OK...I don't do this very often, but the following made me giggle.
And I reckon we could all do with a good giggle, what with all the economic crises casting their ugly shadows, our footy teams losing and personal challenges smacking us around.
It's from an anonymously penned email (definitely the brainstorm of an anonymous AUSSIE though) that arrived in my Inbox this morning.
It illustrates the laid-back-ness of my home country perfectly.
Not sure if it illustrates your home country - perhaps you can embellish?
(Personally I think it goes easy on the Yanks!)
So please grab your beverage of choice, put your happy hats on and enjoy.
Government's responses to Terrorism Alerts: the overview
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The British are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross". Brits have not been "A Bit Cross" since the Blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance". The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the Great Fire of 1666.
... The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide". The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender". The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.
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It's not only the French who are on a heightened level of alert.
Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout loudly and excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing". Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides".
... The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose". Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels . The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.
... Americans meanwhile are carrying out pre-emptive strikes on all of their allies, just in case.
... And at a local level... New Zealand has also raised its security levels - from "baaa" to "BAAAA!". Due to continuing defence cutbacks (the airforce being a squadron of spotty teenagers flying paper aeroplanes and the navy some toy boats in the Prime Minister's bath), New Zealand only has one more level of escalation, which is "Shut, I hope Austrulia will come end riscue us". In the event of invasion, New Zealanders will be asked to gather together in a strategic defensive position called "Bondi".
Australia, meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be right, mate". Three more escalation levels remain: "Crikey!", "I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend" and "The barbie is cancelled".
There has not been a situation yet that has warranted the used of the final escalation level.
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Note: For my non-Aussie friends (if I have any left after this post!) I will go into the fully explanation of the Aussie barbecue (BBQ) at a later date.
Terrorism alerts permitting.
:-)
BB
PS If anyone from the aforementioned countries takes offence at the quoted email, please refer to this post to help you understand our strange and twisted humour. It's called 'taking the piss'. Or in the case of our dear neighbours, the Kiwis: 'taking the pus'.
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PPS I notice Canada has been left off this list - c'mon my Canuck comrades... see what you can offer to insert on behalf of your fine government...
I have been inspired to post this famous Australian verse here today, for a couple of reasons.
Firstly, this great Canadian blogger posted on the Australian Stock Horse and mentioned the Movie of the same name (*sigh*), secondly, I know that quite a few of you love this movie, and thirdly, my Dad is away at the moment and I miss him.
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When were were young, he would to recite this verse to us as we rode along behind a mob of cattle, his baritone voice rising over the mustering noise and dust, and the excitement of this particular well-known Aussie tale rising with the increasing rhythm and pace of the magic of Banjo Paterson's lyrics.
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The poem tells the tale of a herd of wild brumbies who have a valuable racehorse with them, and the group of men who gather to try to get the horses back from some almost-impenatrable terrain in the Australian Snowy Mountain. It's about never underestimating those who may not look impressive at first glance, its about some imposing countryside and it's about underdogs. It pretty much brings tears to my eyes every time I attempt to recite it... but then I am a complete sap!
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It needs to be read aloud. Take your time. It's long. But so worth it.
So I give you:
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The Man From Snowy River
By Andrew Barton (AB or 'Banjo') Paterson
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.'
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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.
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`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.
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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.
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'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.
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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.
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'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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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'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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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.
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And here is the telling of this verse from the movie itself - I reckon Dad's is better, but this'll do til I corner my Old Man and pin him down with a recording device! He is on a well-earned holiday at the moment but I promise to one day post up an audio clip of his version of this poem. There is also a song by Dad's favourite country singer of all-time, the late great Slim Dusty, which I shall try to find also.
We had to get some steers out of one of our southern paddocks this week. Well, SSB did. I went along to provide moral support. And to bring the picnic. Feed 'em and Clean 'em - my dream job!
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We had some doggie dramas in the leadup to this day, which I will relate in my next post (I like to tease like that - I get bored very easily. It's just something you should know).No Cruel dramas yet (NB don't forget to take the poll on the right of the page!) but other canine troubles.
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But, aside from our other issues, one of the moments of this day occured as I followed SSB back to the yards after he had accomplished his task. Not a bad view, really...
As we were travelling behind SSB and steed, the conversation in the ute went something like this:
I have been tagged for a Meme... I am sooooo sadly new at this blog thing that I thought initially that it might be some kind of virtual post-it note, or a challenge to put on some glad rags and imitate an old Broadway broad...
But no. This is I am apparently s'posed to do:
1. Write a six word memoir and post it on your blog.
2. Add a picture if you wish.
3. Link to the person who tagged you.
4. Tag 4 or 5 others, with links, to keep it going.
5. Leave a comment for the ones you tag with an invitation to play.
6. And link to the original post about the Six Word Memoir meme.
She is pretty much spot on... except the bit about how she manages to achieve wit whilst warbling wonderously on! Or how motherhood made her marvellously mellow (!).
But this is s'posed to be about me (isn't it always??)
Hmmm... how 'bout:
PRODIGAL GAL GALLOPS ROUND (the) GLEN
or
HAPPY SNAPPER SHARES OUTRAGEOUS OUTBACK SETBACKS
or
BUSHIE/SLICKER/BUSHIE ESCAPES RAT-RACE
Never was much good at sticking to the rules... sorry to whomever made up the bit about one lot of six words!
Pagi (Par-g-ee) is the affectionate name my kids call my Dad. A mish-mash of 'Grandpa' I guess. He loves it and it suits him.
Pagi has many sayings, some of which provide an interesting mish-mash of the English language in themselves.
Fastiduous, for example. (Translation: fastidious)
And Thriple for triple.
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But he also has some pretty universal truths in his favourite phrases.
The following is my personal favourite (although this one is a corker too!)...
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"WORK HIM WIDE"
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Perhaps this seems a bit, well, cryptic?
What he means when he utters this advice, usually to a rider in the paddock or yards, is give the cow or steer (or whatever) a bit more space. He's saying you are too close, and infringing on their 'flight zone'.
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The 'flight zone' is that invisible area around every breathing thing that is sacred, that line circling you that causes you respond when someone enters without invitation.
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To get technical with you, Brahmans (or Bos Indicus cattle - the ones with the humps and smooth coats and exotic look about them) often have a wider flight zone than Bos Taurus cattle (Angus, Herefords etc: the woolier ones!). As a result they often suffer the unfair reputation as being 'wilder'.
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They usually aren't, they just have wider flight zones. And once you understand and respect that, they will work well with you. It's all in the sensitivity you have for their personal space.
We have mostly Brangus cattle (a breed originating from a hybrid of Brahman and Angus) and they have flight zones somewhere between the two. You don't have to physically push them or whack them with a green stick to move them, but they usually don't bolt for the hills when they see you either.
It always pays to "feel out" their flight zones anyway, just to see where you stand. ...
I think "work him wide" is a mantra which translates pretty darned well into everyday life. In country life. In city life. In corporate life. In family life. With men and with women. In all aspects of my life til now.
In your life too, maybe?
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Of course sometimes, after you've tried working 'em wide, you have to say:
"To hell with flight zones, lets get this puppy moving."
Then, to keep your (figurative or literal) beast on track, you've gotta hang on tight and ride like hell.
Dash, the Little Woman and I were driving home from 'helping out' with the steers at the yards the other day, when a little Aussie jingle came to my mind... you may know it?
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Once a jolly swagman
Camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree...
And he sang as he watched
And waited til his billy boiled
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me...
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It was not that I saw any unkempt men with rolled up bedding thrown loftily over their shoulders, lurking around a camp fire, and we are too far east to boast any Coolibah trees here at Granite Glen ... but perhaps Banjo Paterson's famous lyrics were inspired by the following sight.
Well, it's pretty close to a billabong. Technically, a road holds this water in place, rather than it being a purely natural water hole. But it looks pretty darned close to a billabong to me. And for the sake of the romance of the bush, and keeping in sync with the title of this post, we shall call it a Billabong.
(And you thought it was a brand of surf shorts, or an ice-block didn't you? Go on, you're amongst friends here. Admit it...)
I love this little nook of Granite Glen... it waits just over a rise in the road. It reflects the beauty of the day, laced with lily pads and hosting some spectacular wildlife. It makes me smile.
We stopped for a moment, allowing the ankle-biters to explore the fringes of the water, dipping their toes (so to speak) in Mother Nature's looking glass... because you never know...
You never know what you might find if you stay really still and quiet...
Really, really still.
Luckily I have a reasonably fast trigger finger. In a Nikon kinda way.
'Cause Mother Nature's beasts can be flighty. And my kids are not renowned for being still. Or quiet.
OK. I have been Zen. I have been un-Zen. I have been upbeat and downcast. Now its time to be silly.
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The following verse is a favourite of my SSB (for the uninitiated, these letters can stand for Strong Silent Bloke, Serious S(o)B, or Seriously Sexy Butt, depending on my mood and the state of play in the Granite Glen household). Sometimes however, if you catch him in the right mood, he is just a Silly Silly Boy.
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When he recites this particular verse, SSB cracks himself up. For hours. Well, as much as a Strong Silent Bloke does - its mostly internal but he twinkles about the eyes and you know he thinks he's as funny as all get out. (Whatever that means...)
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So here we go... wait, hang on. First I need to offer a little language lesson. We don't say the F word in this house. Not THAT F word (we don't say that either) the OTHER F word ... instead we say "Fluff", or as TLW likes to embellish "Fluffy Duck". So if you hear her say, for instance: Daddy just did a fluffy duck, then it's time to clear the room.
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So in the following verse (and I have no idea to whom I should credit it) I have substituted the F**T word with Fluff. I kinda ruins the rhyme, but I'm sure you'll chant it with the correct word in place so you can experience the full flavour of my husband's humour.
Explanation: With some coaxing from her mother, this is the Little Woman's attempt to get her mouth around the name of one of her favourite things in the world (and in mummy's handbag!). Note the initial l's are no trouble at all! Strongly suspect the resulting laughter has encouraged the ongoing inability to get her tongue around the last 'l'!
She also speaks French! But that's another post...
This, friends, is a 
Really, really still.
