When the Leaves Fell from the Bullshit Trees

It was a clear and balmy night when the first stirrings of revolt began. It was the sort of night when dreams could come true and the leaves fall like dandruff from the bullshit trees. This is what happened.

All the people in Australia who thought Chris Lilley’s shows were hilarious went outside, waved Australian flags in the air and flashed torches into the night sky. They didn’t know how else to protest at the poor treatment of this great Aussie comedian. Then all the people who loved Gone with the Wind and believed it to be a fine example of a particular movie genre also went outside to wave and flash. This was after they’ had bought copies of Margaret Mitchell’s book for all their children, grandchildren, friends and neighbours, and downloaded the movie before it was removed from public view. Australians are a little perverse that way and don’t like being pissed on by the irrational Left. They were soon joined by thousands of Fawlty Towers fans laughing and yelling, ‘don’t mention the war’ while goose-stepping about and doing Hitler salutes and making Hitler moustaches. The humourless Cancel Culture had already had a bash at Basil and they weren’t going to allow that to happen again.

Next, all those who thought that pulling down statues and changing place names is actually pretty silly, won’t change history, and has a creepy 1984 feel about it, joined the throng. A very large group (who had mistakenly believed that taking a knee was a new politically meaningful and deeply spiritual Tai Chi move) suddenly realized that it was an imported American pose indicating subservience and non-thinking herd mentality. Oh my gosh! They leaped up in embarrassment (hoping that no one had noticed them making such wankers of themselves) and scurried outside with their torches. This group included almost all sports teams in the country, and many indoctrinated school children. Oldies whose wonky knees didn’t bend as well as they used to do were glad to see the end of this particularly ridiculous and craven behaviour trait.

Those cranky BLM marchers learnt to read and do sums, and discovered that the number of Aboriginals dying in custody is decreasing, that most black deaths are caused by other blacks, and that black people go to jail because they … wait for it! … break the law! They also learnt that we have never had slaves in Australia. How good was that! So they went out to wave flags and flash torches because they were just so happy to have expanded their brains.

Another mob, those who thought Australian universities should exist primarily to educate Australians, streamed out of their homes to wave in solidarity with hundreds of Drew Pavlou and Peter Ridd supporters. A huge crowd of people who had sworn never again to buy anything made in China arrived, along with another smaller crowd who were trying really hard to buy only goods made in Australia. Ever so, many people who thought it perfectly fine and normal for boys to be boys and girls to be girls came rushing out in gay abandon. They were fed up with trying to remember what gender fluidity, diversity, cis-gender and binary meant, which damn toilet they should use and what all those irritating capital letters stood for.

There was a mighty roar of approval as hundreds of senior folk, mostly women, toddled out of nursing homes with Australian flags fluttering proudly from their Zimmer frames, proclaiming in impeccable and grammatically correct English, ‘We are the teachers who know how to teach. We know about phonics and times tables and we will not be silent for another minute! This country has produced illiterate, innumerate children for years. Shame on you all! Tonight we reclaim the classroom, so give us your e-devices, children. Take your grubby little hands out of your pockets, stand up straight and get used to not being special!’    

A relatively new group, the Enemies of the ABC grabbed their flags and torches and climbed to the top of high buildings and hills to protest the bias and insulting nonsense being produced by our national broadcaster. This had resulted in the most frequently occurring sounds in the country being radios and TVs clicking off to a chorus of (I’m sorry to say) very rude words, yells of rage, the occasional TV screen being smashed and yelps from kicked dogs. Drivers have been forbidden by law to listen to the ABC while their vehicles are in motion, as ABC Rage is now a recognized medical condition and danger to fellow road users. The Enemies of the ABC were particularly irritated that their very own money was being used to infuriate them.

Crowds of young girls appeared, glowing with the bloom of youth, and twittering with gratitude that they lived in a country where they had more than half a chance of reaching maturity with their genitals intact. Chopping bits off little girls’ genitals is illegal in this country, you see. It’s not culturally insensitive to be pleased about that, by the way. All cultures aren’t equal. By the way.

An ever-growing group of intelligent people (who had no doubts whatsoever that Bruce Pascoe was a charlatan and faux historian) cheekily put on almost-blackface (sort of paleface really, if the truth be known) and donned long white wigs with ostentatious red headbands, and untidy white beards and cavorted about trying to find the emu that wasn’t in the night sky. Some of them even put on little red nappies—I kid you not! Gosh they were having fun! It was such a hoot.

Our Constitution is a very serious document. It’s actually pretty good and has served us well. We don’t take kindly to barrow-pushers trying to muck it up, which is what’s going on at present.  As soon as you hear words like ‘constitutionally enshrined voice to Parliament’, ‘race-based constitutional distinctions’, ‘treaties’, ‘recognition’, and ‘sovereignty’, you know that our wonderful Constitution is under threat. You know in your heart that we’re getting stitched-up, that the Forces of Darkness are circling.    

The problem with our Constitution is that it’s not sexy. It’s serviceable and boring and just lies about quietly doing the job it’s meant to do. As long as certain High Court judges don’t get ideas above their station, our Constitution works a treat. It’s sort of like an old pair of comfy shoes that you can trust not to pinch your bunions. But nobody hands out money to protect it. No lobby groups have Constitution Week (at public expense) and dance about in face paint praising Griffith, Kingston and Clark. You’ve never heard of them? I rest my case. Nobody wanders the country garnering votes for it as occurs with that (again publically funded) mob of a particular (but not always obvious) shade who want to change it so that they get special treatment over and above everyone else’s treatment. I would say that was a teensy bit racist, wouldn’t you?

Many Australians who just wanted our Constitution bloody well left alone charged out of their homes waving flags and flashing torches with huge delight because at long last they had an opportunity to be noticed! They definitely didn’t want a dodgy, free-choice postal vote on the subject of changing the Constitution, as had occurred with the same-sex marriage ‘debate’, (the plebiscite-that-wasn’t). Our Constitution is far too important for that.

Finally, a truly miraculous event occurred. It was absolutely unprecedented. Australian Aboriginals of every hue and nationality suddenly realized how fortunate they were to be getting twice as much money per head as ordinary everyday white people. They also decided that they were jolly lucky because good old Captain Cook put up the British flag before any of those other more rat-baggy countries could do so. I will not mention their names here in case I am seen to be gloating or overly nationalistic. However, I will point out in passing, just for interest, that the French, Spanish and Dutch did have slaves. You might care to remember that.

Best of all, the ever-increasing number of people who claimed aboriginality decided that 250 years of ‘intergenerational trauma’ (does anyone actually know what the hell that term is and means?) and victim-playing was rather excessive and maybe it was time to get a life and move on. They even admitted that the puffing-smoke-welcome-thingy began as a bit of a joke, but the white folk liked it so much nobody was game enough to tell them that it was a furphy.

And as these people moved out of the shadows to join the real world, and took up torches and the Australian flag for the country we all share, every one else cheered and hugged them with joy and, I will not deny it, many a tear was shed. It was a beautiful moment. The national debt decreased by a large percentage and the national level of self-worth increased markedly. (The only Australians not happy about this gnashed their teeth and hid behind the closed doors of their inner-city refurbished heritage cottages. ‘Who are we going to live off now,’ they whinged into their soy lattés.)

In all honesty, I must admit that a very, very few of those who choose to tick a particular box on official forms, (that box which keeps on giving) decided to go and live on Country at this point, to free themselves of the dreadful traumatising burden of white man’s trappings that had been so cruelly foisted upon them. These trappings include electricity, schools, shops, welfare, doctors, clothes, houses, wheels, saucepans, Netflix…. It’s a long list so I won’t bore you. Suffice to say that these dissenters were never seen again. (I did hear that some sneaked back when they ran out of petrol, their Nikes fell apart and their phone batteries went flat, but we shall ignore that as unkind and cynical racist gossip.)

In Canberra, the seat of government, the politicians became alarmed at the sight of so many of their constituents gathering all at once, but knew immediately what had to be done. (It wasn’t exactly brain surgery even for the Greens pollies.) They undertook some bold and long-awaited steps. They reclaimed Darwin Port, plus all those dairy farms that were producing baby formula for Chinese babies, several electricity companies that should never, ever have left Australian hands, and a few other bits and bobs like farm land and water rights. They just did it in a brilliant and decisive display of strength. There were no ifs or buts! They even ripped up Dingbat Dan’s Belt and Road agreement. Rip, rip! Just like that! Some lawyers and a couple of chappies called Kev and Bob complained a bit but their pathetic whining couldn’t be heard above the joyous, approving cheers of the torch-flashers. Dingbat Dan was already serving a long stretch in the naughty corner.

Those who thought multiculturalism was a failed and divisive ideology, (who met secretly for fear of being cancelled or disappeared), were overjoyed to become part of the gathering. Multiculturalism had been the brain child of Al the Spiv and nurtured by Gough, and now a whole industry sucks on its bounteous teat. Dutiful Australian citizens had initially tried hard to believe in multiculturalism, even though nobody had asked them if they wanted it in the first place. Nowadays though, behind closed doors and out of the hearing of the Race Police, they whispered rude things about it. They believe immigrants should assimilate, speak English and share our Western values. Not too much to ask really.

Next, the Jacinta Price Fan Club came out in force to cheer for their brave and utterly fabulous heroine, followed by the Populate and Perish Group who wanted a reasoned population policy from the government.

Last but not least, all those who were proud of being Australian put extra powerful new batteries in their torches and were soon flashing with the best of them. This huge group included all who had found a home here when their own homes had been destroyed by war or famine or other horrors and who believed that this is a fine, peaceful and democratic country in which to live. The farmers, the labourers, the thinkers and creators, those who made things and those who fixed things, the supporters of Anzac Day and Australia Day, the nurses and carers, the police, ambos and firies, and the military who put their lives on the line for our country were there, too—all who were givers not takers, lovers not haters.

But then, oh dear me, many of the Chris Lilley supporters said that they were also Enemies of the ABC and as well, some belonged to the Leave our Statues Standing Group and thought Drew Pavlou and James Cook were top blokes. They wondered if it were okay to wave five bright torches. And everyone searched their hearts for the good old Aussie commonsense that had become a little lost in the tsunami of leftie bullshit that had covered Australia of late, like an evil disgusting slime of ignorance and stupidity. They decided that five (or even more) torches were perfectly fine because, let’s face it, when the chips are down and the enemy is at the gate, the more torches lighting up the darkness the better.

Not long after that problem was sorted another arose. The torch and flag wavers were getting hungry, especially the little kids. This problem was easily solved though. Members of that much-respected group, the Country Women’s Association, came out of hiding all across the country. They’d been working underground since being declared illegal when they’d dared to suggest that there was only one female sex and refused to change their name to Country Alphabet People’s Association. They put on their pinnies and with alacrity and love, produced trays and trays of lamingtons and fairy bread. Sadly, the littlies flashing torches had never seen these delicacies as they had been banned as homophobic and racist. Lamingtons, being chocolate coated and then covered in coconut are only too obviously representative of white supremacy. Anyone can see that, they had been told! Fairy bread is apparently an insult to all fairies, wingless or otherwise.

The sheer, unmitigated boldness of the CWA ladies inspired the manager of the Colonial Brewery over in the west to roll out barrels of beer for the thirsty, and in SA, Coopers Brewery followed suit much to the delight of its many supporters. The thirsty folk of the NT didn’t need an excuse to have a beer and were already handing out stubbies in freshly printed stubby holders that said ‘f**k BLM’, ‘I ♥ Pauline and Barra Fishing’, and ‘All Lives Matter Mate but Mine Matters Most’. Territorians are such a droll lot!

Fish and chip shop owners across the country fried up huge batches of Chiko Rolls, a much-loved Australian delicacy now only sold secretly, under the counter since the name might possibly offend somebody somewhere in some other country. Next, some really pro-active types raided the government warehouses in every town, where the confiscated illicit food was stored. They handed out boxes of Wagon Wheel biscuits (which had disturbing colonial connotations) and Scotch Fingers (which were just plain mean to the Scots) and Golden Gaytime ice creams (which offended the wingless fairy people). They distributed Coco Pops and Eskimo Pies, Chicos and Redskin lollies. They found bags and bags of black and brown jelly babies that the Food Police had (with much effort) removed from general circulation. Down low on the back shelves were boxes of Gollywog biscuits that had been confiscated in the first wave of Food Cleansing. The little kiddies munching happily into these choccy bickies had no idea that they were all disgusting racist pigs. Nobody had told them. They just thought they were little kids eating slightly stale choccy bickies. Next, the people from the last cheese factories not owned by foreigners made thousands of toasties encrusted with deliciously grilled Coon Cheese. From Cape York to Tasmania’s SE Cape, from Byron Bay to Steep Point in WA, the barbies were fired up and sizzling Aussie steaks and sausages were handed out with lashings of Australian-made tomato sauce. It was the biggest party ever! The flag waving and torch flashing continued with fresh vigour.

Soon, so many were waving that the movement and light could be seen from space. Australia was alive and sparking with wonderfulness! The astronauts in the space station sent photos of this amazing spectacle back to earth. And then — oh joy, oh bliss — the wokey mob saw that they were as insignificant as a tiny piece of manure on an elephant’s bum and crawled away in shame.

Way, way up in Heaven, the Archangel Gabriel saw this beautiful shining light in the shape of Australia, and thought he’d better wake up God. But God was resting from his labours (trying to make sense of Israel and Palestine, Syria, Donald Trump et al.) and was really annoyed to be disturbed.

 ‘It’s the Australians,’ said Gabriel quickly, before God hurled a lightning bolt at him. ‘They’re up to something.’

God peered down. He had a secret soft spot in his heart for the Australians. It wasn’t just that Australia had been one of his better shapes, he mused, although it was certainly more eye-catching than say, Madagascar, which was sort of boringly blob-like, or Iceland to which he’d given far too many wiggly bits that had made life hell for geography students. (That was, back when students still studied geography, before the Great Dumbing Down.) Australia had such a charming near-symmetry that still pleased him all these millennia later. He particularly liked the amusing little heart-shaped bit he’d plonked off the bottom, just because he could. More important than its delightful shape, he liked the way in which Australians stuck up for their mates, their belief in a fair go for all and their sense of humour. Not even he could have thought up a sacred site that was invisible! When he first heard about that he laughed so much that a mountain in Mexico fell down and a river in Africa ran backwards for two whole days!

However, God had been worried about his Australians of late. They had been following false prophets and no one knew more than he how dangerous that could be. False prophets were his specialty, after all. It had started with the aforementioned Great Dumbing Down, when they chose to stop using the incredible brains he’d spent thousands of years fine-tuning. They’d gone off, willy-nilly to ponder about ‘Snails are People too’, (five year course, Sydney Uni), ‘The comparative Regality of Kim and Meghan’s Bottoms’, (three years, UQ) and ‘The Importance of Safe Spaces for your Budgie’ (four years, Melbourne Uni).          

Then there had been that strange business with them spurning all the lovely coal he’d made especially for them, because a few ignoramuses thought using it made the world hot! That was just plain offensive because he was the only one in charge of the climate, which they seemed to have forgotten that. Sometimes he was tempted to blast them with another Little Ice Age, just to shut them up. And what was their problem with nuclear? He’d gone to a lot of trouble to give them more uranium than any one else and they wouldn’t use it! God feared that his Australians had lost the plot. They were still building those ugly wind farms all over the beautiful countryside he’d created for them and cluttering up their roofs with those silly panels that were going to be a devil to dispose of when they wore out. He couldn’t understand their odd compulsion to squish more and more people into his lovely wide empty spaces—what was that all about? It didn’t make sense.

And now millions of them were up in the middle of the night flashing torches in his eyes when he was trying to sleep.

 ‘Who are you lot and what the hell are you doing lighting up my heavens?’ he roared at them.

 ‘We’re the silent majority,’ said the people. ‘The stable core, the centre who hold this place together.’ 

God thought that was actually his job, but didn’t like to curb their enthusiasm. After all, it wasn’t often that he saw them so happy and full of purpose. ‘But what are you doing?’

‘Uniting and taking a stand for our country I guess,’ said a small girl in a red nightie, who was staggering under a huge spotlight and a melting Gaytime.

 ‘Did you say, “taking a knee?”’ asked God. He’d been around quite a while and was getting a little deaf.

‘Don’t be so silly,’ said the red-nightie girl, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t you see? We’re Australians, not gormless drongo Americans who are too gullible to work out that BLM is a Marxist mob trying to overthrow everything we believe in. And look how many of us there are! I’d say that nobody better mess with us ever again because WE-HAVE-HAD-ENOUGH!’

 ‘Is your name Greta?’ God asked. After all, she was a bit scary.

 ‘Oh per-lease! Don’t insult me,’ said Red-nightie Girl. ‘Greta is so yesterday, and if she were here she’d be part of that wacky-wokey bunch over there near the sewage farm who just crawled up into that elephant’s backside trying to find some reason for their existence.’

 ‘We are the good guys and we are sticking up for our country.’ added her little brother, who was wearing his Dad’s Uggies, and delightful Harry Potter pyjamas.

 ‘And why would you be doing that?’ asked God, who was a huge J. K. Rowling fan.

 ‘Because we love it.’

 ‘Humph, about bloody time,’ muttered God as he went back to bed well pleased. He hummed a few lines from his favourite song, ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ and was soon fast asleep.

And that, my friends, is what happened on the magical night when at last the leaves fell from the bullshit trees.

Joanna Hackett writes and lives in Queensland