buggery

ANZAC day approaches and I anticipate – with joi – the crusty old RSL types I shall meet, on the day, mumbling through sherry-soaked moustaches about the great men who pioneered this harsh and unforgiving land and how the namby-pamby youth of today are not worthy of licking their bootlaces. And, in public, I shall agree, but reserving the knowledge that an unhealthy percentage of these afore-mentioned pioneer types rooted horses. I am a historian, and I know these things. Let me example you the following, from the police occurrence books of a certain seaside town in the mid-1890s: R-----d P---e, 29, tailor, charged: “You did attempt at E-------e on the 26^th day of December to commit buggery with a certain animal to wit a mare against the order of nature” – committed for trial, and then sentenced to two years hard labour.

Weeelllllll.

Note it was attempted buggery. And this, my friends, demands investigation.

At this very time and in this very place, Aboriginal people were copping similar sentences for ‘stealing’ sheep, ie, merely procuring a meal they might have thought rightfully theirs.

Justice, colonial-style. Obtaining food vs. horse-fucking. There was a time, ladies and gentlemen, in this very state, where the law said the two equated. And maybe that’s right. Anyway, historians are interpreters of the past (so you don’t have to, you lazy fuckers) so here’s what I say happened:

P---e is standing in front of the mirror whistling and bouncing around a little in delighted anticipation. The tune, which he holds but poorly, is recognisable as “My Bonnie is over the Ocean, my Bonnie is over the Sea…” P---e, though, has, in his head, substituted the words “My Bonnie is out in the paddock, my Bonnie is out in the field…” He combs his hair – heavily Brylcreamed – and waxes the ends of his moustache. He wants to look especially good tonight. He adjusts his cravat, something he is not used to wearing; a cravat, in fact inherited from his uncle, without his uncle’s knowledge. It bears a large gravy stain. And this is poor form for a tailor, but customers are few and, truth be told, P---e is not a very good tailor. “My Bonnie is out in the paddock…” he finishes with the mirror and sits down on the side of the bed to pull on his boots… “My Bonnie is out in the field…”

Corporal McGlade is very interested.