The Emu War and Other Unlikely Australian Moments That Deserve Their Own Merch

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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