AUSTRALIA'S DOG FENCE

I had never seen a Fence like this before. A barrier of wire mesh six feet high, older than the Berlin Wall and longer than the Great Wall of china. A Fence so controversial that a nation of people including politicians, conservationists, tax payers and animals lovers accept the reason for it’s existence but question the ecological effect of it’s continuance. I am referring to the wonder of south-east Australia, the “Dog Fence”, all 3,307 miles of it. Snaking across the outback from the cold surf of the Great Australian Bight in the south, all the way to the cotton field of eastern Queensland, this epic Fence exists for only one purpose, to stop dingoes from killing any of the 123 million sheep within it’s boundary. Considering that Australia flourished on the woolly-backs of this £3 billion industry, it is not surprising that the government agree the need for a proper maintenance programme, paid for by a tax levied on woolgrowers.

Travelling along various parts of this wire mesh river in their souped-up four wheel drive vehicles, is an army of bushmen. To call them “shepherds” would conjure up images of solitary, tranquil individuals - and that could not be further from the truth. These woolgrowers are tougher than any ‘spaghetti-western’ cowboy you could image. Their jeans and checked shirts are splattered with the blood of lambs whose tails have been cut off to avoid blowfly infestation. The skin of these bushmen has been baked brown under an endless blue sky and powdered with a dusting of red sand, they scan the Fence through eyes which are half closed against the dust and the strength of the blinding sun. Mile after mile after mile their eyes skim the Fence looking for damage and areas in need of repair. The maintenance of the Fence cannot lapse as one dingo can kill up to 50 sheep and lambs in one night. Not for food, but just because this cousin of the coyote and descendant of the Asian wolf is a ceaseless hunter. Dingoes will chase down anything from red kangaroos and wombats to rabbits and lizards, but they favour the slow, panicky sheep. A small wolf-like creature, the dingo is a leggy dog, with a long muzzle, short pointed ears, and a bushy tail, usually ginger in colour - or so I was told. Because, ironically, the only dingoes in view were the rotting corpses impaled on the Fence. Their scalps removed by independent bounty hunters who can earn from eight pounds for the scalp of a young dingo and up to £200 for a problem dog. This creature, who has inhabited Australia for over 3,000 years coexisting with Aborigine tribes, is officially classed as vermin. As such, it is subject to the most horrendous form of death. Large metal claw traps are set, a sardonic sense of compassion compels the trappers to coat the teeth with strychnine in order to ease the animal’s death. Even though one trapper can kill around 200 dingoes in a year, estimates put todays population at more than a million. Therefore, the need for the Fence is even greater today than when it was started, and that was over 100 years ago by pioneer bushmen travelling with camels. Steel posts are erected in place of the ancient sagging wooden poles, new plastic coated mesh panels replace the rusting old ones, holes made by emus, wild pigs and camels are mended and tunnels dug by burrowing wombats are filled in. The dingo, however, is not responsible for any of the damage to the Fence. He prowls along it’s length, under the dust red sky of evening, yelping and howling at the tempting delights within the Fence’s boundary.

The ongoing battle between the woolgrowers and the dingo has escalated far beyond the protection of sheep. The ‘dog Fence’ has become a terrestrial dam, confusing the natural behaviour of Australia’s indigenous animals. Red and grey kangaroos, the great protected symbol of this continent, having freely penetrated the Fence, are without a native predator and their populations have exploded inside the Fence. They have now become the rivals of sheep, competing for water and grazing land and in response, governments cull more than three million kangaroos a year marketing the meat and hides. Could it be that the economic future for Australia’s biggest export will lie in the cultivation of kangaroo products? And if so, will the Fence be allowed to fall into disrepair or will it’s maintenance be upheld for the protection of the kangaroo instead of the sheep. At this point I will resist the urge to quote any anecdotes concerning ‘woolly jumpers’ but would remind you that no matter how mighty the predatory skills of the dingo, it can never compare with the disruptive influence that man exerts on the environment.

A Friend in Need!

There are times when I wish I could just say ‘No’ then I wouldn’t have an African Grey parrot locked in my downstairs loo keeping me awake by pretending it’s a phone! Allow me to explain.

10.30pm, (Monday)
Half an hour between the end of one episode of ‘Spooks’ and the start of the ‘cant wait till next week episode?’ on Sky 896 (or some such number which I invariably get wrong and end up with some 95 year old bloke in raptures over the benefits of his juicing equipment!!).

Time to make a cup of tea and a beef & mustard sandwich before settling down to find out if Adam still has the balls to be an MFI agent……. Nope I mean an MI5 agent. Personally I think he lost it when the Iranian Embassy acquired the night vision goggles which allowed the satellite to pick up the 6-second signal needed by intelligence in order to stop the virus in the London underground! You may disagree…. But I digress from my beef sandwich.

My 9-year-old border collie alerted me 0.5 seconds before the doorbell rang that someone was at the door. Not sure how he does that, I can only guess he hears or sees the frequency waves as they rush faster than a speeding bullet from the door to the cordless bell box, it’s a doggy thing. My neighbour of one week Fiona (who’s actually called Flor but I’ve been calling her Fiona all week) pushes past me in floods of tears and slams the door behind her locking it in the process and ushers me through to my own kitchen. Well she actually tried to get me into the integral garage, as her house is a mirror layout of mine, oh how I laughed at her obvious error! But then realising the situation I don’t mind admitting I panicked, after all I only had one slice of beef left and sod etiquette I truly had my heart set on that sandwich!

10.50pm (still Monday)
Looking at the clock I surmised that my date with Adam and the rest of the ‘Spooks’ entourage would probably have to be postponed till next week. Fiona/Flora was sobbing and as I tore off a few sheets of Tom & Jerry kitchen roll (bogof at Tesco) I secreted my sandwich behind the breadbin with the stealth of a true ‘Spooks’ aficionado. I thought for a moment whether this called for a cup of tea or glass of wine. I find certain situations vary in the type of beverage required, the death of a family pet would, in my opinion, and in the first instance call for a good strong cup of Tetley accompanied by an adequate ‘dunking’ biscuit. On the other hand boy-friend/husband trouble screams out for a nice bottle of Shiraz! Seemed to me we were talking ‘Shiraz’ problems so I poured us a glass.

‘Don’t let him get me’ sobbed Flora/Fiona (can I just refer to her as FF from now on?) and at that point her mobile rang. Through her sobs I could just make out the other party’s annoyed wailings. Boy was she in trouble for bothering the new neighbours with her domestic situation at this time of night! The new neighbour was me, as FF is one half of the couple that moved in next door just over a week ago. Up to now I had only met the guy whilst he moved in and he seemed nice enough, we chatted over the fence and I had learned that there was just him and as he put it ‘my partner’. Well, as there was a really chunky guy hanging curtains at the time, I naturally assumed that was his partner and I must admit got rather excited at the thought of having a gay couple to help me shop, teach me to make quiche and accompany me to Scissor Sister’s concerts.

FF is still on the phone, ‘Why should I tell her I watch porn? You do too!’ (Ho hum, time for another glass of wine, this is getting interesting). Then she snaps her mobile shut with vengeance and informs me that she is really worried about ‘her little Minky’. Call me perverted but at this point my mind is wandering into the exciting world of pornography it just didn’t occur to me that her little Minky was a cat! FF then tells me through Shiraz sodden snot, that he had slapped her and to be honest I was thinking along those lines myself at this point.

11.20pm
My dog beats the doorbell once again. Being full of bravado (or is it bravada for the feminine? – must look it up) courtesy of the ‘Spooks’ episode, I answered the door. He, (the gay guy who is not) leans casually against my front door whilst I struggle holding back my radar dog. I surmised that he hadn’t come round to borrow a cup of sugar and called FF to the door. Now at this point I thought it best to retreat back into the kitchen and have another glass of Shiraz. I could hear them arguing further, first a deep Irish tone, then her frantic shriek, and then a louder Irish retort followed by an outlandish shriek. Fearing the ‘un-gay’ guy had smacked her again I rushed down the hall to have a go at her myself (well my sandwich was beginning to curl) only to see FF rushing down the street chasing her little Minky, my radar dog chasing FF and of course I joined in like some surreal Benny Hill sketch. It seems that on demanding the ‘un-gay’ guy return her little Minky, he rapidly obliged by throwing the poor wee feline out of the window.


11.50pm (still Monday)
Now let me advise you, pink fluffy kitten heel slippers are definitely NOT what a girl should wear whilst running down the middle of the road chasing a dog, who’s chasing a mad woman, who’s chasing a cat! It can, and did result in the need for a complete pedicure, but again I digress. I don’t mind bragging that my dog is definitely better trained than FF’s little Minky, Before reaching the bridge at the end of our street, I had him under control and obeying my every command. It may well have been a fluke that the aforementioned fluffy pink mule flew off my foot and landed radar dog a solid kick in the balls, or it may have been the fact I was strangling the poor little bugger by his collar. Nonetheless, we wandered back to the house whilst FF disappeared into the darkness still in pursuit of her little Minky.

12.00 midnight
I could see the ‘un-gay’ guy pushing what appeared to be a wardrobe down his drive and into the road. Now I could tell from the earlier argument he is Irish, and having been on a St. Patrick’s Day doo, I know many of them possess a strange Celtic madness, but the ‘midnight wardrobe pushing’ thing was a bit too crazy for even me – and I’m from Glasgow! Nevis, the radar dog, whimpered pathetically as he struggled against passing out from choking so I quickly pushed him into my house to recover. The ‘un-gay’ Irish guy continued to wheel the ‘wardrobe’ further into the road. Now my neighbourhood is a nice place, the residents of which would never tolerate the following to be left on front lawns or drives. They include:- shopping trolleys, dismantled cars, dirty broken ‘Early Learning Centre’ multi-coloured slides, dog pooh (cat pooh is almost acceptable because one never can tell where the little buggers have done it), discarded Christmas trees and (although never confirmed) wardrobes! My dander was well and truly up! On closer inspection the ‘wardrobe’ was clearly a very large parrot cage. Not that the parrot was very large, in fact it was rather small compared to other parrots I have known!?!? The cage however was humongous and made even bigger by the attachment of a large African tree bolted to the side (perhaps to make the parrot feel at home – I have no idea). Liam, the ‘un-gay’ Irish guy gave me the impression that he no longer wanted FF living with him as he parked the parrot behind . FF's car. Feeling as though I ought to acquaint myself more with the situation and being well brought up in that I pride myself on dealing with all types of social/confrontational circumstances, I politely enquired after the parrot’s name. Now having watched ‘Lion King’ numerous times, I’m fully aware that such creatures often bare a name indigenous to their area of origin, and whom am I to question the existence of a Massai Chief proudly bearing the name ‘Charlie’?

Sometime after Midnight – Too tired at this point to recall the exact time!
At this point Laim returned to the comfort of his parrotless/catless home, no doubt for a good night’s sleep after having put up with Charlie’s infernal jungle screeching for so long, but not before letting me have a cat carrier for FF’s little Minky. I thanked him politely (am I fucking mad?) and he left - probably to watch a bit of porn on his own.

FF came wandering up the street, little Minky firmly in her arms clawing and scratching fiendishly. Through her now diluted Shiraz snotty tears she informed me that Liam had given me the wrong cat carrier and that her little M would not fit in that one…..
‘Yes he fucking will!’ I informed her whilst helping little M into it with the aid of my foot.
We placed it on the worktop in the kitchen out of reach of Nevis (remember, my radar dog) who didn’t know whether he should eat it, lick it, chase it or screw it – so he just lay down and licked his balls! Meanwhile FF and I began to shove Charlie’s wardrobe up my path and into my hall, having constantly to change my hold on the cage as he attacked my fingers (need for a manicure as well as the aforementioned pedicure now). This obviously was the longest journey Charlie had been on since his birth/hatching in the deepest darkest corners of Pets at Home, Sheffield Retail Outlet and it appeared he was suffering from slight motion sickness – yes, you could say (altogether now) he was as sick as a parrot!! Anyway, we decided to take him upstairs so as not to inflict any further mental torment on my poor wee doggy but after 10 minutes of struggling with bitten fingers, wheels falling off and dints in my staircase wall, we, in true ‘girlie’ style, realised that it wouldn’t fit (where’s a Pickford’s man when you really need one?). In hindsight it may have been possible if either of us had thought to unbolt the African tree attached to the wardrobe – but where’s the comedy value in that? The only alternative with the exception of kicking them all out and going to bed, was to wheel Charlie and his wardrobe (minus the tree) into my downstairs loo, where he spent a relaxing night pecking a hole in my guest towel whilst impersonating a trim phone (seems he was older than he looked).

FF decided to take her squished up Minky and herself to her mother’s for the night, as for me, I had another glass of Shiraz and a dried up beef sandwich. Liam did return early next morning and rather sheepishly apologised for the whole incident, and wheeled Charlie back to his house. Lets face it, after dinner parrot stories are rare, in fact I have only ever heard one concerning a little old lady and a masturbating parrot, but that’s another story.

My new hobby - Manipulating ordinary images using 'Photo Shop Pro 8'.

SPIDER WEBS

A friend of mine recently posted a light-hearted status on a social web site stating he had a spider in his sink and had been questioning the spider why it didn't just go away. The comments were all encouraging the demise of the poor creature, such as 'pour bleach on it', 'squash it', 'pour boiling water on it'. It reminded me of this picture I took during the recent cold spell at a friend's house.

Does our alleged supremacy give us the right to destroy a creature capable of creating such beauty and symmetry?

I think not!

POMPEII

Once I walked in the rain, thro’ a silent street,
on a cold October day.
No traffic, no sound of hurrying feet,
no laughter of children at play.
Just the hiss of the raindrops, that raised puffs of dust
as they beat on the dry arid ground,
Disturbing the stillness and breaking the silence
that hung, like a shroud, all around.
And still the rain fell, till the dust ceased to rise,
and the water spilled onto the road.
Found the ruts that were worn there by chariot wheels,
became little rivers that flowed
Past the wine-sellers shop, with it’s vast earthen pots
once filled with the wine of the land.
Now empty, and crumbling, the pottery tumbling
to lie in the bottom, like sand.
Next door, in the bakers, stood great cones of stone
where the miller had once ground his wheat.
His last batch of bread there, now blackened and charred,
tho’ it ne’er felt the stone oven’s heat.
And I wandered through houses that still retained signs
of beautiful homes they had been.
I walked on mosaic of many designs,
gazed in awe at each wall fresco scene.
Then I stood on a stage, where actors once played,
surrounded by tiered seats of stone
And I mused on the plays, and the great tragedies
lost in time, never more to be known.
Yes, I peopled that town, with ghosts from the past
Shared their lives for a moment that day
Then the rain ceased to fall, and a silence so vast
dropped it’s shroud, once again, on Pompeii.

FULL CIRCLE (1975)

This planet Earth which man in frenzied haste
Contaminates, pollutes, destroys with nuclear waste
Lays bare that which was green and pleasant land.
Dear Mother Earth, how can you understand.
A thousand million years of your creations
of oil, coal and ore to feed the nations
for all eternity, are now no more.
Mans need, or greed, is greater than before.

What will this generation leave behind, what heritage
for people doomed to follow in some future age.
A plundered Earth, with nothing more to give -
A planet, dead, with no will left to live.
“What then” we ask, to which our men of learning say
“Men will survive when Earth is dead for they
will venture forth in space and build a nation”
But whence the fuel for space-ship emigration?

Thus in their man-made poisoned hell they meet their doom,
And mighty building tumble down to form their tomb.
With empty womb now, will our tired old Mother Earth,
concerned and plagued no longer with mankind and birth,
spin off, and find a place among the stars
To rest some million years or so, and heal her scars.
Till Nature, never daunted, starts again to plan
A microscopic life that will evolve, once more, to man.