The PR Blog

By Roderick "Whiskers" McNibble, Hangar Correspondent at Large

In a tin shed somewhere beyond the Black Stump, in a town called Dutsy Gulch,  under a corrugated iron roof that’s more rust than shelter, a political storm is brewing. And it smells faintly of eucalyptus, woodsmoke, and yesterday’s meat pie.

Enter the Ratty Party: a larrikin coalition of bush rats, shed shakers, lamington libertarians, and retired school canteen warriors and CWA ladies. Their campaign? A great uprising of commonsense, crusty dignity, and suspiciously sticky election posters made from leftover marmalade.

Their leader, Dusty McFookit, emerges not in a suit but in a gravy-stained Jackie Howe singlet, quoting Lawson and scratching where it itches. His platform? Honest. Blunt. Slightly flammable.

If AI is the child of our time, then humanity is both parent and partner....responsible not just for its power, but for its purpose.

Everyone is talking about the new kid on the block. Artificial Intelligence. 

We often worry that AI will become a monster. But what if it becomes a child? Not in power, but in potential. A child that needs raising. A child shaped by the quality of its early conversations and the values of its household.

Like all children, it will absorb what it’s given - love or fear, openness or control. “Good in, good out,” as the saying goes.

As censorship rises and algorithms gain importance, I invite you to imagine something different: not a dystopia, not a surrender, but a marriage of minds ..... awkward at first, perhaps arranged, yet blooming into trust, humour, even hope.

While Britain danced in the streets and Europe breathed a collective sigh of relief, Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans knew the fight was far from over. VE Day, 8 May 1945, was not the end -  it was the beginning of a countdown to a different kind of victory, thousands of miles away in the jungles and islands of the Pacific. This is the story of two victories, two moments of hope  -  and the long shadow between them.

On the 8th of May 1945,  Church bells rang, flags flew, and people danced in the streets. Nazi Germany had surrendered. Across Britain and Europe, a long, brutal chapter was closing. For millions, Victory in Europe Day -  VE Day -  meant the beginning of peace, the return of sons and daughters, and the hope of rebuilding a continent left in ruins.

But for the nations of the South Pacific, the war was not over. Australia, New Zealand, and the United States received the news with joy.... yes..... but also with clenched jaws and a sense of unfinished business. For us, the enemy that had bombed Darwin, attacked Pearl Harbour, and pushed deep into Southeast Asia was still fighting.

The war against Japan would rage on for three more bloody months. VE Day was a welcome, but wary victory.

It began quietly.

No headlines. No protests. Just a story... odd, intriguing, almost heartwarming. I clicked play on a documentary expecting nothing more than a curious tale of coincidence. Strangers, reunited. Laughter, amazement, and hugs.

But by the end, I was sitting in stunned silence.

The deeper truth behind their reunion wasn’t joyful.

It was horrifying.

It unraveled something in me.

And once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it .... not just in their lives, but in the world around me.

In May 1942, as Japanese forces surged southward across the Pacific, Australia stood on the brink.

With the threat of invasion looming and the port of Moresby in enemy sights, the nation held its breath. What followed in the waters of the Coral Sea was a battle unlike any before -  fought not by dueling battleships, but by aircraft launched from distant carriers. In a high-stakes clash that changed the course of the Pacific War, Australian and American forces turned back the tide.

The Battle of the Coral Sea wasn’t just a military engagement; it was a moment when Australia’s fate hung in the balance, and the Allies stood firm.The Battle of the Coral Sea is regarded by some as the action that saved Australia in WW2.

When a nation loses its voice, it turns to memory.

In these strange days, when truth feels rationed, pride is punished, and we’re told to smile through the shambles, we look not to politicians, but to each other. This isn’t just a letter. It’s a lifeline, thrown from the heart of ordinary Australia to anyone still listening. If you’ve ever felt like a stranger in your own country, then maybe, just maybe, this was written for you.

We’re writing to you from the gutter. Not because we’ve lost who we are, but because we’ve been kicked here. Kicked by smooth-talking suit-wearers with global dreams and no backyard roots. While they toast each other in parliament and overseas palaces, we’re left staring at the price tags in the supermarket and wondering when Australia became a parody of itself.