Category Archives: Society

Report from the Coalface

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Have you ever thought about closing down the biggest coal port in the world?

Well we did, and we did!

A group of enthusiastic activists young and old, calling themselves F.L.A.C. (Front Line Action on Coal), put out the call around the country to come and join them in Newcastle, where the coal from the Hunter Valley is loaded onto ships and sent all around the world to be converted into black soot and pumped into the sky.

A mob of us from Castlemaine heed the call and spring into action. I come to realize I have languished somewhere between a clicktivist and a slacktivist for far to long. It is time to become an Activist!

We set off at first light for the long and boring trip. Driving over Mount Alexander as the sun rises, a pink ball shimmering in the fog, the thrill of adventure pulsing in our veins (plus a dose of black coffee). The rest of the day is uneventful; the constant threat of being crushed to death by a Mack truck keeping one from nodding off, till at last we see the sun setting on the Hunter River at the other end of a long day.

After dark we arrive at the rendezvous, to a warm welcome, complete with hot soup and fresh baked bread, mm, starting to feel at home already. There are over a hundred of us, from crusty old veterans of past battles; Roxby Downs, The Franklin River, The Vietnam War, to baby faced innocents on their first mission, all as keen as mustard. No one seems to be in charge, but we all lend a hand and things get done with a minimum of fuss. The next three days are a whirlwind of meetings and workshops and N.V.D.A. training (Non Violent Direct Action) for the upcoming events, in between eating our fill of delicious vegan food (plus some kangaroo) and getting to know a hundred strangers all at once.

We divide into groups to hammer out the details.

Like filming a remake of Gone with the Wind, where the evil Scommo ditches his long and passionate love affair with Coalene (or was it Coalette) and ends up tying the knot with the mercurial Wendy Turbine.

Shot in an hour and a half with no rehearsal; no mucking about, this mob!

My group hive off to plan our actions:

We go straight into NVDA training: lining up in two rows, face to face, and practing the art of de-escalation. We feel what it feels like to have someone yell in our faces, and learn not to get aggressive in response, but not to shrink away either. We hold our ground, then we swap roles.

Once we are fully versed in the philosophy and practice of N.V.D.A. we get to plan our actions. Over the last few days there have been sporadic actions targeting the coal trains, including a brave young teenager locking-on to a locomotive. Looking around at all these people ready to put their bodies on the line, there are people from all up and down the east coast. Proudly, there are more of us from Castlemaine than from Sydney. Altogether there are enough people to bring the whole God damn port to a stand still. Yeah!

The coal comes rolling in on freight trains over a kilometer long from all over the Hunter valley. It is stacked neatly in 5 huge piles about 15m high and as long as a coal train.(see above) Next to each stack runs a conveyer belt and a rail. On the rail runs the biggest moving machine I have ever encountered in my entire life; the stacker reclaimer: A behemoth with a giant arm that wheels about, scooping up coal and loading it onto ships. There are 9 berths for 9 ships. There is always a ship being loaded, 24 hours a day, every day of the year. The loaders never stop loading, the ships never stop shipping; 100,000 tons a day, 40 million tons a year, the juggernaut rolls on relentlessly, keeping the coal fires burning, add infinitum till the coal runs out (in about 500 years, unless they find some more, or unless someone puts a proverbial spanner in the works. That’s where we come in.) After much tooing and frowing we are all agreed that the best course of action is to target the stacker reclaimer, bringing the entire juggernaut to a grinding halt. All decisions are consensual, of course. We use hand signals to communicate, showing our approval by raising our hands and twiddling our fingers. For disapproval we do the same thing but upside down. This is part of an elaborate sign language that means we can communicate without talking over each other. Very democratic, very harmonious. Very fun!

D-Day – Saturday morning, early. We finish our porridge, synchronize our watches. Water bottle-check! Hat-check! Sandwiches-check! Nappies-check! (we could be there all day)

We hit the road, heading off into the unknown. Rumour has it there are 60 cops lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce the moment we show our faces. The entire police force is represented; The Dog Squad, the Riot squad, Search and Rescue, the Mounted Police on their magnificent steeds, there are frogmen in zodiacs zooming up and down the river, choppers buzzing overhead, scanning ever inch for suspicious activity; the whole menagerie: Basically anyone who wants to get away from the office and get a piece of the action.

The Street Theatre Group head off first and create a noisy and colourful event in the park, attracting a big crowd of curious onlookers. Naturally the Dog squad and the Horse Squad and the Riot Squad rush over there to see what all the fuss is about. The frogmen want to come too but are ordered to stay put as they would look ridiculous and put the Police Force in disrepute.

Our number one recruit Bill Ryan, a crusty old war veteran who survived the Kokoda trail (impeccable credentials wouldn’t you say?) sets off on his zimmer frame (he is 92 years old) with his faithful partner-in-crime, to lock-on to the railway track, yet again! Last time the magistrate said:

“Bill, couldn’t you take up another hobby, like fishing.”

So this time he brings his fishing rod.

Bill is quite possibly the oldest person in Australia to be arrested.

Meanwhile our gang is waiting for the call, hiding in plain sight. We sit in silence, a bit edgy, a bit anxious, just waiting till the coast is clear. Someone jumps up and heads for the nearest shrub to do a bit of ‘live streaming.’ Pretty soon there is a stampede in all directions. An old lady across the road is clearly amazed by the sight of so many bare bottoms. She picks up her mobile. Oh no, we are sprung. Quick, everyone let’s get out of here!

As luck would have it, we all manage to cross the entire city of Newcastle undetected by the best and brightest of the NSW Police Force. We all manage to scrabble under the fence of the facility and make a mad dash for the Stacker Reclaimer humming away in the distance, scooping up truckloads of coal in every mouthful.

We decend on the machine like ants looking for honey, searching for the perfect place to lock-on. Ideally a shady spot, not too windy and not too dirty. But the whole thing is covered in a blanket of black soot, so we all end up looking like coal miners anyway. Our affinity group heads for the highest point. It has a commanding view of the endless mountains of coal and a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, perfect for selfies.

Once everyone is comfortable, we stop behaving like a colony of ants and start behaving like a flock of cockatoos. Whooping and howling and singing and chanting, asserting our territorial rights over our new home. One sprightly young fellow has managed to find a cozy spot dangling from a rope at the far end of the gantry that scoops up the coal in its giant maw, looking for all the world like a giant tea bag. He immediately launches into ‘live streaming’ on Facebook; describing the situation in graphic detail while slowly panning over the mountains of coal, every minute or two encouraging the viewers to share the stream. After a couple of hours of non-stop streaming there are over seventy thousand viewers. Wow, these young people really know how to use social media!

After a while, just when we are starting to get bored, the cops arrive, en mass; lights flashing, sirens wailing, a convoy of black SUVs with tinted windows, crammed with men in black uniforms wearing tinted sunglasses. Quite a spectacle! Eventually, after much coming up and going down and huddling together and gesticulating and talking authoritatively, they make their move. The first onslaught is the crack team of negotiators specially trained in the art of psychological warfare, flown in by chopper from the latest global hot-spot. But they are no match for our crack team of trouble makers; everyone from young ingénues fresh out of high school, to a phalanx ofcrusty old grandparents anxious about the future of their many grandchildren; a formidable combination!

The next wave is the riot squad, six burly blokes, all in black, boots polished, shirts ironed, bristling with the latest high tech gadgets. They don’t actually have much to say, preferring to mill about scowling menacingly. No results. Time to deploy Search and Rescue; six burly blokes all in white (to match the riot squad, no doubt.) An angle grinder is produced. It is turned on. It makes a load noise.(that should scare the living daylights out of them) Their leader explains in graphic detail how painful the procedure can be. Safety cannot be guaranteed. Permanent disfigurement is a real possibility. Our brave captives do not flinch, their resolve does not waver for a moment, knowing full well it is all bluff and bluster. The Grinder must be deployed. Sparks fly, metal heats up. It is getting scary. We are covered in blankets, strapped down so we can’t move. We can’t see the grinder just centimetres from our fingers, we can’t feel the sparks cascading down the blanket, but we are getting sprayed with water so we don’t get burnt. Despite all that bluff and bluster the rescue team are actually trained not to hurt anyone, which they manage to do by and large, with a couple of painful exceptions. (Their adversaries are not after all, hardened criminals, but harmless protesters.)

Search and Rescue have brought only one small angle grinder. Maybe only one person is trained to use an angle grinder. (They can be dangerous if handled inappropriately) Or maybe they have pretty strict fiscal restraints in their department, what with the budget deficit and all. There are 26 people locked on, so the entire operation ends up taking all bloody day, which suits us fine.

Eventually we are hauled off to the cop shop to be processed, like cheese. The poor staff have to spend hours filling out boring paper work, all generated by their colleagues, outside all day having fun, except for the Riot Squad who seemed palpably chagrined at the extreme lack of riots.

We manage to keep our spirits up in the cells by singing silly songs and playing silly games, and then it is all over. A day well spent, a job well done. Yeah team!

All the 26 activists charged, including my daughter, were released on bail to appear in front of the crusty old Magistrate in early October, so stay tuned for the next exciting episode.

Ben Laycock, crusty old activist 2018

If you want to join Central Victoria Climate Action click Here

Or ring Trevor on 0412 250 392

If you want to follow F.L.A.C. Click here Here

If you want to see the live stream from Max, doing ‘the teabag’ click Here

 

 

Safe Cars or Safe Climate – The choice is yours

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We all want our kids to be safe, don’t we? That’s why we drive them to school in G.H.S.U.V.s(great hulking sports utility vehicles), rather than let them run the gauntlet of kidnappers and pedophiles lurking behind every bush, not to mention G.H.S.U.V.s hogging the roads. But don’t you think that’s a little selfish? Yes, your child will be safer inside your G.H.S.U.V. but the children in the other car you may crash into, the small family car, has far less chance of emerging unscathed.

Whilst we are in thinking mode, it is worth comparing the manifold dangers our offspring will face in their lifetime. Car accidents could turn out to be the least of their worries. We are all inured to those graphic T.A.C. adds. We can imagine our grizzly fate in gory detail, but we find it far more difficult to imagine the world that awaits our blessed little sprogs if things go pear shaped. We are just starting to see a few teasers pop up on the screen, for the action packed sci/fi thriller to come.(soon to be relabeled ‘Documentary’) Bushfires are breaking out at any time of the year, even the depths of winter, and in the most unlikely places, like inside the Arctic Circle. The droughts are getting drier and storms are getting stormier. People are on the move all over the world, mainly from there to here. The trickle of refugees that has snuck past Peter Dutton could soon become a tsunami of humans invading the more habitable parts of the world, such as dry land, especially vast empty continents full of fat kangaroos, if you get my drift. (Bangladesh has a population of 150 million souls and they are breeding like Catholics, even though they are Muslims. Almost half of them live on land that is less than 10 metres above sea level. Think about it!)

So, if our little cherubs are lucky enough to escape death by motor car, there is every possibility they will live to see the next century, if, and only if

they can overcome the enormous challenge that await them. Something those of us born in the last century have utterly failed to do. We shall be handing over the baton to the next generation just as we watch Runaway Global Warming sprint off into the distance.

…and that is the view of an optimist. I don’t mean to be alarmist, but there are other, far more alarming scenarios emerging with monotonous regularity.

Why only last week The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America* no less, released a report finding that the tipping point for the creation of a ‘hothouse earth’ (4-5 degrees above preindustrial levels) could very well be as low as 2 degrees above preindustrial levels. We are already 1 degree above. We could reach 2 degrees within the next 10 to 20 years if we don’t pull our finger out.

A ‘hothouse earth’ would mean a sea level rise of 60 metres, and a rise in temperature that would make it extremely difficult to survive outside Antarctica. Ticket to Mars anybody?

So those of us born in a bygone era of peace and prosperity may well be faced with the consequences of our inaction being played out right before our very eyes, our very cloudy eyes, as we languish in our nursing homes unable to lift a finger to help our progeny tackle the momentous task thrust upon them. One can only hope they haven’t introduced Involuntary Euthanasia by then.

*for details go to:

http://www.pnas.org/content/115/33/8252

Ben Laycock 2018

Straya Day Reflection

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The Queen Must Die!

-An Australia Day Reflection

(as in looking in the mirror)

 

I don’t celebrate Australia day because l am a traditionalist.

Let me put that another way;

l don’t celebrate Australia Day, because l am a traditionalist.

The blackfellas have a long tradition of not celebrating Australia Day, dating back many thousands of years. It is this ancient tradition that l like to uphold.

As you may well know, our venerable Prime Minister is an avowed republican, but he has vowed to wait for our venerable queen to die of old age before he sets about the long and arduous task of establishing The Republic of Australia. While this is very sensitive of him, it could mean we are in for a long wait. Apart from the occasional sniffle she is in rude good health. Many of us may die of old age ourselves before our cherished republic comes to fruition. She could do us all a favor and abdicate, but she is a bit worried about her darling Prince Charles. Rumor has it he is a bit flakey, always banging on about organic vegetables and renewable energy and hippy shit like that. He could very well declare a republic himself if we’re not careful.

But when she dies, as surely she eventually must, we must be ready to grasp the nettle.

Let’s face it, this place needs a total makeover, root and branch.

 

  1. A new date for Oz Day (l suggest May 8 – pronounced ‘maaate’, or even better, the day we                 declare a fucking republic)
  2. A new National Anthem (l would suggest Waltzing Matilda, but standing on the                podium at the Olympics and breaking into song about a vagabond committing suicide because he was caught inflagranto dilecto with his favourite sheep would make us the laughing stock of the entire world, if we are not already)
  3. A new National Flag that includes a kelpie and no union jacks
  4. A stronger constitution, because you need a very strong constitution to stomach some of the shenanigans of our national parliament.
  5. A Republic – Based on true Australian values like barracking for the underdog.
  • Let’s face it, we are a nation of failures and proud of it.
  • The Blackfellas were decimated
  • The convicts were flogged
  • The Eureka Stockade was a massacre
  • Ned Kelly was hung
  • Gallipoli was a disaster
  • The Tazzy Tiger was exterminated
  • Phar Lap was poisoned
  • Gough Whitlam was sacked

But we’re still rooting for them, aren’t we? You bet we are!

 

We are like an old FJ Holden, limping along on 3 cylinders and spewing out black smoke. We don’t just need a grease lube and oil change, we need to recondition the entire engine, and bog up all the rust, and give her a new paint job.

(green and gold of course, or should that be black & gold)

 

So if Oz Day is destined to be more than an excuse for a a piss up and a piss take, it is timely to nail down just what it is Australian Culture? Does it even exist? And while we are at it, what is culture anyway? Maybe its easier to define what isn’t culture. Bar-B-Qs, fishing, surfingtaking the piss, wearing thongs on your feet instead of your crotch, playing sport, this is a way of life, but it isn’t culture. In fact it could be argued that playing sport is what you do when you have no culture. The Greeks don’t run around all weekend getting skin cancer and acquired brain injuries, do they? No, they have weddings, really big weddings where they sit around inventing democracy and philosophy and shit like that. The Italians, ditto, more weddings, where they sit around eating pasta made with tomatoes grown in polystyrene boxes in the front yard. The Lebanese have endless weddings, where they sit around inventing cumbers with edible skins.

Culture grows out of the land we live in, much like yogurt. Most of us here in this nacent nation haven’t been here long enough to create a culture, so maybe we should look to those who have, the local blackfellas. We may just find we have a lot more in common than we thought, such as camping. According to the stats, we are the most urbanized society ever invented, huddled together like ginea pigs, clinging as close to the edge of this vast continent as we can possibly get, starring longingly out to sea. But we do love the great outdoors, don’t we? You bet we do! Learned anthropologists have postulated that this quite possibly due in large part to the influence of the locals, they call them ‘aborigines’. These so-called Aborigines love nothing better than going camping, in fact their entire ‘life-style-choice’ is designed around the ability to pull up stumps and ‘go walk about’. No need to work overtime all year round to afford the airfare and the hotel and the restaurants and the exotic trinkets. Imagine the freedom of waking up one morning, any morning, grabbing your hunting gear and heading out on an adventure. No 20 kilo packs to lug, food and lodging provided as need be, and when you arrive your relies cook up a mouth-watering feast and put on a real song and dance to knock your socks off.

So we can see that the vagaries of the local climate dictate a nomadic lifestyle, including a life of feast & famine. None of this toiling all season and salting it away for the winter, to be nibbled one morsel at a time. When there was food you ate it all, when there was none, you went hungry. This life of feast & famine is yet another custom adopted and adapted from the locals. With the subtle difference that we have forgone the traditional famine bit, preferring instead, to feast pretty well constantly. In turn we have taught this recent adaptation to the blackfellas, with obvious consequences.

We can see that all true culture is shaped by our surroundings, and the elements of our surroundings that are unique is what will make us, in time unique. The unique climate created by the oscillations of El Nino have created a culture based on camping and partying (safe in the knowledge that it probably wont rain much for at least another few years.)

So what are some other unique aspects of the nature of our nature that is nurturing the unique nature of us?

Well, the place is very flat and very dry and very empty, (having decimated what few inhabitants there were) hence we have large cow farms that sport drovers with RM Williams boots and hats and a kelpie by their side, and feisty women who can ride a fucking horse and crack a whip.

We have more beaches per head than anywhere else except Canada, but most of theirs are frozen solid all year round (know anyone going on a surfing trip to Canada? No, l didn’t think so) Thus is born the surfing lifestyle – driving old Volvos, smoking bongs and eating junk food, getting up early to check the waves before going back to bed, roaming around the country in semi-nomadic fashion (just like the locals)

Fishing – Many of you may remember that oft quoted saying from the great Mao Tse Tung himself, that was drummed into us all throughout grade 3 Political History: “give a man a fish and you feed him for a day- teach a man to fish and he will spend every second weekend with his mate, sitting in a dingy in the middle of a lake, getting quietly sozzled. It is a well kept secret that the fish are of secondary importance and it is actually all about contemplating the awesome beauty of the natural world. (the Japanese have a special word for this; ‘shinrinyoku’ – forest bathing)

Alas and alak, these embryonic cultural practices have begun to die out before they are fully formed. As we speak they are being guzzumped by new cultural practices like Instagram. (my friend Alex says we should start Consider-a-gram, where every comment has a 24 hour delay before it can be posted. In Consider-a-gram it is a real no-no to boast about the great fun you are having, as it tends to have a deleterious effect on those not having an orgasmic experience every five minutes. In Consider-A-Gram we like to post about the truly boring time we are having so no one gets jealous.)

Yet another unique aspect of our way of life generated by the vast emptiness that engulfs us (literally as well as metaphorically) is immigration, immigration on a vast scale. We currently import more people per head than any other country on earth. (not counting refugees of course, because they don’t count). We may not be the most multi-cultural nation on the planet but we can argue that we are the most successful at it. (Just look at The U.S.A. – now referred to as the D.S.A.) We may be lacking in culture but we are not lacking in cultural choice. This has made us a nation of foodies. A whole new growth industry of people who get very well paid to eat food and talk about it while we watch.

(Back In my day if we uttered a single syllable at the dinner table we got a whack in the earhole.)

So to be an Australian is to be into eating food, strange, exotic food.

We are big eaters, now officially the biggest in the world.

 

The more we look, the more aspects of our way of life we find that are really quite unique and special, and the deeper we look, we see that these things have sprung from our unique geography. So to sum up l would venture to say that culture is a product of the interaction between geography and time, but most of us have not yet spent enough time here to acquire culture, nor have we spent enough time interacting with our geography or learning from those who have.

 

 

 

Valentines Day – Official History

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Dead love

Catholic Martyrologies and Hagiographies list no less than 11 Saint Valentines, but it is one Saint Valentius of Narnia (l kid you not) that has come to symbolize ‘Romantic Love’, quite possibly due to the reason for his gruesome execution in Rome, way back in the year 269 -on the 14th February coincidentally.

Whilst delivering his weekly sermon to the good people of Narnia,
a town in Umbria, Valentius couldn’t help slipping the word Jesus into his homilies from time to time,(Yes, the very same J.C. who has since become a household word) a bad habit to get into, as it turns out. The mere mention of this word made the local judge, one Autuaro Asterius, prick up his ears. (if you will pardon the expression)
Valentius was put under house arrest – in the judge’s own house –as was the custom of the day. Yet again, the excitable Valentius couldn’t help blurting out that word. Now Artie explained patiently to young Vali(they were on a first name basis by now) that he was under strict instructions from ‘The-Powers-That-Be’ to have him beaten to death with a blunt instrument –publically, ( there was no television in those days) if he some much as whispered that word. But being the kindly old sock that he was, he gave young Vali one last chance to redeem himself. The judge had a beautiful daughter who was as blind as a bat. If Vali could restore her sight he would be spared the gruesome death that awaited him. Vali duly laid his hands on the girl’s eyes and spoke that word several times, (soto voce, of course) the girl opened her eyes and for the fist time in her life she saw the world in all its radiant beauty. A Miracle!
Young Vali had ticked the first box on the Application for Sainthood. Judge Arty not only revoked Vali’s imminent death warrant but became an instant devotee of the unspeakable messiah and so did his gracious daughter, of course.
Things were going swimmingly for young Valentius, so well in fact that he ventured to chance his luck in the big city, the biggest of them all, the seathing, bustling metropolis of Rome, no less, the Capital of the world. But as luck would have it, the-powers-that-be in the cauldron of power would not be quite so malleable as the folksy folk of Umbria.
As was to be expected, Vali could not refrain from mentioning the unmentionable word that brought instant ire to all good law abiding Pagans. From whispering his heresy in the darkest corner of the tavern his hubris told him to shout it from the soap box in the city square.
Emperor Claudius Gothicus himself, no less, soon pricked up his ears, and he could be a particularly prickly fellow at the best of times.
Valentius was placed once more under house arrest – in Claudius’s very own house, as was the Roman custom, and yet again, on a good day, as luck would have it, when the notoriously prickly Claudius was wasn’t feeling such a prick, he was offered one last chance to escape is grisly fate. Claudius had a comely wife; one Clitimnestra, who refused to bare him an air, though not through lack of trying. If Valentius could induce his barren wife to conceive a bouncing baby boy, all would be forgiven. This was no walk in the park, but but one more miracle would make his sainthood a ‘lay-down-messiere’. After exhaustive investigations, over many private sessions with the vivacious Clitimnestra, she got pregnant. The emperor was overjoyed, as any prospective father would be, and vowed to set Valentius free the very next day, but first he felt the urge to rewarded his fertile wife with his greatest gift; the fruit of his loins, a gift she embraced with open arms, with fervour and with gusto. But alas and alak, as luck would have it, at very height of her exaltation she raised her comely eyes to the heavens and cried out, in a guttural moaning wail:
“ooooooh Jesus.”

Epilogue
Thus his fate was sealed. Young Valentius of the golden tongue, met his grisly end; beaten to death with a club, beheaded and paraded around the square on a pointy stick, as was the custom of the day. (no T.V. remember) But he ‘took-it-on-the-chin’, as we say in Rome’, knowing his martyrdom had ticked the last box. glorious martyrdom awaited- plus the added bonus of a hero’s welcome in Heaven.
And that is why, to this very day, on this very day, we celebrate his death as an undying symbol of romantic love.

Ben Laycock 2016

Mandy Rice-Davies

Clitimnestra

Fire in the Henge

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Henge Fire
Fire in the Henge
– Where two hapless hengemakers face the full force of the law

This story involves little drama but much melodrama.
Either a great calamity is averted due to scrupulous adhesion to the letter of the law, or a great deal of time effort and water is wasted due to a failure to apply just a modicum of good old fashioned common sense.
You be the judge.
The story begins right here in Sleepy Hollow, just across the road from our brand spanking new fire station. It is mid-March 2015. The Fringe Festival is taking shape. My contribution is a henge of fridges.
After much wrangling and cajoling and begging and pleading l finally wrestle 40 fridges from the clutches of the Lords of the Landfill, who are reluctant to part with them for reasons l cannot not fathom.
Studious students from all the local schools except South School have gone to great effort to adorn the fridges with pictures of food and filled the shelves with mock food; good food, bad food and absolutely rotten food.
Before we have even begun to arrange them, all hell brakes loose, a hue and cry from all corners of the shire.
The council, who see their primary role as keeping us all safe from harm, is flooded with distress calls laden with angst and anguish concerning the danger of the little kiddies becoming trapped inside the fridges and slowly being asphyxiated. Many old people still alive today vividly remember such horror stories from their youth, indelibly etched in their consciousnesses.
I try to reassure the agitated officer not to fret, modern fridges do not have latches or catches, any child can open them with ease. But he is not to be reassured. The fridges must be lain down lest a someone climb inside, rock the fridge till it falls on its door, thus trapping the poor unfortunate inside till they inevitably die of asphyxiation. After complimenting him on his vivid imagination l point out that on the other hand whilst inside the fridge they would be protected from the far more likely event of being struck by a passing asteroid.
So we dutifully put our fridges to bed that night. Next day my trusty off-sider Dean Bigfoot – the human forklift, places the fridges exactly according to the dictates of the ancient texts, in the sacred circle of the Druids, with the columns equidistant and the lintels on top. Dean throws them up there like they are made of balsa wood.
Next day we arrive to find them strewn about like confetti at a giants wedding. They are daubed with lewd graffiti making reference to unmentionable parts of the female anatomy.
It seems we have been visited in the night by a mob of hoons.
Dean must spend all day resurrecting. We determine to guard our beloved creation from marauding hoards of heathen barbarians, an all night vigil. This is where the nub of the story begins to unfold in all its farcical absurdity. As the sun sinks and the light fades we soon get cold and hungry. l happen to have a squashed rabbit and a fry pan so naturally we light a campfire to cook our dinner and warm our cockles. With full bellies we recline on our banana lounges and stare into the flickering flames, swapping yarns about the good old days. We are jolted from our reverie by a piercing screech emanating from yonder fire station across the way. Cars soon arrive from all points of the compass, humans rush about, donning yellow jackets and yellow hats and yellow gloves and jumping into shinny red fire trucks. The giant roller doors ascend, lights flash, sirens wail, engines roar and the big red trucks pullout onto the road…. and keep coming, straight towards us. They surround the henge, leap out, connect the hoses and blast our little fire with both barrels. We have not moved, we stare gob smacked as the steam rises from the wet coals. Not a word has been spoken. The big chief with the epaulettes marches up and officially informs us that our smoldering remains do not have a permit. He deftly and appropriately produces a fridge magnet and says:
“To get a permit you must ring this number.”
He strides up to the nearest fridge, slaps on the magnet and strides off, beckoning his team to follow. The engines roar and away they go as quickly as they came. Soon after the police arrive to take a statement. After they leave we ring the number on the fridge magnet, inform the relevant authorities of the nature and location of our fire and get the go ahead to relight it and resume our reverie. The cruising hooligans see the flickering flames and continue on their way, seeking the less vigilant.
A nice lady from the fire station comes over to lend us a fire extinguisher.
Each night of the festival we light our fire in the centre of the henge. It soon becomes a sacred ritual, replete with sacrificial rabbits. There are no further incidents.
Some weeks later l am informed that my case has been referred to a higher authority, a judicial committee of eminent experts in the law of the land who dutifully pontificate upon the severity of my transgression. Some more weeks later l am informed that my transgression is indeed a grave matter that warrants further action. l am summoned to appear before a magistrate at the Castlemaine Court House along with the rest of the great unwashed: drug fiends and lunatics, vexatious litigants, serial shoplifters, recidivist graffiti addicts, suspected kiddy-fiddlers, the dregs of humanity – all those whom society has utterly failed. The poor magistrate is plainly bored shitless with his dreary job, dealing with this endless parade of misfits and ne’er-do-wells day-in and day-out. He manages to dredge up just enough interest to dispatch them to the relevant welfare institutions that will oversea their attempt at rehabilitation.
At last, when the courtroom is almost empty l am called upon to rise and present some visible display of my subjugation to the authority of the court. The magistrate has left the really nasty cases till last: The arsonists and pyromaniacs that threaten life and limb. For these miscreants and psychopaths he saves his most damning diatribe. The policewoman reads out the fact sheet, describing the incident as a ‘burn-off’. l leap to my feet to correct her:
“Your Lordship, l take exception to this gross exaggeration. It was no more than a humble campfire to cook our victuals and ward off evildoers.”
His retort is swift and blunt:
“Why then did it require two fully manned fire trucks to extinguish it?”
To which l ruefully reply:
“l often ask myself the same question.”
Despite my protestations l am ordered to rise while the Magistrate reads out my punishment:
“You, Benjamin John Laycock of Mosquito Gully Road Barkers Creek are hereby ordered to donate the sum total of $300 to the Castlemaine Fire Brigade, a mere fraction l might add, of the costs that your wanton disregard for the law has incurred. Furthermore, from this moment on you shall enter into a probationary period of not less than one year. If, during this time you engage in further unlawful acts involving the combustion of inflammatory substances you will be placed on the Known Arsonists Register and required to wear a tracking device at all times during the Fire Danger Period.”

Ben Laycock 2016

CAPTAIN COOKED

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Cook & Scrotum copy
Those who did not pay attention in primary school may not be aware of the fact that Australia was discovered by Captain Cook in 1770. Some of you may be suffering from the delusion that it was discovered some 40,000 years earlier by a bunch of blackfellas. Some may believe it was Willem Janszoon, purportedly the first white man to set foot on this land, in the vicinity of Cape York way back in 1606 would you believe, or maybe Dirk Hartog who mapped the west coast in 1616, or William Dampier in 1669. But you see, the problem with all these people is they were not Englishmen and we all know that Australia was discovered by the English, the very pinnacle of human evolution according to the social Darwinism that was all the rage at the time. So there fore logically speaking they could not have discovered Australia because they were Dutchmen weren’t they? But hang on, what about good old Able Tasman who discovered Tasmania several times, way back in 1642. Well as luck would have it, bad luck as it turns out he has the dubious honour of circumnavigating the largest island in the whole world without an inkling of its existence. After circumnavigating Tasmania he set his compass due north in the hope of coming across the fabled Great Southern Land, alas, a wild storm cropped up in the night and the woke up in Aetearoa (the land of the wrong white crowd) renowned for its bloodthirsty savages. They didn’t stay long but headed north again, eventually ending up in the Philipines, then heading south-west to Batavia, (Jakarta) then returning to Drizzle & Fog a broken man where he lived out his days telling anyone who would listen: “Australia doesn’t exist, l know l’ve been there.”
Some time later Captain Cook did actually stumble across the place. Some of you may not be aware that he sailed all the way up the east coast without once setting foot on terra firma. It was not until his boat sprung a leak on the notorious Great Barrier Reef that he came ashore to fix it. There he encountered the Guugu Yimidirrh people.
He offered them gifts of cloth, nails and paper all of which they obviously found completely useless, but they were delighted when he gave them a fish, which they regarded as a symbolic gift.
He pointed his index finger at a large fury beast and enquired:
“What is that?”
Unaware that the loclals point with there nose (no doubt because they usually have their hands full) The fellow said gungurru, which is of course the Guugu Yimidirrh word for finger.
After repairing the boat, which took 6 weeks, Captain Cook bid a fond farewell to the Guugu Yimidirrh and set sail for the Cook islands which had a different name at the time, where he did not receive such a warm welcome.
He wrote in his log:
‘From what I have seen of the natives of New Holland, they may appear to be some of the most wretched people on Earth, but in reality they are far happier than we Europeans, being wholly unacquainted not only with the superfluous, but with the necessary conveniences so much sought after in Europe. They are happy in not knowing the use of them. They live in tranquillity. The earth and the sea of their own accord furnish them with all things necessary in life.’
This is a very important statement. A description of the first encounter with people living in the Stone Age. They were obviously as happy, if not happier than we are today. So that begs the question ‘what is all this development for? All this technology, all these gadgets, all this stuff. Obviously not to make us happier, we were already happy. The only advantage to all this technological development is that we can support more and more people. But is the world a better place for having more people in it? Are we happier because there are more of us? This is not a rhetorical question? This is a very important question, at the very nub of the paradigm shift we face. The only advantage to an ever increasing population is that it is good for business. An ever growing population is an ever growing market. It keeps wages down and prices up. It keeps the economy growing and an economy that is not growing is not an economy at all.
Now where was I before I drifted off course into that diatribe. Ah yes, Captain Cook was sailing off to meet his grizzly fate. A friend of mine was teaching at a school in Aukland a place much frequented by auks and Cook islanders. She innocently asked of her 5th graders ‘what do you know about Captain Cook?’ A little girl, of no more than 8 years old pipped up with:
“My great great grandfather ate him”

Aparently Australia wasn’t always called Australia. When Captain Cook first arrived in his boat, he spied a group of natives involved in some sort of ceremony involving fire and animal sacrifice. Ignoring the caution of his less intrepid companions he strode purposefully up to them and asked:
“What…you….call…this…place?”
To which the natives replied in surprisingly good English:
”Barbeque area, bro”
Captain Cook promptly claimed all of Barbequearea in the name of the king and returned to England forthwith to tell said king the good news. The king however was not impressed, having delt with cheeky natives before.
“They were pulling your leg mate, having a lend of you, taking the piss”. The good Captain was blank with incomprehension till the king said “Jimmy, they were being faceacious.”

Ben Boyang 2010

INVASION DAY Homily

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Cook-Cairns-Hitler
We see ourselves as peace loving, generous, tolerant people yet is that how the world sees us? The rest of the world sees a country constantly at war. We have been at war in Afghanistan for 14 years now, and no end in sight. We here in Sleepy hollow may have forgotten about those wars but I can assure you the people of Afghanistan have not.
The rest of the world sees a nation hell bent on denying asylum to some of the most desperate people on earth, fleeing conflicts half of which we have created, while we debate whether to tow their boats back out to sea and use them for target practice.
The rest of the world sees a nation that treats its Indigenous people like shit. Always has and always will. We may believe we are trying really hard to ameliorate their endless suffering, but the world, I’m afraid sees only our complete and utter failure to do so. Why do we treat them so? Is it punishment for making us feel guilty?
We are one of the wealthiest nations on earth yet we sit back and watch our nearest neighbour Papua New Ginea descend into barbarism. We attempt to diddle our other neighbour East Timor out of their oil. We turn away Pacific Islanders desperately seeking somewhere to live once their countries disappear under the rising seas. A problem we have helped to create and are unwilling to fix.
Maybe it is time to administer a few drops of Optical Viagra and have a good hard look at our selves.

Ben Laycock 2010

Australia Day History

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Oz map-nothing
As we all learnt in grade bubs, Invasion day is the day the first batch of convicts arrived on our fair shores. The few members of the invasion party who were not chained up in the hold, ran up the nearest hill, stuck a Union Jack in the ground and proclaimed the entire island now belonged holus bolus, to the king of England.
I don’t think they realised just how big the island really was, and still is. Were the rightful owners of the place consulted in this serious matter? Were they even informed of their newfound status as chattels of King So and So? A rhetorical question, of course.
Some of us in our blissful ignorance however, may not be aware that fateful day of January 26th also commemorates the only coup de tat ever to take place in Australia. In 1808, exactly 20 years to the day after the arrival of the first fleet, a bunch of disgruntled officers from the New South Wales Corp overthrew the government of the fledgling colony. I do not mean to besmirch the good name of the gentlemen involved, but it has been reputed that they were drunk at the time. Not surprising considering that the legal tender of the colony was rum. Giving Australia the dubious distinction of being the only place in the world to employ such a form of currency.
Legend has it that when the said soldiers arrived, singing ribald sea shanties no doubt, Governor Bligh was found cowering under the bed. He was discovered there by one Captain Thomas Laycock no less, a distant relative of mine, I do believe.

Of course, that was not the infamous Captain Bligh’s only claim to fame was it now? This is the very same Captain Bligh that, some 20 years previously was set adrift, as depicted so dramatically in ‘Mutiny on the Bounty.’ The story goes that the lads were having a high old time in Tahiti with the local lasses, a welcome relief from their own sore bottoms, when Captain Bligh had the audacity to order the anchors reeled in and the sails set for a return to the land of fog and drizzle. The lads having by now grown quite fond of their native paramours, and finding their attraction reciprocated, made the very sensible decision to abandon their captain rather than their lovers. Poor captain Bligh was set adrift in a dinghy on the open seas, with only a Yam as sustenance.(though it was purportedly a more than average sized yam) After suffering unspeakable sunburn on an epic journey of over 1500 miles, he arrived at what is now Timor L’Este.
The lads, meanwhile found Pitcairn, an idyllic little island in the middle of nowhere, promptly burnt The Bounty, just in case anyone was having second thoughts, and their they lived (happily) ever after. I do believe their descendants are still living on the island to this very day, though they have become a little in bred over the years, allowing some rather unsavoury habits to develop, but that is another story.
Ben Laycock 2010