realms in focus

Dan Dick's Rog Blog
The Effect of an Ego and Emus

I found myself in an odd position the other day. Whilst on my last annual cadet camp, for the first time I got myself badly lost. And those of you who know me well will know me for an amazing sense of direction which is why I didn’t handle the situation very well. You see, unlike in everyday life, when I got lost I was completely alone, with no-one around to assist me, in the dark, in the bush, without a compass or radio. On my eleventh and final camp, I managed to achieve what I didn’t think possible.

I think it was mainly my pride that hindered immediate rectification because typically I didn't want to admit to myself that I was lost. I thought, "I'll just climb this hill and I’ll be where I need to be" and that kept on going. Luckily I found a path that would later lead me to a main road and some level of orientation. However, things could not have gone more wrong. I stumbled my way into the territory of several emus. And I know what most would be thinking here, "Yeah so what, an emu, big deal" and to those people I would say you have never in complete darkness, by your self, been approached by to large and aggressive Emus. It became clear to me when one of them flapped its wings and squawked that I was going to have to run. Emus however, are very fast, and much fitter than I am. They chased me for roughly a kilometre, give or take, until I came finally to the main road where the trees cleared and the moon gave me some far-sight. Again my safety was challenged when up in the distance just before the road I spied a fence that stood approximately one point four metres tall, around chest height. And with a glance over my shoulder I noticed that I was not going to have the time to climb the fence as the emus were gaining on me. So I trusted my instinct and launched myself into the air.

Three things occurred to me whilst in the air:
1. I cant believe I’m gonna make this - I knew God gave me race horse legs for a reason
2. Why would they put such an aggressive wannabe bird on our coat of arms?
3. This landing might tickle a bit.

I landed hard on the gravel road and rolled to my feet with some instant discomfort. I kept running looking back only briefly to see the emus hadn’t copied me and thanked the greater powers that emus cant fly.

In my ruffled and started way I tried for a minute to catch my breath and calm down a little bit. And as I do I thought of the situation and tried to take what I could from the event. It came to me in a sudden slip like realisation, much like being knocked from ones pedestal that it was my own fault I got lost, and that I couldn't blame emus for being emus... I mean if some lost emu came into my house I’d chase it too.

I thought how I might have handled the situation better and realised that my precious ego and failure to admit my own fault were common denominators to many of the problems that both I and many millions of people around the world find ourselves in.
But I thought once more that even though I withheld the truth from myself I still came out of this occurrence reasonably safely, tired and scratched although I was. this was because I acted quickly to my instincts, and realised there was no point I’m denying what was happening. I was lost and had to be found. I was being chased by emus and had fight or flee... I don’t think it would have looked very good if they found me covered in emu blood...

When I told this story to many people I was attacked for my stupidity and ridiculed and laughed at. But I took it on the chin not because I had to or wanted to but because they were right... I was naive and proud...
...It was also really funny...

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Scratch - Article 3

(The following is a report from an unknown author detailing the events of people who work in an ordinary L.A. Law Firm, this is their story)

When that August with its showers sweet, the drought of summer has pierced to the root, and bathed every vine in sweet liquor. At any other fine educational establishment this would be so, from Eton College, to Woop-Woop High. At the learning community, we are still in drought, and not just form moisture, from R. E. teachers, House competitions that le maison verde doesn’t win. The instructors (also known as teachers) have taken to having strolls throughout the community in pairs, be it along the JTO, or down Rubens Grove, where lighted discussions on politics were overheard by yours truly. Certain people have even begun the summer spirit, rolled up sleeves, ball games and even shirts coloured a baby poop aqua. Even though it may seem that it has already become unbearably hot, some students have had the liberty of taking two days off school and enjoying a holiday ‘at the snow’. A recent expedition was launched to snow fields of Victoria to spend the weekend off, while those who stayed home enjoyed the comfort of (not) doing copious amounts of homework. This troupe of frozen-water-and-pollution-o-files included (censored) mathematics teachers, and Cadet (censored) officers.

But enough of the upper learning community, it is time to talk down to the younger members of this school, the Smurfs. Known for their ridiculously high pitched voices, their blue skin, and that they are only 2 foot high midgets (no midgets were harmed during the writing of this article). It has come to the recent attention or yours truly, who after attending several ordeals performed and organized by this institution, has decided to offer his critical insights upon these critiques and features.

The first happened to be a match of ‘football’, a game which is played with and inflated pigs bladder, which the losing side offers to buy the winning side ‘a round of beers’, upon which, the losing side refuses to pay, and a brawl ensues. It is into this brawl that the pigs bladder is thrown, with the team with the least injuries and the most tables smashes, wins. Those who don’t drink beer stick to a small round of coke and ice. The game was dominated throughout by the teachers, who gave the students a ‘bally hiding’ as one member of staff so eloquently put it, other comments have been censored from this article. The smurfs put up a valiant resistance, and managed to score two behinds and one Tierney, who was taken out on the sidelines by a rambunctious student, while the teachers ‘shellacked’ the students with three goals and several behinds. Science and Geography teachers provided an inspirational commentary, with the occasional Wong comment from the third speaker. Science won out on the day, with teachers dressed in lab coats occasionally waving their arms in distress from both ends of the field.

The other highlight of this semester was their pantomime, or at least that what yours truly thought until he was told to “stop shouting, sit down and put you pants back on”. The play was an adaptation of that ‘Public school classic’, The Lord of the Small Fry, a tale of political intrigue amongst small children that are left to run amok on a pacific atoll, that sits in the middle of nowhere, and are then ‘miraculously’ rescued by a group of British Navy officers. The play begins with all these boys marching onto the stage, who are meant to be singing that great CGS song, Jerusalem, the fact that their lips are not moving, or that they are mumbling makes the feat even more amazing. The acting though was worthy of the applause it received. The play was a delight for the whole family, fun for the little kids, watching youngsters their own size frolic and have fun with drama, fun for mum and dad, watching, and learning how to be ‘stage parents’ with their overbearing attitudes, and Landcruisers with personalized number plates, it was even fun for uncle Robert, whose trench coat, jerky movements, and loud mans and grunts when the half naked boys came on was his way of showing his gratitude for the quality of the acting.

The level violence in the play, however, was distressing. The boys killed pig, and then proceeded to hack of its head and place it on a pole. They then proceeded to kill two of the boys on stage, talk about realism. They smashed and bashed one boy into a little pulp, and then proceed to push one off a cliff! And then the bombshell. A priceless clay molded conch was smashed to the floor. These scenes of violence, coupled with mild child nudity made the play a success of all comers. The personal thanks of yours truly go to D.W.M. , whose sterling performance from a long distance was impressive, as well as to the poor naval commander who wandered in at the end, very confused, but it did add the strength of the play. I am sure many of the boys who acted on those days will grow up to be rampant and raging thespians.

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Dan Dick's Rog Blog

The Innocence of Children

A boy walked up to his father with a smile across his grubby little face. His father noticed this grin which was obviously spurred by pride the little boy felt in something he had done. It was an odd look for the young child to be expressing as usually he showed nothing more than his inane curiosity in a sadistic manner, usually in the form of squeals and howls. But on this occasion the smile seemed genuine and pure. Nonetheless the father kept his wits about him and remained vigilant when the boy said,
            "Father! Father! I've had a great idea!" this word scared the man. 'Idea' was a word that usually when flouted by prepubescent boys meant nothing more than mischievousness. Or worse when 'ideas' occurred to adults often they lead to the creation of evil. Some 'ideas' have been the worst thing to happen to society, and the father felt it necessary to explain to his son that he be weary of this 'idea' and how he was to go about turning it into action. So he said to his child,
            "Son, before you go on I want to tell you a story about a man who had an 'idea'. His name was Karl. And he had a plan that was meant to change the very way society, and civilization was to work. It was in his opinion that the natural order of the masses of people, sick of oppression and poor living conditions, would rise up in opposition to the 'ideas' of the terrible, coveting ruling class. This 'idea', I am sure although pure in intention, was passed on to those who changed and misconstrued it to suit their own means. And all of a sudden, his 'idea' was being brandished like a knife, cutting and stabbing through what we knew as the norm of society. And the worst thing was that the now completely different 'idea' is still associated with the original, despite its complete difference to what the first 'idea' stood for in the first place. That 'idea' has become a symbol of the greed of people that the 'idea' was created to rid the world of. Worse still, the conveyer of this new 'idea' still thinks that it is for 'the greater good' and will do anything necessary for it to be instituted into the world, despite stepping on everything the original 'idea' stood for in the first place in an effort for his new, distorted image of the 'idea' to taken seriously by all, even if it means they fear it.
            "So you see my son, sometimes it is a dangerous proposition to create 'ideas' and sometimes we need to stay with what is normal and regular to us. Do you understand?"
            The boy furrowed his brow in a manner befitting someone much older than he. He looked wise and contemplative. The father could see the metaphorical 'cogs turning' in the boys mind as he undertook logical processing to fully comprehend what his father had just explained to him. At that point the father realized how proud he was of his son. Then the boy looked up and smiled at his father, looking him in the eyes and laughing slightly like his dad had just told him a humorous story rather than one intended to stay with him for the duration of his being. The boy rubbed some of the dirt from his face and began,
            "Daddy, it's okay if you don't want to go to the park. I just thought we could play football, but I can see that you are nervous. I'll go ask mum." Then the five year old skipped off whistling to him self. And the father could only laugh at himself.  

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From the Editor

To use an athletic/racing analogy, it's the final lap. As I mentioned recently in Assembly, it's been fantastic to have such an enthusiastic response to ROG.net.au, a true reflection of the creative energies at Camberwell. Our art and literature pages are bursting with content, and there's much more locked away. If you're still unsure whether or not to contribute whatever it is you've made, just send it in - you may well be your own harshest critic! Of course, any written work you submit will also be considered for the Mervyn Britten Prize. This is the most prestigious award the school offers (at the levels of Years 9-10 and 11-12) for prose and poetry. It doesn't have to be Dickens, argumentative pieces are in vogue so make those biros and keyboards achieve what they were supposed to. Such student dynamism has also come in the form of a submission which is a response to one of our pieces published online. The standard of entries already have been incredibly high, which ensures a golden publication to come.

Of note is a submission from our very own Deputy Headmaster (or see below) and resident wordsmith Mr Julian Dowse. Needless to state, ROG are delighted to receive a reflective article from Roystead, an article which illustrates long-lasting impacts originating from Launceston. It was our former Prime Minister Paul Keating (watch for him on the ABC when he needs a little attention) who put it so eloquently when he geographically located Australia at "the arse end of the world". Whilst Question Time in Parliament isn't nearly as exciting as it used to be (Google 'Paul Keating insults' for a fun read), his words may well be fading away as the internationalism he so promoted proliferates. APEC is in town, and we're ever connected to the rest of the world. This is why ROG is part of the online community. Our school thrives on our diverse backgrounds, which makes sharing childhood memories interesting for their variety. For those History and Inter. students, or more to the point: those who need something entertaining away from the test tubes and slide rules, ROG's content have historical and cultural significance. Duchamp, Donne, Mao or Whitlam, many of our submissions draw reference from various mediums and eras which revolutionised your world. Indeed, time is of the essence, so send in your work before it is too late. How's that for a segue?

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Mr Dowse

Maybe there are, on reflection, those years in one’s life when things do change in monumental ways. 1975 was that sort of year for me. Not an annus horribilis, nor an annus mirabilis, but rather an annus singularis.

January 1975. I had just turned 12. Living in Launceston, Tasmania’s second, and the nation’s third oldest, colonial city. The year had begun with Australians mourning the disaster wrought by Cyclone Tracey on the residents of Darwin on Christmas Day 1974. For a boy living in Launceston, the news of a cyclone affecting anywhere in Australia was surreal.

Yet by the end of the year further shocks, surprises and changes had affected me in more ways than I could have imagined.

Tasmania itself was to be the centre of national attention as disaster struck again. This time it was human error when, in early January, the Captain of the Lake Illawarra managed to navigate his crew and cargo into one of the pylons of Hobart’s Tasman Bridge. The collision removed the pylon and part of the roadway joining the eastern and western shores of Hobart’s Derwent River. In the late night drivers, unaware of the gap in the bridge, plunged to their death before the alarm was raised. One of those killed was the father of twin boys who was returning from visiting their terminally ill mother. For the first time in my life, I was conscious of the unique and random force of tragedy.

December 1975. I turned 13 on the 10th. On the 13th my parents celebrated their 17th wedding anniversary, and, along with the nation’s electors, went to the polls to vote in the double dissolution election caused by the dismissal of the Whitlam government by Governor-General, Sir John Kerr on November 11th. Yet it was events in my hometown of Launceston in the middle of the year that may well have led to the downfall of Mr.Whitlam and his government, and changed the history of a nation. For better or worse, I was caught up in some of these events. More of this to come.

Tasmanians would say that Launceston is the major city in the Federal electorate of Bass. Mainlanders would argue that town is a more apt description. Indeed, it is a homely and quirky locale. There are about 60,000 residents of Launceston. Most probably do know each other. My parents’ neighbours were also the neighbours of their beachside house, and no one seemed to find that particularly strange. The town’s two funeral directors were aptly named Finney and Dunn. Launcestonians referred, and still do, to the balance of the Commonwealth as the mainland. The amount of time spent living in the region determined how seriously your opinions were taken. Being born in the town was the sine qua non of true recognition. People tended to be fairly settled.

 

They still are. In May 2007, I paid a weekend visit to an ailing family friend. I stayed with an old schoolmate who had moved homes within a distance of 400 metres in 40 years. He remarked to me on the Sunday that it was the 30th anniversary of the screening of the original Star Wars movie. Naturally, that afternoon at a cafe I sat next to the girl that I took to this event, despite not having seen her in the intervening period of time. To be fair, moving out of Launceston was not easy in the era of the parallel airlines timetable, which saw Trans Australia Airlines and Ansett offering two daily air services from our airport to the mainland, departing within five minutes of each other.

Like most Australian cities, Launceston was a very different place in which to live a mere generation and a half ago. So many basic tasks were performed so differently. My parents had to attend their bank by 3.30 on a Friday afternoon or they would be cashless for the weekend. There were neither ATMs nor shops with EFTPOS facilities. Only a very few shops allowed use of the newly introduced Bankcard. Shopping was possible on a Saturday but only until midday. To protect the local butchers, supermarkets had their meat trays locked down on a Saturday morning. Petrol stations only sold petrol. On the weekends, one or two stations for the whole town were ‘on roster’ to provide supplies. The mail had just stopped being delivered on a Saturday morning.

The family phone was neither mobile nor hands free and required fingers to twirl the dial to engage the numbers. I remember placing telephone calls to Melbourne that involved speaking to an operator to obtain a connection. My school’s switchboard was, by contemporary standards, a monolith with lashes of cords emerging from its base to be plugged in to enable connections to be made. No one had a personal computer, calculators the size of domestic bricks were being introduced into classrooms which still had blackboards, facsimiles were yet to be invented and the most basic forms of photocopier were still some years away. School notes were run off on ‘Gestetner’ machines that used lurid purple and pink inks that had a toxicity and perfume that probably started the destruction of the ozone layer. Smoking was allowed everywhere, even in the cinema. Despite this, very few children had asthma and no one I knew had an allergy to peanut butter.

Almost nothing was open on a Sunday, except for the churches who were more varied in their number in the days before the Uniting Church. We Anglicans had the high church Holy Trinity and low church St.John’s to choose from and the Presbyterians, the Methodists, and the Congregationalists assembled close by. Being Anglicans, we knew the Catholics assembled for worship but were not sure or particularly interested where.

Neither the Library nor the Museum was open on a Sunday. Saturday morning trips to the library after sport were common and involved me searching for titles on index cards filed away in wooden filing cabinets. Text was what was found in the books that I borrowed and was far from becoming a verb. Dates for the return of my borrowed items were individually stamped on them. In the same way prices for supermarket items were separately entered on a cash register that did not inform the operative of the change that needed to be issued to the customer.

 

 

The Museum was a sober and solemn place. People hardly spoke as they walked past the various exhibits. There was nothing interactive for me to engage with. Rather, it was a place of contemplation, although the significance of particular items was not apparent to me for some years. Our museum housed the skull of Truganini, the last full blood Tasmanian aboriginal. It was not explained to visitors, nor did many choose to ask, why the aboriginal population of Tasmania had expired with her death, aged 65 in 1877.

In the winter, my brother and I would chop wood to keep the home fires burning. Milk bottles were still left on doorsteps. We did not shop at a ‘Centre’ but rather at places known for their specific merchandise. It was Birchalls for books, Routleys for my Dad’s suits, Gourlays for sweets, Fotheringhams for sporting goods; O’Byrne’s for liquour, Allgoods for camping gear, Gunns or Greens for hardware and McKinlays for the school uniform and coveted tartan dressing gowns with nylon tassel sashes. McKinlays even had a dedicated haberdashery section, reflecting a time when women darned socks and mended and made clothes. Living in a regional town meant that whilst the grocery store was visited-supermarket was not a common word until the arrival of Coles New World-many food purchases were undertaken directly from nearby properties. Sacks of potatoes, and bags of pumpkins and swedes were purchased from farms, along with crates of crisp apples from those orchards that still remained viable after England’s entry into the Common Market. Rolled oats and flour were purchased from our local miller, Monds and Affleck, in monogrammed cloth bags. An especial treat was to travel to Hoyle’s Honey at the nearby town of Perth to watch amber ribbons of leatherwood honey being decanted into a tin and to collect a wooden frame of honeycomb harvested from the hives next door.

When summer arrived parents encouraged children to spend as many unprotected hours as possible in the sun. The same parents would usually be smokers, although some, like my father, gave up when the State government increased taxes to make cigarettes over fifty cents a packet. It was an era of regular dinner parties as much for the children as the parents. In the era before zealous parenting-we only thought wimpy students wore mouthguards for hockey and football-parents would attend homes of friends for dinner and literally dump their children on the communal double bed of the host. After feasting on mulled wine, pate, beef Wellington and cheesecake, our parents would wake us in the early morning hours and pile us in the back of the car. With backseat seatbelts not being compulsory, the ride home was often eventful as usually both parents had blood alcohol levels well in excess of Tasmania’s newly introduced blood alcohol limit of 0.08. Winter nights were especially hazardous, as only the very wealthy had cars with fog lights or heated rear windows.

Domestic pleasures were simple. A black and white television with no remote control and two channels, a record player and a reel to reel tape player were my parents’ home entertainment network, dominated as they were by the repeated playing of Neil Diamond’s Hot August Night and Cat Steven’s Tea for the Tillerman. Cassette players were the new fad of the year, and I remember my thrill at winning a transistor radio, on which I could listen to a dazzling array of three AM stations. For my birthday, I received an Instamatic camera in which film cartridges were used, along with the extraordinary modern device of a flashcube. Once finished, the films took over a week to be processed by a chemist. My parents had an extensive collection of slides that had to be manually inserted into a projector to entertain their friends. Children were encouraged “to get out of the house”, hop on their bikes and be “back in a couple of hours”. Neither the bikes nor the houses were locked.

But change was in the air: cultural, gastronomic and technological. 1975 had been declared by the United Nations as the International Year of the Woman. My mother was one of the few in my class that worked full time, and had only received equal pay for the same job as my father since 1973. Launceston’s own Helen Reddy was on the airwaves singing, “I am Woman”. From 1 January 1975 new laws making divorce easier were enacted and divorce started to become less of a social taboo. I am not sure if Launceston had any de facto couples, but can remember people talking disapprovingly of ‘bastards’ and ‘necessary marriages’. My mother spoke about a woman called Germaine Greer.

Much was being made of ‘Australian’ movies, plays and music. We had a family holiday to Adelaide during the year and I was taken to see the new “Australian” film, Picnic at Hanging Rock. Sherbet, Skyhooks and Daddy Cool were becoming established “Australian” rock bands, although then, as now, I still preferred the lyricism and clarity of The Seekers. David Williamson was being recognized as our foremost “Australian” playwright. It was as if the opening of the Opera House in 1973 had liberated the artistic voices of many Australians.

Women started wearing afro hairstyles. Men started becoming more proudly hirsute as well. Some were even prepared to wear visible necklaces and bracelets. I can vividly recall my shock at seeing my own father after he had received a “bodywave” hairdo and wondering why a crushed powder blue velvet suit with flared pants had replaced his traditional appearance. Our sole Italian restaurant, ‘Pierre’s’ introduced a cappuccino and espresso machine. A concern about health saw wholemeal bread appearing on tables, people abandoning butter for margarine, muesli eaten at breakfast and yoghurt makers invading households. Garlic and bay leaves suddenly started appearing in kitchens hanging from the ceiling before being added to newly discovered and exotic curries. A new variety of shop, known as a delicatessen, appeared at which strange objects called salamis, blue cheeses and mortadella could be purchased.

 

Colour television arrived later in the year and people could purchase fridges that did not have to be defrosted. The earliest form of domestic dishwashers also began to be seen in households, although it has to be said only china with the qualities of concrete survived the wash and rinse cycles of these early prototypes. When racing to the airport to board one of the two flights that left within ten minutes of each other, one was more likely to cross Bass Strait in a jet powered DC9 than a sturdy propeller powered DC3.

But the greatest change was in the body politic. If sporting families produce a lineage of champions, if musicians beget musicians, then I was destined to be interested in politics. Teachers and academics were the mainstay of my antecedents. The family was squarely divided between the Left and Right. My socialist great-uncle sat at the Christmas table with his Liberal Senator brother. Political discussions were common. I can remember the excitement my parents felt at the election of the Whitlam government in December 1972 as it was the first non-Conservative government to hold office since 1949.

The new Prime Minister instantly ended Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War. He recognized the legitimacy of the Chinese Communist government. Within weeks, a classmate of my father’s was made Australia’s first ambassador to the People’s Republic.
The local member for Bass was central to the political changes being wrought upon Australia. His name was Lance Barnard and he was Mr.Whitlam’s Deputy Prime Minister. He had been our Federal member of Parliament since 1954. For a fortnight following the election he and Mr.Whitlam ran the country as a duumvirate and Mr.Barnard held fourteen portfolios and Mr. Whitlam thirteen!

So much seemed to change so quickly by way of Executive announcement: Universities were to be free, private schools were going to have the basis of their funding reviewed, France was to be taken to the World Court for its nuclear testing in the South Pacific, government money was to be splurged on aboriginal communities, schools, urban renewal and the domestic film industry. Appeals to the Privy Council from the High Court were to end, and a vote was to be taken on a new national anthem at the same time that an Australian based honours system was to be introduced to replace MBEs and OBEs. The Crown was literally removed from postal boxes as mail sent OHMS by Her Majesty’s Mail was now to be sent by Australia Post. It was as if nothing could be taken for granted anymore.

However, as much as Launceston felt the rush of excitement of ‘our man’ being at the centre of these changes, we also experienced the chilling atmosphere of a social and economic experiment that floundered. Launceston’s textile and clothing industries were decimated by a decision to cut tariffs by 25%. The local textile behemoth of Coats Patons literally became an empty shell. A strange foreign creature called OPEC quadrupled the price of oil in 1973 and, by early 1975 Australians were bemoaning double digit inflation and high unemployment.

As the winter mists and fogs rolled up the Tamar Valley, we heard news that was hardly credible: Lance Barnard was going to resign from Parliament to become Ambassador to Stockholm. Consequently, there was to be a by-election for the seemingly safe Labor seat of Bass. Launceston and its environs were suddenly the attention of the nation. The newly elected Opposition Leader, Malcolm Fraser, declared that the by-election was going to be a judgement on the performance of the floundering Whitlam government.

 

I still remember the next month as if it were yesterday. Every day seemed to bring a new and more important personality to Launceston to campaign. Our local mall, one of the first in Australia, was the scene of passionate speeches. I saw Gough Whitlam speak there and the next week, Malcolm Fraser. Both were towering and determined figures. Being Tasmania, it was not long before our family was directly involved in the contest. A previous colleague of my father, Jim Brassil, was touted as Labor’s best chance of retaining the seat. He was then living in Melbourne and Dad was entrusted with the responsibility of collecting him from the airport on the weekend of the pre-selection contest. The Liberals selected as their candidate another person well known to my father, Kevin Newman. Mr. Newman had been one of my father’s commanding officers in his National Service regiment. Ironically enough National Service had been another casualty of the Whitlam reforms.

Mr. Brassil’s bid for preselection failed. The Labor Party, in a manic death throe, selected arguably the most uninspiring candidate possible. His name was John Macrostie. And that, truly, is all I can remember about him. My father and Mr.Brassil were appalled at this choice. They anguished about what his candidacy would do to the Labor vote, imperilled as it already was by economic circumstance and the loss of an iconic local member. On the Sunday after the Saturday pre-selection vote, Dad took Mr.Brassil and I out to the local airport for his trip back to Melbourne. The fog delayed the fight and we were joined at the airport café by a young reporter called Michelle Grattan, who had been sent over from Melbourne by ‘The Age’ to cover the pre-selection contest. The tone of the conversation was extremely anxious. Mr. Brassil was worried that if there was a massive protest vote against the government that the Opposition might be tempted to use its majority in the Senate to refuse to pass the Budget Bills and force Mr.Whitlam to an early election.

 

 

 

 

And so it was. 28th June 1975 was the date of the by-election. Launceston did not so much vote to defeat Mr.Macrostie as to destroy him. My father chose to hand out how to vote cards for the ALP in a Liberal voting neighbourhood and was jeered at and spat on. There was a swing of 20% against the Labor Party. One in five adult voters changed their allegiances since their previous vote of May, 1974. Mr. Fraser hailed the vote as his authority to force the whole government to the polls if they behaved “reprehensively”. And so he did later in the year, leading to the dramatic events of Mr.Whitlam’s dismissal and the subsequent election of December 13th, in which the voters of Australia endorsed the sentiments of Launceston. After the election, Mr.Whitlam’s Government, which had 66 seats of 127, was now an Opposition of 36 seats.

Christmas, 1975 was tinged with the aftermath of this political tumult. The family gathered for Christmas lunch and everybody studiously avoided mentioning anything connected with politics. Well, until the pudding anyway! Maybe the prospect of igniting the brandy was the symbolic catalyst for the Liberal voting members of the family to offer their commiserations to those of the assembled that supported Mr.Whitlam. The family, like a division of the Parliament itself, rose as one, divided into their camps, yelled profane abuse at each other and stormed out of the house. The post-prandial walk became a diplomatic necessity. The pudding cooled far more quickly than the political mood of those tempestuous weeks.

Bass, 1975 probably made me much of what I am. I became a pondering psephologist. Kismet determined that I was never going to be the boy that would be engrossed by undiluted doses of engines, erogenous zones or energetic sportsmen. Messrs. Barnard, Whitlam, Fraser and Kerr and their supporters and detractors shaped me. They made me realise that the fates of societies are no accident, and that all must seek to be aware and involved in matters political. As Patrick White once said, “Everything is political unless you plump for indifference”. My world was to be one where my fascinations were to be electorates, redistributions, election campaigns, policies, Premiers and Prime Ministers, Governors-Generals and the like.

No election since has the same visceral memories for me as the intense imbroglio that was the contest for Bass in 1975. Listening to the two political flanks of my family, they both wanted me to believe that the world would end if their political brand of justice did not prevail. Thankfully, Australia’s democracy meant that the fates of the world were not to be decided by them alone. However, the drama and intensity of those months made me fascinated by the world of politics and its inevitable passions, dramas and personalities. Launceston clearly has survived those contentious days, but I sure am glad that I lived through them.

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Scratch - Article 2

It happens each Wednesday, WITHOUT FAIL, that a certain well known eatery is visited, for a specific purpose. This eatery becomes the host of a little known food critic from a well known publication. To say the very least, the ‘checkout chicks’, even though some of them are men, managed to contain their excitement and not a single hint was given of special treatment, excepting that they may of changed hair-nets. This gastronomic (gastroenteritis) house of chefs produces, or used to, substances that could be placed into to select categories grease, or sugar (the latter being removed due to various health campaigns and replaced with fat). Unbeknownst to most of the exclusive cliental that the place attracts, Not only through its fine foods and purgatives, but also through the high prices. The look that is cultivated is one of a mess hall, no doubt appealing to those involved in the back end of the marital (martial) forces. The long trestle tables make it nigh on impossible for one to sit on the benches without being pushed into a compromising position with a drink machine and a dim sim, in its late forties.

It so happens that this restaurant of culinary (colonoscopy) delights often makes wonder that there aren’t more rest rooms at school. The food served their certainly shows flair and quite possibly an example of free will, which is being investigated by the Better Melbourne University. For example, the pizza, often containing traces of pizza, is of a higher grade than ‘Hotcell’, which is something that all pizzas of a palatable nature wish to achieve. The truly surprising thing came around during the Diaspora of the year 11s. After being outcast from their only home, and in search of the Promised Lockers and cut price Chiropractors, there arrived in the mess hall a beam of rather dull light. It shone down like a ray from a two hundred Watt heating element and fell upon a small, grubby object. Before it was snatched by larger hands, the roving paws of the critic-‘a-large’ fell upon it, and the battle for Middle Earth began. The goat cheese ravioli began their slow, treacherous, and possibly lecherous descent to the crack of doom, from where they would pass into the West, most likely via Werribee Ponds. To see goat cheese ravioli, despite the fact they actually smelled like goats cheese, was amazing, and whether it was the Colombian mountain air (sniff) or a figment of a Mirage™, they were consumed.

Hardly any students eyes have peeked around the corners of the labyrinth, or bypassed the ovens of Doom™, but to see the sights which lie beyond the chipped, flimsy metalloid barriers. Rows upon rows of chips, pretzels, pies, sausage rolls, drinks, juices, ices, magic rings and oversize novelty hats and the bake-at-home rolls. But to access these, you must arm yourself with arrows of desire and be ready to fight hobgoblins and fiends, for the Creature of the Black Lagoon stands guard, helped by half a dozen canteen ladies, trained in the noble art of “if it grunts, kick it between the thighs’. To see these things, and then choose two, was a great honour, one that came at a great price.

The final part of the canteen story is the food not normally provided to the oppressed mass of the students. The food that is given to the leaders of the learning community. The countless mounds of goose pâte, the bottles of the finesse vintages of Chateau Wagga-Wagga, or those cheesy, nibbley things that are found in fancy parties, or stuffed between the cracks in couches. The student body also gets to sample such tastes on those evenings of the sports gatherings, grandparents’ day, or perhaps the occasional ‘glad-to-win’ cup, when ‘wobbles’ baked a cake, which sat untouched and forlorn maybe it was the decorative, splattered mountains of off-white cream.

-ends-

From the Editor

I had the great pleasure of watching the Middle School Play, Lord of the Flies, on opening night. It was a captivating show, with a couple of surprises for those of you still able to make it along. As you’re aware, their advertising was as good as anybody else’s, so I decided to use it for ROG’s own purposes.

As for our Realms in Focus page: We just couldn’t resist our little fury friend, Scratch. Who is Scratch? Well, the 'About Us' page sheds a little light, but he/she (well, who knows?) sure has much to say. The ROG bunker believes we’re going to hear more from the little cretin, so stay tuned. It’s anybody’s guess as to what it will come up with next!

Also joining the contributors list is the alliterated Daniel Dick who writes in a particularly direct way. In fact, his first culture-crusading ROG Blog reads as if you’re witnessing one of his rants, which (I’m sure for all who have had the pleasure of hearing one can attest), is a delight as ever. Of course, our In Focus page provides plenty more, including some heavily thought-out sports reports from Mr David Martin.

Yes, it’s all happening at ROG. Submissions have been coming in left, right, mostly centre, (check out 'Literature', 'Art' and 'Drama' for more) and it’s been quite the time reviewing it all. These ever-busy minds are not alone, so keep sending those emails with your craft. Remember, if you don’t want your masterworks displayed here, let us know in the email, and we will gladly review it for you. Of course, it would be great to earn a bit of publicity for your creation before submissions officially close on Monday 10th September (week 9).

Enoy!

-ends-

Scratch - Article 1

With next year comes the fiftieth anniversary of a most notable member of staff, a veritable, immovable fortress of academia, shining wit and ancient history. The very man who, in his distant youth, when the learning community was a school, created the institution (which the editors are committed to) called Ring Out The Echoes, known now as ROTE, the “Sun” (of the herald variety) or the soft, strong and thoroughly absorbent paper of the masses. A manifesto now and forever exclusively edited by SCUOs and/or Derham house captains. Apart from being self-advertising for the individuals that draw it, ROTE as also developed a persona from the character Sniff. A character that has this year has had two different dog pictures (no doubt it died from apathy). This Sniff has taken it upon himself to strip off the veneer of a comfortable school life, the job of yours truly, is to put it back again.

The character of Sniff has appealed to many over the years, numerous editors and people with red hair. The lower parts and organs of the senior school (upper lower Learning Community) are often kept in the dark of the secret identity of this character, but it is usually a select group year 12s who know who he is, usually prefects, school or otherwise. He likes to poke fun at the learning community (school) we have, without pointing out the benefits. We have Physics teachers who tell jokes, English teachers who are confident with their television ads, a man from the 19th century and the music school. We also have more school (Learning Community) publications than the Trinity Hedge loving society and the sober population of Ireland together. The school (Learning Community) needs egregious Latin teachers, “Salt and Pepper” Cufflinks, and people who enjoy a subject people like to call “Math”.

The start of semester two has seen many changes, some of them actually being changes. Certain music staff would still like to introduce the new uniform of a blue velvet jacket with ruffled shirting bursting forth. Some Housemasters would still like other teachers given a “good shellacking”. While the applications for the Prefects of 2008 have begun importantly in earnest, for they shall be chosen by not only the normal years, but as well as by the year 12s. It seems that the editor of ROTE may again be a Captain of the school from Derham, upon which titular titles are heaped. The new system of Prefect portfolios has been greeted with an enthusiastic rapport by the year 12s, who believe that the year 11s have been left with the dregs, and the joy of being Prefect without Portfolio. Maybe the good Doctor has taken on the ideas of a well known, redheaded miscreant, who took it upon himself, a great self sacrifice, for changing the prefect system, but only after he had gone through it. Some of the positions remain the same, some have been treated with ridicule, such as the recent drawing of a “Captain Social Justice”, done out in School crest, Camberwell blue and yellow (gold) Spandex, tightly fitted around what seems to be a misshapen potato. This semester has also seen the end of the Game of Four Squares, one that finally was put out of its misery, the shouts of Liner, Fool and “Murray with the Pass, Murray with the Pass”, have finally died and faded from memory. What still continues is the year 12s playing really bad soccer on the JTO, which continues to surpass all the anticipations of the writer, who continues to believe that it is impossible to shoot a soccer ball over the protective netting and through a window into a Geography classroom of a teacher whose very name spells anger.

The Canteen seems an improvement on Spotless, of which the “Minestone” soup and the “Tandrooli” wraps shall not be forgotten, while the locker rooms of a certain, penultimate year still need work, even after constant threats, a spell being locked out of the room and having to pay excessive chiropractor fees. Certain Scottish and English teachers of Chemistry still tell jokes that wouldn’t make one of Sniff’s dead squirrels laugh. The school also lacks the crude and often crippling humour of the largest of personalities of the Legal and History department, a man who shall be sorely missed by many, a man whose office shall never be fully cleaned.

This first issue shall not be the last (pending the execution of yours truly for high treason against the Fuhrer of the School and of the School Waffen Cadet Corps). You students of the Camberwell Grammar Community of Learning, may come for Sniff, but in the end you stay for R.O.G (well, actually you come for the education and stay because of soul-binding Contracts).

-ends-

The decline of moral standards and public expectations

Dan Dick

It seems almost ironic that of all people I would make the point I am about to make. But I’m going to try and make it as coherent as possible, without slipping into my usual overly dramatic rage which just seems so much like i am doing the Angry Dance from Billy Elliot... it’s different and strangely beautiful, but you are never quite sure what it all means. But here I go...

The other Sunday night I was sitting on the couch, as per my Sunday routine which has now been foiled by the ending of Grey’s Anatomy for a while. I don’t know what was sadder, the content of the show or the fact that it was the last for the season. Anyway, I happened to see an advertisement for a current affairs program still milking poor old Princess Diana. I’m sure the voice over was unbelievably sympathetic in what they said, but to me it sounded a bit like this:
"This week on another standard televised tabloid... we will exploit peoples’ emotions by focusing yet again on the events leading up to the tragic event that stole the life of a lovely lady who just happened to cop a bum rap from the royal family. Yes, that’s right, we don’t actually care, we just want the sponsorship deals that come along with you watching our sappy piece of 'original' content."

I know this might sound slightly cynical, and before I go further, I will express my own opinion on Diana, so that I don’t sound as heartless as those money grubbing television producers. I think that Diana was a lovely person, however, she was nothing overly unique. She did what was expected of a member of the royal family, she had a lot of time on her hands and she spent it well. However, I would guess that almost anyone in her position would have done the same thing. I feel like what she was doing was her job, what is expected, and people exaggerate what she did because she died in weird circumstances, it’s like we don’t thank train drivers, it’s their job, if one died we wouldn’t be like "best driver ever!"

But back to my point, beyond who she was in the public eye, she was a mother and a lovely person. And I don’t believe for a second that these tabloids in any form actually care about her death, in fact it was probably the best thing that could have happened to her, in their eyes. I have this image of the producers when they heard, it goes a bit like this: Fat dude in a suit, licking his lips, rubbing hands together, salivating with dollar signs rolling in his eyes.

How much can they say now that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over? This is simply riding the plane into the ground until there is nothing left. They will squeeze every dollar they can out of it until people actually are annoyed at Diana for dying because it reminds us of how nice she was and how mean we are. Why won’t these people honour her and let her rest in peace? They are abusing the goodness in people around the world, they think "wow they were really sad about it then, they obviously get emotional about it still, let’s make money!"

So what’s the deal? What is happening in this world that would mean that people would be so obviously manipulative of other peoples’ feelings? Have we lost touch with what it means to be decent? And every thing I see that is indicative of this is somehow linked to the sole entity in this world that seems to have all the answers, but also create all the questions.
Money... surprise surprise!

It seems the almighty contradictor. Women value equal rights and nowadays stress so much to the younger generations that they need to learn to support themselves. Yet everywhere now, girls are encouraged to degrade themselves in what they wear, short skirts, shorted cut tops, too tight seems to work. Not much room for the imagination? So excuse me when I get mixed messages from girls I meet who expect to be taken like people and rather all you can do is look down their tops... it’s a man thing, don’t ask why. Similarly, you get people like Christina Aguilera singing about being a fighter, then dresses like a tramp and expects to be taken seriously? Hmmm...

It just seems that people will do anything for money, even if it means going against the fundamental beliefs one has or any moral standards that existed. I mean what as a public do we expect from each other? What is acceptable?
The other day, I got on a tram and gave up my seat to an older lady who clearly needed it. Then later on that day I got on a tram to the distinct smell of paint in a back and the shouts of some young guy who was chroming... lovely.
Another thing that I have noticed is this attempt for people to get old really fast. And they do this by wearing inappropriate clothing or, even more scarily, drinking and having sex at younger and younger ages. Emotionally things that kids at fourteen or fifteen aren’t prepared for. Socially, are people expected to be mature adults, mature enough to handle things like this, at ages where they aren’t mature enough to do so?

These are the examples set to them by older people, which aren’t being taken enough care to monitor by those with power to do so. We have to learn to take care of the things we value. Particularly our morals and social standards.
I know few things for sure, but there are one or two things I like to think are close to the mark of certainty. In no particular order of significance, they are:

- If you are stupid enough to zip your fly up a little too fast, well, you face the consequences that come, and frankly, you don’t deserve what you’ve been given;
- Dieting is not the answer to weight loss;
- Soccer is inferior to AFL;
- Music will one day save my life, or end it... as it has so many already;
- The US isn’t as bad as people make out;
- Current affairs programs are a waste of life.

So, how do I end this?
I guess it works with a message of hope: think about what things you choose to value, and think about those that other people do, and whether or not those things mean anything to you before you commit to them. So, don’t follow a trend if you're uncomfortable with it.
And most importantly, never under estimate the emotionally soothing properties of a hot shower.

-ends-

Rollicking Reports

Mr David Martin

9A cricket 2006-2007

The 9A cricketers marked themselves as one of the most talented outfits at the school with a tremendous summer season. The team’s raw batting ability, tactical nous, bowling belligerence and mental disintegration skills that belied its youth were all remarked upon by those lucky enough to watch the side in one of its routine demolitions.

Matches against such sides as Mentone and Yarra Valley resembled Australia versus the Netherlands at the World Cup, such was their one-sided nature. In no way did this diminish their entertainment value, however. The batting brutality of Sam Cust and James Watson in the middle order, alongside the top order work of Andy Richards and handy contributions from Andrew May, Adam Porrett and Tom Anderson meant the side often had massive totals to defend. The bowling featured the destructive pace of Harrison Martin-Truelove and Cameron Trafford, plus the wily swing of Jared Fernando and Jack Holloway. Add to this the ferocious spin of James Watson and Marcus Wong, and opposition batting line-ups around the AGSV had good reason to be worried. Konrad Perry, Anand Rama, James Sach all supported the team well with bat and ball throughout the season. Particular mention should also be paid to the cunning captaincy of James Watson and the meticulous keeping of Andy Richards, whose determination to play through injury was reminiscent of Tatenda Taibu at his best.

Despite one loss during the season, widely attributed to the coach’s tendency to “rely too heavily on his laptop,” the team is to be congratulated on its achievements and, particularly, the gentlemanly spirit in which it played the game.

8B Blue Soccer 2007

Aiming to bring a little Brazilian samba style into Year 8 soccer, the 8B Blues started the season boasting a list burgeoning with raw talent and genuine hard-nosed experience. Such was the coach’s confidence in his playing stocks that he was able to stick with the familiar 4-4-2 formation throughout the season in a tactical masterstroke that saw some pleasing results.

Like all great teams in all codes of football, the defence was whence this team’s greatness flowed. CJ Dougall, Daniel Kim and Sidney Chen were genuine rocks in back, ably supported by Tim Moloney, Steven Greenan and Ryan Graham. They stood in front of the alternating Adam Lee and Terence Lo, who both showed some innate ability with the gloves on.

The utilities Matthew Chan and Simon Papamarkos were handy at times, while the strike-force of Jayden Flood and Campbell MacGillivray were always a threat to the opposition’s keepers.

The mid-season trading window saw the recruitment of Alexander Gregory-Allen, who added some real run to the already stacked midfield of Kerry Toumbourou, Buster Davidson and Gerard Tao.

All players enjoyed moments of brilliance during the season, many of which came in the wins over Peninsula, Yarra Valley and 8B Gold, while the draw against Ivanhoe Mernda was widely thought of as a game for the ages by all those there to witness it.

While it may seem to an outsider that such a star-studded line-up was capable of more, the coach was adamant that, “We are still looking at 2009.” Only time will tell.

-ends-

Please visit Stuz & Sniff at ROTE

 

Presentation Night

Year in Review - T. Miriklis

The Football Presentation Evening was a special event for all, particularly for legend Mike Brady's stirring songs. Award winners included Teri Miriklis and Dan Dick. Many thanks go to Mr Adrian Farrer and the Friends of Football for their dedicated efforts for a very successful evening. More details and photos to follow. Would you like to report? Get in touch.

1st XVIII - Season Finale - vs Yarra Valley

Match Report

Photos

House Music Competition July 2007

House	Instrumental	Unison Song	Part Song	Total
Steven	=6 (18/25)	=3 (29/35)	=4 (32/40)	7 (79/100)
Clifford	=6 (18/25)	=4 (28/35)	=2 (36/40)	5 (82/100)
Bridgland	=4 (20/25)	5 (26/35)	5 (30/40)	8 (76/100)
Robinson	5 (19/25)	1 (31/35)	1 (37/40)	1 (87/100)
Derham	=4 (20/25)	2 (30/35)	=2 (36/40)	2 (86/100)
Schofield	3 (21/25)	=4 (28/35)	=4 (32/40)	6 (81/100)
Macneil	2 (22/25)	=3 (29/35)	=3 (33/40)	4 (84/100)
Summons	1 (23/25)	=3 (29/35)	=3 (33/40)	3 (85/100)