JUSTIN CASE - OUR HERO

We believe that there is nothing better than to stir up a Hornet’s Nest when the town slides back into its dull and dreary ambience. So here we go marching into the breach of controversy .....again.

Time after time we hear about the ‘Heroes’ in a society. Firstly what is a ‘Hero’? We am not about to give you the definitive answers but to throw in some ideas for you to mull over in your own mind, breast the bar and have a pot or three over a Pizza.

Is a hero someone who goes out of their way voluntarily to attend emergencies and help others? Maybe they are. The C.F.A, First Response and S.E.S along with other front line Volunteers may certainly come into this category. But what about the Ladies Auxiliaries, the Raffle Ticket Dealers and Badge Sellers all those behind the scenes without whom the front line would be unable to exist let alone operate. Are they Heroes?

Is a hero someone who gets paid to lay their life on the line?  Maybe they are. Police, professional Fire-fighters and Ambulance Paramedics. Are there levels of heroism between being paid and doing it for nothing? Is a hero a volunteer or are they conscripted?

If they were forced to carry a gun and kill are they a hero? If they risked life and limb to support those fighters are they heroes? If you kill an enemy soldier are you automatically a hero or just saving your own skin? If you come up against an enemy combatant and he kills you is he a Hero?

You hear a lot about men at war but you don’t hear as much about the women who fought the war. Maybe they weren’t in the firing line, but they were there treating the wounded and in WWII they were growing the food and helping shear the sheep, making the munitions, building fences and building defences. Are they, were they heroes? You constantly hear of Vietnam Veterans being referred to as ‘Men’ but we know of many women who ‘don’t speak of the war’ too.

What about the sportsmen that hang out their wilting dicks for admiration. Who slang off at each other and fix matches. Who get totally shit-faced on drugs and booze in public places. Should we be calling these yobboes heroes?

But we have another very important participant in this story. They didn’t know it at the time, they didn’t even think of it in that light. They did not volunteer nor were they conscripted they did not expect financial gain or to be worshipped although some will belatedly seek it.

We speak about those men and women who through no fault of their own end up in the right place at the right time and save someone or maybe many someone’s lives. Be it a car accident, a burning house, a mine collapse or an explosion. Do they think about being heroes or do they unthinkingly and automatically render assistance?

Statistics show that more innocent civilians have been involved in preventing terrorists from achieving ‘Paradise’ than all of the paid so-called ‘Security’ personnel. One may wonder sometimes why we even pay A.S.I.O and all the other professionals to prevent nothing. Then again if they do prevent something they can’t tell us that they did in the interest of security. In other words we can’t  know what we don’t know.

Finally, if we do save someone’s life, maybe it’s just a case of not being able to stand by and watch someone die if we can prevent it. If you’re stuck in the dark for a month with thirty other men and don’t end up strangling each other or maybe doing other things are you a hero or just experiencing the natural instinct to survive,

If a small baby falls into a swimming pool do we call out ‘kick your legs darling’. and watch them sink or do we jump in and haul them out? Someone is dangling by their fingers a hundred metres up the side a collapsed building. Do we yell out “Let go you bastard” or do we look for an inflatable jumping castle?

Let’s be honest everyone has the capacity to be a hero we just don’t know it ......yet. 

ANOTHER YEAR ANOTHER BUM NOTE

It is really easy to knock in this rotten little rag and very hard to praise but we’ll try. It was a year ago today when I last wrote about the Royal South Street Society. How time and tiny feet fly when you’re enjoying yourself.


This year instead of sitting through the Tap, Ballet and Tantrums I opted for the Bands and Orchestras for the Eisteddfods. Well worth the money too. $10 for a whole afternoons entertainment is pretty good value, but I did miss the Choc-tops and Jaffas.

As I sat through several sessions of this years crop of budding Krupa’s, Armstrongs and Gillespie’s I was intrigued by the hundreds of musical pieces I had never heard before. Do they play obscure showband pieces so as to make it harder for us to determine their quality of musicianship (i.e. is it harder to pick the bum notes) or is there a whole music back-catalogue just for Schools?

My deductions were found to be correct when one of the Grammar schools burst into their rendition of the theme from the film ‘Man From Snowy River’. To be as kind as I can I found it difficult to differentiate the sound coming from the stage as 51 musicians or 51 newborn Brumbies neighing in panic mode for their mother.

But they soldiered on regardless oblivious to the judging panel trying to bore pencils through their brains.

They were replaced by a Junior High Band, who shall remain unmentionable, giving us a variation of Gustav Holst’s ‘Planets’ in a way totally different to the Universe that God had created.. At one point the angelic look on the Flugelhorn player changed dramatically after she realised that the notes she was blowing into it were certainly not the same ones supposedly coming out the other end.

A short interval was then taken to enable the volunteer Ushers to be replaced by several First Responders removing members of the audience who had committed suicide. I didn’t think it appropriate that a member of the audience should commence to sing -

‘there was blood on the saddle,

there was blood on the ground,

there were great big buckets of blood all around’.

After the performances resumed each succeeding ensemble was an improvement on the former until by the end of the show things were actually beginning to improve considerably. Maybe all the earlier groups were just the warm-ups?

At the risk of being called a chauvinist I did find that the male conductors tended to play safer pieces while the women seemed to conduct music that was more ‘bitchy’. The men were also superior when pretending they were puppets from ‘Thunderbirds Are Go’.

A hint to the kid on the Xylophone in Group Act #6. If the whole band dresses in black from head to toe why on earth were you the only one wearing red and white striped socks. The stage looked like a scene from 'Where's Wally'. A marvellous moment ensued when a young trumpeter let loose with such professional dexterity that it was glaring obvious that great musicians are not created, they are just born that way.

The Final Act had to be the best performance of the lot. The best presented the best musical selection and the happiest faces, except for the few brief looks of contempt at the reed section when they let out little untimely, ill-tuned and high-pitched squeaks.

But who am I to complain when I can’t even fart in tune. All I can say is that love them or hate them you are certainly missing out on some extraordinary performances from contestants young and old.

May I suggest that when you get home tonight Google Royal South Street on the Internet and sign up for email notifications for next years performances. I can assure you that despite the acidity of this story you will spend many a delightful afternoon of quasi-professional musicians, dancers, singers and actors at their very best.

You know you want to.

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THEY WALK AMONGST US

MAXINE LINTON-SUFFOLK PROVES WHY SHE’S OUR EDITOR IN SHEEP WITH THIS OUTSTANDING PIECE OF JOURNALISM

It is a common misconception that our township has been spared the outbreak of ‘Goonies’ so commonly found in ‘Alternative Cultures’ in towns on the other side of Ballarat.

But we at the Astonisher thought we might check things out. We have been sneaking around poking our noses where they shouldn’t go (we were only punched once) and found out that there is a secret group in town that worships the foot. It confirmed our suspicions that something was afoot in Linton.

We are not talking about ‘foot fetishists’ there are several of them as we found out peeking through the towns windows, but we are talking about the foot worshippers that meet here in town, secretly, under cover of darkness.

We have heard that they call themselves ‘The Church of the Unwashed Soles’. Adherents to this cult believe that ‘at the end times’ when the Saviour returns to Earth he will be coming here to once again wash the feet of his Apostles.

To this end his Apostles (anyone they can pursuade joining) have sworn never to wash their feet until the Second Coming. These men, women and children are led by their ‘Pedant’ (someone who displays his or her knowledge ostentatiously) or someone that non-believers would call a ‘Smartarse’.

We have managed to get hold of a copy of the ‘The Commandments of the Unwashed Soles’ and hereby, herewith, as it has come to pass we shall expose ourselves to you.

1. Thou shalt never wash thy feet until the return of the Saviour.

2. Thou shalt only wear Thongs so as to ensure thy feet remain in need of a wash.

3. Thou shalt spend 99.94 minutes on thy back waving your bare soles towards the heavens on Don Bradman’s Birthday.

4. Thou shalt worship no shoes before me.

5. Thou shalt do no kicking.

6. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours thongs.

7. Thou shalt honour thy Father laying at thy Mothers feet.

8. Thou shalt aspire to be pedantic.

9. Thou shalt not associate with the Devil at the ‘Foot Locker’.

10. Thou shalt, at regular intervals, sing the Psalms and Hymns of the Church which shall include;

* Your feets too big

* Don’t wear blue suede shoes

* Put your right foot in, take your right foot out

* I have Knick-Knacks and Paddy Wacks between my toes.

* They’re your own feet you silly fool but you’re too drunk to see

* Damn Dem Golden Slippers

* These feet are made for waving

For the Socialists

* Under Stalins Heel

And for the Fascists

* Mein Kampf Ert Comes First

We contacted an ex-member of the ‘Church of Unwashed Soles’ and interviewed him to confirm our information. He insisted on covering his feet to remain anonymous..

It’s horrible he said - the smell really gets to you after a while and my wife refused to suck my toes - the Doctor and Podiatrist refused me service and my children have rebelled by running around wearing Trainers.

To protect his family our informant would prefer not to be named. He would also like to deny he intends to sell ‘blessed thongs’ as Kevin Rudd holds the copyright on ‘flip-flops’.

He was adamant about warning everyone in the town about these deviants. He stresses that we should not socialise with people who wear thongs. He fears they will brainwash you into believing their way of life is really one of loving and caring and comfortable feet.

έχετε νωθρό sphincter

LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN?

One of the regularly visiting patrons from a town outside the Linton Time Warp told us of a recent experience at his local bank. Lets say the customer went into the NABBED bank to pay a bill with his ANZAC Bank cheque made out to someone called CASH.

He presented the account and the cheque to the Teller. ‘

‘We can’t accept that’ they said.

‘Why not, your a bank aren’t you?’ said our customer.

‘Wrong bank’ said the Teller.

The customer then drove around to the ANZAC Bank, cashed the cheque and proceeding back to the NABBED he again presented the account.

‘You do accept cash don’t you’ he said rather facetiously and paid his account.

‘Any bank does’ said the Teller. ‘Why didn’t you pay it while you were around at your own bank?’

Are we sure it’s Linton in the Time Warp?

THANK (insert your own deity here) FOR ELITE PRIVATE SCHOOLS

Haileybury, Scotch and Presbyterian Ladies are names of Colleges that conjure up thoughts of money, power, and elitism. Old Boys Networks, Corporate Lawyers, Stockbrokers and Bankers, AO's and MBA's, Professors and Politicians.


Private Colleges have been the birthplace of many Captains of Industry, National Party Politicians, Colonel Blimps and Crooks. The upper echelons of society can usually trace their origins back to an elite private school where they may or may not have been drilled in either the Cadet Corps or their Boarders bed.

But where would our Caledonian Society be without our elite schools for they are the only place where young people experience and even take up playing in Pipe Bands. The swirl of the skirt, a bit of deft fingering, strange screams, getting your arms around something you can squeeze, a lot of banging and something hairy hanging between your legs along with much blowing and wailing. All of these things cannot help but make your mind conjour up the images of a Scottish Piper.

Sometimes they are ostracised from society for participating in these noisy gatherings and have to seek out hidden places to do it, beyond the range of inquisitive ears for society insists on them doing whatever they do well beyond earshot of children. Despite the fact that we have a Piper living somewhere in Linton they remain anonymous to the Astonisher but we hear that a lot of blowing goes on down around the Recreation Reserve.

Imagine if you will a world without Bagpipes. Hallelujah I hear someone cry. However good that might be to some it would also spell the end for Highland Dancing, Parades, Funerals and Caber Tossing.

Students from the elite schools go on to play their Pipes and Drums in the Ballarat University Pipe Bands or those in Bendigo and Warrnambool, Watsonia and Hawthorn, Frankston and Moorabbin. Even the band in Daylesford, where the wearing of skirts is almost compulsory for all genders, would be no longer if the Pipes disappeared from the Quadrangle.

But Pipe Bands do persist. We are stuck with them forever. They are part of our Australian culture now as evidenced by the names. Saul, Semple, Mak, Sylviris, Brandt, Wong and Canaan, Bates, Maxwell, Ng and Page. Many good Sasanach names ripple through the ranks. But Australian culture is evident in the fact that almost half the members of Pipe Bands are now women and there is more than a sprinkling of our Asian family there as well. We are well attuned to the faces of Indians, Pakistanis and the Gurghas wielding Claymore and Dirk but it is still somewhat unusual, even to me, to see Vietnamese lips on the blow-stick or banging on a snare drum.

It doesn't even seem to matter what size you are either. You can be a Super-Magda or Dwarf. I've seen players of the Field Drum with only about 10cm clearance from the ground as they heft the skins half their size down the street.

Over the years the Bass Drum seems to have moved up the chest to lay on top of the stomach rather than in front of it due, I expect, that some players have developed a paunch and their arms are not long enough anymore. As a result skins and even the drum themselves have become see-through.

Yes, we still enjoy the painful wail of a bagpipe. Where would we be without them? Then again, maybe that all that squeeling down at the Reserve might be very tight sphincters on very tight Kangaroos and not a Piper after all.

Would you believe I am really a great fan of the Pipes. So

COME OUT , COME OUT


WHOEVER YOU ARE

DAWG GAWN - III

Last month we got as far as the ‘Whippets’ first swim. I promise that this is the third and last episode. It is getting close to becoming pedantic and repetitive and that’s something I am rather good at.


Anyway it has gone now. To a new ‘Master’ who I feel will treat it far better than its former. But while it was still with me we had a few further adventures. As a dog that had been confined to a small house with a miniature back garden, ‘Dog’ had not really experienced the wide world as you or I might have done.

A month after entering my dubious care he began to develop some hair on his chinny chin-chin. He was also daring to go outside more too.

One splendid day he was following me around the property while I was doing something or other called exercise and natural instinct kicked in. I knew that every time the sheep bolted he got a bit agitated. This time however out of the long grass hopped .......... A wabbit.

Before it had a chance to ask if anything was up with Doc the waskally wabbit wan qwickly off and so did the Whippet. The pursuit was so fast that both disappeared over the horizon within seconds. Then I waited, for over that very same horizon were to be found nine sheep and two alpacas.

First came the nine sheep like a herd of unstoppable Buffalo with Max inevitably in the lead. Then after them came the two ‘Lords-a-leaping’ the Alpacas. What they must have thought they’d seen was a ‘Scud Missile’ undoubtedly fast but also incredibly inaccurate. What else to expect from a Socialist Country or an Australian Politician.

Oooops.....pull my head in.

Needless to say his inexperience meant that the wabbit won and he returned empty handed after about five minutes. With that the rest of the tribe took off rather quickly back over the horizon, with Dumb and Dumber making those Cockatoo-like noises again.

I rather began to take to the thing. He was lazier than me. Lay here, lay there, eat here and sleep there. He made me look like Robert de Castella by comparison. The thought of someone being lazier than me is a bit off-putting actually. I think that even looking at the sky is a chin up but this dog can even relax his bones to the point where he can lay flatter than unleavened bread.

In fact on one occasion I went to the bathroom and stepped onto what I thought was the toilet mat. To my surprised it yelped, whinged and whined until I apologised to it with a bloody bone.

It was almost the last day when I was standing in the carport. Dog raced around the corner of the house, tail wagging, eyes all aglow, acting very pleased with himself. He presented to me a mouthful of blue fluff. While I examined it he ran away again returning with another mouthful of blue fluff.

I had to find out where it was coming from. At the back of the house I came across him worrying the blue feather duster that I had left in the kitchen and he was eagerly tearing out it’s hair. Perhaps it thought it was a Smurf Rabbit and he was keen for me to see what a clever boy he was. One would ask why a dog would think I was dusting the television with the carcass of a dead rabbit in the first place.

Unlike the Astonisher which appears as though it will go on for a little while yet, this story which had a start and a middle must now have an end.

Reluctantly I had to part with dog who now lives at Tarnagulla but I have done it in a way that makes it possible for ‘dog’ to come for short visits to keep the rabbits on their toes.

But he did not go to his new home before a last final adventure with Maxine. The day before he left I was standing in the sheep yard at mealtime with the dog by my side filling the feed trough with their supplementary diet. By now Max had just about had it with this ‘thing’, enough was enough, the dog was definitely not permitted to be near her dinner. Maxine marched through the gate full of confidence and literally ran the dog out of the yard and away from her beloved food.

So that’s it then. The end of my dog yarn. Oh! Except for the Vet. The only time I saw an astonished face on him was when a thermometer was inserter apparently somewhere he thought was private.

Of course this column has always been more of a case of ‘self-indulgence’ than an organ of interest to everybody in town. Although I have heard that even the ‘Only Gay In The Village’ has had a giggle or two from it.

If I can write this diatribe so can anyone else, and, unlike some other rag I could mention we don’t pick and choose who we publish and rarely do we look at drawing lines anywhere except in the interest of taste.

So if you feel that you’d like to engage yourself in writing rubbish like this then we welcome you with open arms.

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