Rex in the City

Like many this coming Anzac Day morning my thoughts will turn to those barren and windswept hills on the southern tip of the European side of Turkey. The Gallippoli peninsula, where so many brave youthful Aussie kids lie quietly. Silent and still, in their own vomit except for the penetrating snore of that fat bastard whose crashed out with his head jammed between two rocks. The slopes littered with the detritus and debris of an event that they’d all choose to forget if they could remember it anyway. Beer casings littering the hillsides. Blue rip-stop nylon bodybags everywhere, as far as the eye can see. Used frangers dribbling their life giving contents into the sacred soil.

Those old Anzacs must be proud of their progeny. Well probably not their progeny actually ‘cause most probably died before the thought of starting a family even crossed their minds. The progeny then of those that stayed behind, and probably aren’t even related, who have made the trip to the home of Johnny Turk. To spread the word that all is forgiven maaate, and that anyway it was all the fault of the Poms.

As the Anzac legend sets sail from the shores of the reality based community and into the mists of the dreamtime, we can gain comfort from the fact that the Aussie youth of today will remember and celebrate the dawn service at Anzac Cove, by including it on their binge itinery, and that it will soon be up there with other great Aussie milestones of life like being arrested D&D in Schoolies week, being arrested D&D New Years eve, kicked off the Australia to London flight, and doing drugs in Asia.

Thankyou you poor dear departed Anzacs. You fought for our freedom, and now we feel free to do what we bloody well please.