The PR Blog

" I’m buggered ! It has been a great day for me."

The staff had races emulating the Melbourne Cup Day for the patients. One of the nurses was a kiwi and I piped up “we must have more kiwi representation “, Management who were all there frowned as no inmates were taking place. Given a handicap, I finished in front. 

A big cheer and excitement was a lot of fun. Like I have written you make your own fun in here.

But what happened here?

" Bugger it’ " was different. Bugger is a word we use quite frequently down under. 

" Buggered " means tired. " Bugger it " means " I am tired of it. " ,

" The white Western Culture is vastly superior to the other rabble cultures of the world. No wonder those human debris peoples hate the white people so much. "

I read this some time ago and realized that it is more than about time that the White Caucasian peoples of the world stopped their cringing at every brickbat that is thrown at them by the coloured races from Africa and the Middle East.

I have never had a tattoo. Nor am I likely to. I hate pain and am rather partial to my skin colour without feeling the need to change its colour or use it as a canvas for artistic expression.

It seems somehow foreign to me. I am rather appreciative of myself and what I look like and, though I may not be as I wish I appeared to others, I am what I am as Popeye used to say.  Because I am an Individual and you can't touch me. 

Why are people so eager to get branded these days? Tattoos? Vaccinations? Barcodes? Digital Identities? Why? 

Florence Nightingale is well remembered as the founder of a nursing order. She was also revered as a saintly vision by so many suffering and wounded soldiers during the bloody Crimean War of 1845. 

From her ministering to the sick by the feeble light of a hurricane lamp, Miss Nightingale became immortalised as, “The lady with the lamp.”

Soyer, on the other hand, was a Frenchman, an author, a flamboyant egocentric, also a culinary genius. So how did these two unlikely souls come together? Perhaps it is not as strange as it first appears. 

When I was a lad in Western Australia, the 5th of November used to be an eagerly awaited event. 

That was Guy Fawkes Night, commemorating the apprehension in 1605 of conspirators who plotted to blow up the British Parliament and were hanged and quartered.

Just the sort of thing a young Flysa could get excited about. 

The Catholic conspirators lead by Fawkes, placed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords in order to assassinate the Protestant King James 1 during the opening of Parliament, and place his young daughter Elizabeth on the throne as a puppet Queen.

When I was a kid, we used to play a game called “ stacks on the mill “. It essentially meant that a kid would lie down and the rest of us would jump on and form a pyramid and chant “ stacks on the mill, more on still “ until the pile of kids collapsed and the poor kid at the bottom of the stack would drag himself or herself out from under the pile of bodies and breathe again. 

It was a great game to play – unless you were the poor kid at the bottom of the stack. And I think that we, these days,  the normal people, are the poor kid at the bottom of the stack. Let me explain.