By Olde Smiddy
Public holidays are not the problem. Workers are paid to avoid their place of employment. That’s grouse. And it’s healthy. Folk need rest: especially in rapid times in which an American president is cartoon frightening. The world is spinning. Many living on it are just trying to hold on. Time off work provides respite. Can be spent with family or friends. Or not. Alone is just as good for some. Public holidays are good.
But what are we celebrating? Are we truly engaged with the cultural significance of the occasion? Or do we just participate for fear that if we don’t then the holiday will be transported back onto the work calendar. Hospitality and health workers are already expected to treat their public holiday privileges on a different scale.
It is April and we have had Easter and ANZAC Day in succession. Easter, defined by a crucified “son of god” with the aid of a gigantic night rabbit whose chocolate eggs apparently lighten the horror of said “son of god” murdered in spectacular fashion. Hmmm… We back up this holiday period with Anzac Day, considered one of Australia’s most important national occasions. It was once a day of quiet reflection on the hopelessness of naive young people put to their deaths. But has transformed in my lifetime into what I view as a celebration of perverse nationalism, which has made green and gold gods of the fallen. Here we be Diggaz wit Attitude.
But first, the bunny with the basket and the myth of the reanimated beardy dude (generally depicted as sexy and white with blue eyes). I was indoctrinated Catholic. Spent Sunday mornings in church surrounded by the Stations of the Cross in which a human being is violently murdered. A necessary murder. A long, torturous murder. A long time ago murder. “Look what he did for us” (if Jesus was female she’d be long forgotten). “Be good. Be humble.” Be subservient. Be impacted by guilt as a default position. There is just as much proof (stick your “belief” up your arse) for the existence of many other supernatural beings, all of which are unproven and haven’t quite had the sway when influencing society with the notion of “belief” and fictional afterlife as reward. I must admit I’d probably be really into Bigfoot Sunday or a Wonder Woman Weekend.
Religion is cheap. It is the therapy of the masses. It provides pressurised hope. We need hope, yes we do, but do we need hope stipulated by earthy representatives who prove nothing of what they pretend? The bastards don’t even pay taxes while they lock up wealth and are embroiled constantly in paedophilia, misogyny, racism and generally damaging advice based on an ancient text that has been reedited multiple times through history to the advantage of the ruling power. Shock horror. Are we all still so happy to feel so safe being so stupid?
Yes. Add a rabbit. Why not? Confectionery companies need the economic stimulation because everyone doesn’t eat enough chocolate during the year anyway. Yeah, a bunny. An abnormally sized, biped bunny with break and enter skills Santa would crack a fat for.
White Jesus is risen. Red Tulip rocks. And we roll on to April 25.
Gallipoli actually happened, which can’t be said conclusively in any manner whatsoever for the crucifixion (“Believe, or burn in hell because love ends here”). I remember Anzac Day being boring. That was a good thing. It made the focus on the sheer waste and distress of state sanctioned murder more repugnant and impacting. I’m not saying there are not those who honour the horror of the Australian soldiers who died in a dignified fashion, but should we be so proud? The day has turned into a One Nation gangbang.
Dry root the flagpole young Aussies. Or pull the flag down and wear it as a cape. You know, just like you do on Australia Day. STRAYA DAY. It’s like a bonus second portion of Australia Day. STRAYA DAY 2. What a uniting force. Lest we forget to get maggoted with our mates and raise glass after glass of sponsored beer until we, the bonza Aussie mates are off our tits in patriotic fervour. Want a fight? Aussies do it better.
Let’s align football wankery to the experience. Sure, play footy on the day but don’t make out “the boys” embody the spirit of Gallipoli. For fucks sake, Essendon’s list is still occupied by drug cheats whose club’s remarkable lies, sorry crisis management, have made them out to be the victims. So brave. And entirely representative of soldiers slaughtered, surely.
Perception is perverted by power, but it is difficult when the mundane magic of a Coles supermarket seduces with an aisle of chocolate eggs and Anzac biscuits. Do these consumables signify our respect, or our lack of bravery in questioning the worth of our planet?
Strewth cobber, we’re not a deluded mob, are we? Nah, enjoy the day off. Being deceived is worth it. It’s still a day off, eh.
Don’t take that off us. That’s our day off mate.
Olde Smiddy is an actual member of the Smith bloodline. One day, Smiths may come back into vogue.