Dusty Gulch Gazette – Special Edition (Front Page)

RUCTION AT THE GULCH OVAL:  SETTLED THE AUSSIE WAY

By Roderick "Whiskers" McNibble, Chief Scribbler & Rodent-About-Town
Dateline: Dusty Gulch, Queensland Outback - December 17, 2025

G’day, you mob of fair-dinkum legends - and any lurking stickybeak emus pretending they’re just here for the dust.

Roderick Whiskers McNibble reporting, whiskers still twitching from the sheer mongrel energy unleashed on the Dusty Gulch Oval yesterday. Red dust hung thicker than a pollie’s excuse, the sun beat down like a debt collector, and the Rugby Union clash that followed was so uncompromising it would’ve had Bruce Ruxton himself sitting bolt upright in Heaven, grinning and barking, "That’s the bloody spirit."

Mayor Dusty McFookit - fresh from publicly pondering how our sacred icons (Bondi Beach, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Opera House) have been marinated in imported argy-bargy - decided enough was enough.

Let the paddock decide. 

"No more tip-toeing," he thundered. "No more bending ourselves into knots like Prentis Penjani in rainbow thongs. We’ll sort this division the Aussie way: Rugby Union. Full contact. No quarter. Crescent Clerics versus Cross Crusaders. Let the paddock decide who fits in the Gulch."

The fuse had already been lit.

Local copper Bushie Saddler didn’t mince words:

"It’s like a pressure cooker. You can feel it. People are wound tight, and instead of letting off steam, our woke wankers keep turning up the heat. We’re heading for an explosion if something doesn’t change. Sometimes you just need a footy match."

Mayor McFookit nodded grimly:

"People used to go to sport to let off steam. Now they get a Welcome to Country. They watched movies to escape - now everything’s woke. They went to church - that got woke too. People voted for change, but preferential voting keeps the odds stacked. You tell me where the pressure goes if the government keeps plugging the vents."

And so it was decided.

Stage a rugby union match. Let the paddock speak.

THE COMBATANTS

First onto the dust: The Crescent Clerics, marching in from the enclave under the captaincy of Ahmed "The Butcher" Halal - a slab-sided prop who looks like he could cleave a lamb shank clean through with one disappointed glare.

His entourage was eclectic. Bearded clerics murmured tactics between prayers. Prayer-mat manufacturers stitched sidesteps into their drills. Kebab shop owners hollered greasy encouragement from the sideline. And Ali, proprietor of the Flying Carpet Emporium, promised "magic lift" in the line-out - though he mostly hovered suspiciously low and denied everything.

Facing them stood the Cross Crusaders, captained by Dusty McFookit - a stroppy hooker with a throw deadlier than a brown snake in a swag. His pack was pure Gulch grit: shearers, ringers, retired diggers, and at least two blokes who claimed - convincingly - to have wrestled crocs up in the Gulf for fun.

"For Ruxton, mateship, and the old Australia!" McFookit roared, ANZAC badge and outrage flashing in the sun.

THE MATCH

Maurice E. Duck quacked the whistle - after Prentis made a brief but unsuccessful attempt to ban high tackles on "cultural safety" grounds - and it was on like a bonfire in a drought.

Kick-off to the Crescent Clerics. Ahmed thundered forward like a rampaging camel, clerics forming a ruck that looked suspiciously like a prayer circle.

WHAM - Big Bluey the shearer smashed in. Turnover.

Two passes later the Crusaders were under the posts.
7-0.

The Clerics struck back when Ali’s "flying" line-out steal fed a maul, kebab owners screaming themselves hoarse. Try scored. Conversion hooked wider than a pollie’s promise.
7-7.

From there the Crusaders went to work. Scrums shoved prayer-mat makers backwards like a tactical retreat. Penalties piled up. O’Malley’s boot sang true - three straight. A spilled clerical pass turned into a length-of-the-field counter.
23-7.

A cheeky grubber from a kebab flipper pulled one back just before oranges.
23-14 at the break.

HALFTIME: THE TURNING POINT

That’s when the CWA ladies stormed the paddock.

Trestle tables groaned beneath towers of orange slices and unapologetic non-halal lamingtons - chocolate-slathered, coconut-crusted, and proudly set with good old pork gelatine for structural integrity.

"Tuck in, boys!" yelled Mrs Ethel Crumpet.
"None of that halal nonsense - this is Ruxton country!"

The Crusaders devoured them like starving roos. The Crescent Clerics waved them off and stuck to dates.

"More for us then!" Ethel cackled, as bin chickens launched coordinated aerial raids on the crumbs.

SECOND HALF: ABSOLUTE MAYHEM

Lamington-fuelled and morally certain, the Crusaders unleashed hell.

Rolling mauls trundled like road trains. Pick-and-go. A sixty-metre intercept. Another under the posts. Then another.
30-14. 37-14. 44-14.

Ahmed barged over for a consolation. Clerics slotted a penalty.
44-21.

Too little. Too late.

One final Crusaders surge sealed it. Siren.
Full-time: Cross Crusaders 51, Crescent Clerics 21.

A 30-point flogging.

AFTERMATH

The crowd went feral - Aussie flags waving, the national anthem brutally re-lyriced into Waltzing Matilda. McFookit hoisted the Ruxton Plaque. Ahmed muttered "Good game" through clenched teeth before the Crescent Clerics piled into utes and tore back toward their enclave in a cloud of dust - faster than Prentis dodging questions.

Later reports claimed one ute blew up on the way back. Lithium batteries were blamed. Dulcie Thompson, however, swears she saw an alarm clock taped under one player’s jersey - with a suspicious stick attached.

Authorities say they are baffled.

Sheriff Bushie Saddler folded his arms:

"Message sent. Play by Gulch rules - or piss off."

Post-match barbie? Snags only.
Kebabs nowhere in sight.

Ruxton’s reckoning. Australia’s soul isn’t for sale.

This is Roderick Whiskers McNibble signing off. Keep your rugby balls close - and stay away from alarm clocks. Things have a nasty habit of blowing up these days.

Meanwhile, who was that cat?  

DISCLAIMER

- Management (and Whiskers)