HAD some ag college kids out at the home farm the other day, probably thinking they might get their little hands a little dirty for a change.
Instead of sitting in their classrooms/loungerooms/bedrooms, tap, tap, tapping at their little keyboards and screens – theorising their little hearts out about how to be a farmer.
And naturally it fell on the old Whacker to host this busload of future leaders because naturally my offspring made themselves scarce when they heard they were required to lend a hand.
So I rounded up a couple of the farm workers, we got a little convoy of utes and 4WDs rolling, and showed these kids what cutting-edge farming is all about.
Or, as we used to say in my day – to see a fair-dinkum farm.
When the sightseeing was over, and the cherubs realised just how far removed they currently were from being in the Whacker’s league, we had a little Q&A session over a late barbie lunch.
“What, Mr Whacker,” one of them intoned, “do you think has changed most in your life?”
“Well youngster,” I smiled, “what I really miss is being able to get your lunch for two bob and still have sixpence left over for some lollies or chips on the way home after school.”
You would have thought I was speaking Swahili.
Every upturned face adopted a confused, and very blank, expression.
One, bless her little heart, wanted to know if I had two brothers called Bob – you don’t know how tempted I was to say “absolutely, they were the twins”.
As for sixpence, well that drew a complete blank although, to my relief, most of them seemed to grasp the concept of lollies and chips (although I did hear one whisper to a couple of others “he means fries”).
Again, being the politically correct gentleman I am, I refrained from the scathing “no I didn’t, I meant bloody chips” which sprang to my lips.
Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keyring, which has an old ram shilling as a fob.
I showed it to the younglings and explained to them that if armed with two of these – or the classic two bob piece – you could go to school, get a pie, a donut and a flavoured milk for lunch, and have enough change in your hand to drop into the milk bar on the way home.
They simply couldn’t conceal their disbelief, and when I explained on the 14th of February, 1966, in came the dollars and in came the cents, and out went the pounds and the shillings and the pence, that my good old two bob had overnight become worth 20 cents, the little buggers burst out laughing.
Seems that was enough to convince them the duffy old coot trying to tell them how to go about farming had lost the plot, was away with the fairies and that meant probably everything he had explained they needed to do to fast-track their careers was a load of rubbish – and they had probably just wasted most of a day of their very short lives.
So when I tried to explain how things change and tried to explain to them the nice politicians in Canberra used to pay us a bounty for every ton (or tonne in their speak) of phosphate we spread across our farms, all semblance of civility went out the door and they started openly laughing at yours truly.
“It’s true,” I persisted. “And we needed it because super went from a staggering $71 a ton in 1972 to about $100 just two years later.
“Bloody Gough Whitlam,” I explained.
“And then in 1974 his bloody Labor government ended the super bounty forever – we actually had to pay full tote odds.”
“What’s a tote, mister?” one queried.
I ignored that little ignoramus and explained if it had lasted just one year longer, when we got a farmer elected as Prime Minister, we might still have the bounty today.
“That’s it mate,” one of the more officious little snots said.
“Thanks for your time but we’re out of here – when would a farmer ever be Prime Minister?”
I didn’t get the chance to say I’d be pretty happy if we got another elected sometime later this year, they had cut and run and left the Whacker with the dishes.
And I’ll be relying on this lot for my pension.
