Victoria’s first settlers were whalers as well

as prostitutes. They were hale, they drank

ale. They were whalewrights, sexwrights –

they were Whites. They ate a lot of pasta

too – well before the Italians put in an appearance.

They didn’t call it pasta, they called it boiled

hay. The famous hay-twirlers of that time

have unforch been forgotten, their names deimagined.

By the way, citizens, to give them the retrospective

respect they so often misreceived in their

day, were often waylaid by hayrides heading

to sexpots to prosecute a beached whale for

trespassing. There were lists of such carryons

and possibilities: if you could read and they

could write. The punning laws were the most

like a minefield, to keep in mind. Requirements

and avoidances, speeches and acts: regarding

choir mints, or boy dances, peaches under

the axe. Our most senior writers were born

out of this malaise. You might substitute

scenic and or mayonnaise at this point – but

don’t hurt yourself – and don’t fall – history

isn’t worth it. We had a septic tank once,

but who has them or wants to hear about

them now, when society is so shit-free? How

they produced any progeny escapes me like

a three-footed convict, that is, awkwardly,

that is, confusingly, with so much seafaring

and the unreliability of work. The big stations

where the trains never came. Where they

were forced to invite the black milkman and

the black mailman in in order to enjoy company.

The settlers used to receive a lot of Aboriginal

people back then when wages were more

conceptual (as they’re becoming again). There’s

something about this narrative that doesn’t

make sense! It’s like the old days when the

fruit from the sheep got mixed in with the

sultanas: I think I’ve been talking about New

South Wales half the time – and that’s the

most actionable law in the book.