Christine tells you "Why girls take so long in public toilets,"
You might have seen this, but just in case you haven't it made me cry
laughing because its so true!
When you need to visit a public loo there is invariably a line of women
waiting, you smile politely and take your place in the line, it finally
gets to your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors.
Every cubicle is occupied.
But eventually a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the
woman leaving the cubicle.
You get in to find the door wont lock. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long and you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the door hook if there was one, but there isn't so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, yank down your pants and assume "the position".
In this position your ageing, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You would love to sit down, but you certainly hadn¹t taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "the position".
To take your mind off your trembling thighs for a moment you reach for the toilet paper dispenser and your worst nightmare it¹s empty, the toilet roll dispenser is empty. You hover looking around in the hope there's a new roll behind you no such luck. Your thighs start to shake more. Then you remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday the one that¹s still in your handbag, which is now burning your neck & shoulders with the weight. So you contort your arm into a very unnatural position and start to fumble around in the deep dark depths of your handbag for that small crumpled used tissue no bigger than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes your cubicle door and because the latch doesn't work the door hits your head, which is bent forward from you holding your bag around your neck while you are rummaging for that used tissue, the door takes you by surprise and you start to lose your balance and topple backwards. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach to push the door shut and drop the precious, tiny, crumpled tissue you had only just managed to retrieve with your index finger into an 'unknown' puddle on the floor.
If that isn't enough you lose your balance altogether, or just give up and... sit down ... directly onto the TOILET SEAT.
Yes, - it's wet! You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your thighs and bottom have made contact with every imaginable germ & life form that lives on the uncovered seat.
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of cold water like a fire hose into the bowl which causes a spray of fine mist that completely covers your bum and runs downs your legs along with all the various life forms and down into your dishevelled pants which have now dropped to your ankles with your hems soaking up that puddle from the floor.
The flush seems to suck everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At this point you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe your self with a piece ofgum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You cannot figure out how to operate the tap, so you run your hands underneath it grateful for the two drops of water there and around the basin itself. You go to the towel dispenser past the line of women still waiting, where of course there are no paper towels so you move onto the hand blower which yes you've guessed it that doesn't work either You're no longer able to smile politely to the women, but there's an unspoken understanding between you all. A kind soul at the very end of the line of women points out that you have a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. Where was that when you NEEDED IT??? You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this".
As you exit you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your handbag hanging around your neck? This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public loos. It also helps explain to the men why it really does take us women so long and italso answers that commonly asked question why do women always go to the loos in pairs?
It's so your friend can hold the door, hang onto your bag and pass your tissue under the door!
Thursday, 31 May 2007
Why Girls take so long in Public Toilets
Christine tells you "Why girls take so long in public toilets,"
You might have seen this, but just incase you haven't it made me cry
laughing because its so true!
>>When you need to visit a public loo there is invariably a line of women
>>waiting, you smile politely and take your place in the line, it finally
>>gets to your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors.
>>
>>Every cubicle is occupied.
>>
>>But eventually a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the
>>woman leaving the cubicle.
>>
>>You get in to find the door wont lock. It doesn't matter, the wait has
>>been so long and you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the
>>modern "seat covers" is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the
>>door hook if there was one, but there isn't so you carefully, but quickly
>>drape it around your neck, yank down your pants and assume "the position".
>>
>>In this position your ageing, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You
>>would love to sit down, but you certainly hadn¹t taken time to wipe the
>>seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "the position".
>>
>>To take your mind off your trembling thighs for a moment you reach for the
>>toilet paper dispenser and your worst nightmare it¹s empty, the toilet
>>roll dispenser is empty. You hover looking around in the hope there's a
>>new roll behind you no such luck. Your thighs start to shake more. Then
>>you remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday the one
>>that¹s still in your handbag, which is now burning your neck & shoulders
>>with the weight. So you contort your arm into a very unnatural position
>>and start to fumble around in the deep dark depths of your handbag for
>>that small crumpled used tissue no bigger than your thumbnail.
>>
>>Someone pushes your cubicle door and because the latch doesn't work the
>>door hits your head, which is bent forward from you holding your bag
>>around your neck while you are rummaging for that used tissue, the door
>>takes you by surprise and you start to lose your balance and topple
>>backwards. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach to push the door shut and
>>drop the precious, tiny, crumpled tissue you had only just managed to
>>retrieve with your index finger into an 'unknown' puddle on the floor.
>>
>>If that isn't enough you lose your balance altogether, or just give up
>>and... sit down ... directly onto the TOILET SEAT.
>>
>>Yes, - it's wet! You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late.
>>
>>Your thighs and bottom have made contact with every imaginable germ & life
>form that lives on the uncovered seat.
>>
>>By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
>>confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of cold water like a fire
>>hose into the bowl which causes a spray of fine mist that completely
>>covers your bum and runs downs your legs along with all the various lifeforms and down into your dishevelled pants which have now dropped to your
ankles with your hems soaking up that puddle from the floor.
>>
>>The flush seems to suck everything down with such force that you grab onto
>>the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
>>
>>At this point you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet
>>toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe your self with a piece of
>>gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to
the sinks.
>>
>>You cannot figure out how to operate the tap, so you run your hands underneath
>>it grateful for the two drops of water there and around the basin itself.
>>You go to the towel dispenser past the line of women still waiting, where
>>of course there are no paper towels so you more onto the hand blower,
>>which yes you've guessed it that doesn't work either!
>>
>>You're no longer able to smile politely to the women, but there's an
>>unspoken understanding between you all.
>>
>>A kind soul at the very end of the line of women points out that you have
>>a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. Where was that when you
>>NEEDED IT??? You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's
>>hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this".
>>
>>As you exit you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left
>>the men's. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your
>>handbag hanging around your neck?"
>>
>>This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public loos. It also
>>helps explain to the men why it really does take us women so long and it
>>also answers that commonly asked question why do women always go to the
>>loos in pairs?
>>
>>It's so your friend can hold the door, hang onto your bag and pass you
>>tissue under the door!
>>
>>
>>
>>
You might have seen this, but just incase you haven't it made me cry
laughing because its so true!
>>When you need to visit a public loo there is invariably a line of women
>>waiting, you smile politely and take your place in the line, it finally
>>gets to your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors.
>>
>>Every cubicle is occupied.
>>
>>But eventually a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the
>>woman leaving the cubicle.
>>
>>You get in to find the door wont lock. It doesn't matter, the wait has
>>been so long and you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the
>>modern "seat covers" is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the
>>door hook if there was one, but there isn't so you carefully, but quickly
>>drape it around your neck, yank down your pants and assume "the position".
>>
>>In this position your ageing, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You
>>would love to sit down, but you certainly hadn¹t taken time to wipe the
>>seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "the position".
>>
>>To take your mind off your trembling thighs for a moment you reach for the
>>toilet paper dispenser and your worst nightmare it¹s empty, the toilet
>>roll dispenser is empty. You hover looking around in the hope there's a
>>new roll behind you no such luck. Your thighs start to shake more. Then
>>you remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday the one
>>that¹s still in your handbag, which is now burning your neck & shoulders
>>with the weight. So you contort your arm into a very unnatural position
>>and start to fumble around in the deep dark depths of your handbag for
>>that small crumpled used tissue no bigger than your thumbnail.
>>
>>Someone pushes your cubicle door and because the latch doesn't work the
>>door hits your head, which is bent forward from you holding your bag
>>around your neck while you are rummaging for that used tissue, the door
>>takes you by surprise and you start to lose your balance and topple
>>backwards. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach to push the door shut and
>>drop the precious, tiny, crumpled tissue you had only just managed to
>>retrieve with your index finger into an 'unknown' puddle on the floor.
>>
>>If that isn't enough you lose your balance altogether, or just give up
>>and... sit down ... directly onto the TOILET SEAT.
>>
>>Yes, - it's wet! You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late.
>>
>>Your thighs and bottom have made contact with every imaginable germ & life
>form that lives on the uncovered seat.
>>
>>By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
>>confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of cold water like a fire
>>hose into the bowl which causes a spray of fine mist that completely
>>covers your bum and runs downs your legs along with all the various lifeforms and down into your dishevelled pants which have now dropped to your
ankles with your hems soaking up that puddle from the floor.
>>
>>The flush seems to suck everything down with such force that you grab onto
>>the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
>>
>>At this point you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet
>>toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe your self with a piece of
>>gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to
the sinks.
>>
>>You cannot figure out how to operate the tap, so you run your hands underneath
>>it grateful for the two drops of water there and around the basin itself.
>>You go to the towel dispenser past the line of women still waiting, where
>>of course there are no paper towels so you more onto the hand blower,
>>which yes you've guessed it that doesn't work either!
>>
>>You're no longer able to smile politely to the women, but there's an
>>unspoken understanding between you all.
>>
>>A kind soul at the very end of the line of women points out that you have
>>a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. Where was that when you
>>NEEDED IT??? You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's
>>hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this".
>>
>>As you exit you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left
>>the men's. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your
>>handbag hanging around your neck?"
>>
>>This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public loos. It also
>>helps explain to the men why it really does take us women so long and it
>>also answers that commonly asked question why do women always go to the
>>loos in pairs?
>>
>>It's so your friend can hold the door, hang onto your bag and pass you
>>tissue under the door!
>>
>>
>>
>>
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
A four year old child is abducted after escaping from custody
IT happened at the time when our family were living at Seven Hills; in the Western suburbs of Sydney NSW Australia.
A brisk twenty minute walk would take us to the rail station, which at the time was adjacent to the Seven Hills road controlled rail crossing, and a further five minutes walk would take us to the kindergarten where our baby boy of four years of age was protected while we the child's parents were working. We would drop the child off at the kindy from our car and on completion of our employment return to the kindy to pick him up.
On this particular occasion we called at the kindy I waited in the car while my wife went to pick up our child, minutes later they arrived at the car seemingly distressed, I wasn't sure what the problem was until we returned home and that was when our neighbour gave us the full account of the days proceedings.
Our neighbour stated that, she noticed our son in the front garden at 1pm and assumed that we had returned from work, then at 1-15pm or about; a car pulled up outside our house and a man got out of the car - picked up the boy and sped off, finding that we were not at home the neighbour called the police.
The police investigated the situation and eventually discovered that it was the the Kindy owners that had taken our child back to the Kindy from where he absconded, the police estimated it was about at least two hours earlier, estimating the child travelling that distance dawdling most of the way would have taken more than one hour to arrive home.
The following day I called at the Kindy where I received a serve of abuse for involving the police. I informed them that if they returned my advance payment in full I would then close the matter, so it ended there- but I would have liked to have
busted his face there and then.
One day later:
A representative from the NSW Railway authority called on us. He explained that our son had pressed the emergency button at the level crossing At 10-15 am on that particular day he escaped from custody, in doing so he had effectively prevented the progress of the 'Southern Aurora' a fast train heading to the outback. on being questioned at the time of the incident, our baby boy of nearly five tender years was able to give his address to to the rail authority, although the number he gave was dodgy.
The rail Rep then explained we could be held responsible for our sons actions. i explained That, our son was legally in the care of the said kindergarten at the time of the incident I suggested he should deal with them over the matter.
So in the washup it seems our baby boy was allowed to wander the streets for at least Three Hours. I rang a talk back radio station about it, they said just change to another kindergarten, I replied yep that would be about right. FINI
Vest Daily Gaggle.
A brisk twenty minute walk would take us to the rail station, which at the time was adjacent to the Seven Hills road controlled rail crossing, and a further five minutes walk would take us to the kindergarten where our baby boy of four years of age was protected while we the child's parents were working. We would drop the child off at the kindy from our car and on completion of our employment return to the kindy to pick him up.
On this particular occasion we called at the kindy I waited in the car while my wife went to pick up our child, minutes later they arrived at the car seemingly distressed, I wasn't sure what the problem was until we returned home and that was when our neighbour gave us the full account of the days proceedings.
Our neighbour stated that, she noticed our son in the front garden at 1pm and assumed that we had returned from work, then at 1-15pm or about; a car pulled up outside our house and a man got out of the car - picked up the boy and sped off, finding that we were not at home the neighbour called the police.
The police investigated the situation and eventually discovered that it was the the Kindy owners that had taken our child back to the Kindy from where he absconded, the police estimated it was about at least two hours earlier, estimating the child travelling that distance dawdling most of the way would have taken more than one hour to arrive home.
The following day I called at the Kindy where I received a serve of abuse for involving the police. I informed them that if they returned my advance payment in full I would then close the matter, so it ended there- but I would have liked to have
busted his face there and then.
One day later:
A representative from the NSW Railway authority called on us. He explained that our son had pressed the emergency button at the level crossing At 10-15 am on that particular day he escaped from custody, in doing so he had effectively prevented the progress of the 'Southern Aurora' a fast train heading to the outback. on being questioned at the time of the incident, our baby boy of nearly five tender years was able to give his address to to the rail authority, although the number he gave was dodgy.
The rail Rep then explained we could be held responsible for our sons actions. i explained That, our son was legally in the care of the said kindergarten at the time of the incident I suggested he should deal with them over the matter.
So in the washup it seems our baby boy was allowed to wander the streets for at least Three Hours. I rang a talk back radio station about it, they said just change to another kindergarten, I replied yep that would be about right. FINI
Vest Daily Gaggle.
Saturday, 26 May 2007
The Mile High Whore - Now sitting on a Goldmine
SHE has sold and re-told the story of her Ralph Fiennes conquest umpteen times - now former Qantas trolly dolly Lisa Robertson is using her "mile high" fame claim to promote a Sydney brothel.
Featuring the image of a jet and the message that "Lisa recommends the Mile High Club", the ads for Granville bordello The Site appeared in The Daily Telegraph's personal classified section this week.
While Robertson - who has admitted working as an escort in the past, as well as stints as a police woman - declined to comment, a spokeswoman from The Site said they would be employing the former hostie for "promotions and marketing" purposes but not as "a working lady".
"Lisa hasn't signed a contract yet, but she is aware that the ads are running," the spokeswoman said.
"We're trying to think outside the square in how we promote the business, and this has had a great response so far."
Earlier this year Roberson was at the centre of the worldwide scandal, having been sacked for her onboard tryst with star Fiennes.
RUMOURS about Lisa Robertson's troubled past have forced her to admit she worked at the brothel Stiletto because she was struggling to pay the rent when she worked part-time for Qanta
She said her decision to turn to prostitution was linked to her lifelong battle with mental illness, including suicidal tendencies and depression, which was exacerbated by her 14 years as an undercover police officer.
Ms Robertson 38 also admitted she took one shift at another brothel immediately after Qantas suspended her for having sex with movie star Fiennes in a business-class toilet on a flight from Darwin to Mumbai in late January.
"After I got (suspended) because of the Ralph Fiennes incident, I worked one night a week at The Gateway Club under the name of Skye,'' she said.
"I did one night's work because I couldn't pay the rent and I was too proud to ask anyone for money. I earned $800 that night and then, two days later, the story broke.
She was later sacked by Qantas after admitting the sexual encounter took place.
Ms Robertson's first experience of the sex industry took place when she was subcontracted by agency Jetconnect to work for Qantas in New Zealand in 2005.
"One day I got home (from a long-haul flight) and my phone's cut off, the electricity's cut off, the car battery's flat, I had all these bills to pay and no money to pay them,'' she said.
"When I was working undercover I had to pretend to be a prostitute so I found I could detach myself from the reality and treat it like a role. The mind is a very powerful thing and I thought if I could do undercover work I could do anything.''
She was earning just $NZ29,000 ($25,414) per year working on exhausting long-haul flights.
"It was a brothel called the Pelican Club and I went for an interview. It was the freakiest experience - sort of like a little experiment for me.
"I did the orientation and I was told what to do and what the service was and it didn't shock me; it was what I expected - I'm not stupid.
"There was no pressure, they were really good people and you didn't have to do anything you didn't want to.''
Working under the name Kendall, she earned between $NZ500 and $NZ600 per night - much less than she would come to earn later in Sydney.
Her first client in New Zealand was a wealthy businessman who paid her $NZ1000 to have dinner with him and later flew her to New York for several days.
Ms Robertson moved to Sydney last year and began working at Stiletto, the infamous Camperdown brothel owned by racing identity Eddie Hayson, where she also worked under the name Kendall earning up to $2000 a night.
However, she was eventually sacked after she was caught getting into a taxi with a client early one morning after work.
Ms Robertson said the professional problems she faced were often linked to her troubled personal
"There came a period of time that I decided to take my own life,'' she said.
"I took 200 pills and drank a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon - so I did it in style. My boyfriend at the time called me and I was incoherent. I remember cutting my arm and I remember my choice that night to die and I went to sleep dressed in the clothes I wanted to be buried in.
"I left notes to Mum and Dad, my brothers and my dog and my parrot, who are now both deceased. I was quite sure that my decision was the right one.''
She woke up in an Auckland hospital the next day and had her stomach pumped.
Her story spilling all will hit the stands in the near future, meanwhile; the income derived from her fleshpot goldmine will maintain her in good stead.
Featuring the image of a jet and the message that "Lisa recommends the Mile High Club", the ads for Granville bordello The Site appeared in The Daily Telegraph's personal classified section this week.
While Robertson - who has admitted working as an escort in the past, as well as stints as a police woman - declined to comment, a spokeswoman from The Site said they would be employing the former hostie for "promotions and marketing" purposes but not as "a working lady".
"Lisa hasn't signed a contract yet, but she is aware that the ads are running," the spokeswoman said.
"We're trying to think outside the square in how we promote the business, and this has had a great response so far."
Earlier this year Roberson was at the centre of the worldwide scandal, having been sacked for her onboard tryst with star Fiennes.
RUMOURS about Lisa Robertson's troubled past have forced her to admit she worked at the brothel Stiletto because she was struggling to pay the rent when she worked part-time for Qanta
She said her decision to turn to prostitution was linked to her lifelong battle with mental illness, including suicidal tendencies and depression, which was exacerbated by her 14 years as an undercover police officer.
Ms Robertson 38 also admitted she took one shift at another brothel immediately after Qantas suspended her for having sex with movie star Fiennes in a business-class toilet on a flight from Darwin to Mumbai in late January.
"After I got (suspended) because of the Ralph Fiennes incident, I worked one night a week at The Gateway Club under the name of Skye,'' she said.
"I did one night's work because I couldn't pay the rent and I was too proud to ask anyone for money. I earned $800 that night and then, two days later, the story broke.
She was later sacked by Qantas after admitting the sexual encounter took place.
Ms Robertson's first experience of the sex industry took place when she was subcontracted by agency Jetconnect to work for Qantas in New Zealand in 2005.
"One day I got home (from a long-haul flight) and my phone's cut off, the electricity's cut off, the car battery's flat, I had all these bills to pay and no money to pay them,'' she said.
"When I was working undercover I had to pretend to be a prostitute so I found I could detach myself from the reality and treat it like a role. The mind is a very powerful thing and I thought if I could do undercover work I could do anything.''
She was earning just $NZ29,000 ($25,414) per year working on exhausting long-haul flights.
"It was a brothel called the Pelican Club and I went for an interview. It was the freakiest experience - sort of like a little experiment for me.
"I did the orientation and I was told what to do and what the service was and it didn't shock me; it was what I expected - I'm not stupid.
"There was no pressure, they were really good people and you didn't have to do anything you didn't want to.''
Working under the name Kendall, she earned between $NZ500 and $NZ600 per night - much less than she would come to earn later in Sydney.
Her first client in New Zealand was a wealthy businessman who paid her $NZ1000 to have dinner with him and later flew her to New York for several days.
Ms Robertson moved to Sydney last year and began working at Stiletto, the infamous Camperdown brothel owned by racing identity Eddie Hayson, where she also worked under the name Kendall earning up to $2000 a night.
However, she was eventually sacked after she was caught getting into a taxi with a client early one morning after work.
Ms Robertson said the professional problems she faced were often linked to her troubled personal
"There came a period of time that I decided to take my own life,'' she said.
"I took 200 pills and drank a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon - so I did it in style. My boyfriend at the time called me and I was incoherent. I remember cutting my arm and I remember my choice that night to die and I went to sleep dressed in the clothes I wanted to be buried in.
"I left notes to Mum and Dad, my brothers and my dog and my parrot, who are now both deceased. I was quite sure that my decision was the right one.''
She woke up in an Auckland hospital the next day and had her stomach pumped.
Her story spilling all will hit the stands in the near future, meanwhile; the income derived from her fleshpot goldmine will maintain her in good stead.
Friday, 25 May 2007
Smelly Flea Ridden Slobbering Dogs in Taxicabs? Have your say on the matter.
TAXI drivers who refuse to carry blind people with guide dogs face fines of up to $1100, the NSW Government warned today amid outrage at the biased practice.
Transport Minister John Watkins today warned of a crackdown on selective cabbies after he Daily Telegraph revealed some drivers were refusing to pick up guide dogs for "religious" reasons or because of allergies.
He said the government was committed to ensuring that all taxi drivers were aware of and complied with the law - and would consider changing the training program.
"I need to make the point very clear to the taxi industry and to taxi drivers. This is illegal, with a fine of up to $1,100," Mr Watkins told reporters in Newcastle.
"I've made sure the Ministry of Transport contacts the Taxi Council to remind their drivers of their responsibility.
"We'll also look at the education – all taxi drivers receive a session with a disability service advocate as part of their training.
"I also urge any patron that finds or comes across a refusal to travel, to report them."
A spokeswoman for Deputy Premier John Watkins said he would look into implementing better training programs in cooperation with the NSW Taxi Council.
A Guide Dogs NSW spokeswoman said the organisation had been providing information sessions for new taxi drivers for the past two years.
She said taxi drivers were often surprised to learn that carrying guide dogs in their vehicles was compulsory, and added there should be further measures to teach drivers already in the industry.
The treatment of the blind by some Sydney taxi drivers has been exposed by Human Rights and Disability Discrimination Commissioner Graeme Innes, who is himself blind and reliant on his guide dog Jordie.
Mr Innes, whose high-powered role makes him a regular cab user, said he was refused service on average once a month, including twice in two days recently.
He has been told on a number of occasions that it would be against a driver's religion to allow a dog in the cab.
He has also been refused by drivers claiming to be allergic to dogs and even scared of dogs.
He has also been left clutching at air on busy Market St by one belligerent driver who told him he had to take the non-existent cab in front.
Mr Innes yesterday received the backing of Vision Australia (VA), which said taxi drivers refusing to carry blind passengers with guide dogs happened with "too much regularity".
VA's head of policy and advocacy Michael Simpson said the problem was worse in the Sydney metropolitan area where there were more drivers unwilling to carry dogs based on Muslim objections.
"It is fair to say that the (Islamic) religion has made the problem worse in the metropolitan areas than regional areas, where I've found taxi drivers are generally excellent," he said.
Mr Simpson, who has been blind for 30 years but uses a cane instead of a guide dog, said he was refused service at the airport because his two companions had dogs.
"We asked the driver for his accreditation number and he gave us the wrong one," he said.
"It was only because an airline staff member had accompanied us that we got the right number and could properly complain about being refused."
Mr Innes was compelled to speak out after The Daily Telegraph last week revealed how an intellectually impaired man had been slapped with $1000 in train fare evasion fines even though he cannot understand what the offence is.
He called for better training for all front-line public transport staff in NSW in dealing with disabled passengers.
"I'm a lawyer and I know exactly what my rights are so I force the issue but my concern is for those for whom a refusal can be a damaging experience and discouraging to their independence," Mr Innes.
NSW Taxi Council spokeswoman Tracey Caine said complaints about refusing guide dogs was rare.
"The problem has been much worse in Melbourne," she said.
Ms Caine said all NSW drivers were spoken to by disability advocates as part of their training and there had been a number of awareness campaigns in the industry publication, Meter Magazine: "It is illegal to refuse to take a guide dog and all drivers know it."
Vest say's there being two sides to the story it is also important to hear from cab drivers and actually listen to their argument too, there has to be a reason why some cab drivers refuse fares, let us hear what they have to say.
Transport Minister John Watkins today warned of a crackdown on selective cabbies after he Daily Telegraph revealed some drivers were refusing to pick up guide dogs for "religious" reasons or because of allergies.
He said the government was committed to ensuring that all taxi drivers were aware of and complied with the law - and would consider changing the training program.
"I need to make the point very clear to the taxi industry and to taxi drivers. This is illegal, with a fine of up to $1,100," Mr Watkins told reporters in Newcastle.
"I've made sure the Ministry of Transport contacts the Taxi Council to remind their drivers of their responsibility.
"We'll also look at the education – all taxi drivers receive a session with a disability service advocate as part of their training.
"I also urge any patron that finds or comes across a refusal to travel, to report them."
A spokeswoman for Deputy Premier John Watkins said he would look into implementing better training programs in cooperation with the NSW Taxi Council.
A Guide Dogs NSW spokeswoman said the organisation had been providing information sessions for new taxi drivers for the past two years.
She said taxi drivers were often surprised to learn that carrying guide dogs in their vehicles was compulsory, and added there should be further measures to teach drivers already in the industry.
The treatment of the blind by some Sydney taxi drivers has been exposed by Human Rights and Disability Discrimination Commissioner Graeme Innes, who is himself blind and reliant on his guide dog Jordie.
Mr Innes, whose high-powered role makes him a regular cab user, said he was refused service on average once a month, including twice in two days recently.
He has been told on a number of occasions that it would be against a driver's religion to allow a dog in the cab.
He has also been refused by drivers claiming to be allergic to dogs and even scared of dogs.
He has also been left clutching at air on busy Market St by one belligerent driver who told him he had to take the non-existent cab in front.
Mr Innes yesterday received the backing of Vision Australia (VA), which said taxi drivers refusing to carry blind passengers with guide dogs happened with "too much regularity".
VA's head of policy and advocacy Michael Simpson said the problem was worse in the Sydney metropolitan area where there were more drivers unwilling to carry dogs based on Muslim objections.
"It is fair to say that the (Islamic) religion has made the problem worse in the metropolitan areas than regional areas, where I've found taxi drivers are generally excellent," he said.
Mr Simpson, who has been blind for 30 years but uses a cane instead of a guide dog, said he was refused service at the airport because his two companions had dogs.
"We asked the driver for his accreditation number and he gave us the wrong one," he said.
"It was only because an airline staff member had accompanied us that we got the right number and could properly complain about being refused."
Mr Innes was compelled to speak out after The Daily Telegraph last week revealed how an intellectually impaired man had been slapped with $1000 in train fare evasion fines even though he cannot understand what the offence is.
He called for better training for all front-line public transport staff in NSW in dealing with disabled passengers.
"I'm a lawyer and I know exactly what my rights are so I force the issue but my concern is for those for whom a refusal can be a damaging experience and discouraging to their independence," Mr Innes.
NSW Taxi Council spokeswoman Tracey Caine said complaints about refusing guide dogs was rare.
"The problem has been much worse in Melbourne," she said.
Ms Caine said all NSW drivers were spoken to by disability advocates as part of their training and there had been a number of awareness campaigns in the industry publication, Meter Magazine: "It is illegal to refuse to take a guide dog and all drivers know it."
Vest say's there being two sides to the story it is also important to hear from cab drivers and actually listen to their argument too, there has to be a reason why some cab drivers refuse fares, let us hear what they have to say.
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Wallabies Roo's in Nappies (Diapers) What's next, Crocs in the Bathtub..
US shame: Wallabies in nappies
RED kangaroos are selling for $US3000 in the United States in a booming trade that reduces Australia's national icon to the status of domestic pet.
And their smaller kin, wallabies, are being touted as excellent inside pets, with tips to keep them in nappies and walk them on leashes.
The rush to have Australian natives as pets is horrifying conservation groups which believe the trend can be found worldwide.
The issue has boiled over recently after The Daily Telegraph revealed the abominable conditions of the red kangaroo Tyson, which was living out its life in a roadside zoo in the town of London in Ontario, Canada.
Let Canada know just how you feel about Tyson's suffering. Follow the links at the bottom of this story or join our Canadian kicking page here .
While the red kangaroos for sale in the US are generally bred there, anger is building that our closest neighbour New Zealand is exporting many of the wallabies for the international market.
The internet is littered with websites promoting wallabies as pets.
The mammals being sold overseas are mainly bred from New Zealand colonies exported years ago before the Federal Government banned their overseas sale.
National Kangaroo Protection Coalition co-ordinator Pat O'Brien said complaints made to New Zealand over live wallaby exports had fallen on deaf ears over the years.
"It's absolutely disgraceful," he said. "Most of the wallabies go to Asia and are then distributed from there."
Mr O'Brien said the trade in certain Asian countries raised concerns that wallabies were seen as novelty pets.
And he raised concern that with the majority living in apartments, the mammals that grace Australia's wide-open spaces are destined to live out their days in cramped cages.
"People try to treat them like dogs and keep them in rooms but it's just wrong," Mr O'Brien said.
"Quite often we get complaints from Australians who are travelling overseas and contact us to complain about what they see."
His concerns were backed by the Australian Wildlife Protection Council, which is worried people who get the mammals as pets have little idea how to properly care for them.
"A lot of them don't know how to look after wildlife and they have no idea about their dietary needs," president Maryland Wilson said.
"This has been highlighted by the case of Tyson, which is so sad. His muscles have deteriorated so badly that he is really just waiting to die."
Register your disgust about Tyson's treatment. Have your say on our blog or email the Canadian High Commissioner Michael Leir at this address: cnbra@international.gc.ca or post your comment here.
RED kangaroos are selling for $US3000 in the United States in a booming trade that reduces Australia's national icon to the status of domestic pet.
And their smaller kin, wallabies, are being touted as excellent inside pets, with tips to keep them in nappies and walk them on leashes.
The rush to have Australian natives as pets is horrifying conservation groups which believe the trend can be found worldwide.
The issue has boiled over recently after The Daily Telegraph revealed the abominable conditions of the red kangaroo Tyson, which was living out its life in a roadside zoo in the town of London in Ontario, Canada.
Let Canada know just how you feel about Tyson's suffering. Follow the links at the bottom of this story or join our Canadian kicking page here .
While the red kangaroos for sale in the US are generally bred there, anger is building that our closest neighbour New Zealand is exporting many of the wallabies for the international market.
The internet is littered with websites promoting wallabies as pets.
The mammals being sold overseas are mainly bred from New Zealand colonies exported years ago before the Federal Government banned their overseas sale.
National Kangaroo Protection Coalition co-ordinator Pat O'Brien said complaints made to New Zealand over live wallaby exports had fallen on deaf ears over the years.
"It's absolutely disgraceful," he said. "Most of the wallabies go to Asia and are then distributed from there."
Mr O'Brien said the trade in certain Asian countries raised concerns that wallabies were seen as novelty pets.
And he raised concern that with the majority living in apartments, the mammals that grace Australia's wide-open spaces are destined to live out their days in cramped cages.
"People try to treat them like dogs and keep them in rooms but it's just wrong," Mr O'Brien said.
"Quite often we get complaints from Australians who are travelling overseas and contact us to complain about what they see."
His concerns were backed by the Australian Wildlife Protection Council, which is worried people who get the mammals as pets have little idea how to properly care for them.
"A lot of them don't know how to look after wildlife and they have no idea about their dietary needs," president Maryland Wilson said.
"This has been highlighted by the case of Tyson, which is so sad. His muscles have deteriorated so badly that he is really just waiting to die."
Register your disgust about Tyson's treatment. Have your say on our blog or email the Canadian High Commissioner Michael Leir at this address: cnbra@international.gc.ca or post your comment here.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
CANADA..Cruelty resumes..Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty, Ignores plight of the Big Red Kangaroo.
THE person who could save Tyson the red kangaroo from his restricted enclosure, at a disgusting roadside zoo, has wiped his hands of the imprisoned Roo.
Ontario premier Dalton Mcguinty, a renowned native wildlife lover, has apparently refused to extend the same compassion to exotic species.
While Mr Mcguinty freed Bam Bam; a native deer from shocking conditions at a roadside zoo similar to Tysons prison, he does not seem interested in the Australian Roo's plight and refused a Sydney news papers request for an interview.
"Unfortunately an interview with the premier isn't possible at this time" his media officer said.
This is not surprising as he was in all probability out chasing the famous Paddy Mcguinty's goat, Or with a few of his Canuck Cronies beating the living shit out of a few thousand Baby Harp Seals; another exotic species perhaps? - in my opinion only in the sense of the fur coats they provide for exotic well heeled Homo Sapiens.
Are not humans of differing shapes and shades and other animal species exotic when we compare them to ourselves, or has Canada emerged as a fore-runner in assuming that a animal species discrimination now exists in Canada.
Ok Boo Boo; this means you too, while you are Touring Canada, White Bears sit at the front of the Bus, Yankee Brown Bears sit at the back of the bus.
Its really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.
Have a Lovely Day. VEST DAILY GAGGLE.
Ontario premier Dalton Mcguinty, a renowned native wildlife lover, has apparently refused to extend the same compassion to exotic species.
While Mr Mcguinty freed Bam Bam; a native deer from shocking conditions at a roadside zoo similar to Tysons prison, he does not seem interested in the Australian Roo's plight and refused a Sydney news papers request for an interview.
"Unfortunately an interview with the premier isn't possible at this time" his media officer said.
This is not surprising as he was in all probability out chasing the famous Paddy Mcguinty's goat, Or with a few of his Canuck Cronies beating the living shit out of a few thousand Baby Harp Seals; another exotic species perhaps? - in my opinion only in the sense of the fur coats they provide for exotic well heeled Homo Sapiens.
Are not humans of differing shapes and shades and other animal species exotic when we compare them to ourselves, or has Canada emerged as a fore-runner in assuming that a animal species discrimination now exists in Canada.
Ok Boo Boo; this means you too, while you are Touring Canada, White Bears sit at the front of the Bus, Yankee Brown Bears sit at the back of the bus.
Its really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.
Have a Lovely Day. VEST DAILY GAGGLE.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Canadian Animal Cruelty rears its Ugly head again
A RED kangaroo living in a cage the size of a garage at a Canadian zoo is about to change the animal cruelty laws of its adopted home.
Nicknamed Tyson, the tired and sick-looking Australian native has been languishing in a cage thousands of kilometres from home since 2001.
Normally able to travel at speeds of up to 48km/h and leap up to 9m in a single bound, the kangaroo has been restricted to hopping just a few metres in its small, dusty enclosure at Lickety-Split Ranch & Zoo in London, Ontario.
Let Canada know just how you feel about Tyson's suffering. Follow the links at the bottom of this story or join our Canadian kicking page here .
Locals say the roadside zoo's animals have suffered through an eight-month Canadian winter of snow storms and sub-zero temperatures.
But Tyson has only a metal shed for protection against the cold.
Donna O'Donnell, who lives nearby, said all the animals were kept outside in tiny metal cages during London's bitter chill.
"It snowed so hard one day, the weather closed down the whole city," Ms O'Donnell said.
"The conditions those animals survive in is just dreadful. I cannot go there. I would break down in tears."
Canadian animal activists are outraged at the kangaroo's appalling living conditions.
"For the past six years, Tyson has lived in a small, barren cage the size of a single-car garage, with just a patch of dirt and a metal shed to sleep in," Toronto-based World Society for the Protection of Animals campaigner Melissa Tkachyk said.
"There is absolutely nothing in the exhibit for stimulation and Tyson does not have enough room to hop like a normal kangaroo.
"Unfortunately, Tyson will probably have to endure these conditions for the remainder of his captive life, because Ontario has the weakest animal cruelty laws and zoo regulations in the country."
The kangaroo's plight has been the catalyst for a bill before the Legislative Assembly of Ontario, which would force zoos to close if they did not provide appropriate living conditions for the animals they kept.
More than 13,000 people have signed a petition in support of the bill, introduced last year by Liberal Party MP David Zimmer.
Locals and tourists – including one Australian – had contacted animal protection groups on numerous occasions concerned about Tyson's predicament, Ms Tkachyk said.
But when The Daily Telegraph rang zoo owner Shirley McElroy at her home, she sighed and hung up before any questions could be asked.
She did not answer numerous subsequent calls and had previously disconnected the direct line to the zoo after negative press coverage in the local media prompted a flurry of concerned phone calls.
The zoo has been closed over winter and will re-open next Thursday.
Ms Tkachyk said Ontario had 45 zoos, most of which were substandard.
Roadside zoos, in particular, kept animals in poor conditions and lacked the trained professional staff needed to care for them, leading to psychological and physical health problems.
A spokesman for the Canadian Association of Zoo and Wildlife Veterinarians said none of his vets had any business with Lickety-Split.
Red kangaroos, known by their scientific name macropus rufus, are the world's largest marsupial.
They are common in Australia, particularly in Queensland, live up to 18 years, and survive on grasses.
Register your disgust about Tyson's treatment. Have your say on our blog or email the Canadian High Commissioner Michael Leir at this address: cnbra@international.gc.ca
Nicknamed Tyson, the tired and sick-looking Australian native has been languishing in a cage thousands of kilometres from home since 2001.
Normally able to travel at speeds of up to 48km/h and leap up to 9m in a single bound, the kangaroo has been restricted to hopping just a few metres in its small, dusty enclosure at Lickety-Split Ranch & Zoo in London, Ontario.
Let Canada know just how you feel about Tyson's suffering. Follow the links at the bottom of this story or join our Canadian kicking page here .
Locals say the roadside zoo's animals have suffered through an eight-month Canadian winter of snow storms and sub-zero temperatures.
But Tyson has only a metal shed for protection against the cold.
Donna O'Donnell, who lives nearby, said all the animals were kept outside in tiny metal cages during London's bitter chill.
"It snowed so hard one day, the weather closed down the whole city," Ms O'Donnell said.
"The conditions those animals survive in is just dreadful. I cannot go there. I would break down in tears."
Canadian animal activists are outraged at the kangaroo's appalling living conditions.
"For the past six years, Tyson has lived in a small, barren cage the size of a single-car garage, with just a patch of dirt and a metal shed to sleep in," Toronto-based World Society for the Protection of Animals campaigner Melissa Tkachyk said.
"There is absolutely nothing in the exhibit for stimulation and Tyson does not have enough room to hop like a normal kangaroo.
"Unfortunately, Tyson will probably have to endure these conditions for the remainder of his captive life, because Ontario has the weakest animal cruelty laws and zoo regulations in the country."
The kangaroo's plight has been the catalyst for a bill before the Legislative Assembly of Ontario, which would force zoos to close if they did not provide appropriate living conditions for the animals they kept.
More than 13,000 people have signed a petition in support of the bill, introduced last year by Liberal Party MP David Zimmer.
Locals and tourists – including one Australian – had contacted animal protection groups on numerous occasions concerned about Tyson's predicament, Ms Tkachyk said.
But when The Daily Telegraph rang zoo owner Shirley McElroy at her home, she sighed and hung up before any questions could be asked.
She did not answer numerous subsequent calls and had previously disconnected the direct line to the zoo after negative press coverage in the local media prompted a flurry of concerned phone calls.
The zoo has been closed over winter and will re-open next Thursday.
Ms Tkachyk said Ontario had 45 zoos, most of which were substandard.
Roadside zoos, in particular, kept animals in poor conditions and lacked the trained professional staff needed to care for them, leading to psychological and physical health problems.
A spokesman for the Canadian Association of Zoo and Wildlife Veterinarians said none of his vets had any business with Lickety-Split.
Red kangaroos, known by their scientific name macropus rufus, are the world's largest marsupial.
They are common in Australia, particularly in Queensland, live up to 18 years, and survive on grasses.
Register your disgust about Tyson's treatment. Have your say on our blog or email the Canadian High Commissioner Michael Leir at this address: cnbra@international.gc.ca
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
Vest Remembers. Palestine May 14 1948
It was on that morning our ship the British warship the Colony class 6" gun 8,000 Ton Cruiser HMS Mauritius (The CO Capt Lord Ashbourne)was berthed in Haifa( soon to become Israel in a few hours) We were soon to leave in a hurry in the midst of sniping from on shore.
I am privileged to say that I was on that last British ship to leave the British mandate of Palestine on the eve of that country becoming the state of Israel.
HMS Mauritius and its crew had been involved with the so called infamous 'Exodus' business, The boarding of illegal immigrant-carrying ships - heading for Palestine.
The larger of these ships were the 'Pan York' and 'Pan Crescent' which were boarded January 1948 each carrying 7,000 souls on their way to a better life from war torn Europe, Unfortunately the infrastructure in the promised land according to the ruling British was far too inadequate to deal with such a large intake of arrivals.
The allocation of 1,000 per month was the settled arrangement, although a few sneaked in undetected - these people were then sent on a first come first served basis from the thousands of hopefuls incarcerated on the island of Cyprus. but of course most people know all about these happenings. well some do. I actually communicate with a friend who was a eight year old child on the 'Pan Crescent', Hi there Izzy Dave, talk to you soon.
VEST DAILY GAGGLE. "Been there done that"
I am privileged to say that I was on that last British ship to leave the British mandate of Palestine on the eve of that country becoming the state of Israel.
HMS Mauritius and its crew had been involved with the so called infamous 'Exodus' business, The boarding of illegal immigrant-carrying ships - heading for Palestine.
The larger of these ships were the 'Pan York' and 'Pan Crescent' which were boarded January 1948 each carrying 7,000 souls on their way to a better life from war torn Europe, Unfortunately the infrastructure in the promised land according to the ruling British was far too inadequate to deal with such a large intake of arrivals.
The allocation of 1,000 per month was the settled arrangement, although a few sneaked in undetected - these people were then sent on a first come first served basis from the thousands of hopefuls incarcerated on the island of Cyprus. but of course most people know all about these happenings. well some do. I actually communicate with a friend who was a eight year old child on the 'Pan Crescent', Hi there Izzy Dave, talk to you soon.
VEST DAILY GAGGLE. "Been there done that"
Sunday, 13 May 2007
My First Career, Plus an Improvement in my Quality of Life
CHAPTER 13
My First Career
On 5 January 1942, I went to Shotley Royal Naval Base for a medical examination, which I passed despite being under the height requirement of five feet. I was four feet ten and a half inches, six stone six lbs (42.3 kg), and fifteen years, five months and twenty days old. I was an under-sized, under-aged piece of ‘cannon fodder.’ The school received a twenty-five pound Sterling bounty payment upon my delivery to the Royal Navy. My body was sold for approximately 55p or Aus $1-15 a Kilo or 30 cents U/S per lb.
After a gruelling train journey to Fleetwood (near Liverpool,) I embarked in the early morning on the Isle of Man steam packet, ‘Rushen Castle’. It took four hours to get to Douglas, the capital and main port on the Isle of Man. I hadn’t been at sea for four years.
Looking piteously at the first-timers berleying on the boisterous Irish sea, I was reminded of my first experience of sea sickness on a Portsmouth to Isle Of Wight ferry in 1938 the ‘Lorna Doone,’ a coal burning paddle steamer that smelled of beer, egg sandwiches, and tarred rope. I believe it was put to good use evacuating soldiers from Dunkirk (Dunkerque) France in June 1940.
The Bible in my possession said, ‘To John Leonard Spencer on the Feast of the Epiphany, 7 January 1942.” It was signed by the Rev. Harling. I often wonder if the Rev. Harling ever made it to heaven.
Some of the other entrants who wore sailor’s gear like mine were from other navy schools. Some wore civilian clothes. It was Wednesday, 7 January 1942. I was now a boy, 2nd Class RN. The Americans had beaten me to this war thing by thirty-one days, but I was better prepared than most for my next encounter with a new type of authority.
January 1942 – HMS St. George – Douglas, Isle of Man
This Royal Navy training establishment was formerly ‘Cunningham’s Holiday Camp’ but the happy camper syndrome had long since disappeared. Being in the New Entry Division involved attending lectures, basic drill, and sewing our names on clothing with either red or black embroidery cotton in chain stitch. A bloke called Ian Cox finished first, but his smile vanished when he was given the task of helping poor little James Henry Morgan-Smythe.
Although the food was not to the liking of some recruits who had supposedly eaten better, they were surprised at my willing acceptance of it. To me, it was of a quality and quantity that was far better than I had previously experienced.
My First Career
On 5 January 1942, I went to Shotley Royal Naval Base for a medical examination, which I passed despite being under the height requirement of five feet. I was four feet ten and a half inches, six stone six lbs (42.3 kg), and fifteen years, five months and twenty days old. I was an under-sized, under-aged piece of ‘cannon fodder.’ The school received a twenty-five pound Sterling bounty payment upon my delivery to the Royal Navy. My body was sold for approximately 55p or Aus $1-15 a Kilo or 30 cents U/S per lb.
After a gruelling train journey to Fleetwood (near Liverpool,) I embarked in the early morning on the Isle of Man steam packet, ‘Rushen Castle’. It took four hours to get to Douglas, the capital and main port on the Isle of Man. I hadn’t been at sea for four years.
Looking piteously at the first-timers berleying on the boisterous Irish sea, I was reminded of my first experience of sea sickness on a Portsmouth to Isle Of Wight ferry in 1938 the ‘Lorna Doone,’ a coal burning paddle steamer that smelled of beer, egg sandwiches, and tarred rope. I believe it was put to good use evacuating soldiers from Dunkirk (Dunkerque) France in June 1940.
The Bible in my possession said, ‘To John Leonard Spencer on the Feast of the Epiphany, 7 January 1942.” It was signed by the Rev. Harling. I often wonder if the Rev. Harling ever made it to heaven.
Some of the other entrants who wore sailor’s gear like mine were from other navy schools. Some wore civilian clothes. It was Wednesday, 7 January 1942. I was now a boy, 2nd Class RN. The Americans had beaten me to this war thing by thirty-one days, but I was better prepared than most for my next encounter with a new type of authority.
January 1942 – HMS St. George – Douglas, Isle of Man
This Royal Navy training establishment was formerly ‘Cunningham’s Holiday Camp’ but the happy camper syndrome had long since disappeared. Being in the New Entry Division involved attending lectures, basic drill, and sewing our names on clothing with either red or black embroidery cotton in chain stitch. A bloke called Ian Cox finished first, but his smile vanished when he was given the task of helping poor little James Henry Morgan-Smythe.
Although the food was not to the liking of some recruits who had supposedly eaten better, they were surprised at my willing acceptance of it. To me, it was of a quality and quantity that was far better than I had previously experienced.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
Watts Naval Training School, was it that bad? Vest thought so. During his five year spell as a student
CHAPTER 7 Watts Naval Training School
I don’t remember how I got to WNTS, but I was very pleased to be back with my brother after a year of separation. Christopher seemed changed. He was in Class 2B when I arrived on 16 December 1936. I was exactly ten years and five months of age. Christopher was in Seven Company and I was in Six Company, each company having about forty-five boys between the ages of eleven and fifteen-and-a-half. I had two days of schooling before the Christmas break, when I was told I would be in 1A not the 1B class. (The Headmaster had obviously read the letter from Mr Thompson.)
Watts Naval Training School was a charity school with a nautical theme run on militaristic principles. The estate was located in the Norfolk rural countryside far from the outside world. It was situated on the edge of a plateau that sloped west to a valley near the river Wensum where the school farmed the land.
WNTS had a population of a large staff and about three hundred students between eleven and sixteen years of age. The students were allowed to take two three-week vacations each year during the summer and at Christmas. All other holiday periods were spent at the school. Students without guardians never left the school. Students had no access to the outside world, arbitral access, or personal rights. Discipline was strict. Hunger and fear of punishment were constant. Love and affection were non-existent. All communication to and from the school was censored. Those boys who never left the school on vacation became conditioned to their surroundings and were probably happier at the school than those of us who had occasional release from our incarceration.
On the 20 December 1936, having been told by my brother that he was going home again to *Auntie Pullen,[*with whom we were previously in foster care] I raised the roof and said, “I should go, too!” I was told, “No money, no ticket, no permission. Sorry, you’ll have to stay”. Like bloody hell, I thought. Then the bugler sounded the action stations call and the lucky ones – about half the population of the school – marched to the North Elmham Station.
Two or three hours later, I was on a train that had stopped at a large station. My friend, Ernie Brooks and I had no idea where we were going and must have looked conspicuous. The ticket bloke and staff at the station locked us up. Soon after, we were back at WNTS.
Living in a dark cloud of rejection, I was totally at odds with that place. I wondered how much more I would have to suffer.
22 December 1936
My brother had arrived in Chalgrove. Meanwhile, I was confused and in a state of apathy. Ernie and I were in serious trouble. Having only been at this place for six days, I was to get six cuts of the cane. Having no one to turn to for help, I was wretchedly homesick. It was suggested by a few teachers that because it was so close to Christmas we should be forgiven, but our Capt. Superintendent replied, “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men applies only on Christmas day.”
The remaining population of the school gathered to witness our punishment. A box horse for us to bend over was produced, plus the biggest rattan cane – even bigger than the one at Chalgrove School. Ernie went first. It seemed like a bloody execution – minus the knitting hags, the French National Anthem, and a basket for our heads. Ernie was brave but white as a sheet after his six, and had to go to the sickbay. I later learned he had received a testicular injury.
Ernie going first made little difference, as another instructor, ‘Gunner Marten’ was to be my tormentor. I felt bloody awful. My thin trousers barely hid the bleeding welts across my buttocks. After the six strokes, I shouted in agonising pain, “I hope you die, you rotten cruel sod!” and got number seven. Gunner Marten died during the war about four years later. I was unmoved.
Christmas in WNTS was over. Our total excitement had consisted of two church parades, an apple, an orange, and cake. Where was Charlie Dickens? What a pity he missed out on this place.
January 1937
Christopher returned from his Christmas holiday and was visibly unhappy, as were most of the ‘lucky’ holiday kids.
During the next six months or so before I turned eleven, I learned a great deal – from forced reading programs to basic parade drills and every conceivable rifle drill movement that was in some sort of military manual. This training was done with an ancient side-loading Winchester repeater lever action rifle that was circa 1850. Fortunately, bayonets were not included, maybe in case of a student revolt. I later learned that when the school was demolished in 1949 after a serious fire, all of these valuable historic, well-kept firearms were broken up and buried without cash-strapped Dr Barnardo’s ever benefiting from their antique value. How stupid!
About this time in 1937, Ronald Goucher, my friend, who was a year older than me but smaller in stature and who slept in the next bed to me; died overnight of a brain problem. Ronald’s suffering from constant headaches had been totally ignored by the school authorities. Little Ron was only eleven when he passed away. I was terribly upset. He was so young, and there were so many elderly persons at the school that I thought God, in his wisdom, should have taken first.
The remainder of the story is restricted in this original version,there are many reasons for this, although most persons involved would have passed on by now. Quite a few people reading this will have read the pseudo copy where a lot of name changes were involved, this is available in published book form, the original script is not.
There were probably more establishments of this kind in our so called civilised world during the past century, hopefully this practice has ceased now.
A child should be allowed to lead the life of a child until he is no longer a child.
Vest Daily Gaggle, Have a lovely day.
Google; (Watts Naval Training School).For more info on beatings of children.
I don’t remember how I got to WNTS, but I was very pleased to be back with my brother after a year of separation. Christopher seemed changed. He was in Class 2B when I arrived on 16 December 1936. I was exactly ten years and five months of age. Christopher was in Seven Company and I was in Six Company, each company having about forty-five boys between the ages of eleven and fifteen-and-a-half. I had two days of schooling before the Christmas break, when I was told I would be in 1A not the 1B class. (The Headmaster had obviously read the letter from Mr Thompson.)
Watts Naval Training School was a charity school with a nautical theme run on militaristic principles. The estate was located in the Norfolk rural countryside far from the outside world. It was situated on the edge of a plateau that sloped west to a valley near the river Wensum where the school farmed the land.
WNTS had a population of a large staff and about three hundred students between eleven and sixteen years of age. The students were allowed to take two three-week vacations each year during the summer and at Christmas. All other holiday periods were spent at the school. Students without guardians never left the school. Students had no access to the outside world, arbitral access, or personal rights. Discipline was strict. Hunger and fear of punishment were constant. Love and affection were non-existent. All communication to and from the school was censored. Those boys who never left the school on vacation became conditioned to their surroundings and were probably happier at the school than those of us who had occasional release from our incarceration.
On the 20 December 1936, having been told by my brother that he was going home again to *Auntie Pullen,[*with whom we were previously in foster care] I raised the roof and said, “I should go, too!” I was told, “No money, no ticket, no permission. Sorry, you’ll have to stay”. Like bloody hell, I thought. Then the bugler sounded the action stations call and the lucky ones – about half the population of the school – marched to the North Elmham Station.
Two or three hours later, I was on a train that had stopped at a large station. My friend, Ernie Brooks and I had no idea where we were going and must have looked conspicuous. The ticket bloke and staff at the station locked us up. Soon after, we were back at WNTS.
Living in a dark cloud of rejection, I was totally at odds with that place. I wondered how much more I would have to suffer.
22 December 1936
My brother had arrived in Chalgrove. Meanwhile, I was confused and in a state of apathy. Ernie and I were in serious trouble. Having only been at this place for six days, I was to get six cuts of the cane. Having no one to turn to for help, I was wretchedly homesick. It was suggested by a few teachers that because it was so close to Christmas we should be forgiven, but our Capt. Superintendent replied, “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men applies only on Christmas day.”
The remaining population of the school gathered to witness our punishment. A box horse for us to bend over was produced, plus the biggest rattan cane – even bigger than the one at Chalgrove School. Ernie went first. It seemed like a bloody execution – minus the knitting hags, the French National Anthem, and a basket for our heads. Ernie was brave but white as a sheet after his six, and had to go to the sickbay. I later learned he had received a testicular injury.
Ernie going first made little difference, as another instructor, ‘Gunner Marten’ was to be my tormentor. I felt bloody awful. My thin trousers barely hid the bleeding welts across my buttocks. After the six strokes, I shouted in agonising pain, “I hope you die, you rotten cruel sod!” and got number seven. Gunner Marten died during the war about four years later. I was unmoved.
Christmas in WNTS was over. Our total excitement had consisted of two church parades, an apple, an orange, and cake. Where was Charlie Dickens? What a pity he missed out on this place.
January 1937
Christopher returned from his Christmas holiday and was visibly unhappy, as were most of the ‘lucky’ holiday kids.
During the next six months or so before I turned eleven, I learned a great deal – from forced reading programs to basic parade drills and every conceivable rifle drill movement that was in some sort of military manual. This training was done with an ancient side-loading Winchester repeater lever action rifle that was circa 1850. Fortunately, bayonets were not included, maybe in case of a student revolt. I later learned that when the school was demolished in 1949 after a serious fire, all of these valuable historic, well-kept firearms were broken up and buried without cash-strapped Dr Barnardo’s ever benefiting from their antique value. How stupid!
About this time in 1937, Ronald Goucher, my friend, who was a year older than me but smaller in stature and who slept in the next bed to me; died overnight of a brain problem. Ronald’s suffering from constant headaches had been totally ignored by the school authorities. Little Ron was only eleven when he passed away. I was terribly upset. He was so young, and there were so many elderly persons at the school that I thought God, in his wisdom, should have taken first.
The remainder of the story is restricted in this original version,there are many reasons for this, although most persons involved would have passed on by now. Quite a few people reading this will have read the pseudo copy where a lot of name changes were involved, this is available in published book form, the original script is not.
There were probably more establishments of this kind in our so called civilised world during the past century, hopefully this practice has ceased now.
A child should be allowed to lead the life of a child until he is no longer a child.
Vest Daily Gaggle, Have a lovely day.
Google; (Watts Naval Training School).For more info on beatings of children.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
"Every Childhood Lasts A Lifetime". A Shameful History Revealed.
DAVID HILL, a former ABC (Australia) managing director explores a part of Australia's shameful history, in his new book.
"THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN" OF FAIRBRIDGE FARM, and its betrayal of Australia's Child Migrants.
This is a personal story for David Hill, who in 1959 was sent with his brothers to Australia for a better education and life, by a reluctant but destitute mother who thought she was doing the best thing for her boys.
David and his brothers were lucky; his mother was able to be reunited with her sons three years later when they settled in Sydney, but in between those years the Hill boys endured a criminally harsh life at Fairbridge Farm.
From 1938 to 1974 thousands of children were sent from Britain to Molong, in western NSW, to a farm set up by a British society with the aim of alleviating child poverty in Britain, while populating the far reaches of the British Empire.
David Hill collates the lives of the Fairbridge children - the sadistic abuse they suffered, the child labour they endured, all underscored by a brutal loneliness and a lack of affection that would have a huge impact on their adult lives.
It's the first - person recollections that are most compelling, and David gives judicious rein to these snippets.
At Fairbridge, where children as young as four were taken from their parents and made to work, only sissies cried and the unspoken rule was never to cry out during canings. The only crying was done at night, in bed into the pillow.
The litany of abuse against children in David Hill's book is heartbreaking. A little boy, up since 3am working in the dairy, is allowed by a kind teacher to lay his head on his desk and sleep; a sexually abused six year old girl is routinely flogged for wetting the bed; an old man who still has scars on his legs from beatings with ironing cords; a child forced to eat porridge crawling with weevils, vomiting it up and then forced to eat it, then there was the crawling maggot infested mutton stew.
As David Hills mother observed on collecting her boys, It was like something out of "Oliver Twist". Except this was the 20th century.
"THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN" OF FAIRBRIDGE FARM, and its betrayal of Australia's Child Migrants.
This is a personal story for David Hill, who in 1959 was sent with his brothers to Australia for a better education and life, by a reluctant but destitute mother who thought she was doing the best thing for her boys.
David and his brothers were lucky; his mother was able to be reunited with her sons three years later when they settled in Sydney, but in between those years the Hill boys endured a criminally harsh life at Fairbridge Farm.
From 1938 to 1974 thousands of children were sent from Britain to Molong, in western NSW, to a farm set up by a British society with the aim of alleviating child poverty in Britain, while populating the far reaches of the British Empire.
David Hill collates the lives of the Fairbridge children - the sadistic abuse they suffered, the child labour they endured, all underscored by a brutal loneliness and a lack of affection that would have a huge impact on their adult lives.
It's the first - person recollections that are most compelling, and David gives judicious rein to these snippets.
At Fairbridge, where children as young as four were taken from their parents and made to work, only sissies cried and the unspoken rule was never to cry out during canings. The only crying was done at night, in bed into the pillow.
The litany of abuse against children in David Hill's book is heartbreaking. A little boy, up since 3am working in the dairy, is allowed by a kind teacher to lay his head on his desk and sleep; a sexually abused six year old girl is routinely flogged for wetting the bed; an old man who still has scars on his legs from beatings with ironing cords; a child forced to eat porridge crawling with weevils, vomiting it up and then forced to eat it, then there was the crawling maggot infested mutton stew.
As David Hills mother observed on collecting her boys, It was like something out of "Oliver Twist". Except this was the 20th century.
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Vest Remembers V E Day 1945, Er - but only vaguely.
Amidst the worldwide scene of jollity-dancing in the streets and a feeling of relief that the war had finally come to an end in Europe. there were others who were not too happy with their lot, those who were committed to ending the war in the pacific region, the major conflict being in the north pacific near Japan and its island dependencies, the conflict on Okinawa at the time; halfway through to its finale and with a loss of 48,000 American lives. Then of course was the massive American Naval fleet and the lesser sized fleet The British Pacific Fleet(The Forgotten Fleet)With its 70 Warships 6 A/C Carriers, 2 Battleships, 12 cruisers and, 40 destroyers and others. The carnage at sea and in the air continued on V E day and beyond to the August VJ Day; and beyond that day too I recall, few of us had cause to celebrate due to most of us being under age Children, Those like myself in exposed action stations had to put up with a continual display of Aeriel acrobatics by the Japanese Air force and other unfunny life threatening situations. but good fortune was to be my lot whereas a lot of shipmates despite their prayers did not make it home to Mum. any how my dear old mother r i p had no idea where I was. However, I am a Survivor.
Saturday, 5 May 2007
Sat on My Specs yesterday. Real bad feeling.
Reading news papers lately is producing a weepy eye effect, it's bad enough wasting ones precious time reading the junk even after skipping the sporting, celeb and advertising crap, however, the odor, fumes, smell, or stink which ever you prefer; emanating from the news print, is becoming a source of discomfort, it seems that, suddenly I have developed an aversion to newsprint, but worse still are the colorful magazines and supplements.
Is anyone else experiencing this phenomena? or is it just today; to see clearly, I have to peer closer with my distance specs - in tandem with my ancient pair of discarded reading goggles.
I had wiped my eyes and had laid my readers down somewhere, even when wearing distance specs I failed to find them. so I went into the spare bedroom which I use as an office and an escape area and sat on the colorful counterpane quite heavily and 'Eureka' I found them.
After copping an admonishment from er in doors for unseemly language, I popped down to the Optic bloke down the road a bit, who informed me they; that is the specs, were beyond economical repair, I then cheap-skated and bought an economy pair for $165.00 after a 10 per cent discount for cash, although at the time of purchase and the cleaning out my wallet failed to relate to the term 'economy'.
Maybe Mon or Tues will SEE me with my new goggles, Hopefully.
Vest Daily Gaggle.
Is anyone else experiencing this phenomena? or is it just today; to see clearly, I have to peer closer with my distance specs - in tandem with my ancient pair of discarded reading goggles.
I had wiped my eyes and had laid my readers down somewhere, even when wearing distance specs I failed to find them. so I went into the spare bedroom which I use as an office and an escape area and sat on the colorful counterpane quite heavily and 'Eureka' I found them.
After copping an admonishment from er in doors for unseemly language, I popped down to the Optic bloke down the road a bit, who informed me they; that is the specs, were beyond economical repair, I then cheap-skated and bought an economy pair for $165.00 after a 10 per cent discount for cash, although at the time of purchase and the cleaning out my wallet failed to relate to the term 'economy'.
Maybe Mon or Tues will SEE me with my new goggles, Hopefully.
Vest Daily Gaggle.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
The Non Plastic Town of Modbury,where any old Bag is welcomed. bar plastic. .
It does not refer to wrinkly old bag ladies or droopy middle aged bimbo's. MODBURY is the quintessential small English West Country town. Set in a hollow among rolling Devon hills just a few miles from the sea, it has 760 households, a high street, three churches, a primary school, several pubs, two takeaways, a surgery, a small supermarket and 40 or so small shops.
Not much happens in Modbury. Some say the last time the peace was disturbed was in 1643 when Roundheads and Cavaliers fought in its streets. But a revolution of another kind will happen tomorrow. At 8am, it will become the first plastic bag-free town in Europe.
Spurred by environmental fervour and growing concern about the 100 billion or more plastic bags thought to be littering the world and clogging the seas, the town's 43 traders have declared their independence from the plastic bag and pledged to no longer sell, give away or otherwise provide them for a minimum of six months.
No one knows how much it will cost them or the town, or whether people will rise in revolt.
But Modbury will be full of biodegradable, organic, unbleached, recycled carrier bags of every description — except plastic.
Retailers are so committed that they have commissioned 2000 official Modbury bags, which could soon be collectors' items. They will sell for £3.95 ($A9.50).
The idea of a plastic bag-free town comes from Rebecca Hoskins, a young Modbury-born-and-raised wildlife camerawoman who went to the Pacific last year to film marine life for the BBC but experienced horrendous plastic bag pollution.
"It really affected me," she said. "I have never cried behind a camera before. But it broke my heart to see animals entangled in plastic, albatrosses dying in plastic, dolphins trailing plastic and seals with their noses trapped in parcel tape roll.
"The sea is now like a trash can and the plastic is there for ever. What I witnessed was just so unnecessary. All this damage is simply caused by our throwaway living."
She returned to Devon, went diving and found the seas there also full of plastic.
"So I booked the Modbury art gallery, invited all the traders and showed them my film. At the end, they all said they would give up plastic bags."
The art gallery's Sue Sturton said it was very moving. "I thought people would turn a blind eye to something happening as far away as Hawaii," she said. "But I was wrong. We have a responsibility here. People go to the beaches here and we as shopkeepers are just handing out plastic shopping bags."
"She massaged us. But it didn't need much," said Jane, who runs the St Luke's hospice charity shop, which is turning to paper and cloth bags. "I think it could work elsewhere, but this is definitely not a normal town at all."
"They've got it now," said Ms Hoskins, who gave up her film work two months ago to concentrate on turning the town plastic bag-free. "It seems to have really brought people together.
"The shops have sent all their unused plastic bags to Newcastle where they are being made into plastic chairs. And they have all set up plastic bag amnesty points where people can bring in the hundreds of bags that they keep under the kitchen sink.
"Now it's just a question of seeing if people accept it."
Not much happens in Modbury. Some say the last time the peace was disturbed was in 1643 when Roundheads and Cavaliers fought in its streets. But a revolution of another kind will happen tomorrow. At 8am, it will become the first plastic bag-free town in Europe.
Spurred by environmental fervour and growing concern about the 100 billion or more plastic bags thought to be littering the world and clogging the seas, the town's 43 traders have declared their independence from the plastic bag and pledged to no longer sell, give away or otherwise provide them for a minimum of six months.
No one knows how much it will cost them or the town, or whether people will rise in revolt.
But Modbury will be full of biodegradable, organic, unbleached, recycled carrier bags of every description — except plastic.
Retailers are so committed that they have commissioned 2000 official Modbury bags, which could soon be collectors' items. They will sell for £3.95 ($A9.50).
The idea of a plastic bag-free town comes from Rebecca Hoskins, a young Modbury-born-and-raised wildlife camerawoman who went to the Pacific last year to film marine life for the BBC but experienced horrendous plastic bag pollution.
"It really affected me," she said. "I have never cried behind a camera before. But it broke my heart to see animals entangled in plastic, albatrosses dying in plastic, dolphins trailing plastic and seals with their noses trapped in parcel tape roll.
"The sea is now like a trash can and the plastic is there for ever. What I witnessed was just so unnecessary. All this damage is simply caused by our throwaway living."
She returned to Devon, went diving and found the seas there also full of plastic.
"So I booked the Modbury art gallery, invited all the traders and showed them my film. At the end, they all said they would give up plastic bags."
The art gallery's Sue Sturton said it was very moving. "I thought people would turn a blind eye to something happening as far away as Hawaii," she said. "But I was wrong. We have a responsibility here. People go to the beaches here and we as shopkeepers are just handing out plastic shopping bags."
"She massaged us. But it didn't need much," said Jane, who runs the St Luke's hospice charity shop, which is turning to paper and cloth bags. "I think it could work elsewhere, but this is definitely not a normal town at all."
"They've got it now," said Ms Hoskins, who gave up her film work two months ago to concentrate on turning the town plastic bag-free. "It seems to have really brought people together.
"The shops have sent all their unused plastic bags to Newcastle where they are being made into plastic chairs. And they have all set up plastic bag amnesty points where people can bring in the hundreds of bags that they keep under the kitchen sink.
"Now it's just a question of seeing if people accept it."
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