There is inherent danger in opinion. A few years ago, I spoke my mind in a letter to the editor of the Hobart Mercury about the time honoured sacrament of ANZAC Day. What ensued was a vehement barrage of censure that left me marvelling at both the interest shown by the readers of that esteemed tabloid and the acerbity of their response.
To briefly reiterate the content of said letter, I suggested it was time we buried the heroes of a war almost 100 years past, and moved on. (The ANZAC ceremony pays tribute to the men and women who served this country in all armed conflicts since the landing at Gallipoli in 1915 and not just WWI and, to be fair, I didn’t acknowledge this point.) I went on to say the essence of ANZAC is insignificant to today’s younger generation and will only become more so to the generations that follow. No disrespect to our fighting men and women was intended, nor did I think to devalue the great sacrifices they made but, apparently, that’s just what I did.
So what should I have learned from that little exercise? To express myself more succinctly – possibly. To keep my big trap shut – probably. Never to denigrate a National tradition – certainly. But here I am once more, speaking my mind about that most revered chapter of Australian folk lore. I must be a slow learner.
Don’t get me wrong. I am as patriotic as the next guy. I grew up with the ANZAC tradition. In school I learned about Gallipoli and other chapters in our Nation’s military history and, as a young boy, marched proudly beside my father, standing at dawn with head bowed before the cenotaph. But that was a long time ago and in the dawn of the new millennium, I hoped we could leave our old ways behind and learn to resolve our differences peacefully.
Yet even before this post is finished, another barrage is aimed in my direction. My own wife has railed against what she calls un-Australian. She tells me a nation needs its heroes and asks why I would want to express such an antagonistic view.
Perhaps the best answer to that question can be found in what wasn’t said in the original letter. War is devastating. It is a waste of potential. No one could disagree with that. In any war, subsequent generations are diminished by the tragedy of lost sons and daughters, fathers and mothers. And economies, too, are devastated. Privation and hardship accompany the decades of recovery for a war torn nation. Yet paradoxically, by idolising our military enterprises we glorify the war machine that makes all this happen.
History shows us that since the first man found another with whom he could fight, we have been at each others’ throats. Are we, then, doomed to go on like those before us, fighting the good fight until there is, again, only one man left? Why not take a course that will write a different history?
Call me a dreamer but I want to believe in a humanity that has moved beyond violent conflict, that has evolved into something higher than those first two men beating each other with clubs. Honour the past if you must but I’m looking forward to a better world.
Is there anyone out there who agrees with me?
On 17 December 2010, somewhere over West Africa, a spacecraft with three astronauts aboard docked with the International Space Station (ISS). Did you know that? And more to the point, do you care?
Three courageous astronauts – we knew their names – were going to the moon. Could it really be done? It seemed so fantastic, the stuff of science fiction and we all watched with mounting excitement as, day by day, their tiny spacecraft – we even knew the name of that – carried our heroes away from the Earth, out into the unchartered depths of space. It was July 1969 and the mission was, of course, 
But to do justice to the media, and perhaps our own curiosity, let me say that with just a little research I was able to learn that Catherine Coleman of the US, Russian Dmitry Kondratyev and Italian Paolo Nespoli were the three astronauts involved in last December’s extraterrestrial event. I couldn’t find a name for their spacecraft but did discover, however, that it was a
A Queer Creature
Easter is a queer creature. Born in the dim light of fading belief, it appears each year around the first full moon after the Autumn equinox. Easter lives for just a few days and yet, has a profound impact on our lives.
While not generally regarded as harmful to humans, its bite can be infectious, typically resulting in short-term madness. Bite victims display several easily identifiable symptoms which disappear, more or less, after five days or so.
The more common of these is an irrational fear of starvation. Sufferers are drawn out of their homes and work places and, on the Thursday afternoon before the long weekend, descend in droves upon their nearest supermarket, often bringing traffic to a standstill and causing widespread chaos. In a frenzy of shopping that can last into the night, they fill trolleys and baskets with every imaginable consumable. Checkouts are dangerously overloaded and queues build and snake down adjacent aisles, adding to the mayhem.
This behaviour has been linked to the universal closure of shops the following day, although why these demented shoppers apparently feel the need to do a week’s shopping to get through that one day remains a mystery.
Anxiety is also seen as a symptom in bite victims. This is generally attributed to a sense of confinement and the associated escape reflex will often develop into a more complex condition known as the Camping Trip.
This commonly affects males between 20 and 40 years of age, although there are documented cases of women exhibiting the same, almost ritualised behaviour. Once infected, sufferers band together, often in large groups, in secluded bushland settings to get away from it all.
The condition is characterised by loud vocalisations and frequent utterance of obscenities. Attempts by outsiders seeking moderation of this behaviour are generally met with vehement hostility. This seems to be the case particularly where muscle contraction (see below) is obvious and it is considered unwise to approach these campers with petitions of social decency and consideration for others.
Contraction of the forearm muscles, usually those of the right arm, is also common. This contraction causes the hand to close tightly and there are authenticated sightings of sufferers, unable to release their grip, carrying cans or bottles of beer for hours, and sometimes days, at a time without respite.
Furthermore, campers at these gatherings appear completely unaware of the nature of their surroundings. They also demonstrate a predilection for disturbingly loud and awful music. This suggests temporary blindness, deafness and abominable taste are also factors. However, conclusive evaluation of this has been hampered by a generally tribal attitude amongst the campers.