BANDIT LANDS 13 – VEERAPPAN, THE JUNGLE CAT

Veerappan stands with a gun in his jungle hideout in 1998. Photograph: AP

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‘It was a pukka operation’ said Jyoti Mirgi, the head of the operation Cocoon force that had been pursing ‘the Jungle Cat’ since 1993. ‘We ordered him to surrender but he refused’.

Mirgi was referring to the gun battle between police and Koose Muniswamy Veerappan (1952-2004), ‘India’s most wanted bandit’ with a price on his head of 20 million rupees, approximately US 500 000 dollars. In October 2004 an undercover police informer working in what was left of the ageing dacoit’s gang tipped off the authorities that the famed bandit would be leaving his forest sanctuary and travelling to hospital for eye treatment. The ambulance that was to take him to the hospital was a police vehicle, as were others in the area.

Over thirty policemen ambushed Veerappan and three of his gang. According to the official report, the bandit was killed on the spot after refusing to surrender. Police gave thumbs up signs as they posed by the famous corpse, which was then was taken to Dharampuri hospital, where crowds reportedly numbering up to 20 000 gathered to see the remains of ‘India’s Robin Hood’, as the press dubbed the notorious outlaw.

Born in 1952, Koose Muniswamy Veerappan had by the time of his death led the authorities on the traditional merry outlaw’s dance for four decades, smuggling sandalwood and ivory, allegedly committing well over a hundred murders and conducting the traditional business of the dacoit, kidnapping politicians and celebrities. In trouble with the law from an early age, he became more active and violent from the 1980s, once allegedly claiming that he cut his victims into small pieces and fed them to fish.

His nickname of ‘The Jungle Cat’ was a linguistic acknowledgement of his ability to elude and outfox the large numbers of police and troops sent against him in his jungle hideaways in the southern Indian states of Tamil Nadu, Karanataka and Kerala. He was said to have the sympathy of the poor, a fact that made it difficult for the authorities to obtain reliable information about his activities and whereabouts.

His most ambitious crime was kidnapping an Indian movie star, Rakjumar, and extorting a ransom from the state government before returning the star unharmed. But he also kidnapped a former politician in 2002, murdering him when his demands for money were refused. The bandit’s own description of how he killed one enemy gives an insight into the realities of bandit life and death:

“I wanted to see the blood gushing out of Srinivas’ chest. I took out my gun before he knew what was happening and shot him. I then cut off his head and began hacking off his hands. These were the very hands that wanted to turn machineguns on me. I kept his head as a souvenir.”

As is often the case with elusive bandits, there were suspicions that Veerappan had contacts with political and security officials and with the separatist Tamil Nadu Liberation Army, a faction of which vowed to take revenge for his death, according to the Khaleej Times.  His long dacoit career and the expensive operations eventually mounted to track him down suggest that he may have had more help than that available to him from his poor supporters, among whom he was said to distribute some of the proceeds of his many crimes and to shower the village children with sweets

Reporting Veerappan’s demise, the press lapsed immediately into the ambivalent rhetoric always associated with such figures. According to The Times, he was ‘an Indian Osama bin Laden and Robin Hood rolled into one: endlessly elusive, apparently uncatchable, evading troops sent to search for him even as he mocked them from his jungle lair.’ The Independent suggested India had a similar love-hate relationship with Veerappan as that of America with Billy the Kid, saying ‘if Veerappan was India’s blackest villain to some, to others he was a hero. He was able to survive in the jungle because villagers brought him and his men food, motivated by a mixture of respect and fear. The government forces sent to capture Veerappan were also said to have oppressed the local people: “At least, he does not hurt us,” they say.

The Indian newspapers were more condemnatory. The Telegraph of Calcutta quoted a former hostage saying he was glad that the outlaw was dead as he was a ‘cruel animal and vermin of the gutter’. The Indian Express referred to Veerappan’s ‘evil little empire’ and wondered how he was able ‘to mock the law for so long’. Elsewhere in India the press portrayed the dead bandit more in the manner of the outlaw hero with The New Indian Express quoting his aged mother to the effect that poverty had driven Veerappan to outlawry, though it also suggested that he commanded support more by fear than by sympathy.

Veerappan continued to be controversial and contradictory even in death. The director of the 1995 film of the outlaw’s life, boasting that Veerappan had approved the script, retitled it as Veerappan: The Original. He was reportedly responding to news that a rival director was preparing another film production to be titled Let’s Kill Veerappan. He became the subject of books and press articles and a long series on Indian television in 2007. Various legal actions ensued, keeping the bandit’s name in the public eye. It was also said that Veerappan stashed his loot somewhere in the jungle; people have been looking for it ever since.

In the facts and the fictions of Veerappan’s life and death echo those of other bandit heroes. He was forced into a life of crime by circumstances. He had the support and sympathy of his social group. He preyed mostly, if not totally perhaps, on the rich and powerful, he was betrayed and he died game. All these attributes, real or not, contributed to his being dubbed ‘the Indian Robin Hood’. In many ways, Veerappan’s life and legend are a link between the older style of bandit hero and more modern criminals who have understood the tradition and sought, in various ways to bend it to personal, ideological or commercial ends.

AUSTRALIA’S NATIONAL JINGLES  

What do ‘Waltzing Matilda and the ‘Aeroplane Jelly’ song have in common? They are both advertising jingles. 

Most Australians know both songs, but few know that ‘Banjo’ Paterson’s poem, set to music by Christina Macpherson, was barely heard of before being used as an advertisement for ‘Billy Tea’ early in the 20th century. The musical come-on has been with us ever since.

While Chesty Bond, the Arnotts’ parrot and the swaggy facing out the ‘roo on the Billy Tea packet are well-known visual icons of national identity it is the catchy musical icons of Australian commercial culture that we can’t get out of our collective mind. The immortal melodies and deathless lyrics associated with ‘Mortein’, ‘Vegemite’, ‘Milo’, ‘Mr Sheen’ and, flying highest of all, ‘Aeroplane Jelly’ are our catchiest carols of consumerism. They have called us to corner shop and supermarket for generations. They are household brand names and elements of that shared soundscape that is as much a part of the Australian way of life as the bush, the beach and the Holden car. We may not know all the words but when we hear ‘The Aeroplane Jelly Song’ or ‘Happy Little Vegemites’ we immediately think of the products they purvey. 

One of the most famous Australian products is a sticky black substance made from the leftovers of beer brewing. Long-owned by the American food giant, Kraft, Vegemite has for almost as long been widely acknowledged as the essential Australian foodstuff. Who has not been a ‘happy little Vegemite’, a phrase so powerful that it has entered our folk speech as a term for contentment?

We’re happy little Vegemites, as happy as can be

We all enjoy our Vegemite for breakfast, lunch and tea.

Mummy says we’re growing stronger every single day

Because we love our Vegemite, We all enjoy our Vegemite,

It puts a rose in every cheek.

A simpler but no less effective musical come-on for a foodstuff was the jingle for the egg, malt, milk and almost everything else beverage marketed as ‘Milo’. While the advertisers of Milo did not claim to put ‘a rose in every cheek’, their drink was said to make a ‘marvellous’ ‘difference’. In just what way Milo was ‘marvellous’ and in what way(s) it was ‘different’ were not examined. But never mind, it had a catchy tune:

It’s marvellous what a difference Milo makes

Milo is best.

The most famous of all our pop anthems must be the ‘Aeroplane Jelly Song’. This ditty has been in our audio consciousness for well over half a century. Like Vegemite and Milo, it exhorts us to consume for our dietary well-being. 

I like Aeroplane Jelly

Aeroplane Jelly for me.

I like it for breakfast, I like it for tea,

A little each day is a good recipe.

The quality’s high, as the name will imply;

It’s made from pure fruit, that’s one good reason why

I like Aeroplane Jelly,

Aeroplane Jelly for me.

But after the Milo, the Aeroplane Jelly and the Vegemite had been consumed there was a problem. What to do with the empty containers and dirty dishes? Sticky jars of black goo, globules of jelly clinging to bowls and Milo-encrusted cups had to be swiftly dumped or washed for fear of those other Australian icons, the bloody flies. 

Vegemite solved the problem brilliantly by making the container a drinking glass. But this option was not available to the packagers of other foodstuffs, so the perennial problem of flies was exacerbated by garbage bins full of empty food containers. Fortunes were made by those  smart enough to market fly-killing insecticides. None was more famous than the household name of Mortein. 

To get us to buy their product and mercilessly cut down the fly menace, Mortein’s advertisers came up with the repellent cartoon character of Louie the Fly, whose song was a kind of antipodean ‘Hernando’s Hideaway’. Louie was a noisome beast of unfly-like size who lived on filth and rubbish, dripping black trails of disease across our TV screens, originally in black and white, more recently in full colour: 

I’m Louie the fly, Louie the fly

Straight from rubbish tip to you

Spreading disease with the greatest of ease

Straight from rubbish tip to you.

I’m bad and mean and mighty unclean

Afraid of no-one 

‘Cept the man with the can of Mortein

Hate that word, Mortein, Mortein

Poor dead Louie, he couldn’t get away (Louie the fly)

A victim of Mortein;

Mortein.

The last section was Louie’s musical epitaph, sung in dirge-like tones. The viewers were left in no doubt that the great home insecticide would do its work well, protecting us from the consequences of our consuming and our cast-offs.

One of Mortein’s competitors was ‘Flick’, also a household name for many years. Just as Mortein protected the family from disease-carrying flies, so Flick undertook the defence of the home’s physical structure against the invasion of natural pests. Whiteants (or termites), wood borers and silverfish were the villains of the Flick jingle: 

If there are whiteants in the floor,

Borers in the door,

Silverfish galore

Get a Flick man, that’s your answer

Remember, one Flick and their gone.

As well as our fascination with incineration and liquidation in the effort to protect family and home, we also worried about protecting ourselves from dirt. Cleanliness was not only next to Godliness, it cost so the advertisers assured us, next to nothing to attain. And it could be done in a jiffy.

The strangely small, balding Mr Sheen appeared in the early years of telly and has returned from time to time, ever since. Mr Sheen cleaned your furniture in the twinkling of an eye – ‘it only takes one spray; to wax and polish it away’

Oh, Mr Sheen, Mr Sheen

You’re the quickest waxing trick we’ve ever seen

It only takes one spray; wipe it over right away.

Wax and polish as you dust with Mr Sheen…

Excavating these musical icons of Australian commercial culture encourages some interesting speculations about our deeper concerns. Our pioneering ancestors feared the great unknown emptiness, its savagery and what they thought of as the strangeness of its animal and human inhabitants. In the age of consumption these paranoias have remained in our commercial culture. Protection from insects, dirt and poor health is a continual theme in these ditties. 

As well as these cultural condoms we have sought to draw around us, Australians have been obsessed with foods that do us good and with avoiding the consequences of the filth resulting from our cast-offs. We have consumed concoctions as odd as the residue of beer-brewing, malted eggs and sugared gelatine. When we have finished eating and drinking, we have been concerned to clean up after ourselves, to make the grot disappear in the twinkling of an eye.

There are important differences between the visual and the musical icons of Australian commercial culture. The manly Chesty Bond, the stubborn Billy Tea swaggy and the bold colours of the Arnotts’ parrot suggest virility and confidence. But many of our most characteristic advertising ditties imply that we are really a nation of ‘Ovalteenies’, worried about our health and frightened of a bit of dirt and a few flies. Perhaps, in the slogan of another famous commercial of the past, Chesty Bond likes nothing better than ‘a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie-down’?

THE WHORES’ PETITION

Portrait of Barbara Villiers, Countess of Castlemaine, 1st Duchess of Cleveland (1640-1709)

This satirical petition was supposedly written by Elizabeth Cresswell, Damaris Page and other brothel keeps to Lady Castlemaine (Barbara Villiers), the mistress of Charles II. March 1668. It treats Lady Castlemaine as a high-class prostitute, and so, as one of their own. The petition appeared in the iimediate aftermath of the ‘Bawdy House Riots’ of Shrove Tuesday, 1668. Apprentices and adult males attacked London brothels and prostitutes, angered that they could not afford their services. The petition suggests that Lady Castlemaine should by rights compensate the whores and their madams from public funds.

Of course, this was all highly inflammatory and caused major ructions in the notoriously licentious and corrupt court and the establishment in general. The petition was a satirical act of underclass protest by an unknown hand/s and played brilliantly into the political, religious and social tensions of that time and place. It also set off a chain reaction of similar scurrilous and parodic satires against the monarchy and its venal support structures.

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The Poor-Whores Petition to the most Splendid, Illustrious and Eminent Lady of Pleasure, the Countess of Castlmaine etc. The Honorable Petition of the Undone Company of poor distressed Whores, Bawds, Pimps, and Panders, etc. Humbly sheweth,

That your petitioners having been for a long time connived at and countenanced in the practice of our venereal pleasures (a trade wherein your ladyship hath great experience, and for your diligence therein have arrived to high and eminent advancement for these late years), but now we, through the rage and malice of a company of London apprentices and other malicious and very bad persons, being mechanic, rude and ill-bred boys, have sustained the loss of our habitations, trades and employments; and many of us that have had foul play in the court and sports of Venus, being full of ulcers, but were in a hopeful way of recovery, have our cures retarded through this barbarous and un-Venus like usage, and all of us exposed to very hard shifts, being made uncapable of giving that entertainment, as the honor and dignity of such persons as frequented our houses doth call for, as your ladyship by your own practice hath experimented the knowledge of.

We therefore being moved by the imminent danger now impending and the great sense of our present suffering, do implore your Honor to improve your interest, which (all know) is great that some speedy relief may be afforded us, to prevent our utter ruin and undoing. And that such a sure course may be taken with the ringleaders and abettors of these evil disposed persons that a stop may be put unto them before they come to your honor’s palace and bring contempt upon your worshiping of Venus, the great goddess whom we all adore.

Wherefore in our devotion (your honor being eminently concerned with us) we humbly judge it mete that you procure the French, Irish and English Hectors, being our approved friends, to be our guard, aid and protectors, and to free us from these ill home-bred slaves that threaten your destruction as well as ours that so your ladyship may escape our present calamity. Else we know not how soon it may be your honor’s own case: for should your eminency but once fall into these rough hands, you may expect no more favor than they have shown unto us poor inferior whores.

Will your eminency therefore be pleased to consider how highly it concerns you to restore us to our former practice with honor, freedom and safety; for which we shall oblige ourselves by as many oaths as you please, to contribute to your ladyship (as our sisters do at Rome and Venice to His Holiness the Pope) that we may have your protection in the exercise of all our Venereal pleasures. And we shall endeavor, as our bounden duty, the promoting of your great name and the preservation of your honor, safety and interest, with the hazard of our lives, fortunes and honesty.

And your petitioners shall (as by custom bound) evermore pray, etc.

Signed by us, Madam Cresswell and Damaris Page, in the behalf of our sisters and fellow sufferers (in this day of our calamity) in Dog and Bitch Yard, Lukenor’s Lane, Saffron Hill, Moorfields, Chiswell Street, Rosemary Lane, Nightingale Lane, Ratcliffe Highway, Well Close, East Smithfield etc., this present 25th cay of March 1668.

SPLENDID HELLS AND SKINNING HOUSES – The Lingo of American Gamblers

Playing Faro, Arizona 1895 (Wikipedia)

A nineteenth gambler named Mike Macdonald is credited with the phrase ‘There is a sucker born every minute’ and gambling of all kinds was big business in the expansion of America. The first major surge was from around 1800 to the mid-1830s. Games such as faro, craps, monte and, later, klondike became established with the sharpers, or professional gamblers, preying on the suckers with all manner of rigged games, stacked decks and a host of other tricks and traps. So prevalent and frequently ruinous was the urge to gamble that a strong moral and social backlash saw gaming shut down in many places, sending the sharpers and their tricks out across the roads of a rapidly expanding nation.

The Californian gold rushes provided another opportunity for gamblers to ply their trades. It seems that the card and dice game of banco was introduced from Europe at this time (although the founder of the Pinkerton Detective Agency did not come across it until 1869 in New Orleans). It grew rapidly in popularity, developed many variations, mostly crooked and become widely known as bunco, often played in bunco parlours or bunco skins.  The game used accomplices similar to those used in the shell game and later confidence tricks to bring the mark to the fleecing. This person was known as a bunco steerer. Bunco became a byword for swindling of all kinds and the term bunco artist or bunco man became synonymous with fraud and deception of all kinds. Many police departments even referred to their fraud and gaming officers as bunco squads from the period of Prohibition when the game made a return to the criminal pursuits of gangsters, particularly in Chicago, though the numbers rackets, refinements of yet earlier refinements of ancient swindles, seem to have become the main forms of graft by this time. The once popular and powerful expostulation buncombe! is also related to bunco, though which word came first has been the subject of controversy among linguists.

A second major wave of gambling began after the Civil War and lasted to the early twentieth century. During these periods, between them, and after them, gambling ebbed and flowed depending on local politics and economics. Sometimes betting of all kinds, whether square or crooked, was banned, sometimes it was wide open, sometimes it was legal but regulated. Through all these ups and downs though, the card sharps and their victims played on, using an always evolving and extensive language of luck, cheating and skill.

The places in which these games were played and usually lost, ranged from anywhere flat space where dice could be thrown or cards laid, all the way through to elaborate resorts and casinos. The best of these palaces of pleasure and financial pain were known as splendid hells, hell being an old description for gambling dens. Those cheap premises where players set up their own games were known as wolf traps, skinning houses or deadfalls. They were also known as ten percent halls from the size of the cut that the individual gambling entrepreneur gave to the house for the privilege of playing there. If a player got a square deal – the origin of the current phrase – at any of these places it was an oversight.

One of the means devised to make sure that suckers did not prosper was the mechanical dealing box. The first of these seems to have surfaced in the early 1820s. It was a brass box, slightly larger than a standard deck of cards and with thumbhole on the top through which the dealer slid each card out of a slit in the side. A spring pushed the remaining cards to the top as each one was dealt. The potential for chicanery – already developed to a high art in hand dealing – now increased exponentially. Dealing boxes were rigged with a bewildering variety of fiendishly cunning devices for cheating with names like the tongue-tell and the sand-tell, the needle squeeze or the end-squeeze. One was called the gaff, a new variation on an old and widely used word having a long association with the arts of deception. These devices were all legal and could be purchased from specialised suppliers, along with marked and otherwise rigged decks of cards, dice, roulette wheels and hold-outs for secreting cards on the body or beneath the poker table. When all these devices and techniques failed or were unavailable, the gambler could always fall back on the folk wisdom in the traditional rhyme:

Cut ‘em thin, sure to win,

Cut ‘em deep, sure to weep.

The jargon of the many forms of gambling that have evolved in modern times is large and long. Sucker has extended to a sucker bet and there are a variety of words for unskilled or unwary players, including degenerate, meaning a compulsive gambler, a mush (possibly from Romany) is a player who always has bad luck, while a pigeon is a naive gambler. A whale bets extremely large amounts each round, and a square is an inexperienced gambler. Sharp, sharper or shark is still used to denote a professional gambler. One could be skinned, rooked, taken down, fleeced, bilked, milked, bled dry or gypped, among many other expensive consequences. Even the eminent writer and wit, Oscar Wilde, was not safe from the wiles of the notorious bunco man, ‘Hungry’ Joe Louis. He took Wilde for the enormous sum of $5000 during the celebrity’s tour of the United States in 1882. Fortunately, Oscar rapidly stopped payment on the cheque he had wisely given Hungry Joe rather than the cash that these accomplished con men preferred. If the great man responded to this experience with one of his famously well-turned quips, it is not recorded.

In his account of the New York underworld, Low Life (1991), Luc Sante notes how many terms from the card game faro have passed into popular parlance. Faro was a development of an ancient game that had many variations in Europe and Britain, arriving in America at the end of the eighteenth century, spreading across the country during the nineteenth century. It was a complex game in which many betting possibilities could be wagered by the player against the house, represented by a dealer and an assistant. Faro involved twenty-five draws or turns, with the final turn being the one on which most could be won – or lost. The assistant’s job was to replicate a smaller version of the game in a special box, or case-keeper, allowing the dealer to predict how the last turn would go. Although faro was so blatantly rigged it was apparently considered to be a fairer form of gambling than any other, one reason for its great and enduring popularity. This had faded by the turn of the twentieth century, but words and terms such as parlay, keeping tabs on someone or something, piking, to break even, to string along, to be a pigeon and to be in hock are all identified by Sante as having their origins in the hazardous diversion of faro.

Inevitably, gambling lingo has more than its fair share of terms for losing money. These brokisms include being down to the felt, tapped out and dropping money. A player on a losing streak may be cold and scared money is cash that you cannot afford to lose. A bad beat in poker occurs when a player expects to win the pot but loses, while drawing dead is to have an inevitably losing hand, as revealed by subsequent events in the game. According to poker legend, the ultimate losing combination of a dead man’s hand stems from the fact that Wild Bill Hickock was shot dead in 1877 while holding a hand of a pair of aces and a pair of eights, usually said to have been in black coloured suites.

Now, as then, the great and the obscure still flock to lose their earnings and sometimes more in a variety of bedazzling new as well as tried and true old ways. Bunco even made a return to the gambling precincts of New York in the 1980s and online gambling through the World Wide Web is a massive industry. The language of gambling reflects this ongoing tradition. Some of the older gambling terms, or new terms with similar meanings, are in current use. A carpet joint is a luxurious casino, while a sawdust joint is a very basic gambling club. Shills are employed in similar roles to those working for the fleecer in the shell game. They will play at tables on behalf of the house to fill up empty seats until real players arrive. A mechanic is still a dealer who cheats players, as he or she has been for well over a century and grease means a bribe. The commission taken by a casino is known as juice, vigorish or vig. A term associated with circus and carnival speech is also used in modern gambling lingo. The nut can refer either to the overheads incurred in running a gambling house or to the amount a gambler plans to win. It is also used in circus and carny speech. To crack the nut is to win enough to pay for all costs together with a profit margin, also termed white meat.

19th century casino, At the House of the Bronze Door, New York

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THE ANZAC PRESS – A Gallery of Australian and New Zealand Trench Journal Art from World War 1

Australian and New Zealand soldiers of World War 1 created their own newspapers and magazines. Known as ‘trench journals’, this soldiers’ press were the unofficial publications of active duty soldiers, about their experiences and for other soldiers. They tended to be crude, irreverent, often critical of authority and the conduct of the war – and very funny. Other allied soldiery also had their own trench journals, as did the Germans, but these are a few of the images that appeared in the Anzac Press, beginning with a few of the covers…

THE THYLACINE FILES – UPDATE FROM 1936

 

Postcard of ‘Tasmanian Marsupial Wolf’ – the Thylacine. Hobart Zoo c. 1928 (G.P. Whitley Papers Australian Museum Archives). AMS139/4/20/1. Image: Harry Burrell.

Peggie Bassett, 94, remembers seeing the last Tassie Tiger in captivity, Hobart 1936:

“Before you actually got there you could hear it … not barking or howling, just a low guttural sort of sound,” Ms Bassett said.

“It was in an enclosure — very small — with a concrete floor … just there, by itself, prowling around.”

Full article here

 

THE BARE FAX – RETRO FOLK HUMOUR

Before the personal computer, the Internet and the mobile phone, there was the fax machine. There are still a few businesses that use this antiquated bit of early electronic communication – architects, medics – but for most of us the clacketing fax machine has long been replaced by emails, scans and all sorts of electronic wizardry. 

As well as official communications, the fax machine – assisted by the office photocopier – was also a favourite device for spreading workplace humour like this:

The objective of all dedicated company employees should be to thoroughly analyse all situations, anticipate all problems prior to their occurrence, have answers to all these problems, and move swiftly and efficiently to solve these problems when called upon.

HOWEVER …

When you are up to your arse in alligators it is difficult to remind yourself that your initial objective was to drain the swamp.

Or this:

THE TOES YOU STEP ON TODAY 

MAY WELL BE ATTACHED TO THE LEGS 

THAT SUPPORT THE ARSE 

YOU NEED TO KISS 

TOMORROW …

There were thousands of these globally distributed satires, cartoons, parodies and expressions of frustrations and rage. I collected a few together in my Bare Fax (1996), now considered a classic. Most of these expressions from below have been lost to time, though one or two survivors patter through the WWW from time to time. Versions of this one are still about:

Although not entirely extinct, the mid-twentieth to early 21st centuries was the golden era of the bare fax, or Xerox lore as these early memes were often known. But while fashions and technology may change, the need for a laugh or two, especially at work, remains the same. So, for those who may not have known this form of subversive humour (it was often forbidden in workplaces), or those who might have forgotten, here are a few classics of the genre. Enjoy.

Finally, one of the finest examples of the form is a parody of an ancient fable, just as relevant today as it was in the era of the bare fax and, perhaps, even in Aesop’s day:

When God made man all the parts of the body argued over who would be the BOSS.

The BRAIN explained that since he controlled all the parts of the body, he should be the BOSS.

The LEGS argued that since they took the body wherever it wanted to go, they should be the BOSS.

The STOMACH countered with the explanation that since it digested all the food, it should be BOSS.

The EYES said that without them, the body would be helpless, so they should be BOSS.

Then the ARSEHOLE applied for the job.

Then other parts of the body laughed so hard that the arsehole got mad and closed up.

After a few days the BRAIN went foggy, the LEGS got wobbly, the STOMACH got ill and the EYES got crossed and unable to see.

They all conceded defeat and made the ARSEHOLE the BOSS.

This proves that you don’t have to be a brain to be a BOSS …

JUST AN ARSEHOLE.

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THE LADY ON THE SAND

Rose Marie Pinon, later de Freycinet, Paris, 1812, aged 17. From an engraving of the original portrait in the possession of Baron Claude de Freycinet.

The slight figure boarding Louis de Freycinet’s Uranie hardly attracted a second glance. Ship’s boys as young as ten were not uncommon in the early nineteenth century. But this ‘boy’ was the beautiful wife of the captain dressed as a man. The year was 1817 and 23 year old Rose and 35 year-old Louis had just married. It was a truly romantic marriage for love. Rose was a commoner and de Freycinet an aristocrat. So helplessly in love were the couple that they could not bear to be separated and Louis broke every rule of the French navy to have her with him on what they knew would be a very long journey.

De Freycinet needed to modify his ship to cater for a female passenger and it was not long before word escaped ashore, causing great official consternation. But by then Uranie had sailed. The story delighted the French public and the de Freycinet’s became celebrities in their absence. The authorities decided to allow the romantic voyage to proceed. They were bound for the great south land via the Cape of Good Hope and Mauritius on a round-the-world voyage of scientific discovery. 

A year after leaving France the expedition anchored in Shark Bay to conduct scientific observations and map the area. But Rose’s husband also had some unfinished business in this part of the great south land. In 1802 de Freycinet had been with the Baudin expedition when they discovered the plate left by Willem de Vlamingh to mark his visit to the unknown land in 1697. De Freycinet and other officers wanted Baudin to remove the plate and take it back to France. But Baudin refused. De Freycinet swore that he would one day return and take the plate. His justification for doing this was ‘that such a rare plate might again be swallowed up by the sands, or else run the risk of being taken away and destroyed by some careless sailor, I felt that its correct place was in one of these great scientific depositories which offer to the historian such rich and precious documents. I planned, therefore, to place it in the collections of the Académie Royale des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres de L’Institut de France …’ [i], which he duly did. The plate immediately disappeared and was not seen again until 1940 when it was found in the basement of the Académie, reportedly in a box of old junk.

Rose kept a journal of her travels, recounting the sights she saw and the adventures she experienced with her husband. She also wrote many letters home. Her first view of New Holland, as the west coast of Australia was known at the time, did not impress her. She saw a ‘low and arid coast’ with ‘nothing in the sight to ease our minds, for we knew we would find no water in this miserable land…’ She would later go ashore with Louis and spend a few nights under canvas butThat stay on land was not a pleasant one for me, the country being entirely devoid of trees and vegetation…’ In the cooler part of the day she collected shells and read in her tent.

Here Rose had her first contact with Indigenous people. She went ashore in a small boat but was unable to land because the water was too shallow. A couple of sailors had to carry the captain’s wife to the beach in all her finery. When they reached it a group of ten or so Aborigines approached, making strong signals for the intruders to return to their ship. ‘I was afraid, and would willingly have hidden myself’, she wrote home. The Aborigines retreated, leaving Rose, Louis and some officers to picnic on the beach beneath a canvas shade they had brought from the ship along with food. This they supplemented with some local oysters ‘far tastier than all those I had, sitting at a table in comfort, in Paris.’ 

What the people of the region might have made of this strange scene is not recorded. They may have thought that the strangers picnicking on their beach, Rose in her fashionable finery and the sailors in their colourful uniforms, did not present a very serious threat. In any case, just a few days later, friendly contact with the locals was established when they exchanged some of their weapons in return for tin and glass trinkets. Not likely to have been a fair exchange, setting the tone for much that was to come.

The French sailed north to Timor, then to the Moluccas, the Carolines, the Marianas and the Sandwich islands. In November 1819 they arrived in the growing colony at Port Jackson. Here the de Freycinet’s were welcomed enthusiastically by almost everyone. The Governor sent a military band to play them along the river to meet him at his Parramatta residence. There were endless parties and the French were provided with a house and facilities to pursue their scientific work. But on their first night in the house they were robbed of their silver service, table linen, the servants’ clothing and other items. Rose wrote home: ‘You know the purpose of this colony and what sort of people are to be found here in plenty; you will therefore not be astonished at this misdeed: might one not say it is roguery’s classic shore.’

Rose departed on the Uranie on Christmas morning. Aboard were two merino rams, adding to the black swans and emus they had already collected on their journey. Also aboard was a convict stowaway suffering the effects of too much Christmas cheer. He was handed over to the pilot but when they got out to sea another ten escapees were found. They joined the crew and one lady on board as they set a course for the Falkland Islands in search of an abandoned French settlement. 

Here the Uranie was wrecked, though the expeditioners managed to save their notes and around half of their samples. They eventually made it back to France where Louis was court martialled for losing his ship. He was cleared of the charge and then feted for his scientific achievements. Rose and Louis were a celebrated couple until Rose died of cholera in 1832. Louis died in 1841. The de Vlamingh plate was gifted to Australia in 1947. [ii]


[i] De Freycinet, Voyage Historique, Vol. I, 449.

[ii]  Marc Serge Rivière (trans & ed), A Woman of Courage: The Journal of Rose de Freycinet on her voyage around the world 1817-1820, National Library of Australia, Canberra, 1996, pp. 51-52.