Catechism cataclysm on the doorstep

It’s a bit unkind, I’ll admit, but a little politeness can easily lead to misunderstanding.

Take the God-botherers at my door recently. Nice enough blokes so rather than sool the dogs on to them I heard them out, for a bit, before suggesting if they had a leaflet I’d give it a read. “Thanks guy, sorry but can’t talk right now, see you later.”

Sure enough, I saw them later. About a week later, smiles bright as high-beam headlights on a dark night. They wanted to check in on what I thought of the leaflet. With that ominous old office psychopath request: ‘Got a minute?’

I was sorely tempted to discuss The Life of Brian, which I’d just watched for the umpteenth time the night before, but they were too fast for me.

“Did you read the leaflet we left with you?”

“Umm, I’ll be truthful gents, I didn’t.”

“Haven’t had the chance?”

“No, just didn’t read it. I’m a casualty of another denomination to you guys and not really inclined toward that stuff.”

The guys stared at me pitifully but mercifully. They had a plan for me.

Truth is I had a couple of leaflets, one from them, another that arrived amongst the junk mail. I wasn’t sure which one was theirs – the Will Suffering Ever End? job or the more colourful The Last Days … Are They Here?

The first had a weeping woman on the front with the reassuring Bible quote: “God … will wipe all tears from their eyes and there will be no more death, suffering, crying or pain”.

The second warned of The Tribulation – marked by globalism, one-world government and a deceptive peacemaking Anti-Christ – preceding the last days of humanity.

The latter’s a far better read with its apocalyptic firestorm, rampant army tanks, a wrecker’s ball draped in the Aussie flag attacking a mighty dollar sign and its general propaganda-style fear-mongering.

No sign of any goody-two-shoes tears being wiped here. It’s clear repent or it’s off to Hell in a handbasket stuff. Frighteningly mediaeval if it wasn’t so contemporary.

“Salvation is by faith and is never received as a result of good works or religious practices,” it cautions with a stirring quote from Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians.

What hope have you got?

I pondered the contradictions attendant to Paul’s alliterative assonance – along with John Cleese’s tongue-twisting Samson the Sadducee Strangler, Silus the Syrian Assassin and several seditious scribes from Caesarea from The Life of Brian – while the blokes on the doorstep just stood there smiling.

Lengthy pregnant pause stuff. Eventually, I piped up, quoting honest Abe Lincoln: “I suppose whatever you are, be a good one.”

More smiles and silence, then: “I heard someone said that.”

“Yeah, I just did. Gotta go gents, hooroo,” I said and politely closed the door.

The misunderstanding had to stop somewhere before I got on to Brian’s Pontius Pilate and ‘Incontinentia Buttocks’, which is alarmingly physically close to my real take on religion and politics these days.

An edited version of this article appeared in the Geelong Advertiser 17 October 2023.

When the pain hurts like charity

Cold as charity is a term that’s uncomfortably familiar to many people who have a new Geelong sanctuary for their lost and stolen childhoods.

It’s hard to imagine just how chilling that charity was for orphans abandoned by destitute, deceased or disappearing parents and stab-passed into the tender cruelties of church, government or community so-called ‘care’.

Numerous orphanages and foster homes were witheringly censured by the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse for their appalling failure to ‘care’ for the highly vulnerable innocents in their charge. Way, way too many children were irreversibly scarred by the physical, sexual and mental assault they faced. By the constant belittling, forced labour and bitter discrimination.

Brutality was an everyday menace for them. This was underscored by a persona non gratis status. Family contacts and details were deliberately withheld by authorities. Lies and fabrications tarnished their understanding of identity and self.

Today those children are old. Many can’t bear to recall their childhood. Many hide it from others. Others again, however, have found a solace of sorts in the company of fellow survivors. Geelong’s recently launched Australian Orphanage Museum, just out of town along Ryrie St, is a crucial, long-awaited facility for these people. It is a remarkable facility and a sobering reminder of the institutionalised barbarism visited on thousands of defenceless children across the country over generations.

The museum has been created by CLAN, the Care Leavers of Australasia Network – led by Geelong’s indomitable Leonie Sheedy – and features rare memorabilia from orphanages and homes where those children were abused.

It’s not a pretty story. The scars still sting for many of the survivors CLAN supports. The museum is a very real focal point for these survivors, one that acknowledges and corroborates their often untold, and for far too long, unrecognised, stories.

Those stories aren’t pretty either. The rapes and bashings often spawned angry adults only too quick to lash out and all too often find themselves on the wrong side of the law. Others have lived lives chewed up by PTSD, deep mental health issues, unemployment, homelessness and poverty.

One woman told me she was raped from age seven and through her teens, several times a week, while in ‘care’. She said she punched herself in the stomach to stop any baby from growing. All the while, files have since revealed, her father was trying to get her out of care but the authorities wouldn’t agree.

“It was just disgraceful. The government was our guardian but there was no guardianship,” she said.

Another told me of multiple rapes and regular bashings, pregnant at 13, jail at 14, four kids by 20, two of whom have since died – one by suicide after the car he was driving crashed and his brother died – as well as a grandchild lost in a crash.

For all their suffering, these people don’t want to be known as whingers. They toughed it out as kids, they’ve done so as adults too. But they do want to be acknowledged. And Redress would be good, too. Might pay for their funerals, if government can ever get its act together.

As for charity, well you know where you can shove that – especially the tax-exempt charitable status still given to institutions that oversaw their abuse.

This article was published in the Geelong Advertiser 30 May 2023.

When the pain hurts like charity

Cold as charity is a term that’s uncomfortably familiar to many people who have a new Geelong sanctuary for their lost and stolen childhoods.

It’s hard to imagine just how chilling that charity was for orphans abandoned by destitute, deceased or disappearing parents and stab-passed into the tender cruelties of church, government or community so-called ‘care’.

Numerous orphanages and foster homes were witheringly censured by the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse for their appalling failure to ‘care’ for the highly vulnerable innocents in their charge. Way, way too many children were irreversibly scarred by the physical, sexual and mental assault they faced. By the constant belittling, forced labour and bitter discrimination.

Brutality was an everyday menace for them. This was underscored by a persona non gratis status. Family contacts and details were deliberately withheld by authorities. Lies and fabrications tarnished their understanding of identity and self.

Today those children are old. Many can’t bear to recall their childhood. Many hide it from others. Others again, however, have found a solace of sorts in the company of fellow survivors. Geelong’s recently launched Australian Orphanage Museum, just out of town along Ryrie St, is a crucial, long-awaited facility for these people. It is a remarkable facility and a sobering reminder of the institutionalised barbarism visited on thousands of defenceless children across the country over generations.

The museum has been created by CLAN, the Care Leavers of Australasia Network – led by Geelong’s indomitable Leonie Sheedy – and features rare memorabilia from orphanages and homes where those children were abused.

It’s not a pretty story. The scars still sting for many of the survivors CLAN supports. The museum is a very real focal point for these survivors, one that acknowledges and corroborates their often untold, and for far too long, unrecognised, stories.

Those stories aren’t pretty either. The rapes and bashings often spawned angry adults only too quick to lash out and all too often find themselves on the wrong side of the law. Others have lived lives chewed up by PTSD, deep mental health issues, unemployment, homelessness and poverty.

One woman told me she was raped from age seven and through her teens, several times a week, while in ‘care’. She said she punched herself in the stomach to stop any baby from growing. All the while, files have since revealed, her father was trying to get her out of care but the authorities wouldn’t agree.

“It was just disgraceful. The government was our guardian but there was no guardianship,” she said.

Another told me of multiple rapes and regular bashings, pregnant at 13, jail at 14, four kids by 20, two of whom have since died – one by suicide after the car he was driving crashed and his brother died – as well as a grandchild lost in a crash.

For all their suffering, these people don’t want to be known as whingers. They toughed it out as kids, they’ve done so as adults too. But they do want to be acknowledged. And Redress would be good, too. Might pay for their funerals, if government can ever get its act together.

As for charity, well you know where you can shove that – especially the tax-exempt charitable status still given to institutions that oversaw their abuse.

This article was published in the Geelong Advertiser 30 May 2023.

Alamora, Sayers and what lies beneath …

Tarneit’s Sayers Road, home to Villawood Properties’ Alamora, was Nissen huts, quail-shooting, roadside eucalypts, wire fences and little else a few years back. Different now.

Mount Cottrell was to the north, beyond Cowie’s Hill and its brace of MMBW water tanks. The Spring Plains swimming hole was to the west across the Werribee River carving its way across the plains from Korweinguboora up near Daylesford down to Port Phillip.

The river was choked with fallen trunks, victims of what locals knew to be Victoria’s fastest river when in flood. The same wisdom contended that Bungee’s Hole, downstream in Werribee proper, was bottomless.

Sayers Road was designer-made for my rock bandmates as we happily plied our Santana and Doobie Brothers decibels across the wide-open spaces, rousing approbation from nothing more than the local mudlarks offended by thundering old valve amps. Raucous parties upset no-one.

Tarneit and its neighbouring Truganina were tough, rocky, grazing runs. Well out of town and aligned with Melton as much as Werribee, what little community infrastructure there once was was long gone even then – the old Trug township, post offices, old timber houses and bluestone homesteads, the odd hall and even school.

Remiremont                                                            Chaffey brothers George and William 

Some ruins remained, and still do, my ancestral home ‘Remiremont’ for one – a bluestone double-storey pared back to one for safety reasons but burned out in the 1969 fires. My grandmother grew up there, my mum stayed there with her uncle/aunty in the 1930s and ’40s and travelled to church not in Werribee or Melton but Yarraville.

For kids back in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, Werribee stopped at Shaws Road. Tarneit was somewhere out on the dusty Never-Never. But we rode out to explore the farmyards behind the CSIRO and the cemetery along Railway Avenue. Long before Glen Orden/Birdsville or Werribee Plaza existed, let alone Orchard Place, the first of Villawood Properties’ many Wyndham communities.

Cobbledicks Ford                                                Tarneit Primary School

We pedalled all the way out through Tarneit to Cobbledicks Ford, a hard trundle up Derrimut to Dohertys Road then down Dukelows and a precipitous grassy hill to the river. You could make out the Eynesbury stand of endangered grey box eucalypts across the river from the top of Dukelows. The Eynesbury old station’s since been transformed into an urban outpost south of Melton, south of Melton South and finally south of Exford. Urban sprawl will catch it soon enough.

But while Tarneit and Trug seemed no-man’s land, there are old and familiar names tied to it – Chirnside, Shanahan, Hogan, Leake, Campbell, Davis, Lee, Lawler – and there’s a history.

For one, there’s the 1888 Chaffey’s Channel culvert, pump, sluice gate – west of Sewells Road and thought to be to be the first irrigation scheme built in the area and the first crack at the game by the pioneering Chaffey Brothers. Didn’t fly, however, due to pumping and servicing problems and was moved to the Glen Devon Stud and what is now the Riverbend Historical Park.

The North Base Stone at 1245 Sayers Road is of State significance. It was laid in the 1860s by the Geodetic Survey of Victoria to facilitate the survey process used to subdivide land during the early days Victoria. Not much to look at but swags of map would be shot without it.

Wattle Park on nearby Sewell’s Road, was owned by the Chirnsides and leased to tenant farmers.  The Chaffeys efforts ran through it.

John Batman                                        Andrew Chirnside

The Werribee River’s been important forever, of course, as border, water and food source for Aboriginal clans of three language groups – the Marpeang bulluk, Kurung jang balluk and Yalukit willam. As a young Werribee reporter I recall covering Indigenous remains unearthed along the river by a mining operator.

In the late 1830s and 1840s, the Werribee River was the scene of conflict between Aborigines and the European colonisers. The squatter Charles Franks and a shepherd were speared to death near Mount Cottrell in July 1836. This resulted in the Mount Cottrell massacre – a punitive party led by John Batman which came upon a large party of Aborigines and indiscriminately shot and killed at least 10. There are accounts of arsenic laced flour being given to local aborigines.

Today, the river waters the Werribee South market gardens, is popular with anglers and bushwalkers and provides a rich flora and fauna habitat.

Alamora’s part in the reshaping of Sayers Road draws people to an area where its background is little known and little appreciated but where it remains a vital player in the lives of its residents in terms of location, geography, environment and natural resources.

  • Noel Murphy is Villawood Properties’ PR & communications manager
Banshees of Inisherin

Banshees, mangling and mayhem on Inisherin

Above: Brendan Gleeson as Colm Doherty in The Banshees of Inisherin.

Met the great Irish musician Paddy Moloney, leader of the legendary Chieftains, years back backstage at Dallas Brooks Hall.

I was with another Irish legend, Melbourne’s Paddy O’Neill, who ushered me past a scowling bull of a security guard with a thumb over his shoulder in my direction and the magical words: “Don’t worry about him, he’s with me.”

By the time the bull figured he was being gulled, we were in, Paddy greeting Paddy alike like long-lost brothers, lots of shoulder-slapping and plenty of beer gushing about the place.

Not sure why I’m reminded of this episode after watching The Banshees of Inisherin. Maybe it’s something to do with Paddy’s fluid control of language, suggestion and meaning.

“Follow me, I’ll be right behind you,” he’d laughingly instruct me. Or gently admonish me with: “I’m sorry, Noel, but you’re wrong again.”

Hold on, when I was wrong before? The Skipper, as he was known, could snooker you before you even knew you were playing.

Which is kind of what happens to Colin Farrell’s Padraig Súilleabháin in Banshees, when his drinking mate, Brendan Gleeson’s Colm Doherty, decides he’s had enough of him and doesn’t want to talk with him anymore. And nothing Padraig does seems capable of changing matters.

No particular reason for all this. Other than Colm thinks Padraig’s “dull” and he wants to spend what’s left of his life focussing on more memorable things, like writing fiddle tunes he hopes will be remembered longer than being “nice” to old mates like Padraig.

With Padraig declaring the first of these new tunes “shite” and refusing to leave him be, Colm ups the ante in a ridiculous fashion I suspect only the Irish could manufacture. He threatens to shear a finger off his fiddling hand each time Padraig talks to him.

Now, I haven’t made it to Ireland yet but I understand it’s a fine country from its Moher Cliffs and Waterford crystal to its Aran Islands, O’Carolan concertos and mad Flann O’Brien ruminations.

Been skirting around its periphery for decades, mind you. Fooling about with its music, soaking up its writings, wrangling with its citizens – which is enormous fun by the way – and observing Hibernian ways with a generally bewildered scrutiny.

Tradition, isolation, religion, history and politics underpin a harshness that’s hard to absorb from a distance. But its sentiment, humour, beauty and logic – fashioned as it is by emotion and humanity – polish those ragged edges.

Banshees brings all of these to the table with its wry plot, damaged characters, ambience and landscape. It tips a cap to Ireland’s brutal history with both everyday and ridiculous violence.

Padraig, gentle innocent that he is, notwithstanding the occasional drunken slip-up, is assailed by deep personal losses – his best friend, his sister’s departure and his tiny donkey when it chokes eating one of Colm’s fingers.

His only recourse is to burn Colm’s house, which Colm accepts as justice for the donkey’s loss. He spares Colm’s dog.

Ridiculous upon ridiculous, it almost looks as if Colm might be willing to rekindle their friendship although Padraig doesn’t seem interested, even if he can’t stop himself from being polite to him.

The Banshees of Inisherin is the name Colm gives his tune-set. It’s a dark, brooding composition which he conducts, blood dripping from his hand, as his students belt it out on their fiddles in the local pub.

Good name for an Irish tune although for mine it’s pipped by another called The Banshee’s Wail Over the Mangle Pit.

Blood-curdling’s probably a fair description. It’s not shite but I think it would sound grand if Paddy Moloney’s Chieftains tackled it. With Paddy O’Neill on the drums, too.

Of course, I could be wrong again …. but I don’t think so.