Welcome Home Kurt

Surely after pulling himself through 96 kms of fetid New Guinean mud, a short drag across the carpet in the Brisbane Airport would be no big deal?

Arrogant celebrity disabled person Kurt Fearnley had a hissy fit at the Jetstar counter when asked to check in his wheelchair.  Fearnley claimed that the wheelchair offered to him was unsuitable as it had little wheels and he couldn’t push it himself.  He described the alternative offered to him as being strapped to a trolley. 

BabbelOn has obtained a transcript of the check-in conversation.  Readers can judge for themselves whether Jetstar discriminated against Fearnley.

Jetstar staff (Richelle):  Morning Sir, can I see some ID please?  Can you reach up here? 

Thanks, Kurt.  And how many bags are you checking in?  Just the one? 

You’ll have to check in your wheelchair. 

KF:  Um, how will I get to the gate?

JS:  We have a chair that you can use.  Bevan, can we have a wheelchair please. 

There you go.  Do you need help getting in to it? 

KF:  I can’t use that chair.  I can’t push it, it needs someone to push it. 

JS:  Do you have a carer here with you?  Or a friend? 

KF:  My brother is here but I don’t want to be pushed.  Why can’t I take my chair to the gate?

JS:  It’s our policy.  It’s for safety reasons.  All wheelchairs have to be checked in.

KF:  I’m not getting in that chair.

JS:  Could I ask you to just wait over there?  I’ll just check these other people in while you decide what you want to do. 

KF:  I’d rather crawl through the airport than sit in that chair and be pushed. 

JS:  So you’ll be checking in the chair then will you? 

No discrimination there.  Jetstar treats all its passengers that way.

Quote of the year

It was hands down the toughest thing I have ever done.

Kurt Fearnley on crawling the Kokoda trail (ABC 702 22 November). 

   

While other athletes cheat and whinge about funding and promote dubious hair restoration techniques and glass their girlfriends and share their tawdry stories in return for royalties and botox and sunbed themselves and abuse umpires and take drugs, you just quietly win the New York marathon and then crawl 96 kms through the mud to raise $20,000 for charity.   Just what kind of a role model do you think you are? 

BabbelOn nominates Kurt Fearnley for un-Australian Sportsman of the Year. 

Rabbit remembered

The amiable looking chap with the generous hooter and the knowing gaze could write a bit.

Bech saved Petrescu for last, and walloped his back, for the man had led him to remember, what he was tempted to forget in America, that reading can be the best part of a man’s life.

John Updike (1932-2009)

A Caustic Letter

Nice try Rex but save it for the judge. 

In an unrelated story, Californian President Arnold Schwarzenneger has shown grammatical dexterity, if not linguistic subtlety, in a letter to the motley club of girly men that passes for a legislature in that golden, if bankrupt, state. 

You can read the letter here. 

At the outset, Babbelon applauds the use of language,

carefully constructed pieces that play with a

reader’s mind, exercising a full range of faculties, beyond the

obvious and literal, opening the recipient up to the

sub-surface.  If an undercurrent is pulled across the warp of

the text, a resonance is produced that delights

intellectually.  To find such creative depth in political

California gives Babbelon hope for the word.

There is a name for the particular structure achieved by the Governator but it escapes Babbelon for the moment.  No doubt it will be back.  

The Ballad of Rex Crane

My name is Rex Crane and I am a hero,
I fought in the war – I showed no fear of
the Japanese though captured and tortured
and held as a POW, after my mates were all slaughtered

I was only 15, left behind by my family,
in Malaya, just my older brother and me
We joined the other “stay behinds” and fought as guerrillas
We were only young men but we were fearsome killers

Eventually the Japs caught us and threw us in jail
My feet were beaten, my hand pierced by a nail
We worked on the Burma railway, two thousand men died
But my brother and I made it, we came home alive

Now my brother has passed but I still carry on
Reminding Australia that we have to be strong
I’m not really a hero, just one who was there
Australia’s war dead are a cross we all bear

I’ve had a good life, I’ve been lucky I think
The ex-POWs of Australia President
I’ve had a long innings, I’m 83 now
I’m ready to die quietly, to take my last bow

Until the phone rang on Wednesday and it all went awry
You see everything I just said is an absolute lie

I never lived in Malaya, I never fought in the war
I grew up in Adelaide, life was a bit of a bore
I wanted to join up, it seemed like the go
My mates and I rode our bikes to the depot

But the navy bloke there said “You’re too young to fight
Just get back to work, get out of my sight”
So that’s what we did, we went back to school
It should have ended there, but I was a fool

I did an apprenticeship, worked all my life
Ran a hotel in the bush, found and married my wife

One day I saw an advertisement, Singapore POW Day
So I went along, I knew what to say
I’d read a few books, I thought I’d pretend
Play the war hero, have a bit of a lend

They invited me in for tea, everyone was so kind,
Before I knew it I was in a bit of a bind
One thing led to another, I had to keep going
They gave me a pension, my profile was growing

Until a war researcher saw straight through me
She’d written a book about the “stay behinds” history
She rang a journalist, they all started looking
My days were numbered, my goose was cooking

My brother’s alive, he lives in the States
The journalist rang him, he soon put her straight
then the journalist rang me and the party was over
I’d been living a lie and she blew my cover

I always just hoped to peg out you see
And that would be it, my little fantasy
No one would know, no one would care
Isn’t that OK, isn’t that fair?

People believe what they want to believe
I know it was wrong, I was naïve
But you know that you need me, so I put on a show
We all need our heroes, even fake ones, you know?

The Pedo File

Convicted pedophile Dennis Ferguson is again at the centre of a media circus as the New South Wales Housing Minister seeks to move him from his public housing rental property because, well, the media found him there. 

Short of putting him into a witness protection programme, there does not seem to be a solution to the problem caused by his continuing existence.   As Mr Ferguson’s spokesman, Brett Collins, of prisoner support group Justice Action, said, Mr Ferguson was no risk to the community, was entitled to live where he was and would not be moving out:

“[The Government] would hope he dies. If he died he’d be out of the way.”

Resisting the temptation to over-react,  the Premier said he had:

ordered his ministers to convene a meeting of senior officers from the departments of Housing, Fair Trading, Corrective Services and the Attorney-General.

“The group will be chaired by the director-general of the Department of Premier and Cabinet and will explore all options and legal advice regarding the relocation of Mr Ferguson,” his office said in a statement.

“The Police Minister’s office has advised that police will continue to monitor the situation closely.”

So that’s representatives of five government departments and the police force to deal with a 61 year old blind pensioner.   Just what Fair Trading has to do with it, BabbelOn can’t be sure, there certainly doesn’t seem to be much fairness about.   

If the old coot does eventually pass on (biologically not geographically), no doubt the Daily Telegraph will keep a vigil at his graveside, lest his ghost seek to escape to fiddle with some cherubs.

Actually, the witness protection programme is not such a bad idea.  BabbelOn can even think of a couple of Fergusons he could probably pass himself off as being related to. 

This one has lured countless young boys with extravagant gifts and dreams of an easy life.   

This one is almost as embarrassing for the government. 

And this one is completely anonymous. 

(Yes, it’s Martin’s older brother Laurie.  Incredibly, despite having been in Federal Parliament for nearly 20 years, Laurie’s finest achievement looks likely to remain his maiden speech, which included such gems as:

 … one of my enduring objections in Australian Labor Party (ALP) internal affairs is the belief in inherited power for individual union officials per se. They should earn such power from personal activity outside of work hours.

In conducting lengthy pedophile-related research on the INTERNET, BabbelOn has made some startling discoveries (one of which was this unfortunately titled blog). 

Research suggests that, in fact, the best way for parents to protect their children is to make the effort to introduce themselves to any suspicious adult.  Pedophiles prey on the marginalised.  To see that a child is loved and protected is a warning to them.   An introduction is a subliminal “I’m watching you” message that acts like an alarm sticker on a car.    

So, ironically, the best thing that concerned parents could be doing to safeguard their kiddies is marching up to Mr Ferguson’s flat armed not with a petrol bomb or a placard but a child, a firm handshake and a proprietary air. 

BabbelOn’s bet is that once every mother and father in the suburb has knocked on his door, the old perv will be scouring the rental ads in no time. 

On Brett Burton

Leap, ride, catch, then fall to the earth like a mere mortal, the enormity of the act reverberating around the stands, the roar sustained by the surprise, the sheer joy of witnessing the extraordinary. 

A fleeting moment to be examined over and over until it appears routine, a mere biomechanical act.  In the context of a match, a season, a career and a history, it is exceptional. 

This is why we do it.  This is why we watch sport.  In the hope of witnessing one sublime physical moment.

 

A View From Above

What one realises when one is looking from the window of an Airbus is how much of the world doesn’t have people in it.

Leaving one big city and arriving at another could give one the impression that the earth is a crowded place, crammed with buildings and cars and humans all getting in each other’s way.  And the population statistics tell a similar story.  How do you fit 6.5 billion people on to one small planet?  How can we fit in the 10,000 being born every second?

However, taking a look from 30,000 feet gives, literally, a startlingly different picture.  The middle of Australia, for example, is dry, salt-encrusted and utterly devoid of humankind.  Huge tracts of China house not a single apartment block.  Most of the hilly bits everywhere else are empty.  BabbelOn’s conclusion is that we just need to spread out a little.  Get out of the cities and start to fill in the blanks. 

The problem is, of course, that there is nothing out there.  No roads, schools, Wal-Marts or Woolworths. 

The answer is, of course, that when you live in the country/outback/hinterland/wilderness you don’t need Haagan Daas and Youtube.  And you can probably still get Youtube with a decent broadband satellite network (the Australian government is spending $43 billion rolling one out as you read this).

The jobs are in the city, you cry.  But is your job really all it’s cracked up to be?  How many city dwellers as they stand rocking, sharing each others’ body odour and iPods, are filled with the joys of their careers or are even just happy to be going to work?  Most of those who are still functional are working out how many more years until they can pay off the mortgage and retire to somewhere else.  How many people do you hear say “I can’t wait to quit work and move to the city?  Somewhere really noisy and crowded with poor services and nowhere to park.” 

What about the restaurants and clubs and theatres you cry?  How many times a year do you go to a restaurant, club or theatre BabbelOn cries right back at you. 

The real reason not to move to the country, of course, is that the people who live there are the ones who didn’t have the wit or the drive to get out in the first place.  Or they are dole cheats and bail jumpers hiding out.  In other words, you new neighbours will be bogans or ferals.

But this is a short term problem.  In the olden days (last century or was it the one before?) all the clever, well-bred types resided in the country and the cities were home to the criminals and degenerates.  We simply need to reverse the flow.

If the kids complain, tell them they can have a horse or a motorbike.  If you think you will miss your friends, take them with you.

Leave your mortgage, your carbon footprint, your daily commute and your private school fees behind.  If the government was smart (ie if BabbelOn was President King) it would spend some of that $43 gazillion on subsidised solar panels, and 10 hectares and a mule, for all those who agree to swap Balmain for Ballarat, Longueville for Longreach, and Killara for Kununurra.

Two Degrees of Desperation

According to the popular press, the greatest existential threats to Western Civilisation are climate change and Islamic fundamentalism.

To BabbelOn’s eye, this means that the West is locked in a battle with the two great religions of our time.

On one side, zealots with a cause and on the other side the Taliban.

The consensus scientific opinion is that the planet is warming and it’s all the fault of the pesky humans (plus a few farting ruminants).   Notwithstanding this, on the other side of the melting glacier are the sceptics, inconveniently bleating that the sky is not falling and brandishing their own infallible research papers.

If the experts are right, a two degree rise in temperature will cause species extinction and irreparable damage to the food chain.  In other, less inflammatory language – Armageddon.

At a recent environmental enlightenment encounter attended by your correspondent, an emissions expert (species carbonus flatulus) emitted the following factoid:

Australia’s average annual greenhouse gas emissions are about 27 tonnes per capita.  In order to avoid a two degree global temperature rise, those emissions would need to be reduced to 3 tonnes per capita.

That’s right, Australia’s average emissions would need to be cut by a factor of 9.

BabbelOn does not want to appear unduly alarmist (not yet anyway) but to put this into perspective, countries with CO2 emissions at 3 tonnes per capita right now include Egypt, Albania and the Cook Islands.

Now it’s time to become alarmist.  There is no way that Australia is going to achieve this target.

Faced with the looming end of days, any rational reader would turn to religion.  The intriguing question du jour for BabbelOn is – just what religion should one choose?

The environmental zealots will have no trouble embracing the challenge by recycling their waste, growing their own food and living out their green survivalist fantasies, knowing that Mother Earth will rebirth in the end after purging the cancer (species homo consumptus).

The climate change sceptics will go down fighting, defiant to the end, brandishing their own bible. 

For the rest of us, inhabiting the rather large but rapidly melting middle ground, there is an answer.  

The only thing that can save us from Armageddon is a slashed carbon footprint.  BabbelOn has done the research and found the solution which addresses both the scientific and religious dilemmas.  Like all radical ideas it won’t please everyone and will require some short term pain.

Our saviour could be, not Muhamed exactly, but the Taliban.

Imagine it – a climate change caliphate – arcing like a green scimitar across the world.  No TV, radio or cinema.  No ipods or plasma.  No large air conditioned buildings like schools or hospitals or offices.  No air travel.  No CNN or MTV.  And a kicking afterlife filled with grain-fed virgins.

You can say what you like about the Taliban but they do run a low carbon economy.  Australia could quickly have the the economic output of, say, Afghanistan.

So, get on board the Taliban train.  But make your conversion quick. These guys make the Spanish inquisition look like a Monty Python sketch.

The Perils and Joys of Public Transport #2

In the week before Mother’s Day, BabbelOn presents readers with the following public transport vignette. 

One morning, a boy boards the 203 bus to Wynyard and buys a ticket, with his mother and two younger boys (possibly his brothers) waiting behind him.

As he walks to the back of the bus, his mother helpfully observes, in a voice that all can hear:

“He’s in training, he’s going to high school next year.”

Ah, mothers.   

Unfortunately for the lad, his humiliation is only beginning.

Our young hero sits near the back, in an area that would normally be considered cool.  His mother plants herself next to him, instantly raising the temperature from cool to smothered.  

The younger boys sit in front.  Not quite far enough away as it turns out. 

Now begins the running commentary.  BabbelOn gives up all hope of reading his novel.

“You need to sit near a window so you can memorise all of this.” 

Ironically, our hero is probably trying to forget as much as possible.  He nevertheless stares out the window, like a condemned man planning a desperate escape. 

He makes a few quiet “boom boom” noises.  This raises Mum’s ire. 

“Now I’ve got a problem.”

(You certainly appear to, your correspondent notes uncharitably.)

“Give up the beatbox sounds.  Maybe you do need the special needs high school after all.  You are extremely bright, athletically gifted, you know a lot about sailing, you’re a really good swimmer, there is just this one thing to work on.”

Presumably the beatbox.

The kid yawns.  Gutsy.

“And don’t yawn like that.  Only a one year old yawns like that.  You’re 11.”

The younger boys don’t escape her hawk-like eye:

“Why can’t they just sit on the seats.  They’re going to hit their heads on the aluminium bar.” 

And, in a voice that stuns all on the bus: 

“Nicholas, put your head up!” 

Nicholas gives himself whiplash.   

Back to the eldest victim. 

“If there’s an accident, stay on the bus unless you’re a witness.”

On reflection, this statement doesn’t even make sense.  If you’re a witness, get off the bus?  Meanwhile, the kid is probably praying for an accident, any accident. 

“When you do the silly noise [BabbelOn didn't hear it] I’m just going to tap you on the arm to remind you.”  

She begins tapping on his arm.  Jesus.  How much more can the kid take?  These are the cases that don’t get reported to DOCS. 

(Or maybe they do and that is why nearly 20% of all NSW school kids are “known” to DOCS.  The government’s response to these appalling figures was to raise the threshhold for mandatory reporting to only cover children at risk of ”significant harm”.) 

But BabbelOn digresses. 

“We’re pretty close to your stop now Tom.”

The kid bangs the window softly with his head, like a bear in a cage.  Nearly there, not much longer.  Mum is not finished yet though.  And she saves the best for last. 

“Is this autonomic, like spasticity?”

BabbelOn is not making this up, she actually used the words autonomic and spasticity in the same sentence, in the context of her offspring, in public, in earshot of, well, everyone within earshot.    

“There’s the library.  If you want to meet someone after school, like a girl, the library would be a good place, it’s on the way home.”

At last!  A spark of humanity!  The harpy has a heart!   

Perhaps there is hope for the boy, assuming he can overcome his spasticity and his beatboxing.