never met an urgent toilet in me life laddie?? - must be a turkey thing - burk burk burk burk!!!
Crikey!!! I have been to Turkey, I found the Dolmus stopped anywhere.
you’ve gotta get a new Ubend - yours looks painful?
I’m from the BIG ANTIPODES - he’s from the little antipodes! - news from the BIG ANTIPODES! like yourselves our tory party [we call them liberals] are tearing themselves apart with accusations of bullying of women politicians in particular and ministers breaking their own laws and doing mates favors by letting foreigners into the country illegally.
otherwise the rest of us get on as best we can. We did welcome one of the little antipodes ministers over here recently and that was all good back slapping and humor!
Never Never Landscapes
They stand unmoved in the sun
These never never sentinels
They watch aloof as we pass by
This is ‘our land’ the old catch cry
From granite outcrop; gnarled twisted trees
In harmony they catch the breeze
We’ve been here from the dawn of time
Your cameras cannot see our minds
We’ve watched the rivers twist and turn
Grow into sand and then return
We shared this land with those we knew
Would save the gifts the Gods imbued
And then we watched the concrete streams
Cut through the land; fracture ‘dreamtime’ dreams
You didn’t want to touch our stone
Rest ‘neath our trees; hear hunting calls
You stayed upon your concrete streams
Lived your lives with man-made dreams
You turned your backs on all the Gods
Who forged this ‘never never’ lodge
But still we stand; unmoved, unmanned
We’ll watch you die and turn to sand
Then welcome back the roaring streams
And hear once more the ‘dreamtime’dreams
The concrete streams will crack and break
And trees break through with green replace
We’re called the ‘never never’ land
‘twas crafted with almighty hand.
© gumbud
is there another antipodian around here?
Just arrived Gummy. Been busy. Bit sad really innit?
well if you Kiwis can show us how to do it better I’ll be glad of it!
so you don’t want our strawberries atm - the needles are free??
Must be short little needles!
nah we got giant strawberries! - gobstopper size!
I have only one thing to say today “hoʻoponopono”
another for today would be “white bait” fritters - yum yum!!
One of my favs!
Banjo Patterson from the Big Island to the west of us here in NZ
(Banjo Patterson)
THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”
So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’
So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
this is my favorite
Clancy of The Overflow
by Paterson
From book: The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses [ Previous | Next ]
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just ‘on spec’, addressed as follows, ‘Clancy, of The Overflow’.
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
‘Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.’
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving ‘down the Cooper’ where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.
wow didn’t your PM make a splash at the recent UN meeting and put old trumps in his place!
I was quite proud of her Gummy! 
yes me too she’s got guts and the baby too!!
Queensland 1961
Boss of the Broom Millet
There was a lot of pushing and shoving going on at the pub, but that was
normal, so they told us. The Government labour people said,
“Yer’l never gedda job ‘less you godoun the pub!”
At the aforementioned watering hole, a big red faced bloke, belched through a
ginger moustache and pointed a big finger.
“Tabby! That’s the bloke you need to see”
‘Tabby’ Thompson had a bit of dirt about 4 miles out of Biloela, grew peanuts,
maize and broom millet and had a sad looking little wife who listened patiently to all
his dreams and schemes. The broom millet was his latest. This was the crop of the
future. This is what Australia was going to be known for the world over, the quality
of her broom millet.
“What is it? Do you eat it?” asked Tony, “Sounds like a bloody good thing
anyway”
“No. No, “said Tabby, “You hackle the heads off, then dry ‘em, roll them up in
big bales, then sell them to the broom factory”
“The broom factory? What the hell does a broom factory…” I paused, “Wait a
minute! I get it! Broom’s the operative word, not millet! They make brooms out of the stuff,
don’t they?”
“Right!” said Tabby, “Now, how many of the housewives of the emerging
nations have got vacuum cleaners? Answer me that , eh? And what percentage of
the world is made up of emerging nations? Bloody millions of ‘em”
I refrained from pointing out that all of the percentage only adds up to a hundred .
Tony, of course, got the salient point as usual. What we needed was a job, not an
argument about world commodities.
“Just like I said,” said Tony, “Bloody marvellous idea. Needs a man of vision
to see it though.”
The look Tony gave me while he said this, was like an adhesive to my lips, so I shut
up.
“Now I’ve got 14 acres of crop and I’ll give you 40% and I keep 60% of
whatever we get from the agent. You do all the work and I’ll tell you how to do it,
OK?”
We felt that it might be helpful to have some idea in terms of cash. We wouldn’t, of
course, hold him to an exact amount, but it would enable us to plan a bit.
“Naturally!” says Tabby, “Well, we would get about 5 tons to the acre and
about 190 quid a ton,” he scribbles all over the bar top as his wife looked on with
vague interest. “That’s 70 tons” , more scribbling and on the third attempt ,” That’s
13300 quid between us” onto the back of somebody’s bill, a long pause then, “
5320 for you and 7980 for me! Whaddya think of that then?”
What indeed! For the past months we had been subsisting on something
called Travellers Relief. 27/6d per week each as long as we hid the Landrover
somewhere when we went to collect it, (no assets allowed) in a different town each
week. This sum made us dizzy! So dizzy that we didn’t even query it!
Our battered Landrover followed his even more battered Holden ute back to
a typical back country house, the main architectural feature which was a large
corrugated iron water tank. In the kitchen over large mugs which could have been
old paint tins, we drank tea which consisted of 48% tea leaves and a liberal dose of
condensed milk. We explained that our cash reserves were precarious, in fact, non
existent. Tabby said he would foot the bill for our essential supplies and charge it
against our final payout. We didn’t know at the time that it was our friendly local
store that was carrying us, not our apparently magnanimous partner in agriculture!
“Come on I’ll show you to your quarters,” said Tabby, “Bring the truck”.
We followed him in first gear as he strode ahead of us towards a long low, wooden
building, in the side of which was door of garage proportions. He indicated that we
should drive in. We hadn’t really expected a place to put the Rover but drove in
anyway and parked between some bunks and a small woodstove. It was then that
we noticed we could have driven in anywhere except the wall with a door in it. The
roof had assorted posts holding it up, but as long as you missed those anywhere
would do.
We spent the rest of the evening investigating the various ‘mod cons’
available. A shower, consisting of that fine outback utility a kerosene tin with holes
in it. A toilet in the form of seven acres of maize. The larder , a cupboard full of
spiders and last but certainly not least the bedding, which was held over a smokey
fire until the stampede had subsided.
Our introduction to the art of ‘topping’ and ‘tabling’ was scheduled for the
next morning. Tabby turned up to show us the ropes at about 10 am, presumably
after a leisurely breakfast with more tea leaves and condensed milk. He jumped in
the back of our bedside vehicle and shouted “You drive! I’ll point.” He obviously
believed in the maxim of the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
No road or track was evident and we crossed several dry watercourses and two
fences lying flat on the ground before the full magnificence of a stand of broom
millet was brought to our notice.
Some quirk of nature had decreed that the only useful bit of this plant was some
three feet above our heads and the small knife that Tabby had supplied was two
foot six inches short of this requirement. He informed us that ‘tabling’ was
required. Whether this highly technical term was known to the rest of the world of
agriculture or whether he had just made it up, but it consisted of walking
backwards between two rows, grabbing armfuls first from the left , then from the
right and bending them over each other. This activity was obviously likely to bring
fear into the heart of any young New Zealander from that snakeless land!
Earthquakes and volcanoes, we take in our stride but slithery, legless, striped,
spotted denizens of broom millet was another thing!
The first days progress was slow, but none the less strenuous. Walking backwards
but facing the way you are going is an unnatural posture inclined to cause stresses
and strains without alleviating snake anxiety.
Water was something of a worry to Tabby so he supplied us with four gallons a day
in the ubiquitous kero tin. Four gallons between three lads with little self control, in
a hot climate, leaves none for washing or shaving so we didn’t! Luckily we all
smelled the same so it didn’t offend anyone and after a while even the snakes
seemed boring.
Tabby had a little lad of 5 or 6, who, most mornings , would walk past our
shed with a small fox terrier. The young fellow would carry a length of number eight
wire about 3 feet long and the dog used to scurry about in the maize. Curiosity
finally overcame us and we followed at a distance. It seemed that the foxy would
find a snake and , after a bit of a flurry, grab the reptile behind the head whereupon
the other half of the team would whop it with the number eight wire until activity
ceased. This was the dogs breakfast! It was never fed, we found out later and on
days when snake hunting was poor, the dog could be seen crunching locusts and
assorted creepy crawlies . I should mention that he looked in the best of health!
Days in the broom millet ran into weeks and finally months. The grocery bill
got bigger and the tons per acre dropped to one. We ‘hackled’ off the seed heads,
rolled the remainder into bales and stashed them in another shed with no walls.
Finally the great day arrived when the truck arrived to carry off the results of our
labours and the entire 14 acres had been reduced from eight feet high to four feet,
God knows what he was going to do with the leftovers but that was Tabby’s
problem. We felt such a personal involvement in helping third world housewives
that one of us went with the truck to help unload and also to bring us the good news
of what 14 tons of it was worth. After the grocery bill was paid , 124 pounds
between us! The princely weekly rate of 7 pounds per week ! We decided that it
had to be character building because it certainly wasn’t profitable!
As we were about to leave, Tabby said, “Look! I’ve got another 6 acres and
I’d be prepared to split 50/50.………”
He took our reply in good heart, I expect he was used to adversity, after all
he’d buggered up a cotton crop, a peanut crop now a broom millet crop and shortly
a maize crop, so it was nothing new to him, he had plenty of experience to call on.
He was kind though, as we left he gave us half of his peanut crop. 3 sacks!
We ate bloody peanuts all over the continent!