A Shearer's Tale.

 

ARNIE Y

IE YA A Shearer’s Tale

Arnie scooped up the last of the leaves from the pool. He walked across the yard  and placed the scoop against the small  shed. He was followed by Lambchop, the pet sheep. Arnie had acquired Lambchop about ten years ago, the same time that he and Ella had started acquiring grandchildren.           

The backyard pool was also acquired to entertain his two daughters and their families, which now extended to six grandchildren. Lambchop was a firm favourite with the grandies. Lambchop was also very good at keeping the grass in check around the pool which was in a fenced off area in the end bottom third of the  half acre block.

Arnie was 84 years old. He used to be a shearer. A very good shearer. His father was a shearer as were his three brothers. When Arnie left school, he naturally became a shearer, too. Arnie worked in shearing sheds throughout Western Australia.He even gave demonstration shearing exhibitions at the Perth Royal show. He and his three brothers were almost of legend status in the Western Australian shearing industry.

When he was fifty-nine, Arnie’s back and right wrist told him it was time to give the shearing game away. Within a few weeks he was working for the shire as the groundsman for the local bowling and tennis club. He really  enjoyed that work and was given a big send-off by the bowlers and tennis players, and the local councillors, when he decided fifteen years later that working five full days a week at age 76 was a bit too much.

A few weeks later Arnie and Ella picked up what he called a ‘dream “ job. They worked for the local abattoir, washing the workers blood-stained  clothes in industrial washing and drying machines and then using a pressure hose to clean the entire work area. They used to start at four o’clock in the afternoon and be finished by 6-00PM. Before they headed home, they folded the clean dry clothes laid out clean work clothes to be used the next day.

When he walked into the kitchen, Ella said, “Hello, Love. I’ve just put the kettle on.” Arnie picked up his copy of the morning paper and sat in his lounge chair waiting for the tea to arrive. He was halfway through reading the paper when the telephone rang in the kitchen . Ella called out, “Arnie, it’s Joy, from next door. She wants to talk to you.”

Joy told Arnie that a young fellow was shearing sheep in the next street. In South Guildford quite a few residents had sheep to keep the grass under control in their large blocks.

“Yes, Arne,’ said Joy, “he’s got his utility with shearing gear rigged up. When I saw him about twenty minutes ago, he had three customers lined up. I think he shears the sheep for nothing if he can keep the fleece. I thought you might want to take Lambchop along.”

When Arnie first got Lambchop he used to shear him once a year with hand shears. However, his aching right wrist made that an increasingly painful job. So, Arnie placed a rope around Lambnchops neck and off they set to walk the hundred and fifty meters or so to meet the enterprising young shearer.

As Arnie rounded the corner, he saw the shearer and his ute. He was shearing a sheep while two ladies stood nearby with their woolly pets. Arnie joined the queue. He watched the young fellow as he went about his job and his mind wandered back to his days on the boards and of the thousands and thousands of sheep he had shorn. He even remembered being at the Royal Show doing exhibitions shearing back in the fifties.

When it was Lambchops turn to be shorn Arnie said, “Hey, young fellah. I’ve been watching you shearing these sheep. Could I have a go at shearing my own sheep”

The young bloke looked at Arnie and looked at Lambchop. “ Ah. Erm. I dunno! Do you reckon you can handle it? It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“Well,” said Arnie, “what if I start off. If  I’m no good you can always stop me and take over.”

“Yair, I suppose that’ll be OK,” was his dubious reply.

Arnie took hold of the shears. He quickly pulled Lambchop between his legs and began sweeping long blows that had the fleece peeling off like the skin off a banana. In just under two minutes Lambchop was well and truly fleeced and Arnie was handing the shearing piece back to the young shearer.

“Hey, Mate!”, he exclaimed, “You’re really good. D’yuh wanna a job?”

Arnie placed  the rope over lambchop's neck. As he walked away, he smiled and said, “No, thanks, Mate.  I’ve already got a job.”

 

 

 

Putting on the SIDE.

 

“What’s in a name?

That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Well, that was William Shakespeare’s opinion and it is true, a rose would smell as sweet no matter what we called it.

But what if we called roses, “Snottygobbles”?

Would my wife, the love of my life, feel delicious shivers to the core of her being if I sent her one dozen yellow snottygobbles? I think not. They may smell as sweet, but I will not expect her to rush to the phone to brag to her friends about it. So, despite Shakespeare’s poetic observations, names are important.

Big business spends big dollars paying marketing experts to devise catchy names and phrases for their products. Film stars, models and other public figures change their names to give themselves a more acceptable public persona. Let’s face it, nobody cared much for a lanky fellow called Marion Morrison until his name was changed and he became an American film star folk hero known as John Wayne. Bernard Schwartz was just a cheeky kid in the Bronx. He became a sex symbol of the 1950s and 60s as film star, tony Curtis. And Reginald Dwight didn’t get half as much fan male as he does now as Elton John.

Adolf Hitler’s father was an illegitimate child who took his mother’s maiden name, Huttler, which later transformed into Hitler. Adolph's father was actually sired by a man named Schiklegruber. So, if Adolf's  father had not been an illegitimate bastard, young Adolf (who we all know was an absolute bastard) would have been called Schicklegruber, too.

Political scientists are still arguing whether the German people would have marched off to war on a frenzied wave of Nationalism, shouting out, “Heil Schicklegruber” whenever their Fuhrer appeared. Maybe they would have just all fallen about laughing at him and World War 2 would never have happened.

Names are important, which is why it is a shame that whenever the Director-General of Education in Western Australia, or any other Department of Education Directors want to broadcast policy directions and planning initiatives they do so by using a teleconference video link from the School of Isolated and Distance Education. That’s S.I.D.E. for short. So,  official pronouncements from the very top could be said to be a SIDE SHOW!

Now, I am quite proud of education in Western Australia. I think it compares with the best in the world and we do so over a vast area. When our leaders tell us important policies via video link it is a very important event.

 It should not be a side show. What can we do about it? What can we do about S.I.D.E? Well, we could try to form a different acronym and switch the letter around a little bit.

Isolated and Distance Education is I.D.E.S. Considering what happened to a great Roman leader on the Ides of March, I doubt any DoE leaders would want to be associated with I.D.E.S. Distance and Isolated Education is D.I.E.S. Obviously and acronym much too terminal for advanced educational thinkers with dynamic policies.

The only real solution, Shakespeare not withstanding, is to change the name of S.I.D.E. completely. Trust me. It will still smell as sweet.

May I suggest that S.I.D.E. becomes the Technological Educational Regional Resources Institute For Improved Curriculum. That’s T.E.R.R.I.F.I.C for short.

Then, when the Director General of other Directors have a teleconference it won't be a SIDE Show it will be a TERRIFIC show.

Or as Shakespeare once almost said,                                                                                                           "What’s this video link Biz?                                                                                                                    That, which in the D-G shows,                                                                                                                      With a better name, how sweet it is?”

PS. I wrote this story in 2000, nearly a quarter of a century ago. I realise that video links may now be a thing of the distant and isolated past.                                                                                                            The story was published in WORDS, the quarterly magazine of the WA Primary Principal's Association, in  the August 2000 edition.                                                                                                      Recently, I heard that there is now a growing desire within SIDE to change its name.

What a TERRIFIC idea.

 

Trump and a misleading media.

 

John Flint, a highly creditable journalist, was right on the money writing in The West Australian newspaper(02/10/2024)  when he wrote that Donald  Trump is not a normal candidate and that his normalisation as a Presidential candidate is largely the fault of the media because it has  “failed in its fundamental watchdog role.” How sadly true.

I have just read “The Men who Killed the News” written by a respected journalist and a former Murdoch Editor, Eric Beecher. The book outlines how media moguls over a two centuries have abused their power, manipulated the truth and distorted democracy.

Many years ago a journalist sought out Dame Elizabeth Murdoch after her son Rupert had added yet  another media agency to his already mammoth media empire. He asked her how she felt about her son’s highly successful career as a journalist. Quick as a flash Dame Elizabeth replied, “My son Rupert  is not a journalist. He is a businessman.”

This was epitomised when Murdoch’s Fox TV News started dramatically losing its ratings in 2020 when it reported that Joe Biden had won the Presidential election. As Fox  continued to report  about Biden’s lawful win, rusted on Trump followers stopped watching Fox News in droves.

Rupert Murdoch does not like losing money or power.  To recover his ratings and his advertising revenue he started giving the Trump followers the doctored “News” that they wanted to hear.                   The fact that it was not true did not worry Murdoch. He was making money once again.

Today, traditional forms of reporting the news are under threat from social media platforms, such as Facebook and X owned respectively by Mark Zuckerburg and Elon Musk. Much of the information on their internet platforms is not only untrue but sometimes highly toxic.  These two men have shown they do not care  for the truth. They only care about the mountains of money they are making.

In a democracy it is essential that there is a free media that presents the facts to the people. However, as John Flint has shown, a lazy or dishonest media can make even the sub normal seem normal to a lot of people. In an era of fake news, misinformation, unregulated social media and artificial Intelligence, a free and functioning democracy  requires more than ever, a free press that provides honest and professional journalism to its citizens.                                                                                                           Otherwise, we may all begin to believe the sub normal is normal.

Remembering Royal Shows of Long ago.

 

In my childhood, the long, long journey from the joys of one Christmas to the next was punctuated by two other events that could not be fully enjoyed unless a certain amount of money was available. These were the Annual Royal Agricultural Show in October and Guy Fawkes Night on 5 November.

My earliest memories of the Royal Show are a mixture of merry-go-round rides, Chairaplane rides, the Octopus, log chopping, Professor Wilkinson doing tricks on a motorcycle, Dodgem Cars, The Mounted Police galloping at speed with long lances to spear white markers on the grass, displays of food and farm produce in the Centenary Pavilion, bustling crowds, Sheep Dog Trials, surging crowds, strong animal smells, hot dogs and fairy floss. Free sample bags. Oh, and Sideshow Alley.

In those days, the two big days of the Show were People’s Day on Wednesday and Children’s Day on Thursday. Wednesday was a public holiday and city schools were closed for both days. My father used to used to take our family on People’s Day. I fondly remember the first year we went to the Show. It was 1948. My parents had a block of land in Mt Lawley but building materials were in short supply and you needed a government permit before you could build a house.  So, in the meantime, we all lived in a large two storey house at number 8 Aberdeen Street, quite close to Beaufort Street, along with my grandmother, an uncle, two aunties and my two older  cousins,  Maurie and Raymond. 

My parents loaded my my two sisters and me into  the family car, a blue Essex Tourer. Dad had folded back the canvas hood and the family set off from Aberdeen Street just like royalty riding down the mall in an open carriage.     At the time, my cousins had two dogs. Maurie’s dog was a Scottish terrier he had named GK after G.K. Chesterton. Raymond’s dog, Danny, was a beautiful collie dog just like Lassie. Unfortunately, when Dad drove out of the side lane he did not close the gate. The family’s high-spirited departure had excited both dogs and G.K. and Danny soon set off after the Bourke family making their royal progress along Beaufort Street towards the Barrack Street Bridge. Despite the dogs’ barking and yapping, Dad decided to keep on driving. As he drove passed the Swan Barracks he waved his right hand and yelled at the barking dogs to go back. They took his gestures as a sign of encouragement and continued their bounding and barking alongside our open vehicle.

What  started out as a royal procession quickly degenerated into a scene out of Dad and Dave Come to Town.      My father drove his family in the open car over the Barrack Street Bridge escorted by the two barking dogs. Startled onlookers in Barrack Street looked at the passing parade convinced that some rich squatter had arrived in town for the Royal Show with his family and farm dogs in tow. By the time the car reached Murray Street, the dogs found other city distractions to occupy their attention and the Bourke family continued on to the Show without their canine escorts.

As soon as the family  entered the main gates, Dad picked out a landmark where we were to gather if ever we became lost.  He pointed to the main door of the Centenary Pavilion and said, “If you ever get lost, go straight to stairway leading up to those doors and wait for your mother or me to come and get you. Do not go anywhere with anyone else.”

Babe was well aware of “Stranger Danger” long before the term became fashionable. She warned my sisters and me to be particularly wary of ladies offering  lollies or any other inducements. Mum told us that quite often, wicked men dressed up as women just to trap little boys and girls. Filled with such foreboding, my sisters and I never wandered far from Mum and Dad. The other reason we did not stray was that Mum and Dad had all the money that was so necessary to obtain full enjoyment of Sideshow Alley.
 

When I was about twelve years old I started going to  the Show on my own or with my school mates. I would save for several weeks leading up to the show. My main source of income was the tuppence refund I would get for returning empty cool drink bottles  to the Beaufort Street grocery shop and the  five shillings per week I was paid by  Aunty May, who operated the lucky Bunny Lottery Kiosk in Barrack Street. Each afternoon after school I would catch the tram into Perth and at 4-30pm I would run the day's taking and the lottery ticket butts to the Lottery Commission office next to Newspaper House in the Terrace. Aunty May told me never to travel the same way twice in a row when carrying the cash and ticket butts.

I would take great delight in counting out my money and working out how many rides, sideshows, cool drinks, hot dogs and serves of fairy floss I could afford. It always seemed like plenty, but invariably by late afternoon I would have only my bus and tram fare in my pocket while still desiring more rides, sideshows and food. At least in those days the show bags, or sample bags as they were then called, were free.
 

The main attraction at the Show was Sideshow Alley with its rides, dodgem cars, House of Horrors, Ghost Train, the  motor cycle Wheel of Death, Blum’s Boxing Troupe and various other sideshow tents. Two sideshows remained etched in Leon’s memory forever; one featuring Big Chief Little Wolf and another featuring the alluring French fan dancer, Paulette.
 

Big Chief, Little Wolf was a American Red Indian who became very popular in Australia after the war. He was a sensation at the big wrestling matches in Sydney and each year would tour several states attending their annual Shows, putting  on exhibitions, demonstrating wrestling holds and talking about his colourful life. He always wore a huge Indian feather headdress and attracted big crowds wherever he went. On one occasion, Dad took me to Reilly’s Hall in Inglewood to see Big Chief Little Wolf stage a boxing and wrestling exhibition against Paddy Boxall, a well-known state champion boxer of the 1940s. Big Chief Little Wolf was a great wrestler but he was an even better entertainer. He was doing the World Championship Wrestling hoopla and  bunkum thirty  years before it became a Television sensation.

Paulette was an exotic French lady who quite possibly was just a girl from Bayswater named Beryl making pin money at the Show. However, as Paulette, with her sexy "French" accent and exotic dancing, she had a lot of fans. Of course, her two biggest fans were the big feathery blue ones she used so cleverly to keep her naked body covered as she danced around on the small stage inside the tent. She certainly aroused young Leon’s interest in the female form and he spent a great deal of his hard earned pocket money visiting the creamy skinned Paulette, always in the hope that once – just once – she would drop one of those blasted blue fans. She never did.

Ah, yes! Some wonderful memories of  those wonderful The Royal Shows of so long ago.