Who Discovered Australia!
Ancient discoverers of Australia
Or there’s a pyramid in my back paddock!

Evening and salutations to my growing hoard of devoted readers (both of them). Let me compliment you on your excellent selection of this blog to peruse from amongst the myriad wordings hovering expectantly in the ether.
I have recently been brushing up on my research on the discoverers of Australia. This is of course a fascinating subject and one I hope to pursue in depth when I get published.
To any publishers and agents out there, this is a not so subtle hint that there are bucks to be made getting my good self into print – ps look at 1421, more on that later. But enough of that shameless self promotion, back to the theme of this discussion.

Who did discover Australia?











Captain Cook!!!?

Now I remember learning in school four odd decades ago, about our historical discoverers, especially in the year 1970 when all Australians celebrated the two hundredth anniversary of the Captain Cook expedition. We even minted a special fifty cent piece, which I sure I can find if I diligently searched through my dusty archived childhood coin collection. But that is a digression – we will cover the true place and achievements of Captain Cook at little later. In the meantime on to more contentious issues. Who exactly can reasonably be credited with the first discovery of the southern continent?

Ptolemy's map a 1467 version
The most reliable and decipherable ancient sources are various ancient Greek and Roman writers on geography. Herodotus, Ptolemy and Strabo are the most quoted. In their books they speculated on the existence of a Terra Australis (Great Southern Land), though at this distance in time it is difficult to judge whether their information was based on actual reports from passing traders, or on myth and sailors hearsay. Other writers, especially up to the Middle Ages, tended to be less specific and more fanciful in their speculations, including the more common reports of tribes of strange men with heads in the centre of their chests or of walking trees. Then when it came to discussing the condition of the great oceans, their reports always included a selection of ship devouring kraken, floating islands and luscious, and with any luck, lascivious mermaids. While this provides great background for many fantasy novels, it couldn’t in any way be regarded as accurate, though the curious part of these accounts is that sometimes the shadow of something substantial can be discerned through the fog of dragons. However they should never be taken as fact or used as hard evidence to claim earlier discoveries.
At this point I realise that this discussion is going to take a few sessions so let’s look at this as part 1.

The Ancient Discoverers of Australia. Or there’s a Pyramid in my back paddock!

Ancient Egyptian mine and temple in the Sinai


Here we shall examine and hopefully put to rest a few myths.
Firstly the Egyptians.
According to the internet, some self proclaimed experts reckoned that the continent of Australia was positively crawling with Bronze Age Egyptians who stripped the gold, silver and gems from this great southern mineral repository. Some of these distinguished gentlemen have even written books about their fabulous discoveries. Dozens of ruins, hundreds of idols and thousands of inscriptions. Most startling of all, apparently we have up to seven pyramids scattered across the country side. And we didn’t even realise it!
I mean, you can just picture it.

Ancient Egyptian priests


Go back three thousand years. Two Egyptian priests are strolling through the rugged Australian bush, dressed in pleated linen kilts, nattily corn rowed wigs and besplendidly kohled eyelids clambering over remote and inaccessible cliffs. Then all of a sudden they halt and one turns to his companion and points meaningfully at an uncleared patch of scrub in front of them. “Well, damn me Imhotep, isn’t this a spiffing place to wack up a pyramid, what?”
“I say Sekhmet, by Thoth, I think you’ve got it! Just look at this place! If I refer to my handy astronomical scroll, I believe we’ll find it corresponds perfectly with all the ley lines and heavenly constellations.”
By Crikey, won’t the Pharaoh be pleased – another pyramid!” chortles the first priest.
“What’s that make it Imhotep – seven?”
His companion sadly shakes his head. “No Sekhmet old chap, six by my count.”
The first priest is visibly staggered by the news. “Hows that Imhotep? I could’ve have sworn we’ve built seven.”

The Plans? Damned Architects!!!
“No, no Sekhmet. You really can’t count the one we built in that tidal estuary in Pharaohland up north by the gold mine. It did sink after all!”
“Oh well, I suppose six it is then.” replies Imhotep reluctantly, before rallying to the task. “When do you want to start this one?”
However all is not so rosy – Sekhmet is still shaking his head. “Well old chap, I’m sorry to say we can’t possibly manage it till some time next solar cycle.”
“What! That outrageous! Why not?” Imhotep is aghast at this dreadful revelation.
His friend patiently explains the complex issues surrounding the imminent non construction. “Well you see old chap, we just don’t have the navvies for it.”
This simple explanation doesn’t cut the mustard with Imhotep who waves urgently back towards the rising dust cloud of their last construction site.
“But we’ve got thousands of the blighters lounging around. Surely we can spare a few hundred to get it started?”
His passionate gestures fail to move a frowning Sekhmet. “Fraid not old bean. What with the gold mines, the roads, the temples, the port construction, the food transport and this abysmally hot weather we just can’t spare them.”

building !!!
Imhotep stamps his foot, coincidentally crushing one of those large black spiders that infest this region. This cannot be! The will of the Lord of the Nile cannot be hindered by paltry excuses. Then he has a sudden flash of inspiration. “What about those dark chappies? The local indigenous? Can’t we round up a thousand or so of them?
“Sorry tried that. Damned surly bunch these natives. Can’t get a decent days slaving out of them. A taste of the lash and they scarper off back into the bush.” Sekhmet gave the kind of shrug that spoke of hours of fruitless flogging.
Imhotep, clearly frustrated, was not going to let this lie. “Well damn me, we’ll just have to requisition another thousand slaves from Punt.” He was not going to be dissuaded from his appointed task by mere details. It was a sacred duty – pyramids must be built!

Hauling !!!
Sekhmet was of a different frame of mind, more practical for a start. Almost hesitantly he raised one more minor flaw in the divine plan.
“Ahh, my dear fellow, I fear we may have a few difficulties with that. No ships.”
“What! We had fifty yesterday! They can’t have disappeared overnight!”
“You see, those Phoenician wallahs who do the transport have jacked up and want to double the insurance rate. Something about vast reefs and lurking kraken and all that kind of rot.”
As expected Imhotep splutters into a new round of the argument.
And so on, and so forth…
I think we’ll leave the rest of the discussion to the imagination.

Ziggurat Mesopotamia


Back to our ancient discoverers. For some deeply felt reason, our ancestors had this driving urge to build upwards. In Egypt it was pyramids, in Britain artificial mounds like Avesbury, while in the Fertile Crescent it was ziggurats. All of these were great feats of construction, engineering and design. As their descendents and inheritors, we should feel justifiably proud of these achievements, all built, I may add, completely without the help of any grey, blue or slightly pinkish aliens. Now this cultural devotion also extended to different styles of religious temple complexes. Whether those were based on astronomical calculations or lunar and solar events is still up for debate. However both these kinds of projects required a great deal of social and cultural organisation for a long period of time, possibly spanning centuries. Hang on you say, isn’t this straying from the ancient discoverers of Australia theme? Well yes and no. This short segment is to provide the background for our area of discussion and now we venture into the realms of the present.

Need I say anything?
I am sure most of you have had some experience of building, whether its having worked in the construction industry, a DIY project or at least walked past a building site, and even glanced at a piccie of one in any number of home improvement magazines. Apart from our probable common ancestry on the plains of Africa, it is a unifying factor for modern humanity – we like to build, and we like to build allot! However, as you have probably noticed, this construction drive is a terribly messy practice and every job acquires piles of discarded rubbish, including excess concrete, broken tiles, bent nails, the carpenters’ McDonalds snack containers and even the odd Snickers wrappers. Now this mess can’t just lie around, ruining the landscape so a significant word (so long as it includes the words ‘no payment’) to the site manager and all this detritus magically disappears overnight. There simple – happy satisfied clients,that is so long as they don’t want to plant roses or any other toxin sensitive flowering shrub in the front garden, or the side lawn or excavated by the back fence and so on.


Archaeologist's 'McDonalds wrapper'
Now being that we are all afflicted by certain common traits of human nature, what makes you think the ancient Egyptians were any more scrupulous in tidying up? This is a fact of history and a rich haul for archaeologists, since ancient middens and rubbish heaps are their modern day treasure troves. Thus broken pots, as well as the discarded lunch wrappers of yesteryear have been the foundation of many careers. The careful excavation of their contents have told us that Egyptian pyramid and tomb workers liked beer, dates, fish, wheat porridge and it seems making snide remarks about the overseer and the client (via messages scratched on bits of pot). This sifting of acres and acres of accumulated rubbish left over from the pyramids and tombs has kept historians, archaeologists and Egyptologists from all the major universities, antiquarian societies and museums, busy for a hundred and fifty years, organising digs every season. Even distant institutions like Macquarie University in Sydney have had an ongoing site for the past thirty years. Believe it or not, even after all this frenzied activity there are still thousands of sites unexplored or unsurveyed.

Egyptian tomb
Okay I think we have set the scene. Building temples and other ancient structures, even for a few generations, generates a lot of waste. So much that anyone with a modicum of training or at least a few archaeological reference books on pottery styles, should be capable of identifying their location. In fact it is pottery and the decendant of a famous explorer of Australia, Mathew Flinders Petrie, (the irrepressable Mathew Flinders of circumnavigating Australia fame, was his grandfather) who come up with a simple way of cataloguing pottery by style and placement at the dig site to give an accurate date to excavated layers. That’s why Time Team go birko when they find any pottery shards. Yoo hoo – instant dating!

Ahem... where are the mummies???
Thus we finally come to Australia and its plethora of pyramids and temples and those who identified them. How did they do that you ask? Well it appears that one expert in particular is responsible for large number of claims, he also runs an “Archaeological” Research Centre. This gentleman has single handedly found dozens of relics and remnants. In fact it seems that every time he goes for a walk in the bush anywhere in the country he literally trips over the stuff just begging to be found – stone tools, megalithic temples, acres of carved inscription, wouldn’t you know, the place is just lousy with it. Amazing! Absolutely incredible! Astounding and several more words to that effect. A brief survey of his website (type in Yowie, UFO and Egyptians in the Google boxes and see what comes up) and online ‘research’ journal will give you the general idea. However in all his discoveries our gentleman appears a bit hard up on the kind of physical evidence usually accepted as valid. Unfortunately all he has to offer are a few freshly carved rough stone heads and a scattering of Egyptian touristy style scarabs. Now at this stage my discerning reader will of course ask, well what about the pots? What pots? Why the ones used by the dozen everyday for water or beer or cooking. The ones they dig up by the bucket full on any archaeological site. The ones that prove beyond a doubt that someone lived and worked there, in short – builders rubbish. Well unfortunately there aren’t any at all, so we must assume that the visiting Egyptians went completely native scorning the use of any pottery items in favour of grass baskets.

Grave goods abscent from OZ
Now what did they put in those grass baskets, any wheat or grains? Perhaps some dates, certainly not beer or wine since they didn’t have pots. Now we come to another difficulty. They couldn’t have eaten any of their usual foods since we haven’t found any remnant grains, date palms, oxen, donkeys or camels (except for the ones we introduced in the 1860s). That means the Egyptians would have had to slaughter the native wildlife by the tens of thousand to feed all these workers busy building the pyramids, ports and temples. Of course that would leave evidence of massive kill and cooking sites and either flint, copper or bronze arrow and spear heads by the kilo. Unless they all ate fish. However those aboriginal shell middens we’ve been excavating for decades would have coughed up a hefty layer of non-native items.
So scratch the physical evidence.

I could resist it an 'instant' UFO crop circle at Silbury

Thus we come to the last reason to discount any ancient Egyptian discoverers. Why would they come here, the most furtherest corner of the globe (apart from Antarctica)? Why gold we are told! What, did they run out of gold in Punt (believed to be on the East African coast)? I don’t think so. The Arab traders were still pulling it out in the 1500’s with no signs of running out. Maybe it was spices? Ahh no – we didn’t have any. That was India and the Spice Islands to the north. Perhaps it was our superb exotic timber? Probably not, once more there were until recently thousands of square miles of teak, ebony, rosewood and cinnabar in Africa and Asia. Someone else mentioned tin, the essential ingredient in bronze as a justification. It’s a pity then that the trade routes to Britain and India were closer and the natives were happy enough to do all the hard work like mining and refining.


A phoenican-egyptian stone figure allegedly 'discovered' in OZ


Finally we come to the supposed physical objects. A quick stroll through the Internet archives and message boards gives a very good indication of the same pieces of carving, scarabs and coins recycled as proof of ancient Egyptians. Now I hate to be so cynical towards my fellow man but don’t you find it a tad strange that these items are always discovered in complete isolation or found at the bottom of an improbably deep hole conveniently dug for a well or foundation. I mean if this was a NCIS investigation and a friend’s life depended on its credibility, would you believe the presented evidence? (As a general rule when faking hieroglyphs don’t use modern steel tools or cut through a hundred year old lichen – do a search for the Gosford glyphs and see what I mean)
So in conclusion I would have to rule out the ancient Egyptians as discoverers of Australia. So if you do think you’ve found a pyramid in the back paddock, I’d do a bit of serious checking before announcing it to the world.

Bye all and as the doctor says – take the damned pills!

Advertising, what’s the Message?
Take the damned pills!

This week, in an effort to keep up with the end of season happenings in two of my favourite series on the television, I succumbed to temptation. Damn but it was a struggle! Why you ask? After all, shouldn’t one always give into temptation, you know it may never come your way again? For those of you who may not realise it that simple statement about the surrendering to temptation is the foundation of all advertising. Well I must admit that this once I did, and after a long tussle with my better nature I succumbed to wicked delights. Eagerly and with much anticipation I took my chair in the living room with the rest of my family, grabbed an ale (home brewed chocolate stout of course ) and sat back to watch those programs on a free to air commercial TV channel. Now I have to admit from prior experience this is not my usual preference, and I shudder to think of the masses of advertising junk I have had to endure every few minutes just for the ‘privilege’ of viewing an ‘edited’ version of Bones and Castle. Previously I had steeled myself and refrained from the communal experience, instead viewing them on time delay so that I can rip through the adverts. However, as I said this time the flesh was weak and end of season episodes were too hard to resist. As my better nature had predicted the experience was painful, (don’t you hate when your conscious is right!) The supposed entertainment was more like a battle of attrition as the stories jerked and stuttered before the barrage of ads and I found myself having to improvise script or events to justify the abrupt changes in the plot. An old complaint, no?

Now I know that we’ve had decades of blitzing with both the commercial justification for barrage advertising and how our lives would be a consumer waste land without it. Advertising is, as they claim the bastion of democracy! Without it, our society would, thus heaven forbid be a bare finger’s breadth from communism and all the assorted godless evils that go with an advertisement free media. However, we have a few examples in free to air like SBS (which at least politely puts on ads between programs) and ABC (which thank the powers that be is still advert absent) that indicate that choice isn’t quite dead. For those desperate to escape the fate of a brain meltdown there is always pay TV channels which in the first flush of exuberance over a decade ago promised the ultimate in free choice of programs and an ad free experience! Oh well, we couldn’t expect it to last, that temporary belief in salvation was surely naïve or perhaps a symptom of early onset dementia, induced by advertisement overload.
While I’m sure all this ground has been covered before, no doubt countless times by irate viewers venting their spleen at being conned by the various media companies. Okay, its an imperfect world and you just know their public relations and or complaints department are going to issue the usual justification for non action; free market, adequate social responsibility, shareholder interests and so on.
So admit it, this form of complaint may give you a temporary release to that growing wrath and a brief rosy glow as you fire off that fiercely censorious email, but honestly it is fairly useless and it is not the purpose of this piece. The above section was just to remind you of the brain cell numbing afflictions you’ve had to endure to watch a favourite program. Arghh! No not another re-moisturising, re-hydrating re-toning product that absolutely promises that if I sell my first born in to bondage it will once more give me the lustres tone of a pre teen. Or, please, please no more! I promise to sign up for that extra extra special offer on the latest tummy flattening torture device as promoted by the fit and tanned De Sade devotee with the very white teeth and the fanatically focused smile!
Those daily afflictions aside there is another issue in the advertising onslaught on TV that I wish to address, that being the under-lying message that goes along with the product.
Back in the sixties a Canadian media guru Marshall McLuhan stated in his 1964 book Understanding Media that ‘the medium is the message’, in the decades since we have come to see how this simple dictum has been interpreted and none so grimly amusingly as in the world of advertising. The follow is a brief example of one advert that has stuck in my mind for all the wrong reasons;

The advertisement begins with a view of the outside the family home, the aspect is grey and coldly forbidding, the weather has all the ominous hallmarks of a bleak winter day. Having set the general scene of wintery conditions we cut to the interior master bedroom.

Poor old pater familus, the implied breadwinner (even in this era of equality) is tucked up in bed, his face a picture of illness and suffering while his nose closely resembles a leaking shower nozzle with a broken washer. The close up of his eyes displays a deep blood-shotted-ness that tell us either he’s been on a monster of a Friday night bender or even worse horror of horrors, the rock of the family has succumbed to the seasonal flu! It is an ominous display that strikes a chord within all of us, a reminder of our human fragility before the microbial onslaught (more on that later). Each of us is automatically prompted to think ‘but for the blind lottery of fate and the wonders of modern medicine there go I’. The camera zooms in, focusing on his abject misery, this bloke is just a nudge away from the sort of state were a ‘concerned media’ spouse would whisk in and displaying all the solitude of an a caring wife aid his wavery scrawl on a life assurance policy, but that is the subject of a later comment.
So into this picture of despair strides the loving spouse and with hands on hips casts her disapproving gaze upon her stricken husband.
“What do you think your doing in bed?” The sub verbal comment ‘you useless malingering maggot’ is instantly appended by her glower and stance. Her stricken partner cowers in response to this demand and can only meekly offer up the following mewling excuse in the heavy nasally congested tone of the flu afflicted.
“I’ve got a cold and a headache and my nose is blocked!’ The camera angle switches back to his beloved, a glimpse of her heavy frown is all that is required too convey the impression that this paltry whimper isn’t going to be accepted. Out booms her reply;
“A cold? A cold! Rubbish, little Johnny has soccer, Felicity has that track meet with junior athletics, we got to do the week’s shopping and aunt Givenia and my sister are expecting us around to help Granma just out of hospital and settle in to her new retirement unit!” Poor hubby sinks further below the thin and inadequate shield of bedcovers and once more whimpers.
“But I feel awful, my head!” Close up shot to the pained expression and obvious signs of illness before once back to his beloved.
“Nonsense, don’t be a weak kneed spineless little sissy take -----! You’ll be fine!”
The next scene has our poor hubby looking phenomenally improved happily striding out to the large SUV followed by the eager kiddies. Thanks to the miraculous cure of ----- he can get out there and fulfil all his parental and familial duties due to the prompt tough love approach of his now smiling life partner. Taa Dahh happy ending, cut to logo of wonder drug and slid to next advert, conveniently on funeral planning.

Wonder Drug saves Day!

So you think that’s all there is to the message from that advert clip, well think again. This little excerpt contains a number of other not so subliminal messages that don’t require a Phd in psychiatry or sociology to figure out.
You know how they say a picture is worth a thousand words well watch this interpretation.

First its implied that its well into morning and hubby is still in bed, worse his wife has been up for hours getting the kiddies ready for their round of Saturday activities and clearly she’s unimpressed about his still recumbent lounging. Thus we have our first session of guilt tripping.
By being sick in bed hubby is automatically letting the family down.
See, that wasn’t difficult to interpret.
To add to this feeling of inadequacy the stance of his wife implies in the advert that he is suffering from a very minor condition and being a woose by letting a little cold get the better of him.
Okay here we have the play on the male breadwinner’s ego, and yes I know that we now live in liberated times where both partners can equally be the bringer home of the daily meat (vegetarians please read the humble tuber). However thousands of millennia of cultural conditioning (if not genes as well) have reinforced this ‘male’ image. Man the hunter and toolmaker as heroically scripted in a huge amount of fiction both on the screen and in literature.
So the upshot is hubby, who is feeling pretty low already due to the flu is susceptible to round two, that extra serving of duty, ‘blokey’ honour and guilt. Now he’s ready for the fall!
However at this point I need to insert a piece of real history just to prove the above statements, and show how insidious this advert really is. Over a decade ago I was working on a building restoration project at Pyrmont near the Sydney harbour and within casual viewing distance of the bridge. It was a very spectacular sight arching over the busy waters below and never failed to refresh my spirit while I worked. Now we come to a minor but necessary digression in the tale. For those of you who haven’t had the unique experience of driving in Sydney let me briefly lay out the facts the city is large, very large and stretches from the coast to the range of mountains a hundred kilometres to the west. If you want to cross this expanse be warned take a pack lunch and fortify your patience with a few calming pills or quenching ales (though be warned not enough to impair driving and survival skills) to take the edge of the stress of the traffic in the two plus hour journey. Anyway as fate would have it I had to travel that distance each day to return to where the rest of my family was staying in the Blue Mountains while I worked in the city.
Now returning to the crux of this divergence at the time I was working at Pyrmont I was also apparently suffering from a recurring bout of drug resistant pneumonia that in the end lasted for over six months. Now I’d done the right thing and seen the doctor about my cold/flu, who suggested a simple round of ---- to combat the effects. This advice did the trick, however that was only on one level, it did an excellent job of masking the symptoms of what was a very very serious illness and allowed me to merrily continue at my task each hour getting worse and worse (you know glimpses of pink lizards on the interior walls, funnel webs the size of terriers scuttling behind the furniture). Now remember the very brief segment of the advert where they say ‘and if symptoms persist see a medical practitioner’ well I did, and received the sage advice of double the dose of ----. So I did.
It was when I keeled over while sanding a door and woke up an hour or so later feeling well past second hand that I realised that this minor affliction wasn’t so minor. That wasn’t all, my belief in the credibility of the local witch doctor had suffered an irremediable dent and I really felt it was imperative to get back to the Blue Mountains ASAP!
Now this is were we re-enter the advert narrative, because I had to drive two hours through almost peak hour Sydney in the grip of pneumonia and a generous handful of ---- just like the firmly no nonsense wife was suggesting in the above mention advert.
Now many years later I can still remember the mantra of ‘I drive on the left hand side of the highway!’ ‘Red means stop! Green means go!’ Those nail biting phrases and a brief image of wrenching the steering wheel violently to the right to avoid a carelessly jaywalking telegraph pole are about my only memories of what must have been a very ‘interesting’ journey.
Thus we return to the advert and examine what exactly Mrs ‘No Nonsense’ was suggesting.
First, that dearest hubby stop shirking his duties! Be a man swallow those pills and get your butt into the drivers seat ASAP! Right, let’s think this through, so we’ve just put someone who may be suffering from pneumonia delirium, H1N1 or some similar reality warping illness behind the wheel of a three tonne vehicle and pepped them up with a fistful of pseudopheno whatevers and instructed them to get on with it! Take the kiddies to their social fixtures, no matter the cost! Don’t you want little Johnny to become a Wallaby? Or will you let your runny nose ruin young Felicity’s chance at getting into the Olympics in ten years time?
Now in the cold light of day, is this really the message the advert want to get across? Firstly this says dearest hubby is expendable, as are your kiddies, all to maintain your social standing amongst the local clutch of soccer mums?
Secondly masking the symptoms does not make the illness disappear, no matter how good the medicine. So in the midst of this suggested horrible winter day dear hubby is driving around from sporting event to family commitment and in the meantime is he getting better? Ahh no, probably not and his body’s natural defence system has been dealt a triple blow now having to cope with the illness, the drugs and the extra strains of city traffic.
Is this really what this advertisement wants us to believe is the correct course of action? I suppose it is and the fact that the matriarch of the family appears as fit as a horse is ignored in the whole narrative, the question has to be asked why isn’t she driving? More reasonably you have to ask why the healthy and safety of any family member is worth jeopardising for a round of Saturday events that in the greater scheme of things are transitory and pretty valueless.
But I guess that really isn’t the point, compared with the present affirmation of our society.
You can do it all!
Take the damed pills!
After Dr House does and look at him

I’ll just leave you to think about that one before we look at the next advertisement.
Ps Good luck to every one at the start of this flu season!

Good day every one
After some years watching the growing success of Hugh Laurie playing the part of that irascible American doctor in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital I feel compelled to speak out. Every week Dr Gregory House tackles the hardest, most obscure and obdurate medical cases. As many media commentators have said he is a driven genius and a very fragile human, one struggling with his own deep seated problems of addiction and isolation. In most episodes he battles with the hospital’s medical administration as well as his obtuse and bewildered staff brushing up against the bristly ego’s of fellow medicos and commonly accepted medical mythology. The result is I admit very entertaining and compelling, as he battles to defeat the affliction, usually almost killing his patients before taa daah in a nick of time bringing them back from the brink.

In this series love him or hate him, there is an awful lot to admire in the character played by Hugh Laurie, the tragic hero afflicted by his own limitations of humanity. A man both traumatized and scarred by his experience of modern medical practice and devoted to solving its conundrums, no matter how unorthodox the diagnosis, methods or treatment. If you were suffering from some debilitating illness that baffled your medicos then you could almost wish to have someone like Dr Gregory House. The tall lanky form limping down those antiseptic white corridors rushing to the rescue, while his cane taps out an urgent Morse code SOS of impatience, pain and frustration. Not forgetting of course the inseparable bottle of Vicodin, a crutch and a curse strategically placed in a pocket of his white coat ready to hand for those difficult moments when everyone else is stuck several pages back in the script.
Yes gripping and entertaining to watch, however would you really want him in charge of your healing, getting the lab rat treatment of trial and error until you’re an inch form passing over? Well really?
At least thank god and ahh science we’ve past the day’s of leeches and pain is an excellent promoter of good physick! Or my favourite;
‘Hmm, excellent progress, a generous discharge of laudable pus! Very commendable, we’ll just draw off a half firkin of blood to balance his humours!’

Now be glad you’re not subjected to that kind of learned discourse, back in the Tudor period (1485-1603) recourse to a skilled and expensive doctor from the College of Physicians was an admission you’d written your will. What’s more your potential heirs, their lawyers and a priest were already hovering over you in the keen expectation of an imminent windfall.

But more on that later, in the meantime, having covered the introduction of this blog on to the meat of the subject!
I have an admission, and I make it not any way being egoistical or narcissist. Rather it is a statement and claim made in proud, but relatively humble honesty.

I am Gregory House, the real Gregory House in that, some well over four decades ago I was baptised with that name. It’s on the tattered copy of my birth certificate and proves beyond reasonable doubt the following;
I am a legal person born in the state of New South Wales and by ancestry entitled to call myself an Australian citizen, holding all the rights, duties and privileges pertaining to that august status.
So there, I’m not a fictional character after all! Nor did I in the grip of some disturbing psychosis or mania seek to latch on to the identity of that dark TV hero and idol and change my name by deed poll. I may add, an act like that could entitle a person to a very exhaustive inspection by Dr House’s real life medical contemporaries and may accord the new ‘House MD’ a nice long rest in a comfy padded room. That just wouldn’t be fair, since a number of my not so close acquaintances would prefer I received the extra long sleeves treatment. Having more than one Gregory House at a caring institution would lead to no end of confusion, just like the plethora of Napoleons or Roosevelts! (see Arsenic and Old Lace, the doctor Witherspoon scene)
Now we separate the sheep from the goats or the ‘Houses’ from the ‘Houses’. Apart from having the same name, I do not look anything like Dr Gregory House, unless you stretched me on a Rack an extra foot or so. Though, I feel that both of us seem to equally draw upon a natural reservoir of sarcasm and dark humour that may be uniquely accessible to those affecting the ‘House psyche’.
So that the issue of the basic House-ness settled, on to more intriguing areas.

I fear I must live with the sad fact that although I share a stage name with a famous and talented actor, Hugh Laurie, I’ am not cut from the same cloth. Though many years ago I did dally with the silver screen and occasionally did some stunt work. Though unlike some, I picked the shallow end of the cinematic gene pool appearing in such seminal Aussie films as ‘Deathcheaters!’ and Machismo the Mighty and the Seven Dirty Sons of Hercules. Plus, I did occasionally rise out of the mire and contributed a few pieces of work or useful advice to other more successful cinematic productions, so it wasn’t a total loss. I can however honestly claim to have been in the same school and graduating year as Hugo Weaving, you know Mr Anderson in Matrix, one of the four transvestites in Priscilla Queen of the Desert and Elrond in Lord of the Rings. So there you go near famous.

The aims of this Blog

1. Shameless self promotion!!!!
2. Ego tripping!
3. Riding someone else’s coat tails to Fame Glory and Wealth! Yee haw!!
4. Comment on some of the stranger practices and facets of our modern society
5. Examine the scary world of Medieval and Tudor medicine, its closer than you think.
6. An examination of history, both fact and fiction
7. Showcase my writing and thoughts.
8. Communicate and share my knowledge.
9. Get published.

Okay, realistically the first three are a subconscious background to any blogging. Though if I’d wanted to utilise the fame of Dr House this blog would have appeared the third week of the first season. The main reasons for doing this are numbers 4-9 with a heavier emphasis on history.
So welcome to the story! I will try and update this at least four times a week with interesting snippets, sidelines and reviews from the past and present, please browse and if you want to leave a comment go for it.

Whether it is nobler to be Gregory House or suffer the...!

Becoming Gregory House!


Good day every one
After some years watching the growing success of Hugh Laurie playing the part of that irascible American doctor in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital I feel compelled to speak out. Every week Dr Gregory House tackles the hardest, most obscure and obdurate medical cases. As many media commentators have said he is a driven genius and a very fragile human, one struggling with his own deep seated problems of addiction and isolation. In most episodes he battles with the hospital’s medical administration as well as his obtuse and bewildered staff brushing up against the bristly ego’s of fellow medicos and commonly accepted medical mythology. The result is I admit very entertaining and compelling, as he battles to defeat the affliction, usually almost killing his patients before taa daah in a nick of time bringing them back from the brink.

Dr Gregory House Heartthrob
In this series love him or hate him, there is an awful lot to admire in the character played by Hugh Laurie, the tragic hero afflicted by his own limitations of humanity. A man both traumatized and scarred by his experience of modern medical practice and devoted to solving its conundrums, no matter how unorthodox the diagnosis, methods or treatment. If you were suffering from some debilitating illness that baffled your medicos then you could almost wish to have someone like Dr Gregory House. The tall lanky form limping down those antiseptic white corridors rushing to the rescue, while his cane taps out an urgent Morse code SOS of impatience, pain and frustration. Not forgetting of course the inseparable bottle of Vicodin, a crutch and a curse strategically placed in a pocket of his white coat ready to hand for those difficult moments when everyone else is stuck several pages back in the script.
Yes gripping and entertaining to watch, however would you really want him in charge of your healing, getting the lab rat treatment of trial and error until you’re an inch form passing over? Well really?

Modern Medicine ???

Tools of the Tudor Trade

At least thank god and ahh science we’ve past the day’s of leeches and pain is an excellent promoter of good physick! Or my favourite;
‘Hmm, excellent progress, a generous discharge of laudable pus! Very commendable, we’ll just draw off a half firkin of blood to balance his humours!’
Now be glad you’re not subjected to that kind of learned discourse, back in the Tudor period (1485-1603) recourse to a skilled and expensive doctor from the College of Physicians was an admission you’d written your will. What’s more your potential heirs, their lawyers and a priest were already hovering over you in the keen expectation of an imminent windfall.

But more on that later, in the meantime, having covered the introduction of this blog on to the meat of the subject!

I have an admission, and I make it not any way being egoistical or narcissist. Rather it is a statement and claim made in proud, but relatively humble honesty.

The Real Gregory House???

I am Gregory House, the real Gregory House in that, some well over four decades ago I was baptised with that name. It’s on the tattered copy of my birth certificate and proves beyond reasonable doubt the following;
I am a legal person born in the state of New South Wales and by ancestry entitled to call myself an Australian citizen, holding all the rights, duties and privileges pertaining to that august status.
So there, I’m not a fictional character after all! Nor did I in the grip of some disturbing psychosis or mania seek to latch on to the identity of that dark TV hero and idol and change my name by deed poll. I may add, an act like that could entitle a person to a very exhaustive inspection by Dr House’s real life medical contemporaries and may accord the new ‘House MD’ a nice long rest in a comfy padded room. That just wouldn’t be fair, since a number of my not so close acquaintances would prefer I received the extra long sleeves treatment. Having more than one Gregory House at a caring institution would lead to no end of confusion, just like the plethora of Napoleons or Roosevelts! (see Arsenic and Old Lace, the doctor Witherspoon scene)
Now we separate the sheep from the goats or the ‘Houses’ from the ‘Houses’. Apart from having the same name, I do not look anything like Dr Gregory House, unless you stretched me on a Rack an extra foot or so. Though, I feel that both of us seem to equally draw upon a natural reservoir of sarcasm and dark humour that may be uniquely accessible to those affecting the ‘House psyche’.
So that the issue of the basic House-ness settled, on to more intriguing areas.

I fear I must live with the sad fact that although I share a stage name with a famous and talented actor, like Hugh Laurie, I did dally with the silver screen and occasionally did some stunt work. Though unlike some I picked the shallow end of the cinematic gene pool appearing in such seminal Aussie films as ‘Deathcheaters!’ and Machismo the Mighty and the Seven Dirty Sons of Hercules. I did occasionally rise out of the mire and contributed a few pieces of work or useful advice to other more successful cinematic productions, so it wasn’t a total loss. I can however honestly claim to have been in the same school and graduating year as Hugo Weaving, you know Mr Anderson ( correction he wasn't sorry) in Matrix, one of the four transvestites in Priscilla Queen of the Desert and Elrond in Lord of the Rings. So there you go near famous.

The aims of this Blog

1. Shameless self promotion!!!!
2. Ego tripping!
3. Riding someone else’s coat tails to Fame Glory and Wealth! Yee haw!!
4. Comment on some of the stranger practices and facets of our modern society
5. Examine the scary world of Medieval and Tudor medicine, its closer than you think.
6. An examination of history, both fact and fiction
7. Showcase my writing and thoughts.
8. Communicate and share my knowledge.
9. Get published.

No pain No gain!!
Okay, realistically the first three are a subconscious background to any blogging. Though if I’d wanted to utilise the fame of Dr House this blog would have appeared the third week of the first season. The main reasons for doing this are numbers 4-9 with a heavier emphasis on history.
So welcome to the story! I will try and update this at least twice a week with interesting snippets, sidelines and reviews from the past and present, please browse and if you want to leave a comment go for it.

As the good doctor says Take the Damned Pills!