Okay, why did I decide to drive to Corryong?
It was partly because I'd never been there before, even though I'd been close to it, and partly because I liked the look of the place as presented by Heather Hewitt’s ABC program "Back Roads”. What however, tipped the balance in favour of my going was the fact that our family had acquired a 1953 Light 15 Citroen and I wanted to find out the name of the original owner.
It has had several owners since the original owner, and the only knowledge that was passed on to us in regard to the original owner was that he came from Corryong, the car was sold after his death and that he had owned a shop in Corryong.
The Traction design was created in 1933 by the designers Andre Lefebvre and Flaminio Bertoni, and the car went on the market in 1934. Flaminio, or “Flamo" to his mates, was a sculptor prior to being a car designer, so it's presumed he played the major role in the artistic aspect of the design, and it would partly explain why so many people who have seen Tractions regard the design as beautiful.
The designers however, also had to ensure the car was highly functional, and it surely was, being years ahead of its time. As I have said, in my opinion the final product is a real work of art, and there are many people around today who agree, which explains why there is still a strong demand for new Traction parts, which are sold in Europe by several companies.
It had various changes during its years of production even though it retained the same design. Both 4 and 6 cylinder engines were available, with the 6 cylinder having a slightly longer wheelbase and slightly wider track. I owned a 4 cylinder Light 15 Traction when I lived in Auckland many years ago.
The youtube clip above shows a crash test on a Citroen Traction that took place in 1934. The test was performed to quieten critics who thought it would be fragile in an accident due to it not having a chassis.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citroën_Traction_Avant
It was probably a series of events that drew me to Citroen Tractions, but who knows why something pleases the eye of one person and not another?
In 1951, a year before my birth, my dad, the late Roy Wheeler, didn't have anywhere near enough money to buy a new car, so he treated himself to some fantasy and instead bought a paperback booklet entitled, "The Australian Motor Manual Annual 1951”, which displayed photos of every car that was available in Australia during that year, as well as their specifications. I still have that little booklet, and what caught my attention within it as a kid were the photos and descriptions of the two Citroen Traction models, the 4 and the 6, that were on the market at the time. The booklet also outlined the achievements of the 6 in competition, such as it being the effortless winner of the Bathurst 25 mile closed car race. This probably occurred as a result of it having superior handling to its competition because of its front wheel drive and low centre of gravity. I've copied the relevant pages of the booklet below.
Another event which may have influenced me, when I was aged about 13, was the purchase of a Traction by the late Paul Lyneham, prior to him becoming a well-known ABC journo. At that time Paul was a young bloke living up the road from me. Although I was of course still a schoolboy living with my parents he was a young working man, but also living with a parent or parents.
On the way to Dickson High in the mornings I would first call in on my mate, the late Geoff “Bluey” Cowan, so we could ride our bikes to school together. While doing so we would often gain pleasure by stopping outside the Lyneham’s house and watching Paul drive his Traction out of their driveway and on to wherever he worked at the time.
If we were lucky we would also get a glimpse of Paul's younger sister on her way to school. She was even more pleasing to the eye than his Traction but a couple of years older than us and way out of our league.
I can also recall at a later stage having a really good close look at a Light 15 Citroen Traction that was owned by a lad named Graham Patrick, who was 3 years ahead of me at Dickson High, while it was parked next to one of the Dickson playing fields. On that day Graham was due to play for Dickson High's 1st grade rugby team and I was due to play for Dickson High's under 15 rugby team. The first grade team got a lot of attention whereas nobody really gave a rat’s arse about our under 15 team other than we members and our coach, even though we were undefeated throughout the season. Still, we enjoyed ourselves.
At that time I would have loved to have owned a Traction like Graham’s and to have been playing in the first 15, but that all took a while.
Pictured above is the Dickson High 1st 15 rugby team of 1967, which includes Graham Patrick, the lad who owned a Citroen Light 15 I would liked to have owned. Missing from the photo is Tony Fitzgerald who was one of the best players in the team. He became a good mate of mine after we left school.

Pictured above is our 1967 Dickson High under 15 rugby team which was undefeated throughout the whole season. We did not receive the same attention as the lads who played 1st grade for Dickson High. We definitely had no groupies and we were probably all virgins. The photos were copied from the Dickson High 1967 school magazine. I'm the tallest lad in the back row.
Actually, I didn’t purchase a Traction until I was 27 and living in Auckland, New Zealand, in early 1980, and the one I bought had been through the mill and cost me a lot of money to maintain. Yet I'm glad of the experience and I associate the memory of that car with some good times.
I can recall sitting in my Traction in Auckland late one night with four young Polynesian girls who were singing very loudly and really enjoying themselves. We were parked on Karangahape Road outside a dance called "The Reefcomber," when a gang fight between Samoans and Cook Islanders started around us. The singing stopped and several people fell over my front mudguards during the brawl, but fortunately neither my mudguards nor any other part of my Traction were damaged.
I can also remember another late night in Auckland when I was driving my Traction up the upper end of Queen Street, the main street of Auckland, when a large gang member stood in the middle of the road in front of me, hoping I would stop. As the area was packed with his gangster mates, all wearing their “colours,” it would have been very foolish for me to stop. I suppose they wanted to mug me or commit some other mindless act of violence.
So, rather than be subjected to a gang beating, or worse, I did what all good Aussie boys would do in such a situation and put the old Traction into second gear and accelerated towards the idiot with my foot to the floor. The gangster sidestepped just in time and punched the passenger side front window as I went by, causing no damage to the window but hopefully damaging his fist.
Pictured above is me with the 1956 Citroen Light 15 I owned in 1980 and 1981 while living in Auckland.
Pictured above near Tharwa is the Citroen Light 15 which is a member of my family. It was bought new by a resident of Corryong in 1954. When I say it was bought new by a Corryong resident in 1954 it was actually made in 1953 but bought in 1954. There has always been argument over whether a car that is made in one year and sold “new”the following year should be dated from the year of its manufacture or the year of its sale.
That Citroen model in all its forms, known collectively as Tractions, was produced from 1934 to 1957. It's often seen in WW2 movies. It was particularly advanced for its time.

After I turned off Bobeyan Road onto the Snowy Mountains Highway I turned off onto the road that took me through Kosciuszko National Park via Cabramurra and two dams, the Tumut Pond Reservoir and the Tooma Reservoir. It's a winding and narrow road and there's no way I would take it again if it was tourist season or if it had snowed, but fortunately I had beautiful weather and the traffic was light.
My involuntary visualisations eventually involved a German bouncing bomb actually smashing the dam wall when I was right in the middle of the dam, causing me to plummet over the steep side in my red Barina, accompanied by an avalanche of water and concrete, while I screamed hysterically and lost control of my bodily functions. To top it off I could see my driving glasses partially dislodge from my face, adding to my indignity.

I've given the word Brumby a capital B because wild Australian horses were apparently named after Sergeant James Brumby of the NSW Corps, who let his horses roam free before he departed for Van Diemen’s Land. There is much controversy in regard to whether the Kosciuszko Brumbies should be culled, eliminated or left alone.
Anyway, upon arrival in Corryong I parked my car in the main street, and directly in front of me was a lady who had several years on me watering some plants. She was a friendly lady named Robyn, and I had a good yarn to her. I asked her about the Citroen, and although she could not recall it she told me she would find out for me who owned it through a friend of hers when she came across him.
I then decided I wanted a feed because it was about 1pm, and as I hadn't eaten that day my belly was starting to think my throat had been cut, so I slowly walked down the main street of Corryong. It wasn't busy, but it was by no means dead like many other country town shopping centres.

Above is the plaque in the Corryong cemetery belonging to Billy Kidd, husband of Eira Kidd.
I drove home via Cooma. It’s a good deal longer in distance than through the Bobeyan Road but probably much shorter in time, and it was not so hard on my car. I really enjoyed my drive and brief stay in Corryong, including my contact with the living and deceased locals.
I will say that as someone who has only visited Corryong briefly I’m obviously not qualified to tell you much about the place, but I can tell you how it appeared to me based on first impressions. And in that respect I was very impressed.
Actually, I'll go further and say that from the perspective of someone just passing through, Corryong seemed to project a peaceful atmosphere of the type which indicates that the chance of coming across violence would be slim, and there was also an absence in the atmosphere of despair and hopelessness, which is something that could not be said of many country towns around Australia.
If I didn't have my family in the Berra I would consider moving to a place like Corryong, as the Berra has become far too big and hectic for my liking.
I first removed the wiring to the tank, the fuel line, the petrol cap and the straps and rubbers that hold the tank in position. According to my understanding the tank should have then dropped out of the car instantly, so I prepared a landing platform for it. It did not however, drop instantly out of the car. Although I had managed to loosen it, it slowly slid, with some help from me, only about 8 inches.
I eventually removed the tank by getting underneath the car and moving each side of the said tank a small distance downwards until it eventually came out.
Had the car collapsed on me I would have found breathing very difficult, particularly if my chest was crushed. It would have ruined my day.
THE HISTORY OF A 1917 STUDEBAKER ONCE OWNED BY THE LATE ROY WHEELER
By Dave Wheeler
While we're on the topic of old cars I thought I would insert another yarn along those lines as follows.
My dear old dad, the late Roy Wheeler, purchased in 1965 one unrestored 1917 Studebaker with the engine number 4E34093FJ and the chassis number 131640. The car is no longer with our family and is now owned by a bloke named Steve Fleming, who resides in Van Diemen’s Land with the said Stude. It has gone to a good home.
To begin describing the car’s history, I will start by telling you how it was first acquired by Roy.
It was in the August/September school holidays of 1965 when Roy set out for western NSW, specifically to find a veteran car. Roy, aged 41 at the time, was accompanied by his two sons, being my older brother, the late John Wheeler, who had turned 17 that year (John was killed in Vietnam in 1971), and me. At the time I would have been 12 years old and about a month short of my 13th birthday.
In 1965 unrestored veteran cars could still be found in rural areas, although they were by no means common. It would have been a different story 10 years earlier, when they were considered by most people to be junk.
On the trip we followed many leads regarding the location of various alleged veteran cars, and we camped out for several nights. The leads led nowhere until we were told by a bloke that his mate had told him he knew the whereabouts of a 1917 Studebaker. It was apparently on a property south of Gilgandra. He said his mate, who sold agricultural machinery and whose job partly entailed visiting rural properties, was at that time manning an agricultural machinery display at the agricultural show at Gilgandra. He suggested we approach him and ask him about the location of the Stude.
Upon arrival at the Gilgandra showground Roy told John and me to stay in the car while he went in to talk to the bloke with the knowledge. After approaching him, he found him to be very friendly and helpful. He told Roy the car was at Kickabil Station, in the Baladorn-Kickabil area on the Kickabil Road, which was north of Dubbo and south of Gilgandra.
We drove there immediately and made contact with the owner, a natural gentleman named Will Pfitzner, with the Pfitzner name having a silent “P”. He looked to me to be in his late 50s, and to a kid of my age anyone in that age group qualified as a geriatric.
Through the wonders of the net and my sister Louise’s dogged detective work, I recently found out Will’s full name was Augustus Frederick Wilhelm Pfitzner. He probably wanted to be known as Will because he realised that from 1914 onwards having a Germanic surname would not assist anyone in Australia to win a popularity contest. Will would have been born around 1908. The Pfitzners are all buried in the Lutheran section of the Gilgandra cemetery.
Will showed us the car, and Roy then asked him if he wanted to sell it. He did, and they discussed a price and came to an agreement. From memory, Roy paid around 80 quid for it.
Will told us the car was bought new in 1917 by a hire car company in Adelaide and was used for weddings and other functions. He had no further information about the first part of the car’s life.
He told us the second owner was his dad (who, my sister Louise was to find via the net, was named Leopold Gustav Paul Pfitzner, born in 1881, known as Paul Pfitzner). I’m sure he would have called himself Paul and dropped Leopold Gustav for the same reasons his son, Will, only referred to himself as Will.
Other than their full names not rolling easily off the Australian tongue, from 1914 to 1918 their family would have feared internment and would have done their best to avoid attracting attention to themselves.
I can’t imagine Paul during WW1 dancing in the streets of Gilgandra, performing the traditional German Schuhplattler dance, which would have involved him wearing a feathered cap, and shorts, and stamping his feet and slapping his thighs and the soles of his Germanic feet.
Paul purchased the Stude in 1920 with 4000 miles on the clock. At that stage the Pfitzner family were living in Adelaide, and they did so until sometime in 1923, with the Stude being their family car.
The Pfitzner family left Adelaide in that year because Paul purchased Kickabil Station, at Kickabil NSW, as described earlier. To get to Kickabil they drove the Stude via Renmark, Echuca, Albury and Dubbo. They had no serious mechanical problems during their journey.
Unfortunately, after running Kickabil for only around two years, Paul died at the relatively tender age of 44, on the 20th of April 1925.
Will would have only been around 17 when his dad died, which would have meant he had to take on most of the responsibility of running Kickabil. It’s something I could not have done at the age of 17, given the fact that at that time of my life I was controlled almost entirely by my basic drives and basic instincts, as were most of my fellow ratbag mates. I should not have been allowed out without a keeper.
The Stude continued to be used as the family car until 1934, which was when Will bought a new Studebaker.
The 1917 Stude, however, was not made entirely redundant for a long while. It was “uted” (made into a ute) in 1935 but remained registered until 1942. After that it was used only for work on the property.
The uteing process involved turning it from a tourer to a ute by removing the rear doors, cutting through the rear bodywork and cutting through half of the rear mudguards.
Fortunately, Will was not a wasteful bloke, and he was also very meticulous regarding how he kept his possessions. He kept, neatly stored away and under cover, all the parts he had removed during the Stude’s uteing process, including the unused sawn-off parts of the mudguards and bodywork, the two rear doors, the two folding child’s middle seats, the original rear upholstery and the hood bows.
We could never understand why he did this, considering the car was not worth much at the time of the uteing, which was during the Depression. He must have thought, way back in the ’30s, that someday someone may want to turn the car back into a tourer. He was right, and Roy was very grateful for his forward thinking.
After the deal between Roy and Will was concluded, we drove back to the Berra, borrowed the veteran car club trailer and returned to Kickabil as soon as we could.
When we arrived, we found Will in a shed where two shearers were shearing the last members of his flock. The shearers had their afternoon break shortly after our arrival and we all ate a hearty meal.
Why I remember the meal so clearly was not because of the quality of the tucker; it was because one of the shearers had his daughter with him, a particularly nice-looking girl aged about 16. Having a young girl in a shearing shed was not common in that era, and I definitely did not expect to see such a sight at Kickabil. Had there been a “Miss Kickabil” competition, I’m sure she would have easily won. I was at a dangerous, restless and frustrating age when the testosterone was starting to make its presence felt.
After eating we started the Stude and drove it onto the club trailer. I noticed it had Barnet Glass tyres on it, with plenty of tread. Barnet Glass was a highly successful Australian-owned tyre company, and the tyres they manufactured were, of course, also made in Australia. From my research I am led to believe the last Barnet Glass tyres were sold sometime between 1937 and 1941, which was around the time Dunlop took over the company.
When I last went about purchasing new tyres for my Toyota Yaris, I asked the dealer if he could give me a quote for a new set of Barnet Glass tyres. He told me he had never heard of Barnet Glass tyres, and I acted surprised and expressed my disappointment.
We drove straight back to the Berra after the Stude was secured tightly on the trailer, with John doing most of the driving.
Roy took around two to three years to restore the Stude, and upon its completion he was wanting to show Will Pfitzner what he had done, but unfortunately Will died on the 5th of January 1967 at the age of 59, from natural causes. Roy never had a chance to show him the finished product.
Although my brother John and I assisted Roy in the restoration process, of particular help was our neighbour, the late John Downes, a stalwart of the veteran car movement. John brazed together the cut pieces of the tourer bodywork and mudguards, using the facilities at the old Parliament House, where he was working as a fitter and turner. He also turned some kingpins for the Stude. At least some good things came out of Parliament House.
The other tradesman who made a significant contribution to the restoration of the car was my grandad, Roy’s father-in-law, the late Bill Guard. Bill was a particularly good signwriter, who was probably the only one in the Berra at the time who could work with gold leaf. And he was also very good with the brush.
He did a lot of brush, line and sign work on vehicles over his life, and he had premises in Queanbeyan doing that and general signwriting jobs from the mid-’20s to the late ’30s.
Bill died in 1969, and for several years after his death Roy would get visits from signwriting students and their teachers wanting to inspect the gold leaf line work and the monograms Bill had applied to the Stude.
For financial reasons I will not go into, Roy, in around 2005, had a need to sell the Stude, and he arranged to sell it to its current owner, Steve Fleming. I knew it would break Roy’s heart seeing it leave the family, so I offered to buy it from him for the same price Steve was going to pay, but Roy told me he had already done the deal with Steve.
When, however, he explained the situation to Steve, Steve graciously told him he would not object if I bought the car instead of him, as he could understand the situation. All he wanted was to receive an assurance that he was given first offer if I was ever to sell it.
I did buy the Stude from Roy for what Steve was going to pay him, and I assured Steve he would get first offer if it was ever sold.
I kept it until sometime after Roy died in 2008, and when I decided to part with it I contacted Steve, as promised, and I sold it on to him for the price he was going to pay Roy.
Steve did a grand thing. I can envisage how Roy would have felt seeing it being taken away by someone who was not within our family, and I remain grateful to Steve for allowing me to prevent that happening.
Yet, I can understand those Smiths Road residents who work in the Berra and who commute to work every day wanting it sealed. Those living at the NSW end would take a lot of time to get into the Berra and it would be hard on their vehicles.
Cocks, according to some, have minds of their own, and many blokes will tell you that quite often it’s a case of the tail wagging the dog and not vice versa. All Nature cares about is gene reproduction, and if a bloke misuses his old fella and it results in an unwanted pregnancy that is exactly what Nature requires, even if what occurs ruins the life of the cock’s supposed owner as well as others. Just ask Barnaby Joyce. I wrote another yarn about the latter process on this blog in the anecdote entitled, "She pushed herself onto me.” It's on the following link.
http://acanberraboy.blogspot.com/2013/04/she-pushed-herself-onto-me.html
Anyway, I was told that one afternoon Blue, while living out on Smiths Road, got really pissed. He then decided that to ensure his beef bayonet no longer caused him any problems he would castrate himself. His old fella may have been in charge when in the presence of young ladies, but on that day Blue, in his alcohol-induced stupor, was determined to show his mere appendage who really called the shots.
After Blue began bleeding like a stuck pig he decided that the task was beyond him and that he should go to hospital and let the professionals finish the job. I bet he wished he’d used a rubber ring; the type he would have used on lambs as an alternative to normal castration.
I was told that as Blue did not have a car he walked from his house onto Smiths Road with the intention of contacting a neighbour or getting a lift from a passing motorist. But, unfortunately he lost too much blood in the process and his dead body was found on the side of Smiths Road, minus his testicles.
I did however, take what they told me seriously and still do, because they were not bullshit artists and as such I do not believe they created the story. That however, does not mean that whoever told them the story did not create the story. And if the latter persons did not create the story someone else back in the line of transmission may have done so.
Maybe the story was created by way of Chinese whispers. A relatively mundane event may have occurred on Smiths Road and it may have changed into something as dramatic as Blue’s story as it was retold. Maybe it was a case of someone on Smiths Road dying or almost dying from a burst appendix and the story being embellished as it travelled from person-to-person. The castration story may be no more than a rural myth that ran its course.
Then again, as I have pointed out in several of my posts, many people are more than happy to believe in the miracles described by their religions that are their religion's very foundations, but are reluctant to accept the possibility stories such as the one about "Blue the do-it-yourself surgeon" are true. That is the case even though Blue’s story is so much closer to the present, and, unlike the stories involving miracles that provide the foundation of religions, it does not involve contravening the laws of physics.
I am therefore saying I would not be at all surprised if the Blue story is entirely true. Young men do have problems controlling their cocks, and alcohol can cause them to do very stupid things. And if Blue did castrate himself he would definitely not have been the only bloke to have done so at that point in time nor would he be the only bloke to have died during the procedure. Apparently, in relative terms, self-castration is not unusual and is by no means restricted to blokes who want to become sheilas. See the following link.
https://www.nature.com/articles/nrurol.2014.84
Maybe someone from the Tharwa area could set me right one way or the other on the Blue yarn. The only way the story could be verified or dismissed however, would be by asking someone who was at least a teenager in the early fifties and living within the area. Such a person would have to be at least 80, although there is a possibility the event occurred at a later time than I was told it occurred.
Unlike the drunken motorist who risks the lives of others, as well as his own, Blue was not a risk to anyone but himself.
Did Blue castrate himself in that house? If so were his testes consumed by his kelpie who did not want to waste good protein? What other stories could those chimneys tell?

Again, when was this house built? Was it in the 19th century? When did people stop living in it? What events occurred around the fireplace? Did happy families live in the house, where they sung around the piano and had Christmas lunches with their relo’s? Did the fireplace ever witness violence and disharmony? Were babies born in the house and/or was there death and sorrow around the fireplace?
Yanco is located in the Riverina near Leeton.
Dazzle kept in contact with his old primary school mates whenever he came back to the Berra for holidays and most of us are still in contact with each other.
I remember Dazzle’s schoolmate, Arty, who holds Dazzle’s jumper in the anecdote he is about to tell, telling me what occurred at the time, and it was exactly as Dazzle describes.
Back around 1969 I could swim a 50 metre pool underwater and I would train most days with swimming laps, so I was fairly fit. Well, as it happened I was on the way back to school having spent my holidays at home in the Berra when some railway worker and his mates demanded our tickets. The younger kids showed theirs but I refused. It got from bad (a single punch in between the carriages which got broken up) to worse. I was pursued and this fellow wanted to fight me at the Junee Station. Our train went through Bethungra, Old Junee then finally Junee Station. This guy was flipping his finger under my chin saying "Junee Cunt!" This happened several times.




At that time of my life I was probably living with my mate, Brownie, (The late Owen Brown), in a house we rented at 17 Massey Street, Evatt, although Brownie was not with me at the time of which I write.
Trevor Crook became a successful standup comedian and is still in the industry. Mario taught guitar for many years. I don’t know what became of Larry.
Larry got the message and we got back to discussing the things lads of that age and our type discuss.
Our species became religious because it gave meaning to people and possibly promoted tribal unity. It must have also aided our species' ability to survive and engage in gene replication, because if it didn't the propensity for religiosity would not exist.
To get my workmates talking non-shallow talk I would usually bring very basic philosophy into our conversations and ask them questions which got them thinking. I would also sometimes give them hypotheticals, and as a result of that approach they often spilt their guts to me.
Bob revealed to me a lot about himself. He told me that at one stage of his life he’d been a hopeless alcoholic and that his wife had left him for that reason. That event of course made him feel worse than normal, and it was not long after his wife left him he looked at his life and saw it as pointless. He thought there was no light at the end of the tunnel other than the proverbial oncoming train.
Had he inherited the religiosity gene/s and/or been indoctrinated into a religion, he may have been able to see some point in life by following a religion, but Bob was an agnostic and a realist.
He told me that in a period of sobriety, albeit sobriety in which he felt at rock bottom, he walked to the top of Mount Ainslie, and in act of desperation got down on his knees and prayed, despite the fact that he was an agnostic.
Although of course my memory will not allow me to quote verbatim the words Bob told me he used in his prayer or what he said to me in the conversation I had with him after he told me of his experience, what follows describes the gist of his prayer and our conversation with absolute accuracy. It is as follows, beginning with what Bob told me he asked God in his prayer:
Bob replied, "My fuckin oath!”
I then asked, When you say life is pointless could we instead say that the objective of life is to maximise pleasure and to minimise pain, and in pursuing that goal our objective should be to take into account the anticipated quantity and intensity of pleasure and pain which accompanies each of our options?
Bob replied, You’re confusing me you bastard, but I think I know where you’re coming from.
I then asked, “How do you know God didn’t give you that message by refusing to give you any sort of answer or sign Bob, meaning he was giving you direction by not giving you direction?”
Other than not talk about what they experienced some were able, to a large degree, keep unasked for visions of what they experienced from flooding their conscious minds by simply keeping physically and mentally active. Try thinking negatives thoughts or reliving a past trauma if you are engaged in heavy physical exercise or work.
I will place a caveat into this approach when it comes to dealing with trauma to the extent that a degree of rationality is required for it to be successful, and if a person is so traumatised and emotional he loses his rationality then obviously he will remain a slave to his emotions. All we can do is consciously strive for rationality, and if this is done one has a reasonable chance of keeping it most of the time.
Of course nobody is able to dodge pain entirely, but by accepting unavoidable pain and being occupied one is more mindful than one would otherwise be, and by being mindful one is also better able to savour life’s simple pleasures. Some old diggers who took such an approach continued to enjoy the simple pleasures life offered them for the remainder of their lives.
How Epicurean! How Buddhist! How Bob-like they were!
I worked for the ACT RSPCA as Canberra’s only Inspector for 3 years, from early 1984 to early 1987 from memory. I've already written about one of my experiences during that time on this blog under the heading “The Flower Man,” which is on the following link. http://acanberraboy.blogspot.com.au/2014_05_01_archive.html
Others, the type I refer to as human garbage, treated animals as commodities to be used, abused and neglected. I was to find, sometime after I left the RSPCA and began work in an Admin position within the child protection section of the ACT Government, that many of the people I had come across while working for the RSPCA who had neglected and/or abused their animals were the same people my department dealt with, as they were also neglecting and/or abusing their kids.
I have many stories revolving around the time I worked for the RSPCA, some of them not very pleasant. This is just one of the events that occurred while there which I remember vividly, as it tugged on my heartstrings.
Before he opened his mouth I could tell he was the archetypal Australian bushman of his era, and a very tough bloke who had lived a very hard life. He was the sort of Australian that no longer exists, which is a shame. I was to find he was a natural gentleman and a very nice bloke.
He also told me he knew that dogs are not meant to live to the age of 17 and that he should be grateful for having had him that long, although his voice started to break as he was telling me, so I changed the subject.
Pictured above is the famous Jackie Howe, 1861-1920. To paraphrase “The Australian Dictionary of Biography,” he was an extraordinary physical specimen weighing 114 kgs with an enormous chest, biceps, thighs and hands. He could run 100 yards in 11 seconds. He was also a staunch unionist, and one of many unionists of previous generations who were partly responsible for the pay and conditions of today’s workers.
I mentioned the 1891 shearers strike to Bill, knowing from other old shearers I’d spoken to that it is firmly embedded in their folklore, or at least the folklore of shearers Bill’s age and older. Bill, who was of course a union man, again said that when he was young, before the war, he had shorn with old blokes who were participants in that strike and they were held in high esteem for having done so.
Although Bill was not dying himself, a part of him was, and I thought of the old Australian song, “ The dying stockman.”
I recently heard a so-called historian, Dr Mark Dapin, on a Radio National program, tell us that the belief that the Jap’s planned to invade Australia during the war is a myth. Absolute bullshit Dr Mark! Other than them printing Australian money for an intended eventual invasion the very fact that they invaded New Guinea and other islands north of us shows their intent. Why would they not invade us if possible given our mineral wealth and land area, particularly since they were in desperate need of energy sources? Obviously they did not have any detailed plans regarding how and when the invasion was going to occur, as they would have been biting off more than they could chew given that they had not conquered New Guinea or the islands, but their ultimate intention, if victorious, was obvious. Maybe Mark is married to a Jap and wants to make excuses for their behaviour. I don’t know.
ANOTHER EVENT that occurred while I was at the RSPCA began as I had just walked out the door and was about to get into my van to go to a job. I was confronted by a pompous bloke in his sixties who had a large cardboard box which he told me contained 6 pigeons. He said he liked to feed native birds and did not want any pigeons getting in on the act, so he trapped them and brought them to us, hoping we would euthanise them for him. As I am not a fan of speciesism I intended to politely give him a spray, telling him we were not in the pest extermination business. But, before I could open my mouth an older lady who had worked at the shelter for many years, who had heard what he said, burst through the door and took over.
I did not object as I knew exactly how her mind worked and I knew exactly what was going to happen, which made me begin chuckling to myself. She grabbed the box of pigeons from the bloke, saying, “It’s okay, we’ll take care of the pigeons,” then disappeared into a backroom with them.
I decided to delay my trip for a few minutes and went back inside to get more of a laugh. Sure enough my older workmate poked her head out from a rear door and said to me,“Is he gone yet?” I told her he was gone then followed her into our grounds to watch her open the cardboard box and liberate the pigeons. That made my day, as I knew that being pigeons they would probably beat the pompous native bird feeder back to his house and would be waiting there for more tucker.
There was more fun. The idiot came back another four times over the next fortnight with what were probably the same pigeons. And on each occasion we took them from him and gave them their freedom as soon as he drove off.
Apart from my actions being far less praiseworthy than the actions of people who really risk their lives saving others, they are also far less praiseworthy than those who give many hours of their time working for charities without any financial reward. The latter are often ignored when civic awards are dispensed, whereas official awards are often bestowed upon those who hold high office and who do nothing more than what they are paid to do. I'm describing the events I came across to emphasise the fragility of our existences and how everything we take for granted can be taken from us in an instant.
Although there will be people who know the people involved in the events I will mention I will not give out their names or describe where in Canberra the events occurred, as I wish to give those involved some privacy.
To begin to describe what occurred on the 17/1/18, the day started off well. I like to do a small amount of work occasionally to exercise my old brain and body, as does my surveyor cobber who is also a 1952 model and who also has no desire to work on a full time basis.
That morning we travelled from his place to the new Berra suburb of Moncrieff where we did about 2 hours of survey work on townhouses that are in the process of being built. We were working under ideal conditions. The sun was shining, it was not too hot, there was a gentle breeze blowing and I could also hear birdsong as there was no noisy machinery around us. I would not have been dead for quids!
Apparently we were working on or near the townhouse the attractive young lady and her husband are having built, and she is photographing it through its various stages of construction.
On the way back to my mate's house I found myself thinking how nice it would have been to have had a working life that consisted of workdays that were as brief and as pleasant as we had experienced that morning. Of course we could have very short working days if our species was not so greedy and did not want more and more useless gadgets. Technology was supposed to allow machinery to do most of the work for us but we’re still waiting for the days of leisure. Bertrand Russell called for a 4 hour day in the 1930’s!
I’m wandering away from the subject. The point I was going to make was that after having experienced an almost perfect early morning the later part of that morning was going to be decidedly unpleasant as a result of my witnessing the results of two unfortunate events, one after the other, with one event being far more serious than the other.
Where am I now? Yes, after I returned to my mate's place I got into my car to drive home and in doing so first drove to a T intersection and turned right into the main road that goes through his suburb. Before I did so I gave way to a largish truck on my right.
I then heard its tyres squeal, and after looking to the left saw it swerve to attempt to avoid colliding with a parked ACT Government ute which had its emergency lights flashing. It would seem the driver of the truck was distracted for a moment before he realised where he was going.
It was too late! The truck hit the right rear of the ute with an almighty force and continued on. I could see the ute’s rear end go into the air then come down during the process. Had the truck hit the ute square-on it would have been much more serious and I doubt an occupant of the ute would have been able to walk away from it.
It has been suggested to me that the driver of the truck may have been looking at his mobile phone instead of focussing on driving his truck. I have no proof of that having happened.
We all have moments when we lose focus for a fraction of a second or longer. Most of the time nothing comes of it, but sometimes when something is in our way tragedy can occur. As I have said, had he hit the ute square-on it could have been fatal, and the truck driver, who like most people probably believes we have contra causal free will, would have had to have lived with what he had done for the rest of his life.
Although the young lady was not a druggie and she had no violent boyfriend in the background in retrospect I wish I only had to deal with hysterical and violent ice addicts on that day, because I was confronted by something much worse. It was an horrific site! I could see that the poor young lady sitting in the gutter had had her leg run over at the ankle joint, causing the base of her shinbone to protrude right out into the air above her foot, and her foot to virtually hang off her leg, seemingly secured only by her skin.
Luckily I was wearing my high vis shirt, which was required at the building site we had been on. I had no wish to become another statistic.
I reiterate, I am not having a go at the Ambo service, but I will say that there must be a shortage of ambulances and paramedics for them to have taken as long as they did to come. They were obviously on some other emergency or were a long way away, and if there are insufficient numbers of paramedics and ambulances then obviously someone is going to have to wait. They can only do what they can do.
I began thinking about how the ACT Government spends our taxes on such things as trams we don’t need and other things that are non-vital, and at times useless.
(Why they did not choose rubber tyre trams is beyond me as they can be set up at a fraction of the cost and can run entirely on electricity. Either there were some palms greased or our local politicians are slightly retarded).
For example, although I agree with the concept of gay marriage it’s not up to our local government to celebrate it by spending our tax money on rainbow signs on buses and roundabouts. Amongst other things I would rather they put the money towards hiring more paramedics, buying more ambulances and installing air conditioning in schools to stop kids sweltering during our summers. (As kids don’t vote most governments could not give a rat’s arse about their welfare).
And why did they create a $300,000.00 pa job for Brendan Smyth, who is our “Commissioner for international engagement,” when the ACT economy exports next to nothing? Other than the fact that virtually nobody is worth $300,000.00 pa, that money could have easily covered the costs of another two paramedics and another ambulance.
I worked for the ACT government for several years and I was to find many of the high level bureaucrats were a waste of space, oxygen and tax money. What some of them were and still are paid could pay for several paramedics, and paramedics actually work for a living and do a job that is an absolute necessity.
The Lib’s were probably worse when they were in office. I remember them selling profit-making government assets and government-owned buildings and trying to reduce the pay and conditions of the lower level ACT public servants while they continued to reward useless toadying higher level fat-cats.
The coppers arrived before the ambulance, and one pleasant young copper did a tag team with me and relieved me from my job of propping up the young lady’s leg. I was able to support her opposing shoulder after that as she had been forced to sit herself up on her elbow due to where she was and the nature of her injury.
When the paramedics eventually came they did an excellent job of attending to her. I saw them inject her with a powerful drug to relieve her pain and send her into unconsciousness, which must have been a great relief for her.
The coppers also did a very professional job while they were there, and two of them were thoughtful enough to ask me at different times if I thought I might need counselling after the event. Little did they know that if a counsellor tried to counsel me the counsellor would need counselling after the experience.
If anyone knows the poor young lady could you please let me know if they were able to save her foot?
UPDATE 19/1/18
I was very pleased to get a phone call from the young lady tonight. She told me that they had saved her foot and that she was home with her husband and kids. She got my phone number from her mum’s phone from when I rang her mum at the time of the accident.
By Dave Wheeler
So, be warned; if you have no interest in philosophy or how the mind and brain works, or if you have a small attention span, I advise you to read a different anecdote or essay within this blog by simply scrolling down or hitting the “Home" button and making a choice. You could also close your computer and go shopping in Captains Flat.
I would also like to say that if you are not familiar with aggressive Rationalist philosophy and have not made yourself consciously aware of the implications of our bodies (which of course includes our brains) being a part of the material universe, and as such subject to the forces of the universe that act upon them, much of what I have to say you may regard as insane. It may even seem insane to those who subscribe to religions that require followers to believe in the supernatural as that sort of insanity is mainstream and regarded as normal.
What I have to say relates to certain events I experienced within the walls of the since demolished YMCA in Civic, even though I rarely visited the place when it existed.
The first event at the Civic YMCA that involved my having an altered state-of-consciousness I regard as a fascinating but negative experience. I didn’t make an arse of myself on that occasion but I was very confused during and after the event as it seemed to defy logic.
My memory tells me the event may have occurred in 1971, but it probably occurred in or around mid 1970. On the night it occurred I had been at the Canberra Rex with my mates when one of them, a lad named Terry Gates, asked me if I could take him to the YMCA in Civic where his girlfriend was playing basketball so we could give her a lift home. Terry did not own a car.
Update-January 2020. I recently found out my memory is correct and her name was Megan and she did go to Lyneham High. I was told this by a good mate of hers who is a good mate of mine. They still stay in contact with each other. It’s easy to worry about dementia planting false memories in your brain as you age.
The above is a photo of the said Civic YMCA, which was taken in the 60’s. Thanks to Anne Cameron for finding it for me.
Anyway, I agreed to give her a lift home, and when we arrived at the YMCA I told Terry I would wait in the car while he went in to get her. But, after going inside for a very short period of time Terry returned to me in a state of absolute fear and horror, as if he’d just seen a ghost. He said to me, "It’s packed with sheilas in there! There are no blokes in there at all! I can’t go in there by myself! You’ve got to come in with me!”
It was however, a very different story when I was actually inside the Civic YMCA, even though I was in the company of another bloke. I felt a sort of fear I had never felt in my life. For some reason unbeknown to me the fear I felt was so strong I had an immediate urge to race outside.
After taking a few more steps inside it was all too much. I could have gone on and endured it if it was a life and death situation, but if you’re suffering an intense form of pain of any sort you need a very good reason to not make it stop, and the obligation I had to support Terry by accompanying him was outweighed by the desire I had to get out of the place.
Poor Terry walked on by himself not knowing I had slipped out without telling him. I don’t know if the fear he felt was as intense as mine, but later on he told me that when he turned and saw I wasn’t there he was panic-stricken and didn’t know what to do with himself. That caused me a lot of amusement.
I told the story to a workmate several years ago, a lady whose name I cannot recall as I only worked with her briefly. I do however, remember her being a bit new-age and a committed feminist. She told me that Terry and I were probably subjected to a sort of girl-power women can produce when in large groups to protect themselves from males. She said it was by no means an unusual occurrence.
To augment what she was saying she reminded me of the fact that trees can communicate with surrounding trees chemically to protect themselves against herbivores or other things that are a threat to them, and she is correct about the trees as the process has been observed by many reputable scientists. See the following link.
http://www.abc.net.au/science/articles/2015/05/20/4236600.htm
In regard to how the girls may have put up an anti-male shield she came up with two theories. She thought the girls may have created a magnetic field which produced fear in the male brain or they may have produced a collective smell that males could perceive non-consciously, and that the smell may have caused the male brain to feel fear without it being consciously aware of why it felt fear.
It all sounded and still sounds too far-fetched for me and I’m very sceptical, because other than our having been no threat to the girls and there being zero evidence to support the smell or magnetic field theories, there is a simpler theory. To explain, although I don’t know the extent of Terry’s fear, I see the fear I suffered as more likely to have been created by my undeveloped teenage brain without any external catalyst of the kind my workmate described, even though I was not conscious of why I felt such fear and it was the only time in my life I have felt that sort of fear under those sorts of circumstances.
I will however, place a caveat in my criticism of her theories by saying that although highly unlikely, and totally lacking in supporting scientific evidence, the magnetic field and smell theories are not theories that involve the transgression of the laws of physics. Therefore those theories and others like them are possibilities, albeit remote possibilities.
And, if we are to discuss human behaviour in general, when it comes to processes of a quantum nature occurring, such as entanglement, and how we may be affected by, or utilise those processes, our ignorance on the subject is unlimited.

The car in the above photo, which is my FC Holden station wagon, was the car I was driving when I picked the young lady up from the YMCA in Civic. The late Bluey Cowan is sitting on the bonnet and I am standing on the roof wearing a full leather coat that was worn by my grandad in the trenches during WW1. I don’t know where the photo was taken.
The next two events I am about to describe that occurred in the Civic YMCA resulted in my making an arse of myself twice in one day. What occurred has all sorts of implications of a philosophical nature, particularly in relation to moral responsibility, since I am discussing free will.
My pursuit of the best form of martial arts was not based on any desire I had to become the world’s best martial artist; it was the process I enjoyed, particularly since the choice of techniques and counters for varying situations are virtually endless, and working out the feasibility of choices based on the physics of the processes gave my brain great mental workouts and much ongoing pleasure.
To give further background on why I made an arse of myself at the Civic YMCA in 1977 or 1978 I will go back to 1976. I had entered a martial arts tournament in that year at the Turner PCYC, as did my mate, Tony Quinn. The tournament was open to anyone and the rules allowed full contact to any part of one’s opponent’s body other than the head and balls. And any part of one’s own body could be used as the attacking weapon, as in fists, elbows, feet and knees. One could also however, score points by striking with any part of one’s body towards one’s opponent’s head, as long as the technique was pulled and no contact was made.
I did not do well in the tournament because my timing was slightly out and I made very light contact when kicking towards the head of a bloke I fought. I was quite rightly disqualified. My opponent, who went on to win, did not suffer any damage as I had pulled my kick, and I apologised to him after the event.
Tony Quinn did a lot better. He had three fights in his weight division and won all of them convincingly. But despite that fact, when the finalists were announced he was not one of them.
The late Bruce Vincent, who was the Berra’s best heavyweight boxer of his era, also entered the tournament, and like Tony and me he did so as an individual and not as a member of one of the established clubs. He lost on points in one bout and was disqualified in another. I believe however, that if his fights had have been judged fairly he would have won both of them. In my opinion he was robbed! The organisers seemed to resent outsiders doing well, although in my case my disqualification was entirely warranted.
When Tony approached the bloke who seemed to be the main organiser, a highly ranked instructor from Wollongong named Mehemet, (I’m not sure of the spelling of his name. He was an Anglo Celt despite his name sounding like it came from the Middle East), he was told he would not advance to the finals and that he would share an equal third place despite the fact that he had not lost a fight. Tony was given no explanation.
Although at the time I was conscious of the fact that Mehemet did not have contra causal free will I was frustrated at how the forces of the universe had acted upon his brain and mind, causing it to treat Tony unfairly, and it pissed me off.
Accepting reality by way of understanding and becoming consciously aware of the fact that we cannot control the forces of the universe that act upon our bodies, and therefore, to state the obvious, nor can those who own bodies that do us wrong control the forces that act upon their bodies, does not always result in the negative emotions that arise because of the actions of others and ourselves not existing. Emotions are real in that they are caused by real chemistry even if there are sometimes no logical explanations as to why the chemistry exists.
Sometimes however, when one’s emotions take over and one forgets that contra causal free will does not exist then one calms-down and suddenly remembers that it cannot exist, an immediate reduction or elimination of anger and frustration can occur. The ability to utilise that knowledge varies from person-to-person, and it also depends on how long one has been consciously aware of our being at the mercy of the forces of the universe that act upon our bodies. Usually, the longer one is aware of that fact the closer that fact gets to becoming fully embedded into one’s conscious mind.
Intense stressors can also of course beget intense emotions, which can make it more difficult to be aware that one has no control of the forces within the universe that act upon one’s body.
Although I was consciously aware of our not having contra causal free will before I hit my teens, that fact took many years to become fully embedded into my conscious mind.
Should you have just become conscious of our not having contra causal free will I suggest you read the essay I have referred to on the previously shown link everyday at least twice a day. Once the fact becomes fully embedded into your brain and mind it will improve your quality of life to the extent that you will become more accepting of reality and as such better able to spend more of your time savouring the present rather than creating anger and regret by dwelling on the unwise and/or immoral actions of others and yourself.
Let’s now return to the Civic YMCA in 1977 or 1978. It was a year or two after the tournament at the Turner PCYC and I had entered into another tournament that was to be held at the said Civic YMCA. It had similar rules to the tournament at the Turner PCYC, although it differed to the extent that it allowed full contact to one’s opponent’s head, but with any part of the legs or feet only. This of course meant contact to one’s opponent’s head by way of striking with fists or elbows was forbidden.
The tournament was open to all local clubs, be they kung fu, karate, kickboxers, etc.
In my search for the ultimate martial arts style I had practised several styles of martial arts and saw at the time some merit in Wing Chun, which I practised at the time to increase my overall knowledge and experience. I have since discarded most of what the WC style espouses.
I was also however, aware that the chemistry that creates emotions is real, even if we are not consciously aware of why they are created.
I therefore became aware that my feelings towards the situation resulted in my possessing a very aggressive state-of-mind at the time, and I was aware that the aggression would be utilised when I fought Mehemet. I did not however, have any desire to transgress the rules when I fought the man.
When it came to the actual fight it did not last long. Mehemet put his head down and I “instinctively,” or by way of a “reflex" action, for want of better words, gave him an uppercut which caused him to lose consciousness and fall to the ground for a few seconds.
Now, even if we, for the sake of argument, assume we do have contra causal free will, whether I “chose” to give him an uppercut at the time can be a matter of philosophical debate. I say that because at the time I struck him it felt like someone else gave him the uppercut. I am saying that I did not consciously “choose,” again for want of a better word, to make contact with his head. My striking him in the head was a reflex action.
Nonetheless, I felt as weak as piss, as the rules specifically stated that there was to be no contact to the head in regard to striking with fists or elbows, and he was playing by the rules and I was not. Had the tournament allowed full contact to the head for all I know he may have knocked me unconscious.
I was again quite rightly disqualified, and I felt worse after the event when Mehemet placed the medal he had won around my neck. I felt like crawling under a rock until I gathered my thoughts and again became consciously aware of contra causal free will not existing, and that other than that when I gave him the uppercut it was not even a conscious “choice,” for want of a better word. It was an action that occurred by way of a non-conscious reflex. Still, it did not make me feel great about what had happened and I wished it had not occurred.
If you still dismiss what I have to say about reflect actions I will first ask you to think of the times when, out of the corner of your eye, you have seen a stray football heading in your direction. Without consciously choosing to do so, within an instant you would have raised your arm protectively and/or ducked in order to avoid getting a whack to the head. You would not have consciously decided to take evasive or protective action; it would have been an instant action in which you reacted “instinctively” (again, for want of a better word) and non-consciously (by way of reflex) to the threat.
It needs to happen under such circumstances. In emergencies when instant action is required to protect ourselves we don’t have time to consciously decide what to do with our bodies. If decisions in such situations were made consciously we would be run over by the next car we had not seen that was heading our way and almost upon us.
We all know that sometimes the best form of defence is attack. And if our amygdala/s can make some of us commit acts of offensive violence for the purpose of defence, how long can it/they take over for?
When however the amygdala/s take/s over and performs an act with the body without a conscious decision having been made, the conscious mind is emptied of thought and as such entirely focussed in the here-and-now, which ensures the body and mind work in perfect harmony, and as such with perfect coordination, to ensure the body is moved instantly in a manner that maximises the chances of it avoiding being damaged. The process may involve raising a defensive arm, ducking or running away. It may also however, at least for some people, involve perpetrating an act of physical violence for the purpose of defence.
Good mind-body awareness and subsequent good coordination and technique does not occur when a boxer loses his temper.
Nor of course does it always occur if someone is consciously trying to execute a physical movement that requires good coordination when the body is not being threatened. When the body is not in danger and the amygdala/s is/are not activated, emptying one’s mind in order to acquire perfect mind-body harmony and coordination is not so easy.
It seems obvious to me my amygdala/s took over when I gave Mehemet an uppercut, and that it/they took over because of it/them deducing my body was in danger and that my conscious mind could not be trusted to do the job.
I was not in the same situation I had been in on many occasions when sparring lightly with mates where there was no threat to my safety and I had total faith in my mates to the extent that I was sure they would not punch me with full force in the head.
Although Mehemet may have also had no intention of violating the rules at the time I did not know that. And I had had plenty of negative experiences when sparring with people I did not know who betrayed my trust and made excessive contact to my head when there had been an understanding that we were not to make excessive contact. My amygdala/s at the time I fought Mehemet were also aware of those facts, and it/they were not prepared to allow me to continue to fight within the rules.
I’m absolutely sure there are many people who have been locked up for their lifetimes, or executed, because of the actions of their amygdala/s or whatever part of their brains took over from their conscious selves. Although that would be hard to prove in most circumstances I recently read of a father in the USA who as a reflex action shot his teenage daughter, who, as a joke, had hidden when her dad was coming home then jumped out in front of him to scare him. The shooting would have been a result of Dad’s amygdala/s taking over, and Dad, who feared there was a real burglar in the house, having ready access to his pistol. That sort of thing has happened with guns innumerable times.
I could however, see how a club could be swung in the direction of the wrong person by way of the club-carrier’s reflex reaction to situations that were similar to that of the dad who shot his daughter. I say that because on several occasions I (or my amygdala/s) took reflex swings at my mate, Brownie, when I lived with him for a couple of years. He would take great delight in jumping out in front of me to scare me when he had the opportunity, particularly if I came home late in the night, as he knew how I would react. He however, always anticipated my reactions and kept out of range. Had I had my finger on the trigger of a pistol prior to him scaring me it may have ended in tragedy.
In attempting to explain how, when the mind is emptied, we acquire perfect harmony between the mind and body, think of the times when your mind has been empty and you have taken out your key and inserted it into a lock. When your mind was emptied and as such devoid of conscious thought you would have found the key went straight into the lock without you having to slow down your hand and consciously line up the key with the hole. If you try to consciously place a key in a hole you will find you have to slow right down to do so, and some people may have to move the key around the hole before it’s properly lined-up.
BUT WAIT; THERE’S MORE! There was more bad behaviour on my part on that day at the Civic YMCA, and I will now describe it and its implications.
MY SECOND PERSONALITY, PERSONALITY 2, INTERRUPTS ME.
Come on Wheeler, you’re rationalising! “It wasn’t me it was my amygdala/s!” Please! What a pathetic excuse! You chose to give Mehemet an uppercut. Just admit it. Adrian, when mouthing an expletive at you described you accurately.
MY RESPONSE TO PERSONALITY 2
How would you know what I chose to do or not do 2? It’s okay for you to just sit inside my/our brain and criticise, but as I’ve told you before, I’m the one who makes the decisions for both of us when I’m capable of doing so, and if I was not consciously aware of giving the bloke an uppercut that is my reality. Next thing you’ll do is tell me the blinking reflex is a result of my making a conscious choice to blink when something suddenly heads in my direction. You’re very brave sitting inside me knowing you’re protected. If I had a chance I’d kick you in your/our arse so hard your/our nose would bleed.
MY SECOND PERSONALITY, PERSONALITY 2, RESPONDS.
You’re gutless Wheeler! You’re threatening me because you know I can’t hurt you. And even if you didn’t consciously choose to hit Mehemet in the head, the order came from your brain, and unless you’re a Dualist you would realise that your brain is part of you.
If you were to claim your body by way of your amygdala/s assaulted someone in the street without you consciously ordering it to do so, do you think a magistrate would understand if it went to court?
MY RESPONSE TO PERSONALITY 2
First of all 2, in regard to Dualism, nobody knows how or why we’re conscious. You know that. And I know there is no proof of there being a ghost in the biological machine, even if it is possible by way of some unknown laws of physics or some unseeable force coming from another dimension. But, if consciousness did arise from inanimate flesh and chemistry it means something was created from nothing. And how can something be created from nothing?
And if consciousness did arise from inanimate matter in a way that is beyond our understanding, a different form of Dualism does exist, because consciousness is something that stands apart from the physical world even if it is created by it. I suppose it depends on how you want to use the English language.
So, when you refer to me as me, should you define my consciousness as me, I am not responsible for giving Mehemet an uppercut because I did not consciously choose to give Mehemet an uppercut.
But, if you define “me” as all the atoms I am made of and leave the question of consciousness and the decisions made by my amygdala/s out of it, as well as the fact that we do not have contra causal free will, then yes, I, as in the atoms that make up my body, was responsible for giving the man an uppercut, even if I did not consciously choose to do so, because the parts of my brain that caused the uppercut to occur are a part of my body. Although having said that, we are continually replacing our atoms, and the ones that formed me back in the 70’s are not the same atoms I possess today.
As to attempting to explain to magistrates that we don’t have contra causal free will or that our amygdala/s were responsible for an act of violence, I would not fancy my chances. Although many are highly intelligent in some respects, the overwhelming majority of them are so conservative and inflexible their minds could only be described euphemistically as non-philosophical. I think however, more accurate terms would be primitive and simple.
If magistrates were truly conscious of our not having contra causal free will very few could carry out their duties, as they would be conscious of the fact that they needed to lock up dangerous people who were not responsible for their actions.
MY SECOND PERSONALITY, PERSONALITY 2, RESPONDS.
You have a point there Wheeler.
I HAVE A RECONCILIATION WITH MY SECOND PERSONALITY
My left and right hands have just shaken with each other and I gave myself a lengthy hug and a pat with alternate hands on my left and right shoulders.
Anyway, the fight with Adrian began by my standing still and him approaching me and trying to kick me in the balls. He made some contact but it had no effect because he missed his target. The fight was stopped temporarily and I was given a point because of him aiming his kick towards my cods.
Prior to the tournament I had been arguing for some time with another martial artist about the efficacy of defensive martial arts. He believed in the defensive approach not only for moral reasons; he believed that waiting for someone to attack gave one a practical advantage over an attacking opponent.
In other words, for what he saw as moral as well as practical reasons, he was of the belief that one should not retreat from or approach a person who is threatening, and one should only attack as a form of defence once the person who is threatening has approached you and actually begun his attack.
I could see the moral benefit of the approach, and it is the backbone of many pacifist styles. I could also however, see it was a dangerous tactic.
But, I foolishly decided to use the semi-pacifist tactic anyway, because the only way such opposing theories can be truly tested is by way of practical experiment with both of them against worthy opponents. I thought it however, highly unlikely I would get a worthy opponent, which was probably why I was willing to experiment. It was on my part an arrogant and stupid way of thinking.
The lesson from this exercise is that if you think you’re going to be attacked you should attack first or walk away, or at least stay out of range of your opponent so he does not have the advantage of getting in the first blow by way of the element of surprise, as demonstrated by the pencil-dropping exercise.
The only positive in taking the passive stance in the street is that you will not be charged for assault, because it would have been your opponent who made the first move. And, you can retain the moral high ground. I reiterate however, it gives a potential assailant a huge advantage, as it makes one very vulnerable to a king hit, (coward’s punch), if you are standing within striking range of the said potential assailant.
When the fight began again my arrogance had gone and I did not wait passively to be attacked. I instead attacked Adrian, and he retreated out of the marked square as I attacked him, which resulted in the fight starting again. I don’t know if I was awarded points because he had backed out of the area, but I probably was.
It resulted in my being physically restrained by the officials and others. I then observed myself giving Adrian the fingers before my conscious mind regained control of itself.
My amygdala/s and I always give two fingers, as shown above in the photo of my hand and fingers giving the fingers to Tony Abbott’s image on the 22/11/17. (As I was behind my hand and facing Abbott’s image I am not giving the reader the peace sign).
I am giving Abbott’s image the fingers even though he had no say in what he became and as such is not truly responsible for what he is. My amygdala/s and I dislike the single middle finger Americans use, which has become very popular in Australia. What has happened to our culture?
Although the photo is of the hand and fingers I possess today it differs to the hand and fingers I possessed in the 70’s when I gave Adrian the fingers, and not only because they appear to have been ravaged by time. The hands and fingers I now possess are not the same hands and fingers I possessed in the 70’s because the atoms that formed them have been replaced several times between then and now. Also, in the photo above I have a bandaid on my ring finger. I did not have a bandaid on that finger when I gave the fingers to Adrian at the Civic YMCA in the 70’s.
I was not the only member of our club who made an arse of himself on that day, although I was the worst offender. When the organisers of that tournament organised another one our club was not invited.
After that tournament I returned to my bedsitter in O’Connor, read and wrote some philosophy, and continued on with the life of a single, unattached and abnormal young man on his quest for devising a rationally-based philosophy on life. That I eventually achieved.
Time moves on, and as previously explained, between when the tournament occurred in the 70’s and now most if not all of the atoms that made up my body have been replaced several times.
I also possess today far more empathy than I had when I was a young man, again because of how the forces of the universe have acted upon my body.
As a result of these happenings, and despite the fact that I have a very low opinion of our species, I now find the idea of inflicting damaging physical violence on others, other than when one is defending oneself or others, abhorrent. It makes me wonder how parents and the schoolteachers of my day could have dispensed corporal punishment so easily.
The whole system ran on the threat of physical violence and it continues to do so in one way or the other. And it is by no means just a male problem despite it not being fashionable to acknowledge the existence of female violence.
Actually, I never liked seeing others suffer, but when I was younger I had a very different outlook when it came to two evenly-matched adults choosing to fight each other. Nowadays, although I enjoy watching the techniques employed in MMA, I do not like it when the fights do not end in submissions, which often means they end with one of the contestants suffering a pounding to the head. I find it particularly disturbing when the ref lets it go on for an unnecessarily long period to satisfy the blood lust of the crowd. That however, is to be expected within the form of capitalism we choose to live under.
Although many people watch MMA to enjoy the technique many watch it because their brains deliver to them a cheap sadistic thrill when they see a fighter getting bashed. And they are prepared to pay for that chemical hit.
The more primitive part of my brain makes me aware that I would in one respect enjoy participating in MMA if I had my youth return to me, but if I am ever able to drink from the fountain of youth and retain the brain I currently possess I would not box or practise MMA on a full contact basis, as my primitive drives are outweighed by the sense of empathy I have acquired over my lifetime as well as my desire to protect my own brain cells.
I'm saying I find the thought of deliberately trying to bash someone’s brain disturbing, even if one is up against an evenly matched and willing opponent who has the same objective. I would however, continue to practise the striking arts in a non-competitive way with mates, because the process gives me joy. I would also grapple recreationally and possibly competitively, as the objective when grappling is not to damage one’s opponent.
That does not mean I would like to see MMA banned. In the system we live under some frustrated young men feel a need to participate in that sort of thing, particularly if they can earn a living from it and have been suffering as a result of being unemployed and living under an impoverishing dole or undertaking work they find pathalogically boring. Our species did not evolve to live in this sewer, and some people are better adapted to it psychologically than others.
Today’s Australian ruling class has emulated the Romans, who were able to keep the masses quiet and vulnerable to exploitation by providing them with the basics and bloody entertainment by way of the Colosseum (bread and circuses). Today’s “circuses” are in the form of professional sport, preferably of the type where the spectator is aware that the participants may suffer serious injury or death or may fight with each other, or that violence may erupt between supporters of opposing individuals or teams as occurs in many soccer games.
(When watching major games today we are inundated with advertisements that attempt to encourage viewers to participate in wholesome activities like gambling, drinking piss and eating junk food. Yet the club board members, who mostly have the morality of tiger snakes, for the sake of their PR insist their athletes behave like choirboys in their private lives).
A link that follows will take you to another far less philosophical and more amusing anecdote that revolves around another martial arts event that occurred in the Berra in the early 70’s. It is entitled “Give me back my butterfly swords.” It also goes into the history of the martial arts within the ACT.
The photo that follows the link will give you a hint of what it’s about.
http://acanberraboy.blogspot.com.au/2014_08_01_archive.html
Otherwise scroll down for more stories or hit the “Home” button up the top and take your pick.
The non-existent casino at 62A Monaro Crescent Queanbeyan may have been in the building on the viewer’s left, up some stairs from inside the alley, above a restaurant, as shown above.
We would generally catch a taxi there as Uber was not yet operating. We thought this to be sensible given that alcohol at the casino was unlimited and free to those who were gambling. Food in the form of toasted sandwiches was also gratis. There never seemed to be an issue with excessive consumption of alcohol, (my mate, Dave Clark, from my work, was asked by a croupier at the black jack table whether he was sleeping or playing), although obnoxious drunks were quickly dealt with by the bouncers, the majority of whom played rugby league for a local club.
Entry to the casino was readily gained by ringing the bell and being eyed by the doorman (usually a well-known rugby league player) through a peephole. As none of us looked like coppers we were always let in. From memory, the games on offer were roulette and blackjack, though there may have been others. The roulette table was a full size casino standard one, and the croupiers (dealers) were well-versed in their trade and highly professional. I do not know from where they hailed, though at least one of the girls was a full time Canberra public servant.
The casino was generally well patronised and the clientele included some fairly big spenders. We generally enjoyed our nights there and there was much borrowing and lending of money between members of our group. There were occasions when entire pay packets were lost and other times phenomenal winnings. One time however, we all lost and had to hitchhike back to Canberra. I use the word hitchhike in its finest sense because on that occasion no one was willing to stop for a rowdy group of drunks at 3am.
Resorting to shank’s pony, we finally arrived at the house of my mate, Ken Montgomery, who lived in Curtin, at around 5 or 6am. I am not sure if anyone slept, but we were all at work by 8am, still drunk, un-showered and presumably reeking of alcohol. Not sure how we survived the day.
As mentioned at the outset, this was a time when the Canberra Times and local TV media were keen to expose the casino, and there had been several articles written about the casino and the police denial of its existence. My mate, Fitz, who has featured in several stories on this site, was working at the time as a cameraman at Channel 7. He asked me if I would be willing to be interviewed on camera about the casino, for the evening news.
Not being one to shy away from the opportunity for glory, I readily agreed. At the allotted time, I arrived at Channel 7 and met the interviewer. Unfortunately his name escapes me. He was however, a very pleasant fellow. He informed me that due to the contentious issue to be discussed and the possibility of reprisals I would be filmed in side profile and in silhouette.
At the interview I was asked a series of questions about my experiences at the casino. I took the position that the casino was all good and should be legalised. However, with some clever editing, when the article was shown on the news that night it appeared that I was anti the casino. This however, is neither here nor there.
I was somewhat assured that by being shown in silhouette my identity could not be established by viewers. WRONG! At that time I was living with my parents. So, that evening we were sitting around the TV as a family watching the news when the interview came on. Naturally, I had not told my parents that I had been interviewed as I did not want to worry them. I also did not think that they needed to know that I frequented such places. The interview was prefaced with words along the lines of “Canberra resident exposes illegal casino in Queanbeyan,” then I appeared in side profile, in the shadows. I had not even started speaking when my mother, God bless her, said “That’s you”! There was no denying, it was clearly me, easily recognisable.
I forget most of what else was said, though I am quite sure that both my parents were less than impressed. I do however, recall my mother expressing concern that I might become a target. The next day at work a number of people asked me if that was me on television the previous night, so clearly all the silhouettes and side-profiling in the world were of little use that day.
I was never worried about any potential repercussions, though for a time I kept an eye out for pink Chevrolets with running boards! Nothing eventuated, and I enjoyed many more visits to the casino until it was eventually closed.
INTRODUCTION by Dave Wheeler
Unlike me, Brownie as an adult continued to play rugby, and in the last years of his life he became the president of Canberra’s Easts rugby union club. The above photo is of Brownie’s Easts rugby team in 1976, several years after the event that led to his arrest. Brownie is in the front row 3rd from the left. Thanks to Trout for the photo.
A better shot of the arrest area. Thanks to Billy Southern for the use of the photo.
It could be argued that fabricating evidence related to a relatively minor charge, which is what Quoll did with Brownie, pales into insignificance when it comes to bringing the AFP into disrepute when compared to the proven and/or alleged actions and comments of the ex AFP commissioner, Mick Keelty, in relation to the arrest of the Bali 9 and what he said before the trial of Schappelle Corby.
In relation to 1 of the Bali 9, Scott Rush, whose father asked the AFP to stop him leaving Australia to prevent him being arrested in Bali, (which they did not do), a youngish copper I met said, to me “Keelty threw a hospital pass to every copper in Australia. What parent will ever trust a copper again?” And many Australians believe Keelty has blood on his hands in relation to the executions of Chan and Sukumaran.
When senior coppers and politicians talk about how they have no sympathy for drug smugglers and how they can justify cooperating with countries like Indonesia because they know they are saving lives by stopping drugs reaching the arms of addicts, they are insulting the intelligence of their audience. Corruption is a way of life in Indonesia, and drugs of a hard variety are always readily available as long as they are bought from certain people. Politicians and senior Australian coppers know that. Do the latter have any pride or self-respect or is that a rhetorical question?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bali_Nine
Now, although I have really given it to Quoll in this anecdote by publicly ridiculing the man, if he is still alive he will not suffer from what I have written nor will his reputation be tarnished, as I have not identified him. And I doubt anyone reading this yarn, other than the other witness to Brownie’s arrest, will know who he was or is. Had I retained a grudge against the man I could have identified him without risking being sued, because I can back up what I have written.
INTRODUCTION by Dave Wheeler
THERE ARE MANY MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED ESSAYS AND YARNS YOU HAVE NOT READ. YOU CAN READ SOME OF THEM BY SCROLLING UP TO THE TOP AND CLICKING ON THE LINKS UNDER THE TITLES AND YOU CAN READ THE REST BY DOWNLOADING, FREE OF CHARGE, "TALES OF A CANBERRA BOY," BY HITTING THE BUTTON UP THE TOP WITH THAT TITLE.
First time I read this,very interesting. ✓
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