Australia is a land so vast that logic sometimes
struggles to find its footing. In this wide brown country, the bizarre has a
curious tendency to become beloved—and the improbable, somehow, ends up on a
fridge magnet.
This is not a nation short of myths or mysteries. From
bunyips in billabongs to drop bears lurking in eucalyptus trees, the land down
under wears its oddities like a badge of honour. Yet among these curiosities,
there are real events—proper, recorded historical incidents—that almost seem to
beg for their own line of novelty t-shirts and branded stubby holders.
And none quite so urgently as the Emu War.
A Feathery Fiasco: The Emu War
of 1932
In the year 1932, the Australian government declared
war on its own wildlife. Not metaphorically, not symbolically—actually.
The enemy? The emu. Large, flightless, and not even slightly bothered by
bullets.
Western Australia was facing an ecological
nuisance: over 20,000 emus, having
discovered that farmland made for excellent post-breeding season snacking,
began trampling crops and infuriating farmers. These weren’t occasional
visitors—they were marauding hordes, all legs, feathers, and indifference.
To deal with the problem, the government dispatched
soldiers armed with machine guns. The plan was simple: eliminate the emus with
military precision.
The emus had other ideas.
Led by Major G.P.W. Meredith, two men and two Lewis
guns entered the fray. What followed was a comedy of errors. The emus proved to
be unexpectedly evasive, scattering the moment gunfire began. Bullets were
wasted, equipment jammed, and the birds—bless them—ran at speeds of up to 50
km/h, often escaping completely unscathed.
At one point, soldiers mounted their guns on a truck,
hoping to chase the emus down. The truck promptly got stuck in a ditch. The
emus jogged off, unbothered.
By the end of the campaign, after thousands of rounds
of ammunition, the military had managed only a few hundred confirmed kills. The
emus, seemingly emboldened, returned in greater numbers the following year.
It’s a chapter of history that feels less like warfare
and more like an extended Monty Python sketch.
And yet, strangely, there are few mementos to mark the
occasion. No “Emu War Veteran” badges. No “Surrendered to the Emu” bumper
stickers. No commemorative stubby holders featuring Major Meredith and a
bemused emu locking eyes across No Man’s Land. A missed merchandising
opportunity, surely.
Lost Gold and Misplaced
Confidence: Lasseter’s Reef
Another tale ripe for a novelty mug or two is that of
Lasseter’s Reef—a fabled seam of gold allegedly discovered by Harold Lasseter
in the early 20th century. The story goes that he stumbled upon a massive gold
deposit somewhere in the remote heart of Australia. Unfortunately, he lost his
map, his bearings, and eventually his life trying to find it again.
The very idea of Lasseter’s Reef is intoxicating. A
lost treasure in the sunbaked interior. Claims and counterclaims. Expeditions
funded and foiled. Even now, prospectors occasionally vanish into the desert,
lured by the hope of riches buried in the red dirt.
Yet still—no branded compasses in Lasseter’s name. No
“I got lost looking for Lasseter’s Reef and all I found was this tin mug.” Not
even a novelty spade keyring. It’s as if Australia wants to keep the mystery
intact. Or perhaps it’s simply that no one has quite figured out how to market
the dream of striking gold and being perpetually, utterly lost.
The Yeast Divide: Vegemite vs.
Marmite
If ever there were a cultural rivalry that deserved a
full merch rollout, it is the epic clash of Vegemite and Marmite.
Vegemite, that dark, salty spread made from brewer’s
yeast extract, is to many Australians what tea is to the English—a comfort, a
ritual, and a reason to keep going in the morning. Marmite, while technically
similar, is often considered by Australians to be its weaker British cousin.
Families have been divided over this. Friendships
tested. Blind taste tests have ruined Sunday brunches.
And yet, the merch remains oddly polite. Sure, there’s
the occasional novelty mug or plush Vegemite jar, but where’s the true tribal
branding? Where are the “Team Vegemite” hoodies? The interstate derbies
featuring mascots in yeast-themed costumes? The promotional tea towels
declaring “Marmite is for Quitters”?
In a country where promotional products are as
ubiquitous as backyard barbies, it’s curious that this culinary rivalry hasn’t
birthed more battle gear.
A Quote Heard Around the World:
The Azaria Chamberlain Case
It’s hard to speak of the Azaria Chamberlain case
without a moment’s pause. In 1980, a baby girl was taken from a tent near Uluru
by a dingo. Her mother, Lindy Chamberlain, was widely disbelieved. What
followed was one of Australia’s most infamous miscarriages of justice—and an
enduring, often tasteless quote: “A dingo ate my baby.”
The phrase became a global punchline, detached
entirely from its tragic origins. It featured in sitcoms, cartoons, and even
stand-up routines.
And here lies the uncomfortable question: should such
moments ever become merchandise? If someone,
somewhere, made a fridge magnet of that quote (and they probably did), what
does it say about our collective sense of taste?
Not every moment is ripe for commercialisation—but in
Australia, the line between history and humour is often blurred by heat, time,
and an odd national affection for the absurd.
Promotional Merchandise in Australia:
The Subtle Carriers of Culture
There’s something peculiarly Australian about how
branded objects—freebies, giveaways, things you didn’t ask for but quietly use
for years—end up becoming part of the national fabric.
Promotional
merchandise in Australia aren’t always flashy.
They’re more often functional, practical, or a bit ridiculous. A fly swatter
with a bank’s logo. A sunscreen tube that doubles as a whistle. A beach towel
bearing the emblem of a plumbing firm.
And yet, these things persist. They travel to the
beach, the bush, the glove box. They survive long after the business folds or
the phone number changes.
In this context, it almost makes sense to imagine a
stubby holder from the Emu War, handed out by a local RSL club. Or a branded
sun visor from Lasseter’s last expedition. Not because anyone needs these
things—but because they make the absurd tangible. The story becomes something
you can hold, laugh at, and, occasionally, wipe your hands on.
Other Moments Begging for Their
Own Tote Bag
History has not run short of weird Australian episodes
that deserve a little more love from the gift shop. Here are just a few:
The Disappearing Prime Minister
In 1967, Prime Minister Harold Holt went for a swim
and never came
back. His body was never found. The country, in its
infinite irony, named a swimming pool after him. The merchandise writes itself.
The Big Banana
One of Australia’s most beloved “Big Things.” There
are over 150 large roadside attractions across the country, but the
banana—massive, yellow, slightly faded—reigns supreme. Why there isn’t a
banana-shaped tote bag in every airport newsagent remains a mystery.
Drop Bears
A fictional predator invented to terrify tourists.
They look like koalas, but with a mean streak and a taste for human skulls.
Australians speak of them with straight faces and terrifying conviction. There
should be survival kits. There should be patches. There should be warning
signs. There are, to be fair, a few
t-shirts—proving that sometimes, the merch catches up to the myth.
What We Choose to Remember
It’s tempting to think of promotional items as
throwaway things—cheap pens, tote bags, stubby holders, all destined for dusty
drawers. But in Australia, they often become small cultural totems. Memory aids
for stories too strange to forget.
The Emu War didn’t need a war memorial. It needed a
fridge magnet. A stubby holder. A novelty bobblehead of Major Meredith in full
retreat.
In a country where history gets sunburnt and legend
rides shotgun, perhaps it’s fitting that some of our most enduring memories
come printed on neoprene, plastic, and canvas.
And somewhere, out there in the red dirt, a stubby
holder lies half-buried, proudly emblazoned with the words:
“Lest
We Forget – The Great Emu War, 1932.”
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