Dead Kelly

My paper was left frantically looking for a photograph of Ned Kelly to print on the 130th anniversary of his execution, which is a particularly high demand even by most editors’ standards, considering that there is only one photograph of the notorious bushranger in existence. In the end the best we could send was a drawing, to which the picture department replied - and I love this bit - “do you have it in colour?”

Kelly is like an Australian Billy the Kid, an outlaw whose mysticism only confounds his legacy. His story has influenced TV shows, books, poems, songs and movies - starring, among others, Heath Ledger and, yes, Mick Jagger. The world’s very first feature-length film was The Story of the Kelly Gang, made in 1906. His stalking ground in north east Victoria is now known simply as Kelly Country. On the centenary of his death, Kelly got his face on a stamp. More importantly, in 1992, he was the subject of this brilliant Weetabix commercial.

Sidney Nolan famously painted Kelly in surrealist form with stark block colours to denote his metal plate armour, the helmet of which is now commonly used across the country as a makeshift post box. For extra authenticity, these can often be found riddled with bullet holes. Which is all high praise indeed for someone who was, by all accounts, a bastard.

Incidentally, the iconic metal armour used by Kelly’s gang during their final shootout with police didn’t quite work, being as Kelly had no protection for his legs and therefore copped a few rounds before capture. Prior to this, between 1878-1880, Kelly and his gang of bushrangers moved from minor misdemeanours of drunkenness and cattle-rustling (at 16, Kelly was arrested for “feloniously receiving a horse”), to the shootings of three policemen at Stringybark, where he also stole the watch from one of the murdered sergeants. At the trial he asked, “What use is a watch to a dead man?” The gang then conducted two large scale bank robberies, the latter of which saw them make off with £2,414 and set fire to the towns people’s mortgage deeds. The strangest Kelly legend revolves around the mailing of two calves’ testicles to the wife of a street hawker. He got three months for that one.

Kelly famously showed little remorse at his trial, even spending time to debate with the judge. According to a newspaper at the time, “The judge finally passed the sentence of death and concluded: ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul,’ to which Kelly’s reply was, ‘Yes; I will meet you there.’” Kelly’s ambivalence held out to the very end: his final words before facing the drop were, “Such is life”.

Of course, you can choose to read the Kelly story differently depending on your viewpoint of history, so where some see a violent, renegade brute, others see a fearless Robin Hood figure, a symbol of colonial resistance against the British ruling classes (lets not forget Kelly’s Irish lineage), and as an important figure in the development of Australia. Indeed, he was not without his sympathisers, even at the time: a petition to spare Kelly's life attracted over 30,000 signatures, and during a desperate crackdown by police in 1879, all of Kelly’s followers were arrested and held without charge for several months, which would only have helped his cause. Indeed, depending on who you read, depictions of the Victorian police at the time are particularly horrid: in one instance, following Kelly’s execution, it is said that the police were using Kelly’s head as a paperweight.

Considering how his final wish was for his portrait to be taken, Kelly must have been aware of the need for him to write his own history, and that would have doubtlessly included a more dignified passing. After all, you can’t quite work a quiff like the one pictured without a whole heap of pride.


A weird thing happened the other day: an Australian asked me for directions. While trying to decipher the connotations of this cross-cultural conundrum, the thought suddenly struck me that I actually knew where she wanted to go: to the top of Queen Street and the interception with Edward Street. (Brisbane’s CBD is actually dead easy to navigate, as the monarchical grid system is labelled accordingly with all male streets, like Edward, Albert and George, intercepting all the female ones: Ann, Mary, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Alice).

It made me think of all those tourists who try so adamantly to look inconspicuous on their travels but still end up looking helpless, befuddled, out of space and time. But, quite contrarily, within only a matter of months I must have developed some form of all-seeing oracular presence to help shepherd lost locals to their desired locations, when even at my most attentive I would find it difficult to locate a lavatory. It doesn’t take a neurologist to work out that visual thinking is not my strong point (you should see me drive), but it is nice to know that you are still capable of surprising yourself every now and then.

Melbourne Cup day was like a hazy gonzo vision straight out of Hunter S. Thompson - some real bad craziness. The most common concern on race day involves tipsy fashionistas in their best Ladies Day glad-rags chucking back the champers before the horses have even bolted. By lunch time, the town centre is already a blurry sight: girls stumbling in posh frocks and dirty feet, holding their heels; men with ties flailing and saying no, seriously, you’re my best mate, you are. I walk into a 7-11, stepping out of Dawn of the Dead and into a much stranger scene, where a convenience store takes on a strange, combustible quality. There’s a bad smell in the air. I couldn’t quite decipher what was going on at first, as I stood patiently waiting to put money on my Go card. But ahead of me, a more observant customer has spotted the cause of confusion. “Your bin’s on fire,” he says to the shop assistant. Bad craziness indeed.

Incidentally, my girlfriend put a two way bet on Maluckyday, So You Think and Shocking, and although French-trained Americain won the $3.5 million prize, both Maluckyday and So You Think placed. So we got $20 back, went to Bargara and bought ice cream and waffles. Which, if you’ve never been to Bargara, is just about enough. Granted, the initial bet cost $24, but still.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Packed to the Rafters’ (Channel Seven)

Emotions are running high this week as the news of Melissa’s death turns from shock to sadness to anger. Last week she ran a stop sign after checking her voicemail while driving and exited the series in a fatal car crash. Husband Ben Rafter was planning a sexy night of consummation in a top hotel at the time, bless him. Now he’s planning a sudden funeral for his beloved while battling over burial rights with the in-laws.

Melissa has been in the series since it started in 2008, so the nation has taken the news pretty hard. Her final episode attracted the highest ratings in the show’s history: 2,335,000 viewers. Of course, the Rafters aren’t the only family currently revelling in the voyeuristic concerns of the domestic roost: see ‘Offspring’, ‘Parenthood’ and ‘Neighbours’ for other popular shows currently riffing on the dysfunctional family premise. This is probably the most charming out of them all, even if ‘Offspring’ is funnier.

The Rafters are all ostensibly nice people, which makes the show quite comforting. So we’re not talking ‘Jerry Springer’ dysfunction here. Dave the Dad gets a bit angry sometimes but then he soon apologises - he threw young Coby into a tree once, but then he did break into his garage. Mummy Julie had a secret crush on someone for a while but I think she’s over that now. The worst you can accuse high-flying career girl Rachel of is that she’s more married to her job in advertising than she is to her partner Jake. He’s a bit sensitive about his epilepsy, which makes him vulnerable as a stock Aussie tradie. While rascal son Nathan is the sort of chirpy dweeb who would most definitely buy you a pint if you were a bit short. It’s all so refreshingly wholesome.

And they all live together. Including granddad, so there are three generations living in the same house. Rachel’s mum still makes her breakfast. She must be in her late twenties by now. That’s nice and everything, but it’s a bit weird, like ‘The Brady Bunch’ in arrested development.

Still, I quite like the show, even if Ben did choose to play ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay at Melissa’s funeral, then started having soft-focus hallucinations involving his dead wife hanging out the washing. But when handled appropriately, you can’t help but still get behind the sentiment.

Although clearly they came up with the title first and then built the show around it. I’ve taken to playing my own version of this to occupy my addled mind during the ad breaks. For example, if Michael Winner had his own reality show, they could call it ‘Everyone’s a Winner’. So I’ve started you off, now you try one.