Hatred is an affair of the heart; contempt that of the head.

An abandoned gun emplacement and a lighthouse (in your backyard). Blinking Billy Point, Sandy Bay. May 2011.

The above gun emplacement was originally intended to stop the Russians (not the Soviets, but the Russians). Yes, at the outbreak of the Crimean War the nervous folk of Van Diemens Land were quaking at the thought of the vicious Imperial Russian Navy. Alas, they were not really very interested.

Which leads me to today's Sunday Top Five: My Top Five Invading Hordes That I Wouldn't Be Too Fussed By!

Finns, Swedes or Norwegians: any Scandinavian invasion would be welcome. They're a friendly mob, and have plenty of good-looking sheilas with liberal attitudes to beach attire. I think we'd cope.

Liechtenstein: let's face it, it would have to be some kind of corporate takeover by European tax exiles.

The Holy Roman Empire: any 'Empire' that manages to go by such a name despite the fact that it was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, must have something going for it.

Supermodels: [Ezra picked this one. See above]

McDonalds: oh wait...

Comments

Roddy said…

There was a certain amount of paranoia doing the rounds at that time. The Russians for whatever reason at that time was the great bogeyman.

29 May 2011 at 19:03

Kris McCracken said…

It was just as much the case that when the Russian Imperial Navy were doing a goodwill tour just after the Crimean War, the Tasmanians realised that they were in no position to resist any kind of takeover.

It turned out that the Russians had no designs on that front anyway…

30 May 2011 at 08:41

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

This will hurt me...

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