Monday morning of this week was a morning I will not forget for a very long time. It started off as just the beginning of another day. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, put on my slippers and wearily made my way to the kitchen for my morning injection of caffeine. My good wife had already left for work leaving me alone but for the company of my two best friends; my teacup Yorky bitch Molly, and my goldfish Ned. I let Molly out through the back door to partake in her morning constitution, and proceeded to remove the fluff that had settled on the Phantom’s masked face that was embroidered on the pocket of my black silk and sheer pyjamas. After finally removing the fluff, I strolled casually over to the fishbowl to feed and to say good morning to Ned. The sight before me caused me to drop the cup from my grasp. I stood frozen in sheer horror and disbelief. My old mate Ned was lying motionless at the bottom of his fishbowl. His tiny round eyes all bugged out, stared up at me as if to ask the question; why me?

 

 The tears streamed endlessly down my cheeks as I gently lifted his limp and fishy little frame from its watery accommodation. After holding him for what seemed like an eternity, I said my goodbyes and reverently placed him in his Fowler porcelain coffin. With a press of the button, his lifeless body was soon speeding down the twisting pipes and on to sewered paradise. How on earth will I make it through the day without my old mate Ned? There was only one thing that would ease the pain of my tragic loss. I sat myself down at the computer and reached out over the Internet to seek comfort in the arms of Glenrowan 1880.

 

As I scrolled down the front page, the headline Glenrowan Glowin immediately caught my attention. At first I thought the town was burning and was probably started by that bloody motorised dog at the animated theatre urinating on a live wire. After opening the story that was written for the Border Mail, I soon realised it was just about some politicians, huffing and puffing self praise and passing wind. I’m sorry, but after reading this propaganda, my spirits fell to an all time low. What with the demise of Ned, I could think of only one thing left to do; GO BACK TO BED.

 

 It seemed like only seconds had passed when I was awakened by someone shouting my name and tugging anxiously at my arm. ‘Al, Al, wake up and come outside, quickly. You won’t believe what’s happening’! The person who was now pushing me out through the front door was none other than my mate Dave White. ‘What the hell are you doing in Queensland Dave, not to mention my boudoir? I thought you lived in Sunbury’. ‘Don’t worry about that mate he replied, have a look outside’. I was totally gob smacked. We were now standing in the main street of Glenrowan. The scene was that of total bedlam. An endless line of buses filled to the brim with tourists from all around the world lined the streets. The footpaths were jammed as hundreds of shoppers waited impatiently outside the little souvenir shops for their turn to enter and buy up on their Ned Kelly memorabilia. People were spilling out onto the streets outside the animated theatre, all waiting for a chance to see the motorised dog urinate against the bar and to stare in awe at the death mask of Ned Kelly as it utters silent words of welcome.

 

Across the bridge at the siege site, a replica of Ann Jones inn had been constructed of plastic mouldings of a good quality. Motorised figures of four armoured outlaws waved their guns threateningly from the inn’s front verandah. The once sacred place was now fully transformed with wondrous things to accommodate and entertain the multitudes. Its centrepiece was the Ned Kelly Interpretive Centre with its cafes and eateries and a tower that reached high into the Glenrowan sky for all the world to behold. Japanese tourists gathered at the tower’s telescope to take in the surrounding beauty of the countryside which also included dear old Mrs Higginbottom who happened to be spotted hanging out her unmentionables on the clothesline in her backyard. Below, a merry-go-round blasted out The Wild Colonial Boy from its speakers, as eager children lined up for their turn to ride on the back of an outlaw’s horse. Hot dog and fairy floss stands were scattered throughout the site, while lucky punters tried rolling ping pong balls into the open mouths of policemen as their heads moved back and forth.

 

The police were not the only ones with their mouths wide open as Dave and I looked on in disbelief. What has happened to our beloved Glenrowan? We thought. We listened as the Victorian Community Development Minister rallied the crowd as he unveiled the golden plaque commemorating himself and the new look Glenrowan. The $2.3 million he declared over the loud speaker, had been well spent. The narrowing of the main street with its oversized lighting and magnificent rustic wood pole lined angle parking bays had worked a treat. The keeping place of the Kelly legend has been saved. Social and economic benefits brought about by these magnificent offerings could be seen clearly on the beaming faces of the mayor and members of his Wangaratta council. Glenrowan was clearly a sight to behold. The government’s job had been done.

 

Perspiration started to form on my brow as I turned to Dave. ‘Dave, with all this new found prosperity, do you think the council will fork out a few bob and start the anniversary dinners again’? Before Dave could answer, a loud ringing sound from an alarm clock had brought me safely back to my bed. My wife was leaning over me and wiping my forehead. ‘Alan, wake up; you must have had a nightmare. Your black silken but sheer Phantom pyjamas are soaked with perspiration’. I cared not. Everything that seemed so real was just a terrible figment of my overactive imagination. My depression now lifted, I leapt from my bed. My mind was now filled with a sense of relief and joy. I could hardly wait to see my goldfish Ned again. This day is going to be one great day; that was, until my wife called out. ‘Don’t worry about saying good morning to that stupid goldfish of yours; he’s dead!
 

 

The Site          

 

 

 

I stood before a block of dirt all fenced with wire mesh,
My mind soon drifted back through time to screams and bloodied flesh.
Of outlaws fighting for their lives in armour made from ploughs,
And men and women, children too, all terrified for hours.

 

I heard the shots from men of law that pierced those paper walls,
Not caring for the souls inside like crazed bloodthirsty fools.
I saw the fight, I heard the screams, and saw the inn burn down,
I saw two boys all burnt to hell, and laid out on the ground.

 

I saw a man just early on come through a mist of fog,
In armour and with taunts to police; they shot him near that log.
I saw them cart him over there, all bloodied head to toe,
And where they took him after that, well, do you really wanna know.

 

But soon the fresh clean air had gone, and diesel filled me nose,
I turned around to see a sight, improvements I suppose.
But what I saw before me eyes where men and boys were killed,
This sacred ground Australians love, they’ve ploughed it like a field.

 

And there they stood in shirt and tie with helmets on their heads,
With plans and mobiles in their hands, I think my point is said.
But from my heart they’ll never take, nor visions in my mind,
This sacred piece of bloodied ground, will stay ‘till end of time.