April 29 Earthquakes,assassination attempts and prison breaks, Oh My!

Apologies for spewing my guts yesterday, thank you for your patience and kind words.
Things are in hand.

In 1875 the Catalpa set sail from Massachusetts to liberate the infamous Fremantle Six, Irish prisoners in Westralia's Fremantle Prison.

1970 and on a visit to Oz someone plotted The Lithgow Plot where a large-ish log was plopped onto the railway tracks to derail the monarch's train.
Which didn't succeed although keeping the Queen in the dark about it apparently did.

Australia's largest known onshore earthquake, a whopper at 7.2,  rocked and rolled Meeberrie in Westralia in 1941.

The Taranaki Herald in 1885 put everyone's fears to rest when it relayed the news that, should war break out, the Point Lonsdale, Queenscliff, North and South channel lights will be extinguished.
And we'll all be vewy, vewy quiet....

Back in 1770 on this day Jimmy Cook wafted into Botany Bay and noted that, after meeting the Indigenous inhabitants (and shooting at them) "All they seemed to want was for us to be gone".
Strange, that...
Here's an eyewitness Etching we prepared earlier.

Extreme measures in 1906 saw the Colonist state that, although it was claimed crime had dropped in Victoria, the Imperial Defence Committee was constructing forts and puttin' in Big Guns.
Yep, that'll teach 'em!

The inaugural meeting of the Aboriginal-Australian Fellowship took place in Sydney's Town Hall in 1957.

Camel back bustin' straws

I cannot do this anymore.
Well, I'll just have to, somehow, but my care factor bucket is at low ebb.

I once promised to never blog about this but honestly....I'm raw, bleeding, hurt, fragile and just wanting to cry.

I stupidly tried to contact my eldest to let her know how sick my Dad was, the last time a couple of months back where I was given a stunningly beautiful mouthful of abuse.

Since then, we've had non-stop prank calls with some immature female screaming swear words at me or silent calls or the one that tapped right into my biggest fear with some so-called 'friend' informing me my child was admitted as a patient to a hospital (did the ring around to make sure given the history of suicide attempts, didn't find her in any hospital).

We've had the non-stop calls (up to 15+ per day) starting with "Hi! You filled in a competition form and requested further information/agreed to partake in a survey/answer a few questions to win...."...no, we haven't, it's in the wrong name, for crap I have no interest in and I can only assume they're yet more pranks.

The calls stopped when I posted about Dad dying.
A few days grace and they've started up with a couple yesterday but with a vengeance again today.

Feral Aspie teen had a few major meltdowns today and, topped off with the crank phone calls we neither need nor deserve, I've unearthed that elusive straw that infamously breaks camels' backs.

I'd like to mourn my Dad, I want to howl my eyes out, curl up into a ball and screech like a banshee until my throat is raw.
But I have to remain cool, calm and collected in case the Feral Aspie teen drops his bundle (more than usual) and misplaces his plot bigtime (like today).

These arsehole calls make it just that little bit harder for me to remain civilised, to play nice with the halfwits running loose out there in society and really....don't we all want to let our inner bitch off the leash and rip some idiot a new one?
Trouble is....that is not me and I'm just so tired of being on the end of this nonsense.

April 27 through the years...and Dad is still off on his travels

Yes, I'm doing a marvellous job of absolutely nothing except stare at 4 walls.
Dad will have finished his holiday in the Glen Waverley snowfields by the time this gets posted and he'll be heading off for warmer climes.
The old boy always did complain of cold hands and feet...from all that smoking...the first of which he'll no longer have and the second which he may have some lingering effects.
His little bottle of scotch fell off the top of the fridge yesterday, no one else about, no cats to knock it over.
I said the only thing that came to my mind....
"I told you to drink up, you can't take it with you!"

1886 was the year the Otago Witness solemnly announced that the steam ship Cl!trus was launched at Yarrow for the Australian-Indian trade.
*ahem* Keep it clean!

Melbourne saw the official opening of the Emily McPherson College of Domestic Economy in 1927 by HRH Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon aka Duchess of York aka The Queen Mum.
And, yea, Melbournians were moved to thankfulness upon their knees for now their girlfriends could finally learn how to burn water.

In 2001 poor old Aussie Post had to beat back the rabid hoards who were gullible enough to believe legislation was about to be passed like a breakfast prune to allow Aussie Post to charge 5 cents for every email sent.

The Grey River Argus excitedly reported in 1880 that while the banks had reduced their rates for trade discounts measles was rampaging and no one gave a toss about milling oats.

Sleeping with dead bodies...not as disturbing as you might think...

This is where I'll probably horrify a small percentage of you into throes of disgust and send you into a flutter of emailling me with your concerns...or your used toilet paper.
Whichever you happen to have ready to hand at the time.

After Dad shot through the other night time seemed to go into one of those wormhole expansion weirdy timey-wimey thingos so by the time I rang the funeral directors it was late.
Really late.
So late, in fact, the Feral Aspie child declared that he was sleeping in his OWN bed...which happened to be in the same room as the husk Dad shed before embarking on his travels.

Picture it...it's after 1am...the funeral blokes rock up to find a bizarre looking chick in Wonder Woman flannel PJs who then directs them to a room with a bright, glaring light.
With two beds.
With a body in each.
The double take and look on their faces was a picture.
I resisted the urge to point out,
"That one is pink and breathing, it's the other you've come for,"

They clunked and clattered then managed to break the front gate backing the car/van/truck into the driveway - although Someone (not looking at anyone, Mother!) got their revenge by collapsing the wheelchair ramp under them as they tooted Dad down it for the final time *snort* - yet the feral offspring managed to sleep soundly through it all.
"Oh, have they been for Pa already?"
were his first words the next morning.

Gotta love an Aspie who can not only go to sleep in a room with a dead body but who can sleep through the whole body-snatching routine.

Keep Bovine Botherers in the High Country

I'm not getting confrontational to divert my attention away from my Dad shooting through like a Bondi tram nor do I want extra-careful treatment in the comments section in response to this babble from my brain.
But.
I'm more than a tad divided about cattle in the High Country.

Sure, to purists traditionally domesticated animals have no part in such a beautiful setting; it is a foreign concept to see a human-associated animal in the so-called wilds.
Their hooves trample whatever, they nom on whatever is available, they crap all over the place.
Hmm.

But.
Go research the umpteen 'explorer' and 'settler' descriptions of Victoria.
You will find that many, many, many areas were described as verdant grasslands with shade trees - they were likened to English parklands.
Their appearance - and likeness to English farmland - gave European settlers the idea of running 'domesticated' critters over these very lands.
This was attained not by nature but by the 'firestick farming' by the local Aboriginal tribes.
Not over just a couple of hundred years - like European settlement - but over several thousands (or more) of years.

So, recently, cattle - and their attendants - were introduced then kicked out.

Now, fast forward to the current day where under-funded national parks rangers are unable to control noxious European-introduced weeds like Blackberries, Morning Glory, Deadly Nightshade, etc,.
Go have a gathering....of the human-related rubbish that's growing in number in the High Country.
How many tracks - fire tracks - are closed due to under-funding of controlling weeds/grasslands/undergrowth/saplings, etc.
How many tracks are out of bounds due to a lack of resources/funding/sticking to green beliefs...

Whether you agree with/against the old Forestry Commission/Forestry Workers coupled with cattle and their owners and throw in the firestick farming/fire control, whatever you want to call them ....
This, today, is not the best policy.
Yes, Europeans have changed the landscape that they found.
But only recently.
Aboriginal People changed the landscape a long time before Europeans arrived.
The accepted attitudes of the like that "Aboriginal People did not harness their surrounds to gather foods/supplies" is completely incorrect as they built stone houses, created fish traps, planted crops of yam tubers et el, used firestick farming to encourage kangaroos to eat in 'farming' areas, found permanent water holes and created permanent maps of the same ....
Y'know, settled the land, used it to their best advantage.

European farmers stuck their cattle in the High Country and retained the status quo for more than a century...a favourable situation found by early European explorers, not created by them.

Kangaroo farming is impossible in this day and age - give the traditional owners their due, they knew how to use the land to their best advantage - but European development has deprived the Aboriginal People of their extensive hunting lands to gather the foods they had lured to the grasslands with firestick farming so cattle are the next better vegetative critter to retain the grasslands/environment created with firestick farming.

Muchly appreciated

Thanks for the lovely thoughts and best wishes xxx
The old boy is holidaying in the Glen Waverley snowfields until next Wednesday cos he obviously thought he'd kick up his heels due to the Easter break before getting down to the job at hand.

A bit of old Harry for the cheeky old bugger who's done a bunk

The old boy has gone, done a flit around 7pm, waited til the kid got back from footy training.
Always knew he had issues with my cooking but that's going to extremes to avoid eating it!

Saint Peter

Henry Lawson
1893


Now, I think there is a likeness
'Twixt St Peter's life and mine
For he did a lot of trampin'
Long ago in Palestine.
He was "union" when the workers
First began to organise,
And I'm glad that old St Peter
Keeps the gate of Paradise.

When the ancient agitator
And his brothers carried swags,
I've no doubt he very often
Tramped with empty tucker-bags;
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket,
For I hate explainin' things,
And he'll think a union ticket
Just as good as Whitely King's.

He denied the Saviour's union,
Which was weak of him, no doubt;
But perhaps his feet was blistered
And his boots had given out.
And the bitter storm was rushin'
On the bark and on the slabs,
And a cheerful fire was blazin',
And the hut was full of "scabs".

When I reach the great head-station –
Which is somewhere "off the track" –
I won't want to talk with angels
Who have never been out back ;
They might bother me with offers
Of a banjo – meanin' well –
And a pair of wings to fly with,
When I only want a spell.

I'll just ask for old St Peter,
And I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him
That I carried swag for years.
"I've been on the track," I'll tell him,
"an' I done the best I could,"
And he'll understand me better
Than the other angels would.

He won't try to get a chorus
Out of lungs that's worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders
That is stiff with humpin' swags.
But I'll rest about the station
Where the work-bell never rings,
Till they blow the final trumpet
And the Great Judge sees to things.

Pearly Whites and Pearly Gates

I have something in my eye.

His dentures came out for the final time yesterday; actually the ONLY time his dentures were ever out of his mouth was when he was cleaning them - he lived, slept, breathed and, yes, even fractured his skull with his dentures smiling from his gob.

Yesterday they were swimming around in his mouth, far too big for the shrunken gums.
Reminded me of overhearing Mum yabbering on the phone back in '74 that, after falling from a second storey roof (and fracturing his noggin), a workmate had pulled his dentures out of the back of his throat to get him breathing again.
I shoved that old pair of teeths aside in the little-used tooth mug to make room for his newer ones.
The ones he doesn't need anymore.

Crap.
The radio beside his bed is playing Mull of Kintyre.

Damn, there's something in my eye, again.

Chunder. Deal with it.

Not feeling particularly witty or funny or smart today.
Fed up to the back teeth.
It may have something to do with my Dad not eating...or perhaps him choking on every little 3ml of fluid I syringe into his mouth...or the fact he's now barely responding to my voice...or the non-freaking-stop prank calls.
Meh, I should know by now to keep worries and sadness to myself, apparently I'm 'boring' as both a blogger and a person.
Sorry, won't bother you again with such mundane BS.

Thank you to He Who Deals With The Most Crap

I'd just like to say a very public thank you to my hubby.
He has shouldered some really tough work over the past few years, most recently involving dealing with my Dad and his incontinence, feeding issues, bodily fluids and general gunky stuff most of you would run a mile from.
That's not something to be ashamed of for any of you - some of these things are completely revolting.

But my hubby is a brick.

He cleans up crap (literally), vomit, washes things that smell like they've been dragged through a kitty litter box, vitamises food, wipes my Dad's chin/bum, smooths cream on Dad's sit-upon (that's backside to you and I), changes his clothing, helps lift/change his position, buys clothing more appropriate (tops without buttons, easy pull up pants, nightwear without pressure-causing seams, etc), restocks bathroom and toilet with gloves, creams, wet wipes, is ready at a moments notice to help do some crappy job and even puts his own heaving stomach second while dealing with something else.

He has been a blessing from whatever Goddess was watching over us and deserves a freaking medal.

History stuff you'll never find in the National Library...really, you won't!

Now, as this blog is supposed to be about history I better share some with you.

*Some are factual...some are completely the work of an unreliable brain going on vacation without me...it's up to you to pick which is which.

• I never really took to Sesame Street as it had replaced Adventure Island. I still miss Mrs Flower Potts and Clown.
• Aspie Feral child keeps telling me H.R Pufnstuf was only a man in a dragon suit. Totally shattered my world.
• I have Magic Roundabout books from when I was little. Dougall was a lovely puppy dog.
• I still love the claymation series Trap Door. Cos I'm weird like that.
• Aspie child knows all about history but his dreadful mother hasn't yet got around to showing him the video clip for Star Trekkin' by The Firm. Tsk,tsk,tsk.
• Danger Mouse; how many of us would prefer to vote for him as PM over any other candidate?
• Skippy the Bush Kangaroo was rumoured to be an apartment living, latte swilling, clubber who preferred Joeys in St Kilda and who staggered straight from the dance floor to the film set most days.
• We often wondered if Duckula was the REAL, unmedicated dark side of Daffy Duck. Rabbit season!
• Spike and Angel make better vampires than the pale sparkly fairies of Sunset/ Dusk/ Late Evening whatever that series is called.
• Cold Comfort Farm has given us the saying "I saw something nasty in the woodshed" while last night's ep of Midsomer Murders gave us "It were writ!". You may borrow either.
• I vote for Stephen Fry to voice whatever next animated series passes the cartoonists desk...even if it's a dark, goth horror sci-fi.
• I have nfi what The Nightgarden was all about but I want whatever the programmers were on.
• The Royal Wedding is the best work of fiction for 2011. 3 stars.
• Cookie Monster does not have sticks controlling his arms. No, he does not. La la la la la I can't hear you.

Acquired Brain Injuries, sarcasm, thanks and salami farts...that's what this little black duck is made of.

Thanks for your kind words at the pity party I threw last night.
Yep, I'll be fine, just keep on plodding on and get through each day as it hits.
--------------
Got the Acquired Brain Injury kit from BrainLink yesterday; we'd stopped at their stall at a disability expo we attended last week...or was it the week before?
Can't remember, the days are blending in together.
Anyway, the kit has offered so many helpful insights into Feral kid's behaviour and ways to manage it I could laugh at the sheer happiness and scream that no one pointed us in their direction before now.
Meh, the journey was obviously one we were meant to take (to appreciate the kid's improvement more or to redecorate the smashed plaster walls in shades of puce/cerise/magenta and, perhaps, teal?).

Gee, who'd have thunk that those with ABI have increased aggression, both verbal and physical?
(That was sarcasm dripping on your keyboard, sorry...here, have a tissue).
Or lack of motivation, want to stay in bed all day, can't be arsed doing anything without constant nagging (which only triggers the aggro more) or refuse to shower or repeatedly ask the same question or have memory problems or mood swings or hear voices or heightened senses, more concrete thinking........
Yep, typical behaviours following an ABI, which overlap with many Autistic Spectrum behaviours but which have become more marked and noticeable since Feral kid's head injury.

Amazing to open a booklet and see the Feral child described to a T on most pages.
I swear I've mentioned these changes/behaviours to a bajillion specialists over the past 2 years but obviously I was mistaken and must have been taking to myself, again.
I really should stop talking to myself.
(Here's another tissue...there's a spot of sarcasm near the semi-colon key...no, to your left...yep, you've got it now).

And on that note I'll leave you with this observation...

If you eat too much hot salami you can let rip with fruity farts so rich you could not only clear a department store during Boxing Day sales but also power the entire Eastern seaboard of Oz....

So very fucking tired

Tonight I'm feeling more miserable, so very tired.
Dad is lapsing in and out of 'sleep' - not real unconsciousness but not real wakefulness.
He can't turn in bed anymore, we have to turn him through the night.
He's got a few 'spots' on his blue/black feet -feet which only turn pinkish when wrapped in blankets and stuck near a roaring gas heater - which match his blue fingertips.
Peripheral shutdown, I can only forestall it's onslaught for just so long, I'll never win the war.
I'm cross and frightened and angry and pissed off and bloody tired and all I want to do is climb up into my mummy's lap and have a cuddle but she's in ashes in a box sitting on top of the wardrobe in prime umpires position (could be the reason we have no sex life...maybe?).

Someone pointed out to me today I have not stopped grieving since 1998.
Mum died, then my son was diagnosed then I've been fighting for his things then my eyesight went bung and ta ta nursing career then other stuff happened followed by Feral kid's brain injury, my bloody Meniere's and now Dad is dropping off the perch.
I look back at who I was so long ago and I can't recognise that person.

I am so very fucking tired.

Smile at the plumber, you never know where it might lead to...

Dear Dad,

My cousins, who are a whole generation older than me, are sharing so many tales of your daring-do I'm hearing about other sides to you, the younger you.
I was doing ok until my cousin called from Ireland and left me blubbing when he shared with me that it was because of you that he sought the work he did; helping you in plumbing down at Werribee awoke the love of working outdoors within him.

Working with you gave him the preference for black tea with sugar which is what you shared on many building sites at morning and arvo tea.
Plus the bitter lemon soft drink and counter meals at the pub for lunch.

He got to pursue and realise his dream of working out doors, and in a roundabout way I think a great many workers, jockeys, punters, trainers, race goers, fashion-show-ponies, Big Name Celebs and economies of small countries have you to thank, Dad.
You see, my cousin has found many winners over the years and was the one who spied the potential in a little-known nag who came out of nowhere to win the 2010 Melbourne Cup, Americain.

So, Dad, you're that tradie who dug ditches by hand and slopped about in other people's shit, who fitted roofs, gas heaters, hot water services, who unblocked a fair few dunnys in his time, who set off to work before sun up and who came home long after sunset.... and who lit a spark in a beloved nephew which has had ongoing ripples around the world.

Love ya, Dad, you cheeky bugger.
xxx

Let's call a spade a frigging shovel, shall we?

Oooooooo, well, would ya look at that!
A gazillion peeps have read my last post but no one has been game enough to comment.
*snort*
Let's talk turkey, boys and girls ; I was a nurse, I've seen this end stage plenty of times, I'm being realistic - the emotions will hit home hard when I don't have any more strength to hold them at arms length.

Dad is pretty cactus - his body is beyond the warranty, the guarantee ran out decades ago and he's been living on borrowed time for a while...when you count the heart attacks, TIAs (mini strokes), Prostate Cancer, pneumonias, malaria, smoking, drinking and wild, wild women...plus that little event he took part in, WW2.

And let's be honest, possums - the brain is being kind to the elderly at this stage when their dignity is galloping out the door faster than Black Cavier in the 5th at Randwick by sending them off to fairyland and letting them live in a make believe world.
Yep, the body gives up along with the brain and the pooping, peeing, vomiting and stuff happens.
This is why you need to love your nurses and pay them trillions of buckaroonies.
Cos if you're too hesitant to comment on it, how would you handle it with your loved ones?

So, comment away, the hide is thick at the moment, can't say how long this will last but go for it while you have a sporting chance *snort*

Does Rolf Harris do fecal murals? Does he take commissions?

So, where was I....?
OH!
Yes, that's right, I'd gallivanted off into the sunset (or early morning PRE Crack 'o' Dawn in our case and BOY! is Dawn's crack frigging ugly at that hour) to our magical happy place, Dunolly.

Cos shit is hitting the fan in all sorts of hues and consistencies -I tell ya, don't go the prunes/weetbix/apricots/roast lamb/sawdust/any food at all after/before/with dinner, it's a doozy to deal with at 2pm,3.30am/pm and 4am- and so, dear reader I dragged the feral furry offspring (yes, he shaves on a semi-regular basis now and has facial fur happening) off to Central Victoria.
To relax, unwind and generally indulge in the many wonderful things that Dunolly boasts and the added extras that were on offer during the heritage weekend.

Then....the phone rang.
I did think twice about giving my beloved spouse my mobile phone number - cos dropping off the face of the earth is always tempting - but rang he did (Yes, Yoda) to share with me the fecal murals he was dealing with.
Cos, y'see, fecal muralling bypassed the feral child - which fact would never have left my brain unless I've somehow magically blocked it out - and this artistic talent has been blessed upon my father.
And, now I get to imitate my Goddess Kelley....and Talk Shit.
I wanna see Rolf Harris do a portrait painting of Queen Liz in fecal mural style.
How about the next Archibald...."New rule! Medium must be warm, pliable and ultra organic! One shade only! Judges decision is final and no toilet paper will be entered as a canvas"
I betcha the NGV will simply die to hang up one of these new-fangled fecal murals.
No, literally, they'd die before they'd give it wall space.

So many shop keepers took one look at Dad today and, not having seen him for just over a week and after picking their jaws up off the ground they pronounced him as "looking like death warmed over".
Yep, that precise medical term fits in with my description...although mine also involved the words "holy" and "fuck", with the odd "shit", "a ", "brick" and not forgetting "where the fuck did you lose my dad cos this sure as shit is not him?!"

Sadly, it is.
Tomorrow we visit the Gp for a no holds barred discussion of What We Are Going To Do Which Does Not Involve Heroics, Hospitals or Hoses, then a discussion with White Lady Funerals - no, for the last time we are NOT having pole dancers, strippers, circus performers or nekkid trapeze artistes hanging from the chandelier, Dad! - for a suitably boring-as-batshit cremation.
Where I might light a sparkler and wave it about with a random "woop".

TTFN

I shall not be here or there or anywhere for a few days.
I shall not be.
I will be....

But you can check the daily blather on the Dunolly & District blog.
Or not.
Whichever tickles your fancy.

Letting the inner BITCH off the leash but you can get a collar for another dog....MEOW!

So, yeah, I'm doing the whole Ranty McRanty over that stupid bint that calls herself a comedian with her crappy 'observations' that those with Aspergers are 'fucked up'.
Yeah, thanks for that, Denise.
It was so fucking good of you to fucking encapsulate the whole fucking medical profession, decades of fucking research, therapies and testing that fucking millions of people, parents, specialists and carers go through every fucking day into one little shitty throw away line for the ignorant fucked up fuckwits on the street.
Oh, sorry?
You didn't hear her fucked up shit-worthy drivel?
Let me give you a link to it HERE.

Amazingly, the Aspie teen overheard her vomiting her purile shit-infested prattle and Did.Not.Lose.The.Plot.
He remained calm, angry yes, but calm.
Then he launched into a real, proper Tourette's-powered swearing tirade at the brain-dead cow.
Thank you, Denise, we were so looking forward to that fucking landmark moment in his life, we simply fucking can't begin to tell you how fucking impressed we are with your help.
No, really, fucking thanks.

Thank you for opening your stupid, juvenile fucked up fat gob and letting out the secret that your fucked up brain has stalled at the age of 15, that you think your audience is a pack of hormone-raging fucked up  dipshit teenagers ready to laugh at those with a disability...sorry, not a disability according to your fucking fucked up brain , they're just "fucked up".

Once more, fucking thanks for managing to break down so many families' pain and struggles into two little fucking words most dropkick dickheads will have branded into their tiny, itty-bitty brains to repeat ad infinitum whenever someone makes the silly mistake of confiding their pain, struggle, fear and exhaustion of a family member on the autistic spectrum.

Now, fuck off back under the bloody rock you crawled out from and think up a suitable fucking apology to millions who live life in the real fucking world, sunshine.

Things what peoples said and done on April 4 in Oz history

Last week of the school term before hols start at 2pm on Friday...but who's counting...?
We're hoping to run away to the heritage weekend excitments.
Yeah, yeah, a day out at the wool shop is a Big Thing to me, too :P

Don't know what they were doing in South Cottesloe back in 1965 - well, I'm sure I can imagine - but they were reporting orange UFO lights.
Yep, those bikkies are awfully rich....

Back in 2008 wreck hunters released the first photo of the gun turret of the long sought WW2 ship HMAS Sydney.

10 years after the first effort those in Wickham in Westralia were reporting silver baseball shaped UFOs.
Those bikkies sure get around...

Then Aussie PM Malcolm Fraser announced waaaay back in the dim but-not-so-distant past of 1979 that whaling would end in Aussie waters.

Not to be outdone by those in Westralia, Ronald Sullivan discovered a UFO landing site near Bealiba, Victoria in 1966 when his car headlight beams were bent.
Nope, not touching it with a barge pole...

Back in 1848 Lugwig Leichardt was never seen again after this date.
Because the Mothership had returned for him....?

April 1, monster list of history babble....April Fool *phew*

Exciting stuffs, dear reader!
It's April Fool's Day!!
Woooohooooooo!

*ahem*

Flinders Naval Depot HMAS Cerberus, usually found down on the Mornington Peninsula on days ending in Y, was officially opened on this day in 1921.

The short-lived Indigenous monthly newspaper Abo Call was first issued in 1938.

The Wanganui Herald pronounced that the South Oz Premier, Mr Price, had apparently seen the light and sang the praises of chickybabes who both voted and who were gracing parliament with their presence in 1908.

For a list of Aussie April Fool's Day hoaxes click HERE.