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Tag Archives: australia

The last blacktracker

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(My use of the word ‘blacktracker’ instead of ‘Aboriginal Police Tracker’ may be politically incorrect in 2014, but it is part of our vernacular and as I am using it with respectful intent I don’t give a rat’s arse.)

 

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Australia cannot claim much moral high ground over America or South Africa when it comes to the past treatment of people of colour.

Until the 1960’s Australian aborigines had no voting rites, the National census classified them as ‘fauna’ and many were forced to live in shanty settlements on the outskirts of our towns.

This is the reality of the country in which I was raised, yet ‘white Australia’ still grabbed every opportunity to bask in the glory of those aboriginals who excelled despite their ethnic subjugation.

On one hand we lauded the exceptional achievements of Albert Namatjira (artist),  Kath Walker (poet),  Doug Nicholls (Pastor and Governor,) and Lionel Rose (boxer), whilst with the other we abducted aboriginal children from their parents.

Blacktrackers have always been an under-appreciated part of our history.

For more than 100 years they have been employed in remote locations to work alongside European police officers, using their unique tracking skills and knowledge of ‘country’ to locate fugitives and lost travelers. In places far away from ambulances and Forensic Crash Units they were also called upon to assist with first response services and investigation of motor vehicle accidents.

Barry Post, age 72, (pictured above) retired last week at Coen, a remote township on Cape York Peninsula.   He was Australia’s last blacktracker, an occupation made redundant by satellite imagery, GPS and mobile phones.

Blacktrackers served Australia with distinction (and inferior employment conditions) and they should never be forgotten.

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Double-barreled football

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Another cultural gift from The Bucket Sports Department.

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DCE

Daly Cherry-Evans  is a prominent player in Australian Rugby League football.

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Now I’m not about to make fun of his name because   I don’t want to run the risk of him coming around here and thumping the scheissen out of me I am an extremely charitable soul.

Instead I’ll just introduce some other hyphenated hunks of humanity who lace up their boots every weekend and bend over into the scrum to have their brains scrambled, rotator cuffs demolished and bottoms digitally remastered. (here)
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Fortnightly Cantaloupe-Minesweeper.

Wallace Gromit-Parker-Bowles-Windsor     (Import from U.K.)

Kim Sun-Bush     (Korean American import)

Rastas Guggenheim-Mohammet     (Stateless import)

Li Ping-Pong     (Import from Serbia)

Matthew Brew-Munder

John-Susan Smith

Moses Inder-Bullrush

Zack Warrior-Princess

Confucius Thatcher-Hefner

Tupac Daley-Habbitt     (Import from USA)

Palmer Carpal-Tunnel

Dallas Hooshot-Jayyar      (Import from Arab Emirates)
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The Bucket has yet to snare an Australian Media Association’s award for excellence in sports journalism. I have a good feeling about 2014.
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Déjà vu; The Goats and The Donkeys

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(Any similarity to the state of play in Australian politics is just some really weird coincidence.)
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The Goats were elected to govern the Australia Paddock some time ago after the Donkeys kept spitting and biting and kicking each other and crapping all over their own sleeping pads.

The first job the Goats did was to fix up the fences to stop all the outsiders from wandering willy nilly into our home Paddock whenever they felt like it.

After that was done the Goats discovered to their horror that the grass in the home Paddock was being eaten at a faster rate than it was growing.
In fact there was bugger-all grass left at all because the Donkeys (and another lot of Goats before them) had been so consumed with digging big holes and selling dirt out of the paddock to the Pandas in another field that they never noticed the disappearing grass.

When the Pandas decided they didn’t want any more of our dirt, the Goats panicked and immediately rushed into the silo to get some seed to start planting more grass. Lo and behold they discovered that the silo was empty and all it contained was a heap of bloated old Donkeys and Goats burping from overindulgence and three hundred corpulent foreign squirrels who’d been permitted to feed off the granary without ever having to contribute to it.

The Goats then decided it was time for all the animals in the Australia Paddock to start contributing more to it’s upkeep. This idea failed to pass the ultimate test of statesmanship and responsible governance;  The Popularity Poll.
It was also knocked on the head by one big fat Independent Wombat who had already single-handedly dug up much of the home Paddock and eaten it out of house and home.
A few green parrots camouflaged in the branches of the Parliament Tree also made some meaningless chirps and warbles but they soon went back to filling their bellies with perkberries.

Eventually the ruling Goats became obsessed with their popularity slump so they started spitting and biting and kicking each other, as well as crapping all over their own sleeping pads, and …………….

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So where are all the wise owls when we so desperately need them?

They’ve been relegated to a patch of remnant habitat in the back corner of the Paddock. The environment created by the Donkeys and the Goats is unsuitable for their survival.

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Simon the wonder forecaster

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Farming is an occupation where financial viability is often determined by events beyond our control.

Children, an excellent traditional source of free labour, have the propensity to irresponsibly leave the family farm at around the age of 20 to look for a paying job, search for some nooky, or plug into Australia’s social welfare payroll from a more prestigious address such as Surfers Paradise.
Politicians mess with our livelihoods yet we are not permitted to shoot or castrate them as we would any other feral pest. Rural life is just one disappointment followed by another.
Weather is farming’s greatest uncertainty. In Australia we have one of the most technologically advanced organisations in the world charged with monitoring and predicting weather.
For the last 20 years at 6.35 every morning I have turned on ABC radio to hear various blokes (until recently they were all male) from the Bureau of Meteorology making weather predictions.

If I were a cynical man I might be tempted to tar all these forecasters with the same brush; i.e. they are overpaid useless bureaucratic wankers who lounge around with eyes glued to computer screens all day in comfortably airconditioned bunkers, and toilet-trained monkeys could make more accurate forecasts by simply sitting on the roof using instinct coupled with superior intellectual capacity.

The Bucket does NOT tolerate intolerance such as this.
Cynicism might be a useful nail with which to deflate the tyre of mindless certainty, but in this case it fails to take into account all the proficient weathermen….. like Simon.
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Simon, aka Sanjay, was welcomed into the portico of my local Weather Bureau in 2009 by a wizened hirsute sitarist and the Indian Consul General who delivered a rather lengthy speech about bilateral relationships before everyone tucked into a free breakfast of barbecued beef sausages with onion rings and tomato sauce on wholemeal buns.

Simon’s enviable reputation as Andhra Pradesh’s premier weather guru had preceded him, and it came to pass that indeed Simon had unique powers of meteorological prediction. “Yes it will be rainings on next Tuesday but only until one quarter past ten in the morning time with the numbers of millimetres being thirty five and goodness gracious me I am seeing the sun will be shining at two o’clock in the exact moment.”
And every time Simon predicted rainings in the exact amounts, and sunshinings in the precise moments, it happened.

For three years he never made a mistake and his reputation grew exponentially. Simon became a celebrity. Aussie forecasters were jealous. Women swooned and Simon received marriage proposals from besotted meteorology students and professional gold-diggers.

Felicity-Jane Hobgoblin, Miss Twin Peaks U.S.A., submitted an irresistible handwritten application tucked neatly into a subtly perfumed item of intimate apparel. Simon, despite being betrothed to a young lady in Mumbai who had been selected by his parents on the basis of bullion ownership and potential fecundity rather than physical beauty, could not resist calling Felicity-Jane.

He nervously dialed the fifteen digits until the phone was answered on the seventh ring and……………..
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…..then I woke up.

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Observations of a bushie in town (Part 3)

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A debriefing on denim shorts.

 

Photo credit; NOT me.

Photo credit; NOT me.

I’m utterly appalled!  (again)

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This sort of arse shrink-wrapping complete with homeless pockets is worn by 79% of young women aged 18 to 22 (range amended following legal advice) who wiggle and sashay around shopping centres.

Mini denim shorts defy all commonly understood laws of physics. They are a lot like Dr. Who’s Tardis. The volumetric mass contained within them far exceeds that which could be expected from the external dimensions of the garment. (Unfortunately I am lacking corroborative data as all attempts I’ve made to take measurements with my theodolite, micrometer and tape measure have been met with varying degrees of resistance.)

Tardis-shorts also don’t comply with the laws of gravity. They’re constantly inching higher and higher away from the Earth’s centre of gravity….presumably attempting to launch themselves, vacant and unpersoned, on new time-travel adventures into unexplored places and the distant corners of the galaxy.

All that prevents take-off is a narrow retaining band of tattered textile and frequent yanking back downwards by the owner…...at an average frequency of seven times every minute.
(Erudition is never the product of sloppy observation.)

Thank goodness. Let’s count our blessings.

Australia has already been sucked into a vortex of depravity, wickedness and turpitude. The last thing we need to see is seething scrums of bare-assed young sheilas mooning around public places accelerating our progress toward eternal damnation.

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Observations of a bushie in town. (Part 2)

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More observations in Shopping Centres.

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Ethnic deficiencies.

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Australians of Anglo-Saxon origin (of which I am one) are a really ugly bunch. (86%)

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Kangaroos, wombats and camels are much prettier.

ugliness scale

The growing numbers of Hispanic, Asian and Scandinavian immigrants make us look even worse.

It’s no wonder England rounded up all of our hideous forefathers who were a blight on the picturesque hills and dales before shipping them off to Australia two centuries ago. Since then we’ve just bred indiscriminately with the first person who was too slow to slam the gate shut on our libidinal inquisitiveness. The result is a genetic train wreck.

We are now a pox on the beautiful face of our wide brown land.

Cosmetic attempts are being made to beautify the human landscape. Three quarters of all men below the age of 35 now have ‘artwork’ tattooed on their arms. Just like the Mandrill monkeys with hair-capes over their shoulders and Hamadryas baboons and their striking pink buttocks, the tattoos at least provide an element of distraction from all the unsightliness existing above the neckline.

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We need to clean up the joint permanently by expanding our annual Tidy Towns Competition. Allocate a special day to put all the ugly people in a bin with options;
1.  Deportation to Antarctica.
2.  Being whacked on the scone with a nulla-nulla.
3.  Shish-kebabing with a red-hot greased scimitar.
4.  Compulsory cross-breeding with a Venezuelan.
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And I’m not finished yet. To be continued………………….perhaps from Antarctica or South America.
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The Flintstones Investigation

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(Any similarity to what is occurring with the Cairns City Place is purely intentional)
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Bedrock City Place before they dug it up.

Bedrock City Place before they dug it up.

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Silurian, Magma, GOF & Curtis.
Construction, archaeological and engineering investigators.

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7th April 2014.

 

Mrs Elizabeth Rubble,
c/- Post Office
BEDROCK

Dear Betty,
We are in receipt of your recent slate requesting an investigation into why the Bedrock City Council is taking so long to destroy your serene City Place and open it up again to cars, trucks and sauropod dinosaurs. We are appalled that 200 small businesses on Lake Street such as your Bamm-Bamm’s Boutique Babywear shop have been barricaded off from customers for several months and as a result are facing bankruptcy.

We initially sought an independent professional opinion from the Chairman of the Australian Civil Works and Engineering Guild, Sir Moses Gantry on why the project is taking an entire year to complete. He said “The Council is an unrepresentative mob of empire-building wankers who have over-engineered this project to buggery and if they’d contracted the job out to some Chinese outfit instead of overpaid Australian bureaucrats with all their bloody workplace health and safety bullshit the whole frigging job would have been finished in seven days flat.”

We consider this statement by Sir Moses, whilst substantially correct, to be inflammatory and offensive so we sent our own Mr GOF, an experienced undercover agent to investigate. He left behind the company Mercedes and replaced his Julius Marlowe shoes with Dunlop KT26 rubber soles, then disguised himself as a bearded old country yokel before visiting a City Place cafe to conduct clandestine sleuthing and surveillance operations.

This company has a policy of circumspection when it comes to the presentation of reports but we are nevertheless now in a position to reveal why this project will take donkey’s years to complete.
The following video evidence collected during last Tuesday’s frenetic construction phase would suggest that work practices on-site are probably not achieving the highest levels of efficiency and urgency which you should reasonably expect from the Bedrock City Council.

Please accept these findings with our compliments.

Yours Faithfully,

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Clay Silurian
Senior Partner

 

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-U7DFVD42n0
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