointed by Sportsbet 24/7 and Payday lending. 

But Frank’s insights are of interest just the same. He clearly has anti-establishment tendencies in part or wholly because he perhaps never attained a ‘Leaping Wolf badge’ in Scouts, or was passed over as a kettle drum player in the School Cadet Corps. Or perhaps more recently he was unable to obtain the position of Ticket Inspector (remote regions) on the Yuendumu prison light rail system. ‘Sour grapes’, you  may say? Whatever conjecture seems apt we leave you, ( the reader) to determine a cause. Some people don’t need a cause, which can make them, like Julian Assange very frustrating indeed. 

Frank writes…..

Guten tag,

A few Olympics ago, a new verb was added to the English language- “medalling”. It immediately occurred to me that it was a homophone of “meddling”. Make of that what you will.

It is almost half a century ago that, in Yuendumu, I read Gabriel García Márquez’s El otoño del patriarca (The Autumn of the Patriarch), so forgive any inaccuracies when I recount what to me was the most indelible scene in the novel.
The Patriarch’s wife used to regularly attend the market accompanied by their little boy. She was attired in a rare arctic wolf (?) fur coat (despite Macondo’s oppressive heat). Her little boy was wearing a general’s uniform complete with a chest full of medals.
Some plotters opposed to the dictatorship, trained a pack of bloodhounds to attack arctic wolves. They let the hounds loose in the marketplace, which devoured the Patriarch’s wife and child. All there was left after the hounds finished with the pair were the medals.

Some lesser-known musicians who deserve medals:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lr7J4e0qnT4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4E9ad_pBnX4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihhRWeew-Co

and posthumously:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3BSIckiKyM

Auf wiedersehen,

Frank

Men of principle, a proud Liberal tradition

Dear reader, with a plot-line more implausible than the recently removed Prime Minister Scott Morrison’s justification for lying repeatedly and without remission to the Australian public comes this next instalment. And with bated breath we say it, even the Governor General is powerless to stop it!

Like Glacial melting, like Vladimir’s vision of a Russian Empire, like Donald’s desire to make America Grate again, there is a momentum at work, and its Un-lstoppable.

 Can our heroes thwart the insidious and nefarious plot by the biggest crime family of them all, Windsor Inc and save Australia? Whilst enemies’ rail at the from all sides there is still a fragment of hope.  But with ingots now in their possession each stamped with the royal emblem of HRH The Prince of Wales they know now that there’s a price on their head. And a price even a Saudi oil sheik can’t afford to pay.  The oil wells may be drying up. The well of discontent may be worse than lonely, but for our heroes, the well aint very well at all. Is this a harbinger of things to come? Or just another twist in the tale? Find out in this next enthralling instalment and ponder the undisputed forgotten people who just happen to be Governors General.

The GG measures integrity by the square metre, the kilogram and the gold ingot

‘Is the GG being truthful about the secret ministries, or is he in cahoots with the Windsor’s’?

Terry made the remark whilst passing us round another Camel, and we puffed on it as we surveyed in the moonlight the cache of Gold Ingots. On each one, the stamp ‘Reinhart prospecting’, and the three plumed escutcheon of His Royal Highness ‘The Prince of Wales’. In simple terms we had the loot in the boot.

Prince Charles to Sheik; ” Lookee here sheikey- boy, the first installment will guarantee you a peerage, A second installment say 50 ingots a seat at my table. It’s round table see and operates only at knights’.

‘Jeez Ces’, Quent postulated thoughtfully; ‘this gold could either be a good thing or a bad thing!  I mean whichever way you look at it, it’s our get out of jail free card, and all we have to do is melt back into our old normal life and no one will be the wiser’.  Which prompted the next question. ‘But how can we convert it to cash? Will melting the gold be enough? Wont it be a bit suspicious buying a litre of milk and a loaf of bread by putting down a gold ingot and asking for change. And with the Rinehart and HRH logo’s wont we raise a suspicion that this may not be a valid version of the cashless welfare card?  We might have to explain, and if the authorities get wind of it, they’ll want as in John Barilaro’s case, they’ll want a piece of the action!  You mean, Quent toyed with the logic; ‘he might make us return the bars to Gina and Prince Charles’?

‘Nah, don’t be fucken stupid, Barra like Tudgey and his mates will be in on it and want the lot, that’s the way politics works. Finders keepers and all that bullshit! As Scomo, says,’ as long as the public doesn’t know that’s all that counts’.

We all nodded in agreement, whatever worked for Scomo was in Scomo’s interests, and for most of the time his mates were happy to go along with it. Ces continued with his insightful dissertation on what made our former PM so resolute.

‘Scomo was a big picture man in that way, he thought like a very little person indeed. And most of the time in Australian politics, the smaller the big picture the better reward at the electoral box’.

Terry offered us all another camel and we stood by the ute tray puffing like imbeciles just staring at all those gold ingots. ‘Do ya think the Prince of Wales will be grateful is we hand it in?  Nup, he’d just get us slotted, those royals don’t like been made foolish, look what they did to Diana, look what they did to Prince Andrew, and look what they did to Rolf Harris’.

A silence ensued as we realised the royal hand knew no bounds, Its reach, irrepressible.

The Three plumes logo, a certified Cayman islands brand.

‘Whatterewegunnado then’?

They puffed on  their camels and stared at the ingots, each one either a death sentence or a dictate. Quent savoured the irony;  ‘bit like Benny boys old motto from the SAS who dares wins’. Terry chipped in, ‘who wins grins’!  Or said Ces enthusiastically,’ who does doesn’t’, or he paused as he collected his thoughts, ‘howsabout who dun did’?

The three thought about this play on words and relished the existential crisis.

‘Either way we’re either buggered or bugged’.  Just to make sure Ces picked up one of the ingots and said phlegmatically, ‘ better make sure they’re not bugged, remember ‘No country for old men’? And recoiling at the thought we realised that Windsor inc would stop at nothing, not even Maralinga would stay their hand, we were on the run, and just had to keep running.  From the west Gina and her cronies, from the east the evil empire of China and Sophie, and for the south, well anything can happen.   How  much have we got Ces queried, I dunno, Terry replied, possibly five or ten million worth, I reckon that’s the going rate for peerages, is it short, our time here, who can tell,. We’ll just have to wait and see, but time is a tricking,

Sir Rolf also got an OBE, for services to “touching the hearts and minds”

They all looked at their watches, just to check if they were still ticking, satisfied, they pulled out another camel and meditatively smoked whilst looking wide eyed at the loot in the boot.

After a while Ces said; ‘boys I think I’ve got an idea’

What idea has Ces got? Is it a better one than turning five ministries into one, or parachuting mates and cronies onto high salaried sinecures in the AAT? Or something worser?  Find out in our next episode, ‘A royal warrant, aint a royal warranty’, or, ‘If five mill gets you a peerage, what would a V.C traded on the open market get you’?

Dear reader, we return to our saga, by a miracle more incredibly unbelievable than the much-vaunted victory of Hong Kong in the bookseller’s disappearance event at the recent Commonwealth games.

Hey kids, impress your friends and influence your parents with this funky wall map depicting all the glorious nations of the Commonwealth. Tax free havens in the Caribbean and Channel Islands highlighted in asterix, and execution happy jursdictions marked in red.

Incredibly, moreso than Scomo’s integrity test via the pub, the backyard barby, the urinal or the tea leaves, our heroes are  still alive.

 They find themselves at an eerily deserted drill site somewhere between Maralinga and Barnaby Downs. A drill site owned and operated by their new nemesis, the ‘Goliath of the Great Boulder’, the ‘Collossus of Carnarvon’, the ‘Princess of the Pilbara’, Gina Rinehart. We return to our saga.  For those of you who are of a sensitive disposition we urge you to skip this chapter in the interests of public safety.

‘Who would’ve thought’?

Leosothos’ three team members line up against Australia’s 500 Young Spartans. (the event was televised in full colour in “the White colonies” and black and white for the pigment enhanced).

Ces conjectured that two land cruisers were just waiting to be re-utilised like this. ‘I dunno where the drivers are, but this is the way out’. Ces, expertly lifted the cap off the fuel tender and took a whiff. ‘Its diesel allright’!  And then seeing the key in the ignition turned it just enough to watch the needle point to F. ‘Its full and there must be at least 800 litres of diesel in this furphy. I reckon it’s enough fuel to get us anywhere in Australia. This, is our big chance, by the time Brenny gets back to Barnaby Downs, even if he squeals we’re out of here’.

As a military man the GG knows how to keep secrets for the public good. Just like John Kerr did.

Not a moment to lose.  Being a natural leader, he turned to his comrades; ‘Drop the tarp in the tray and grab some of these shovels’. He pointed to a pile of shovels a jack and a crowbar; ‘and shove em in the back, and see if there’s any rope lying about, and grab that block and tackle, you never know what we might need’. His colleagues were stirred into activity, knowing that with Ces’s leadership they were an unstoppable force and with luck they were at last truly free. They busied themselves taking one look around and for cautions sake, removed the wheels of the other land cruiser and threw them in the back, just in case the prospecting crew tried to follow them.

In a great roar and cloud of dust the land cruiser, with Hancock prospecting proudly displayed across the side roared into life. Ces, taking a compass bearing from the sun, and in true style honed as a bushman with skills acquired whilst being a ‘nasho’, he was in his element. Shouting triumphantly, ‘Coober pedy or bust’! We were on the road again? It beckoned ahead, more a series of ill-defined tracks the land-cruiser bounced towards the horizon watched disinterestedly by a lone camel, a pair of donkeys, a brumby, two feral cats, a dingo and numerous other species of non-native wildlife that have infilled where once an indigenous biota prevailed.

Scomo’s plan for Secret ministries.

The tradition of GG secrecy is almost as sacred as ANZAC!

The shadows lengthened, and twilight merged into evening. Aware that at any time Gina’s flunkeys could be out for them. Or Nelson’s flying circus may be on the lookout. Ces opted to find a camping site. ‘I reckon we’ve been travelling for about six hours. At this rate we should be able to cross the Stuart highway in a day or two. I figured if anyone’s after us they’d follow this route, so I’ll turn back in the early morning and then head due south. Should hit the Nullabor in a few day’s time. Sound like a plan’? Terry offered him another Camel, clearly it was a plan.

They pulled over under the late twilight shadow of an ant hill. The kind you find in this part of the world. Standing some twelve feet high and pockmarked with little fissures. ‘This’ll do, can you help me sting up the tarp between these two bits of mulga’? Within minutes they had a fly set up and a couple of old kero drums from the rear of the ute set up as chairs. And as luck would have it, in the rear of the Landcruiser a box containing loaves of nourishing Tip Top white sliced bread, tins of Spam, baked beans and flour. ‘We can make damper and other tasty treats’, and with a  Stockman’s gusto they relished in their new found freedom, the stars of the Southern Cross pointingto the way ahead, and the long winding bush track that would bring them back to civilisation. And as they chewed on their improvised picnic, Ces turned to Terry and said; ‘Hey Terry do ya mind looking into that box in the tray of the ute and seeing if there’s a toasting fork? There’s nothing like fire- toasted tip top to really give the spam a lift’.

Scomo’s political genius at work!

Terry enthusiastically wandered over to the box, gave it a heave and it wouldn’t move. He noticed it had slid during the journey from the rig and saw it wasn’t bolted, but the weight puzzled him. He gave it another pull, the weight was formidable. Then, with a resolution of his days as a caretaker at Radium Springs the previously described underground city, he took up the crowbar, wedged it between the latch and the hinges and the lid, groaning and tearing under the pressure opened. He looked inside. Nothing but a tarp, he thought to himself, that’ll come in useful.  Pulling the tarp, taking one last peek inside he almost fell over. To his surprise row upon row of gold ingots, all neatly arranged. He made a quick calculation and said to himself; ‘there must be two hundred of em. Hey fella’s there’s something in the box’.  Ces and Quent disinterestedly turned towards him, both clutching Camels in their hands, ‘Don’t worry Terry, just bring the tarp over’!  Terry admired the improvised camp site, the tarp a soft glow adjacent the campfire, the stars twinkling and the blue grey whisps of smoke insinuating themselves into the mulga. Terry insisted, ‘Nup I really think you should see this’.

‘Allright, then’.  Flicking the remnants of Spam into the fire where they crackled and glistened in oily fusion they wandered over.  All three of them stood mouths agape and stared. Pulling reflectively on their Camels they took another drag, and just let the smoke contain the image before their eyes. On each ingot, the embossed imprint ‘Hancock prospecting’, but more disturbingly, the distinctive three plumed escutcheon of his Royal highness Prince of Wales. The evidence was before them, the Ingots for peerage scam that Brendan Nelson had revealed was an established Fact!

Scomo at work denying the role of Government and endorsing;’ the old misogynistic bearded bastard upstairs’!

Is this the end of the road? or another twist? Find out in the next auric episode: ‘Aint no fool for a royal fools gold’, or ‘How many ingots does it take to get a peerage’?

This episode is sponsored by the former P.M Mr Scott Morrison and the Institute of Applied  Integrity  (Happy Clappers). We were intending on offering you an exclusive interview with the former P.M Mr Scott Morrison who really is the full bottle on secrecy and subterfuge in the national interest. But our interview has wisely been re- scheduled in the interests of transparency and due diligence. Either of which the former PM informs us he cannot recall.

We return to our saga, our heroes, incredibly still alive, and their fate dependent on none other than Brendan Nelson.

It seems strange that a man who controls the beating heart of Anzackery Inc. Sacred to generations of Australians should find himself compromised by VC’s for cash and the upsetting circumstances of Gina’s anticipated peerage. But even Prince Charles would tell you that bags of cash are the only currency that counts these days for those who did ‘Derring-Do’. ‘Dam Busters’, ‘Retching for the sky’, or even just knocking off a few Afghani’s in a village somewhere. Bravery alone is not enough to guarantee the highest awards, and Gina’s suitcases of real gold ingots are the currency of preference these days. Shocked to the core by the vice, the corruption and greed at the heart of the house of Windsor our trio find themselves on a knife’s edge, and the knife is blunter than a baseball bat.  With none other than Brendan Nelson, piloting the rapide… to a destination somewhere, we return to our saga, at about fifteen thousand feet which as high as the rapide will ever get.

‘Look here Brendan, we don’t care what happens to you after you’ve dropped us off, so just concentrate on flying this thing and don’t pull any stunts’.

the rapide, anything but….

It seemed curious, but all three of us were crowded into the cockpit, with Ces levelling the service revolver at the pilot. Terry handing out another pack of Camels, and Brendan pointing to the ‘no smoking sign’. ‘Listen Brenny Boy, smoking aint gonna kill us, but if you don’t get us sufficiently far away, we’re all gonna kark it, so I suggest you fly us as far as we can go’. Brendan pointed to the fuel gauge, “There’s only enough fuel to get us back to Barnaby Downs, and when we do get back Gina will wanna know if I’ve knocked youse off, so I can put you down somewhere in between, or you can try your luck after I land. Either way, you got Hobson’s or Buckleys’.

The trio wracked their brains to find a way out, with the rapide low on fuel it was unlikely they’d get anywhere near civilisation and must die of thirst and heat in the inhospitable wasteland of the outback. If they returned to Barnaby Downs they’d be surely slotted by Gina and her sidekick Nev. And even if they did negotiate, they knew that Cliffy and Kerry would stop at nothing to have em knocked off.  These were high stakes, and our trio were no further out of the frying pan than being fried.

‘What’s that’? Quent pointed to the dull flame in the distance. ‘That’s the gas exploration rig I pointed to on the way over’! Brendan held the stick firmly whilst banking slightly to give us a better view. ‘That’ll do, land there’!

‘Glorious Anzacs, legends or Gods exhibition”

‘But, but’ Brendan hesitated. ‘But be buggered Brenny Boy, we wanna be dropped off there, cos there’s a chance we might hitch a lift outta here. Your job is to convince Gina and Nev that you’ve knocked us off, and if you don’t you might get a visit from, Julian and Benny Boy’. With the thought of his anti-heroes turning up out of the blue at a distinguished parade, or worse still the opening of the anticipated, ‘Glorious Anzacs, legends or Gods exhibition” he knew that the risk was worth taking.  Drop the trio off, pretend they’re dead, and like the V.C’s for cash scandal or ingots to the house of Windsor, pretend it never happened.

The rapide, circled and descended like a large-ish Wedge tailed eagle that hadn’t been shot at or poisoned by an irate and anti naturalist farmer, and with barely metres to spare pulled up just beside the corrugated iron shed that proclaimed itself as ‘Deep well # 45, test rig’. Our heroes jumped out and noticed the pair of land cruisers sitting in one corner, and to the side a tender with the words ‘FUEL’ painted on the side. ‘This’ll do! Allright Brenny, no funny business, return to Barnaby, tell em the job has been done, you’ve got rid of us, and as far as I can say, you are well and truly rid of us. Have a nice life running the AWM and enjoying all those high-level junkets, but for us, the journey is over’. Brendan gave us a wry smile and almost looked both satisfied and relieved.

Former PM searching for integrity and transparency

‘Be seeing ya then’, we all waved, and Terry offered him a camel for old- times sake..

With barely a nod, Brendan climbed aboard the rapide, “ Oh I almost forgot, and Ces emptied the cartridges from the service revolver, you’d better have this back, tell Gina and Nev you only used a bullet each, that’ll be a source of great comfort to them and say the jobs done.  Cos if you don’t you know, it goes without saying you’d be in more trouble than Bennny- Boy and Julian combined.. Brendan nodded, and the rapide’s engines roared back into life, the plane taxied briefly and was off.

‘Well that’s the end of that. I think we’re in a much better position and from hereon, it’s a journey into the future’.  They all laughed, thinking how absurd their situation was, and yet, relished the taste of freedom. Freedom being a concept even more profound than anything Clive Palmer had said during the most recent federal election.

Will our heroes prevail? Can they endure another chapter of woe? Will this become like climate another existential crisis? Find out in our next episode; ‘The flame of fate flickers fretfully’, or ‘Gas Gas, an extasy of energy policy fumbling’’..

Guy Fawkes night? Frank is dragged away from the Diggers and Dealers event in W.A. For ‘Inappropriate torching’.

Dear reader, 

Another one from our irascible scribe from the North West frontier who writes to us about fireworks.

We love fireworks and can thrill to the reminiscence in days gone by when we used to celebrate ‘Guy Fawkes Night’, before that era of May-pole dancing was closed down by those custodians of public virtue, the ‘wowsers’. Now we thrill to the tradition of being arrested, tasered and stomped on for jay-walking.

For attempting to blow up parliament? Frank’s next installment is rejected as being subversive. It possessed the taint of ‘imagination’.

If only Guido and his mates had possession of a time machine, they might impress upon our finest a few tips for less intimidating uniforms just for starters. Great to see they still have a sense of humour in the the NT. Fireworks and repressive fines for fireworks let off during nonprescribed hours. Only in Australia could simple fun be re- contextualised, codified and converted to punishment.  Read on for a compelling insight

Frank writes……

Hola,

Two full pages in the Volume 2 of My Yuendumu Story draft are devoted to fireworks, so I’ll just confine myself to fireworks related stuff which happened the last few days.

Whereas the Northern Territory is the only jurisdiction in Australia where unlicensed individuals can indulge in pyrotechnics, such licentious behaviour is only legal on Territory Self Government Day, the 1st of July. Any unfired fireworks have to be handed in at a police station within three working days.
This year for various reasons there was no Yuendumu Sports Weekend, and my concurrent birthday party was therefore much subdued. All the same a few fireworks are alleged to have been let off. “What fireworks officer?”
Any excuse- Louis Armstrong and I share our birthdays:

Jay walkers and other n’er do-wells determined to get a copy of Frank’s upcoming book.

Aw, what the hell- one more:

A couple of days later someone’s car caught fire in a back yard. The Yuendumu police attended the fire. Loud explosions emanated from the burning car. I haven’t enquired but I do wonder if the car owner has been charged with possession of fireworks! Probably not, the evidence has been incinerated.

Chau,
Frank

More often than not you can blow yourself up inside parliament!

Advertisement:
The second edition of Volume one is choofing along quite nicely. Our favourite book shop, Red Kangaroo Books in Alice Springs has now got it back in stock.
It is also available online, but the margins applied by some of the book sellers are eye watering.
They are printed in Dandenong and also UK and US.
If ordered from me ($40) I can get them printed in days (they’re “print-on-demand”) and consigned to your postal address in Australia at no extra cost.

For overseas and the eBook I need to make some enquiries how that works.
I also have a few copies of Kate Thompson’s ‘Provenance’ here in Yuendumu ($30) and can get Kate to mail them to you as her books are also print-on-demand and available on line.
Bank details on request for either.

As almost 400 copies of the first print run were sold to recipients of these Dispatches, I’m asking for your help. I’ve yet to decide on a title. Which of the following do you prefer or can you suggest another?

More of My Yuendumu Story

My Yuendumu Story… continued

My Yuendumu Story- Volume 2

As for the cover- animal, plant or mineral?

Frank’s first installment written under the nom de plume of ‘Neville’. It failed and went ‘ Down the shute”

Ta

This episode of pcbycp is bought to you by Bex powders, for a whiter than white pain relief in any track and field event at the Commonwealth Games

With a crushing irony our heroes find themselves stuck in Maralinga again.

And it’s just not funny. Not as funny as the Submarine contract, nor the funding rorts to National party electorates by the former Coalition government. Nor as side- splittingly funny as pre- selection and funding scandals in the Victorian branch of the Liberal party. Nor even as funny as the trials and tribulations of Julian Assange. This is a true story of intrigue and espionage at the highest level. Even for writing about this we run the risk of being arrested and held without charge in a facility designed to keep people quiet for the public good.  Whichever way they, (our heroes) turn they find themselves countered by evil forces determined to thwart their every move and frustrate them in their efforts to track down just who it was who so heinously defiled their tea- lady Ms Culthorpe as an intern in our nation’s parliament.

Chesty Bond. Australia’s official mascot for the 2022 Birmingham Games.

And with Brendan Nelson, the acclaimed CEO of Australia most sacred temple, the Australian War Memorial stuck headfirst in the turret of an abandoned Centurion tank, they know they only have moments.  The deadly peril that has haunted them ever since they made an innocent enquiry to the Nation’s parliament will return, and each time more villainous and more determined to knock the trio off.

Are they truly free? What chance have they got? Will they inspire us as the Zimbabwe synchronised swimming team goes down heroically in the Manchester Commonwealth Games?  Can they be as relevant as the Commonwealth Games in maintaining a sense of freedom and identity the world over? Will they be able to make a fist of it in the men’s doubles as Trinidad must, or the pentathlon as St Kitts must to prove they are of imperial metal and the right stuff? Can they ever be as profound an influence for good, fair play and integrity as the Commonwealth Games in which rich former colonial powers become SUPERPOWERS against the arrayed teams who come from less fortunate places and haven’t been anointed by Bex powder and CSR?

Australian team towels and toiletries sponsored by CSR! For a WHITER than WHITE CLEAN!

Only time can tell, and its ticking.  And though it ticks for our heroes, it may never tick down on the true importance and standing of the Commonwealth Nations as truly relevant in the modern era. Just as slaves in the Ptolomeiac era, celebrated by not being beaten so often by their patrician masters*. 

• (Herodotus. Essays c.435 B.C. ‘How I rejected the pentathalon and discovered Amway’)

‘I dunno’. Quent mused, ‘it’s a pity to just leave Brendan in the tank, stuck like that. I think he deserves a chance.

Though he can’t be trusted like Alexander Downer with the East Timorese to be fair- minded, he’s really just a victim of the system. I mean he’d been coerced by Gina and Kerry to have us knocked off. But you could see like the game keeper who was entrusted by the wicked witch to knock off Snow White his heart wasn’t in it’.

Australia’s wins GOLD AGAIN in the legendary Commonwealth Games Incarceration Event!

The three of them mulled over the fate of Snow White, and wondered amongst themselves who’d be a suitable stand in for Dopey, Sneezey or Doc? It was Quent who seized the initiative.

‘Yeah but that doesn’t make him any better, I mean, he was still gonna go along with it as their stooge, and in the end he was only interested in us as tools’. They thought about this, and in this moment of deep reflection, with the faint murmur of Brendan’s discomfort echoing across the parched tarmac, it was Terry who proposed a plan of action. ‘Want another camel’? And they all seized a camel and puffed away in deep thought. ‘Ya know’, Terry said; ‘he may be a little lick-spittle turd, but knocking him off makes us no better, and it’d be a pity after all we’ve been through to find ourselves to be no better than the so called oppressors. He’s silly, pretentious a bum-whipe and harmless, and without little sycophants like him who’s gonna keep the turn-styles ticking? There’s always gonna be one amongst us who wants to be the gas- fitter, the hang- man, the electricians apprentice, cos the money’s guaranteed, and they don’t have to lie awake at night worrying about the rent and the electricity bill’.

Interior of a sugar refinery, 2022, Sugar being refined and converted into ” Sweet shells” that will be fired into Russian lines along Crimean frontier to induce dental decay for front line Russian troops. AWM official photo.

You’re right, shall we let him go’?

‘Yeah, but nah but, haven’t you forgotten the other little problem? Such as’? Quent replied wearily, ‘We’ve still got Julian and Benny Boy, we have no idea when they might just pop up and we’re back to square one, with everyone trying to knock us off’!

So ensued another stunned silence, and then it occurred to them, the only person who could save them was stuck in the turret of the Centurion. “It looks like we may have a chance, and with a bit of coercion Brendan may just be the one who’ll save us’?

They all took time to think, they could hear the yelling getting softer as Brendan resigned himself to being entombed. ‘You know if we can get away in the rapide, before Gina and Nev find out, we might just be able to let Brendan go, and do it in such a way that he won’t be coming with us…or we drop Brendan off with Gina and Nev and take the rapide, or’?

We all agreed, we would show compassion, and in doing so elevate ourselves into a state of nobility, and perhaps we might get just a little information out of Brendan before we left. It was a chance, but just like the much-anticipated efforts of Botswana in the Alpine skiing comp at the Manchester Commonwealth Games we knew there was a chance.

And one way or another Brendan was going to be our saviour.

The Commonwealth games? An event in search of a logo.

Can Brendan save our heroes? Can God save our Queen? Find out in our next transformative episode ‘Brendan’s benighted bed- fellows’, or ‘Flight of the Phoney Phoenix”.

Dear reader, 

another one from our scribe from the distant north west frontier, and in this-un Frank is the full- bottle on postage, bureaucracy, the citizenry, common sense and rampant stupidity. It’s a common and recurrent theme. There’s comfort in that. We at pcbycp would like to apologise for the fact that we were unable to use Frank’s supplied image due to a technical glitch. This will be remedied just as soon as we complete our high level debriefing from our temporary office in Birmingham, epi- centre of the global sporting world!

Frank winding up the propeller of the mail plane at Yuendumu, c. 1945.

Frank writes; ….

Vrienden,
A little while ago I received a handwritten letter in the mail. To me this was rather joyous. A quickly typed email doesn’t hold a candle to such a labour of love. To my shame I have not replied in kind, we are all just too busy.
I can recall when my parents would receive a letter in the mail (surface mail, not airmail, to save money) from their family or friends in the Netherlands. Writing desks were an essential furniture item in every household, and a handwritten reply would soon be sent on its way across the sea. From Argentina with love. This would happen once a month. We would avidly steam the postage stamp(s) off the envelope and stick them in an album.
I still recall the “watersnood” stamps. The North Sea Flood (de watersnood) hit the Netherlands and claimed 1836 lives mainly in the southern province of Zeeland, after which Aotearoa was named.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U8h7HDZEGj0

Old Australia half crown postage stamp showing a portrait of an ‘Aborigine’ .

If you are wondering what New Zealand’s third language (mentioned in the video) is, it is the New Zealand sign language. If you have the time, I can strongly recommend you check out this link:
Yolŋu Sign Language (YSL)
Some time ago I was privileged to receive in the mail the beautifully illustrated Yolngu sign language book
https://www.yolngusignlanguage.com.au/#:~:text=(Adone%2C%20James%2C%20Kendon),of%20North%20East%20Arnhem%20Land.

in old style postage a woomera wielding native person was de rigeur to prove that the postal service required a native runner in more remote places.

Before ubiquitous biros, Parker pens were a status symbol. In 1957 my father briefly worked for a privately owned export business in Hilversum. One of the items Dad told me they exported were crates full of ersatz Parker fountain pen tops to Nigeria. Following the discovery of petroleum in 1956 there was an emergent middle class in Nigeria. A display of a row of Parker fountain pen tops in their white long sleeved shirt top pocket was an expression of their newly found wealth.

My father also told me the history of the ballpoint pen which replaced the fountain pen. László Biro, the inventor of the ballpoint pen, was a Hungarian Jew who with his brother fled to Argentina in 1943, the year I was born.
When we first arrived in Yuendumu, mail bags could be picked up in Alice Springs by anyone. You’d knock on a side locket at the post office and ask if there was any mail for Yuendumu. Six hours later (which was how long it took back then) you’d knock on the ‘duty officer’ ’s door. At the council office they’d sound a siren and we’d all converge on the office to help sort the mail which had been dumped on the floor. With everyone grabbing their own mail and pigeonholing the remainder it took all of 10 minutes at the most. This was at any time, including week-ends.

I recall one time overhearing two German tourists at the mail slots outside Alice Springs post office: “Nein das ist nicht overseas, das ist oversize” one warned the other.

For a while we had a twice weekly mail plane which reminds of one of the many jokes in the Three Amigos film: A plane zooms overhead, “That is the mail plane” “How do you know?” “Didn’t you see its balls?”
Such is progress. These days we have a licenced Post Office in Yuendumu which runs strict hours. Twice a week our mail arrives by the ‘Bush’ bus but isn’t available until the next day because it has to be sorted by the only person authorized to do so, a non-local. To pick up a parcel we have to show photo ID.

Dag,
Frenk

We’ve had no end of correspondence related to the Rotodyne. And this image comes to us courtesy of Flo Wagglesrim from Buderim Queensland. She writes; I was thrilled to see in the latest edition of pcbycp, ( the thinking man’s Global Times) your piece on the Rotodyne. In late 63 I was one of several hostesses who trained on Rotodynes in anticipation of their service on the ‘ Wombat Run’ between Sydney and Melbourne. We were sent to London to trial the in flight service when the operation was cancelled. A deep source of disappointment to this day’.

Dear reader, we’re back again with another depleting episode of high-stakes Drama, as our heroes struggle with the trifecta that binds a mighty nation, Anzackery, The House of Windsor and whatever resources mogul, be it Gina or Twiggy, decides to do with the cash they can’t siphon off either as philanthropy or just ‘running expenses’. Where a ‘resources rent tax’ is a dirty word, anything can happen and for our heroes, the clock ticks. It’s a tick tick. not a tik tok. But for the moment, they exalt in the simple factor that they are still alive, Brendan, obsessed with finding the remains of both ‘Benny-boy’ and Julian will stop at nothing to confirm to his superiors, Kerry and Gina, that the 500 million promised to the AWM, for its ‘Benny Boy Roberts Smith” exalted hero of Afghanistan light and sound show is guaranteed without hitches, slip-ups or cancellation.

Is Brendan also a prawn to Gina and Nev. Or has Cliffy got the better of them? Find out in the next resources rich episode, in which one way or other the future however implausible is NOW!

Brendan to Benny boy. ” And one day Benny, the War Memorial, the Great legends of ANZAC light and sound extravaganza, the Benny Boy Roberts Smith NOBLE HERO Museum of Australian Bravery and the Benny Roberts Smith Glorious VC Award Extravaganza will be yours to own, and with fully accredited sponsorships and merchandising guaranteed by Kerry and ANZACKERY INC’!!.

‘Look down there’ Quent pointed to something in the wasteland below them.’ It looks like a beacon of sorts’. We gathered round the scratched opalescent window of the rapide and observed a plume of flame belching smoke and sparks into the irradiated blue sky. ‘What’s that’? He patted Brendan on the back, and he answered dully, ‘Just one of Gina’s projects. Out here, there aint any minerals this side of the border, yeah, but there’s gas, a huge basin of untapped gas and Gina has a stake in it! But there are no official gas sites out here, Brendan laughed in an off hand kinda way, well not officially, Gina’s storing up gas Futures for the gas- led recovery. But aint the gas led recovery dead in the water? For the moment Brendan grinned; ‘the feds ‘ll change their tune soon enough when they realise Gina plays the long game. Like you, the long game might be long, or just as long as a piece of string. He chuckled and adjusted the throttles till the Gipsy inline majors changed from a throaty roar to a more harmonious purr. ‘This little old lady is my pride and joy’! We could tell that he was on love with the rapide, ‘it just shows how well they made em in the olden days, and it can takeoff on an airfield the size of a cricket pitch’. We admired the interior of the plane and winced at the door which hung loosely and realised even if Brendan was gonna throw us out it’d be a tight squeeze. Terry passed us another camel and we enthusiastically drew on the ciggies till the interior resembled a night club, in the 80’s before the wowsers banned smoking and dwarf throwing as benchmarks of family-themed entertainment.

‘Cant be far now’? Brendan chuckled and lowering the flaps we began to descend, until we saw in the haze of the distance the familiar terminus of Maralinga, the tarmac, and the black scar where the Centurion met its end.

In ‘Nasho Days’ Ces often had to perform the grim task of extracting barbecued corpses from burnt our tanks at Pucka. The ritual known as ‘Grilled Digger Deluxe” will be featured in the ‘Glorious Anzacs who never went to war annex at the AWM’.

Within minutes, the rapide was rumbling across the airfield, and with precision Brendan cut the engines and pulled up outside the terminal. ‘Well boys here’s your chance, show us the corpses and I’ll set you free’. We bounded out of the aircraft and pointed to the black rimmed crater where the duo of Benny boy and Julian had met their end. ‘Over there Brendan, can’t guarantee corpses, but perhaps the leftovers of a bush barby’. Brendan chuckled at our turn of phrase and unhitching the service revolver he carried above the instrument panel, he motioned us to walk in front, and with steely resolve said; “just show me the corpses, and no slip ups’.

It seemed odd in our trudging across that dry and dusty tarmac, that we were being offered a chance by the CEO of the Australian War Memorial who was determined to use us as mere prawns in confirming the fate of Australia’s most decorated war hero. But after all we’d been through nothing seemed surprising anymore. The fact that the Windsor’s were in on the Cash for peerages scam, and that Gina was sending suitcases of gold via prince Charles Georgian themed failed real estate ventures just seemed common- place. It made us feel quietly ashamed to be involved in such an enterprise, but if it kept us in one piece it was a small price to pay.

‘Over here’! Ces, pointed to the blackened hulk of the tank. ‘And I reckon, you’ll find the bodies inside’ It was a gruesome task, having to peer into the turret of the blackened tank, but Brendan, who’d been doing such in the ‘Hall of Fame Mechanised Glory of ANZAC Exhibition at the AWM’, forgot himself in his zeal to confirm what he craved, and in one quick step he was up on the turret and peering into the inky darkness. ‘There’s something here’, he exclaimed, and leaning into the turret offered Ces an un- missable opportunity.

All he needed to do was nudge the hatch and it clanged, pushing Brendan headfirst onto the darkened interior. We could hear the muffled curse as the CEO of the AWM, now trapped exclaimed, “You bastards, how dare you! Just you wait till Gina finds out!!

The blown up and burnt out Centurion at Maralinga.

LET ME OUTTA HERE! and you’re DEAD’!

But to no avail, Terry said, ‘looks like he’s cooked, and we savoured another camel, and took the time to look around for any evidence of life. ‘That’ll keep him quiet, and I think now’s our chance to start a new beginning. The trio laughed, and Quent solicitously asked; ‘Will Brendan get out’?

‘Well put it this way, there is a hatch release mechanism, but I’m not letting him out till we’re on that rapide and outta here. From thereon Brendan gets what he always wanted, a bit of ANZAC glory, and fame of sorts.

The glorious ” wattle portrait of the Queen’. Painted in the olden days before the House of Windsor was a byword for paper bags, V.C’s for cash and peerages on sale and other small acts of vice and greed committed by chinless wonders.

We walked back to the terminal building and taking one last look at the wattle portrait of the Queen, tinged with irony now we knew about the VC for cash and the gold for peerages scam, we respectfully turned the picture around. And that’s when we got an unpleasant surprise, on the back, written hastily in charcoal a note, “We’re Ok Boys, “ see ya when  the dust settles’! And it was signed ‘Benny Boy’. Was Julian with him? We must assume the worst, and from that a new sense of urgency, to disappear like the Coalition Climate, energy and housing policy and pretend that nothing ever happened.

Will our heroes fly into oblivion, or will they prevail?  Will Brendan get his just desserts in the desert or more? Find out in the next extrapolative episode; ‘Brendan’s missed the bus’, or ‘Three singles to Apocalypse yesterday’.