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by Rupert McCall
The day would soon arrive when
I could not ignore the rash.
I was obviously ill and so I called
on Doctor Nash.
This standard consultation would adjudicate my
fate.
I walked into his surgery and gave it to him
straight:
`Doc, I wonder if you might explain this allergy of
mine,
I get these pins and needles running up and down my
spine.
From there, across my body, I will suddenly extend
-
My neck will feel a shiver and the hairs will stand on
end.
And then there is the symptom that only a man can fear
-
A choking in the throat, and the crying of a
tear.'
Well, the Doctor scratched his melon with a rather worried
look.
His furrowed brow suggested that the news to come was
crook.
`What is it Doc?' I motioned. `Have I got a rare
disease?
I'm man enough to cop it sweet, so give it to me,
please.'
`I'm not too sure,' he answered, in a puzzled kind of
way.
`You've got some kind of fever, but it's hard for me to
say.
When is it that you feel this most peculiar
condition?'
I thought for just a moment, then I gave him my
position:
`I get it when I'm standing in an Anzac Day
parade,
And I get it when the anthem of our native land is
played,
And I get it when Meninga makes a Kiwi-crunching
run,
And when Border grits his teeth to score a really gutsy
ton.
I got it back in '91 when Farr-Jones held the
Cup,
And I got it when Japan was stormed by Better Loosen
Up.
I get it when Banjo takes me down the Snowy
River,
And Matilda sends me waltzing with a billy-boiling
shiver.
It hit me hard when Sydney was awarded the
Games,
And I get it when I see our farmers fighting for their
names.
It flattened me when Bertrand raised the boxing
kangaroo,
And when Perkins smashed the record, well, the rashes
were true blue.
So tell me, Doc,' I questioned. `Am I really
gonna die?'
He broke into a smile before he looked me in the
eye.
As he fumbled with his stethoscope and pushed it out of
reach,
He wiped away a tear and then he gave me this stirring
speech:
`From the beaches here in Queensland to the sweeping
shores of Broome,
On the Harbour banks of Sydney where the
Waratah's in bloom.
From Uluru at sunset to the Mighty Tasman
Sea,
In the Adelaide cathedrals, at the roaring
MCG.
From the Great Australian Blight up to the Gulf of
Carpentaria,
The medical profession call it "green and gold
malaria".
But forget about the text books, son, the truth I
shouldn't hide.
The rash that you've contracted here is "good old
Aussie pride".
I'm afraid that you were born with it and one
thing is for sure -
You'll die with it, young man, because there
isn't and cure.'
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