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With Anzac Day over, and the 100th anniversary of the Gallipoli campaign just under a decade away, it’s time to re-examine, re-frame, and hopefully tame, the Anzac legend for the start of its next century.
You don’t need to be an expert in every component of Anzac values to understand that the legend has a stranglehold over Australian public life. It enables people to feel comfortable in myths and non-sustainable notions of our nationhood rather than in identifying the new symbols and values which will give meaning and life to Australia as it moves forward.
The widespread acceptance of Anzac Day’s quasi-religious sacredness is evidence alone of this viewpoint. Historian and soon-to-be appointed director of the Arts faculty at the Australian National University, Professor Joan Beaumont has observed that contemporary Australia is obsessed with materialism. She adds that ‘Anzac, which has often been called a secular religion, is filling the void of meaning.’
Without demeaning the sacrifice of those Australians who gave their lives and others who left their youth at Gallipoli and western European battlefields during World War I, this rigid persistence to a flawed tradition is not healthy for national development.
Even for those victims of war in Crete, Tobruk, Kokoda, Changi, Burma, Borneo and in the jungles of New Guinea, ‘Anzac’ on its own is not a satisfactory legend because it fails to address the social and political complexities of the Australia then, and the Australia of today. Equally important, it is not a guide post for our future.
I have many things to say to the author of this tome of absolutely and utterly Un-Australian, treasonous, treacherous , poorly written piece of sh*t, whose name is Thomas Anthony ‘Thumper’ Cranitch, a Brisbane based union official turned construction industry lawyer and union basher.
Thumper is a traitor, it’s plain for anyone and all to see.
Anzac Day matters. It matters a lot.
My great-grandfather died on Anzac Day, on the Western Front, defending our way of life.
My family are Irish Catholic too, just like Thumper’s, but we left the sectarian nonsense behind in Ireland, and came to Australia to be free, and my mob were prepared to fight and die for that freedom.
We still are, because we don’t want to bring illogical and murderous age-old ignorant prejudices to these shores, we want a world filled with peace and opportunity and freedom for all, and it’s not really a bad thing is it sportsfans.
My Dad’s grandpa didn’t get blown into a dozen pieces so that pricks like Thumper could demean his sacrifice and drag him down.
He didn’t die so that pieces of dogsh*t like Thumper could demean his courage, and diminish his sacrifice, and deride him and spit on his grave, and that of the Unknown Soldier – and guess what, they may just be one and the same – and deny that his death is devoid of meaning.
My father’s father’s Dad died for Australia. For us. How f*cking dare Thumper try to drag him down? Like anyone who tries to say that the Anzac legend is bullsh*t he is just a sanctimonious, gutless, woman-politician-targeting piece of sh*t.
What type of bloody big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splaw-footed tub-thumping tinsel-tonsilled tosser thinks it’s just fine and dandy to to disrespect the memories of men and women who fought and died for our wonderful wide brown land?
The worst type of of big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splaw-footed tub-thumping tinsel-tonsiled tosser, that’s who. The type of bloke who even hated footy.
The type of gutless, sanctimonious grub who can’t be bothered making the f*cking effort to care for the living, breathing saint of an old lady who gave him love and life and wiped his f*cking arse because he was too damn lazy to do it himself. But in his delusional state of sanctimonious grandeur sees fit to disrespect the sacrifice of Great Australians like my Great-Grandfather and his mates, the goddamn heroes who put their lives on the line to make this Sunburnt Country great.
Great Australians like my ancestor and his mates in the trenches in far-flung France who didn’t lean back on leather chairs on their highly-paid shiny fat arses, bowl bricks through bird’s windows, wave white feathers and proselytise about the political correctness about putting lives on the line to keep their precious countrymen and women safe.
Oh no, the Anzacs were too busy picking up shovels and sailing them halfway across the world to dig trenches in which they fought for the f*cking freedoms enjoyed today by treacherous types like the Thumper, who rather than simply say thanks and good on ya mare to the fellas and fillies whose sacrifices fair dinkum Australians will never forget, instead pick up their coward’s quills and take a bayonet to the memories of the brave men and women who died as heroes in Flanders field so that hopeless c*nts like him could have the freedom to disrespect their courage and their deeds.
Sticking a sword in the spleens of heroes is as easy as ignoring the needs of the widow who sacrificed her life to give you a chance at yours, and bayoneting light brigaders is as simple as turning your back on your mum in her bloody hour of desperate need. It doesn’t take a lot of ticker, not too much at all, and any weak-gutted wombat nobody can do it, just like any selfish yellow-bellied black snake can stick a knife into the memory of the Mallee bulls of men and women who loved Australia so much that they were prepared to lay down their lives in order to make our baggy green wearing nation great.
It’s not much fun being blown to pieces by a German mortar on Anzac Day sportsfans, and leaving your beloved wife a widow in her early twenties, and the lad you’ll never get to meet singing Waltzing Matilda in the young woman’s womb ain’t most Aussies idea of a great day out
But its the price that heroes are prepared to pay to prove their love for the land of lithe liana’s that grow in the golden soil of our home girt by sea.
So when court-deemed liars and cowardly harassers of women like Tub-thumping Tommy Cranitch have the temerity to try and tell the ancestors of these great ANZAC’s that we’ve got it all arse up, and that our forebears sacrifices were simply an unsatisfactory secular summer holiday, rather than the singular display of dash, guts and grim determination that made this country great, then I for one get pretty bloody angry, and want to clock the craven cowardly c*nt in the head with my hero’s blood-stained swag.
Who the f*ck do gutless limp-limbed goannas like this tub-thumping thick head who can’t even find the time to care for his ailing old girl think they f*cking are?
Winston goddamn Churchill or something?
Thumper’s disregard for the heroes who under the Southern Cross stand with a sprig of wattle in their hand is equally as Un-Australian as the cigar-chomping chaff bagger’s chucking our boys to the blood-lusting sharks circling Suvla Bay back in 1915.
A pox on both the precious Pommy bastards houses.
We don’t need the Tub-Thumper’s type on our turf, and so on behalf of Kevvie it’s my melancholy duty to inform the Dr Evil doppelganger d*ckhead that he’s banned from the Bunger forever.
Australian all let us rejoice, and on the 25th of April next year and every year thereafter until we die and hand the baton on to our kids, you can bet that unlike Tub-Thumping Tommy we true blue diggers won’t forget the heroism of the ANZAC’s whose sacrifices made us forever young and free.
Lest we forget.