McQuade, you’re not forgotten

Tallarook (pop. ±790), a town  in central Victoria, became infamous in 19th-century Australia as the folk-tale of McQuade’s Curse spread throughout the colonies. Who he was and why he cursed the town  is not known, but the expression “things are crook in Tallarook” is still in use today.

As an Australian disgusted by the way this country is being dragged into the muck by the self-styled “political class” – who do they think they are, these ideology driven egoists who love to boast we are a classless society in which all are entitled to a fair go – I thought Mr McQuade should rise again. Here are a a few stanzas from his wonderful curse:

May every paddock yield a stook, of smutty wheat in Tallarook;
May good St Peter overlook, the good deeds done in Tallarook;
May each Don Juan who forsook, his sweetheart live in Tallarook;

There is also an old “shearer’s curse”:

May the Lord above, send down a dove,
With wings as sharp as razors;
To cut the throat, of the heartless goat,
Who lowered shearers’ wages.

I homage to these unknown  battlers I’d like to add these lines (the latter first):

May the powers that be who stiffened me, by cutting my aged pension,
Be caged for all eternity, on Manus in detention.

And now back to McQuade

May those who pray in Scomo’s flock find heaven is a barren rock;
May those who on dull Dutton dote, be roundly swiven by a goat;
May all who marked the Hanson chit, spend eternity neck-deep in shit;
May all who preach mad Abbott’s lies, spend their lives ingesting flies.

Scomo is Scott Morrison, a smug, born-again Pentecostal and member of the Liberal Party and treasurer in the Liberal/National Coalition government. If it’s only his lot that are going up to heaven, why is he pretending to be running the economy for all Australians?

Dutton is Peter Dutton (Liberal Party). Seemingly bloodless and devoid of any human emotion, he now heads the new Department of Home Affairs, a super-portfolio covering immigration, national security and what else only Old Harry knows. Among the troops at his command are those of Border Force, a new body, whose name and B-grade US TV cop drama uniforms are down to

Tony Abbot (Liberal Party), failed seminarian, failed prime minister. Once known as the Mad Monk he is the right-wing Christian’s Christian. His antics and Putinesque dress sense would be funny if it were not for the position he holds, and are too well known to bear repeating here, but suffice it to say that he once turned up for a meeting with Japan’s Prime Minister dressed in a Lycra urban Olympian bikerider outfit and wheeling a pushbike.

Hanson is Pauline Hanson, a self-styled patriot who was first elected to Parliament on a platform of stripping Indigenous Australians of what rights they have managed to regain, and holding back the Asian hordes massing in some unspecified lair to overwhelm Australia and breed us out of existence. She didn’t last long the first time round, but in the most recent election made a comeback on a platform of stopping Sharia law, banning the burqua and halal food, and suppressing the spread of scientists’ lies about climate change. Believing the royalties raised by brands bearing halal certification are used to fund terrorism, she asked a witness during a Senate inquiry into the matter whether or not it was true that cows were alive before they were killed. She also urged Australians to buy non-halal Easter eggs.

Manus and Nauru are small Pacific islands on which “boat people” escaping oppressive regimes are illegally detained in concentration camps. The present government justifies this on moral grounds by claiming they are “stopping the drownings at sea”. The policy, backed by the Labor Opposition, is turning Australia into an international pariah.

And a note to our US cousins, “Liberal” in Australian equates to Republican in your country and, like that party, is increasingly hostage to the backward forces within the party. I refuse to use the word conservative, properly defined as moderate; avoiding extremes.

In a past life?

We once swam together, you and I;
In some viscous, tropic sea, aglow
With phosphorescence; corals spread
In vivid chaos, like rumpled bedding
Beneath our naked bodies.

I felt your legs brush mine; soft
As the touch of lapping wavelets and so
I stroked your stomach, watching
As your wriggled, magic sea-thing
Beckoning me to follow as you swam to shore

Where, caressed by wavelets, you took me
Into your being, rising and falling with the sea
And as you came, you cried in joy, to feel
The wavelets lap us, claiming what we’d given…

The moon smiled and earth turned once more.

I’ve got nothing against Mickey Mouse personally, but…

As I said up there, I’ve got nothing against Mickey Mouse. Well, that’s not quite true, I can’t stand his voice; but that’s uncharitable, one shouldn’t judge others by their physical or mental shortcomings and in any case, it’s not his fault, Walt Disney gave it to him. Neither do I bear any ill will towards Walt Disney himself, not personally anyway. Even though my mother enjoyed telling all who would listen that for six weeks I had nightmares over the bushfire sequences in Bambi after Bernie Jamieson took me to see it back in the ’40s, I bear him no grudge. None whatsoever.

No, none of that matters. It’s what he – or his studio, and I’ll get the two confused here, I know – has done to children’s literature that gets up my nose. Fair enough, the Disney Cinderella was just one of a long line of modifications to an ancient Chinese folk tale, that is the way of folk tales, and for the same reason I could probably almost tolerate the latest rehash of Rapunzel. I will even argue that his Sorcerer’s Apprentice and Fantasia are just interpretations of the classics – after all, the culture police condone Shakespeare or Wagner set in the Bronx or East London or The Rocks because we of the uncultured classes are too dense to appreciate it otherwise and it makes them feel good to think they are bringing a little high art to the masses.

What I can’t condone, however, is what’s been done to Mowgli, and Alice, and Winnie-the-Pooh, and The Wind In The Willows, and Peter Pan – and this from someone who was never much taken by Peter Pan to begin with. Take Winnie. By growing up only knowing the film character, kids have been denied all the wonderful jokes and subtle asides in the stories and they’ve also missed a pleasant introduction to poetry.

Look what Disney did to the creatures in Kipling’s Mowgli stories. What’s become of Mowgli’s terrible nemesis Shere Khan, his guarantor Bagheera and his tutor, the disciplinarian Baloo? The dance of Kaa as described by Kipling is a terrifying thing and I can remember shuddering at what I knew would be the fate of some of the Bandar-Log when the python said: “…what follows it is not well that thou shouldst see”, but I could appreciate the justice in Bagheera’s admonition that Mowgli was never to eat beef because his life had been bought at the price of a bull. Where is all that in the bumbling, ever-so-cute stuffed toys that populate Disney’s version?

Once again, the introduction to poetry has been taken away, but if you’ve been raised on the screen version, why expend the effort of stimulating your own imagination by reading the original?

As a kid I had a beautiful folio edition of the Mowgli stories. The frontispiece was a color plate from a watercolor depicting a long-haired, slender Indian teenager, naked save for an abbreviated dhoti, loping through a fantastic jungle. Around his neck were a garland of flowers and a sheathed knife suspended from a cord. Those who worry about such things could probably read volumes into the flowers, loincloth and long hair, and good luck to them  – zip-a-de-dooh-dah indeed – but it beat the heck out of the Disney version.

Originally written for LiketheDew in 2010.

Illustration from Gayneck, the Story of a Pigeon by Dhan Gopal Mukerji; illustrated by Boris Artzybashef. Publ Thomas Dent, USA, date unknown

Love the fact that a Russian did these oh so Indian illustrations for a book by an Indian about India