Notice anything wrong with this snail, something a little
peculiar, perhaps? It’s eye stalks seem
unusual, don’t they. That’s because this snail has fallen hapless victim to a
parasite called the green-banded broodsac.
One minute the snail is happily ingesting bird s**t, the next it’s
feeling a bit woozy and then – what the hell just happened to my eye
stalks? This is a form of aggressive mimicry,
but a very unusual one – you can get the whole story over at our sibling site,
the Ark in Space. But maybe don’t click
on the link until well after your lunch time.
You think the picture is a little icky? Wait till you watch the videos…
Leon is a grumpy old badger. You can’t blame him really – as this Animation Workshop graduation project opens, we see a tree felled in his beloved woodland and scores of refugees leave to find a home elsewhere. He must realise that his destiny may not be stay in the place he loves. Leon witnesses the destruction and retreats into his home – which has yet to be harmed by those with axes. However, he discovers an unwelcome guest in his library and this is where the story really begins…
This is a profoundly melancholy animated short but essentially it is more about resilience and hope – and what comes after destruction. The simplicity of the artwork contrasts with the subtlety of the storytelling. Yes, children will get this – but there are layers here that adult viewers will appreciate too.
The direction of the project was led by Julianna Jakubowska. Karen Haldrup served as both the Production Manager and Animation Lead, while Emma Olivia Dueholm supported the team as Production Assistant. Amalia Eiron took the role of Story Lead, and Ágúst Elí Ásgeirsson contributed as the Technical Director. Inès Zulianel oversaw the visual style as Art Director, and the design work was carried out by Alicia Ludwig. Watch it below.
The blue whale isn't a species normally associated with London. After all, when it comes to animals, the English capital city is known for its lions (stone, mostly), ravens, horses and pigeons (so many, many pigeons). As such, the latest piece of art unveiled in London’s docklands is a pleasant departure from the expected menagerie. Captured in a spectacular head-first breach, this 36 foot (11 metre) leviathan was created to highlight the issue of plastic pollution in the oceans of the world.
At close range, the colossal whale sheds its singular silhouette and becomes a constellation of detail, an intricate mosaic whose beauty lies in the delicate interplay of form, colour, and craft. It all comes together in a visually jaw-dropping way. This striking installation is part of a vast open-air gallery in Canary Wharf, where over 100 artworks transform the place into the UK’s largest free public art trail. But, what’s the story with the whale?
Poor old Rolf all he wanted was a drink to quench his thirst
on his long bus journey, but he forgot to pack anything. Despondent, he notices a service button and,
without realising that he is about to change his life, presses it. You might think that the picture above is
something of a spoiler, but that is hardly the end of Rolf’s misery – much,
much worse is yet to come.
This highly entertaining animated short is a 2025 Graduation
Project by students at The Animation Workshop/VIA University College. Elmer Mikael Lødemel was the Director,
Painter, Animator, and Storyboard Artist. Niels Gram Riisgaard worked as the
Line Producer, CG Generalist, and Background Painter. Matthew Ponquett was the
Art Director and Animator. Simon Koch Pedersen served as a Generalist,
Animator, and Concept Designer. Sam Byrne was the Animation Lead and a
Storyboard Artist. Andreas Smidt acted as the Technical Director and CG
Generalist. Lea My Ib was a Storyboard Artist and Story Artist for FX
Animation.
Graduation projects from The Animated Workshop are something
I look forward to each year – the talent is, simply put, outstanding. I can only hope that these wonderful artists
go on to highly valued professional careers in the industry.
Watch Service Bus below…
Glassdoor is supposed to help people find great companies. But sometimes it’s just a therapy session with a public audience. Hidden behind anonymous usernames, former employees use the platform to rage, vent, and absolutely roast their past employers. Some reviews are helpful. Others are so brutal, they’re unforgettable.
Below are some of the wildest, funniest, and most jaw-dropping Glassdoor reviews ever posted. These aren’t your average complaints. These are full-on meltdowns that expose bad bosses, chaotic workplaces, and straight-up nonsense.
A software developer at Mopals warned future applicants to run. “Good salary, on paper,” they wrote. But once they started, the red flags flew. No direct deposit. Handwritten paychecks. No pay stubs. T4s that never arrived. The final straw? “You won’t be getting your last paycheck.” Their advice: walk out right after cashing it.
This ex-employee didn’t hold back. They called out management for being reactive, clueless, and inconsistent. “Decisions are not met with follow-through,” they said. The solution? “Hire a management staff that can handle the work.” Ouch.
This review paints a depressing picture. A siloed company where people don’t even say hello. “You can sit next to people who won’t even talk to you for over a year,” the employee wrote. The culture was described as toxic, competitive, and outdated. Their advice: “Stop bullying your people.”
One ex-Starbucks worker skipped constructive feedback and jumped straight to insult comedy. Their advice to management was simply, “Suck eggs and some snails.” It makes no sense, but it’s impossible to forget.
One software engineer claimed the CEO treated employees like “labour,” banned tea breaks before lunch, and paid salaries late. The air conditioning never worked, policies changed hourly, and the manager was “shakki” (suspicious) enough to hire someone just to spy on staff. The takeaway? “You’ll never get fat because they won’t give you time to eat.”
This reviewer said they had to pay out of pocket for work expenses, got minimum pay, and used buggy tools that rarely worked. Their summary: “It’s a bloodsucking company.” A reminder that even big brands can run messy operations.
This former Java developer didn’t mince words. They described management as ego-driven and dismissive. “They still think you’re a MONKEY,” they wrote. They claimed the company treated staff like interchangeable parts, not people.
This one’s hard to read. The reviewer described unethical practices, no research training, fake forecast data, and late-night shifts without transport for women. “Some women stay 24 hours in the office,” they said. The company even forced staff to write positive reviews to protect its brand.
A current employee blasted the company for having no structure, no direction, and a founder who bullies staff. “No one has any views on what they are working,” they wrote. Their warning: most good employees only last three to four months.
After going through multiple interviews, a candidate was told they would not be offered the salary originally promised. “Unhygienic, unhealthy and unprofessional,” they called the HR team. It might’ve been harsh, but it’s a reminder that first impressions matter—even during hiring.
Glassdoor reviews can be brutally honest. But sometimes they’re exaggerated or fake. Companies have been known to encourage staff to leave glowing reviews. Some even try to remove negative ones. Others quietly ask staff to write “balanced” feedback.
According to one anonymous commenter, their boss “made us write positive reviews on company time.” Another admitted to writing fake reviews packed with perks they wished they had, like “work-from-home Fridays.” The goal? Trick execs into thinking those perks already existed.
And yes, it is possible to remove Glassdoor reviews, but only if they break site policies. That means harassment, threats, or exposing private information. If it’s just angry, rude, or even insane, it’s probably staying up.
Simple. People feel ignored. One bad boss, a missed paycheck, or a toxic team can make someone snap. Glassdoor becomes the punching bag. It’s anonymous. It’s public. And for some, it feels like justice.
But here’s the kicker. Sometimes the angry review helps a company. It reveals problems. It forces change. Other times, it scares off good talent.
For employers: don’t ignore the noise. Reviews that sound insane might still have a grain of truth. Track patterns. Fix real issues. And don’t try to game the system. It always backfires.
For job seekers: read between the lines. Look for recurring complaints. Compare with what people say on Reddit or Blind. If multiple reviews mention late pay or a “suspicious CEO,” believe them.
And for everyone else: remember that anonymous doesn’t mean harmless. One review can shape a company’s reputation. Or ruin it.
These reviews may be funny, but they reflect real frustration. Sometimes it's bad culture. Sometimes it's bad leadership. Sometimes it's just a bad fit.
Use Glassdoor as a tool, not a bible. And if you’re an employer facing one of these firestorms? Don’t panic. Learn from it. And maybe don’t treat your team like zoo animals.
If all else fails, remember there are ways to remove Glassdoor reviews—but it’s a legal and policy game, not a magic eraser.
And if you’re the kind of person who signs off with “suck eggs and some snails,” maybe take a nap first.
If you are planning on traumatising your children today but
are short of ideas, pop them in front of this animated short. Potlems, written and directed by Alberto
Allegri Rodríguez will bury itself deep into your offspring’s deepest consciousness
and will, no doubt, be resurfaced by a well-meaning therapist in about two
decades. It’s easier than being that mum
in a wood in a hood, I suppose.
Hats off to Alberto and his team at The Animation Workshop.
Potlems tells the story of Ginger, a cute little porcelain teapot being brought into the world by a very visible but very bonkers Creator. Yet something has happened – Ginger has a
glitch – he has a frown instead of a smile. And that just simply won’t do in this
surreal, merry-go-round, quasi operatic world of unquestioning, frenzied, breakable happiness. Once the Creator notices him properly, it can only mean one
thing – poor Ginger needs to be fixed and returned. There’s nothing a little celestial kintsugi
can’t mend, after all.
I have to say I found this animation at once entrancing and unnerving. It’s beautifully made, but is so layered my mind kept returning to it time and time again after the first watch - as if it had undergone some metaphorical histological sectioning that put it on replay mode while I tried to figure it out. So, go on, plonk Junior down in front of this – it will do for them what the Singing Ringing Tree did for me in the way back when.
A basic human reaction to being near someone you don't want to be near is simply to move away. Something like that happens with a number of tree species. Their crowns do not touch each other at the canopy level. Yet, the true reason for this adaptive behavior (which helps a species to cope in its environment with greatest success and least conflict with others, including its own) is still something of a mystery. A number of reasons have been put forward, but none proven definitively. If only the trees could talk…
More exactly, the reasons for crown shyness is believed to
vary across different species. Crown
Shyness was first given its name over a century ago and since then it has been
hypothesized that the reasons for this are multiple – with one species having a
reason for manifesting this striking behavior while others have different
reasons.
Over on our sibling site, Ark in Space, there is a new feature full of pictures of (mostly) squirrels splooting. If you haven’t come across this phenomenon before, it’s worth a look. Why? Well, if you ever come across a splooting squirrel, you might well first think that it is in some sort of health crisis. In fact, it’s trying to avert one. Replete with a lovely set of photographs (absolutely splootiful), this article outlines the reasons behind this peculiar animal behavior. There’s also a look into how and when the word itself came into being – it has a slightly longer history than you might imagine!
Before the global acclaim of Sinners and Black Panther, Ryan Coogler was already crafting powerful, intimate stories, and his 2009 student short Locks is a striking example. Set on the streets of Oakland, this understated but deeply moving film follows a young man heading to the barbershop, in what at first seems like a simple routine.
Shot with quiet confidence and a naturalistic eye, Locks captures the texture of everyday life while gently revealing something more profound. Coogler's gift for human storytelling is already evident here - in the silences, in the gestures, and in the subtle choices his protagonist makes.
With a runtime of just over seven minutes, Locks doesn’t rely on dramatic twists or flashy visuals. Instead, it builds a quiet tension that speaks volumes, leaving the viewer reflective long after the final frame. Shot during his time in the prestigious Master’s programme at USC School of Cinematic Arts, this student short demonstrates Coogler’s instinctive gift for storytelling under pressure
A compelling early work that hints at the voice and vision Coogler would soon share with the world. Watch and enjoy Locks below.
High above the forest floor, tucked away in a treetop house, lives an owl with a brilliant mind and a family legacy of scientific achievement. Driven by determination and intellect, he spends his days wrestling with a complex physics equation, seeking the solution that will secure his place among his esteemed ancestors (who include Nikowla Tesla).
But life in the canopy is about to get noisy. When a woodpecker moves in next door, the owl’s peaceful world is shattered by constant tapping. No matter what he tries, the racket won’t stop — and neither will his growing frustration. As his concentration slips away, so too does his grip on the problem he’s been trying to solve.
What happens next isn’t what he expected. And while we won’t spoil the ending, let’s just say that inspiration sometimes arrives in the most unexpected ways.
Neighbourwood is a beautifully animated short film directed by Eddy Hohf, Patrik Knittel, and Fynn Große-Bley. With a playful, expressive score by Alexander Wolf David, the film tells a wordless but vivid story about focus, frustration, and the strange harmony that can grow out of chaos. Watch and enjoy below.
Ready for a little science? Climate models can predict future climate and energy futures – and this video explains what exactly that means. It was created by Tinmouse for the Science Museum in London, England.
Why do we need climate models? Well, don’t we all want to know what the future
has in store for us? Human activity – despite other factors, we all know that
it is having a huge impact on the planet. Weather patterns are changing, the
sea levels are rising and extreme weather (heatwaves, for example) are more
common and well, more extreme. So emissions
must be reduced – and climate models can help there.
The video also explains energy models – they are used to
investigate how energy is supplied and distributed to meet humanity’s needs. There is a great visual explanation of energy
models in the video, too. The narrator
has a really mellifluous Welsh accent, too!
Watch the very interesting video below.
I don’t really want to sit on the fence when it comes to King Richard III, but at the risk of alienating some readers, perhaps I better had (as long as it's not near a car park, I guess). Richard III has always divided opinion – as you will see in this great animated short – and it is fair enough to say that he has been maligned, historically, particularly by Shakespeare. Yet he also had some pretty villainous moments. Rex Factor: The Animated Show is a bold and brilliant leap from podcast to screen, bringing the fascinating - and often tumultuous - life of King Richard III to animated life. Based on the internationally successful history podcast Rex Factor, the show delivers a hilarious and historically rich romp through the life of one of England’s most controversial monarchs.
Presented by the podcast’s much-loved hosts Graham Duke and
Ali Hood, the animated series follows their unique format of rating monarchs
based on five delightfully subjective categories: Battleyness, (yes, really) Scandal,
Subjectivity, Longevity, and Dynasty. King Richard III faces their irreverent
scrutiny as they examine his rise, reign, and ruin, all while debating whether
he has what it takes to earn the ultimate accolade: the coveted Rex Factor
crown.
Produced by Tinmouse Animation, the series blends slick visuals with comic flair, staying true to the charm and wit that made the original podcast a hit with history buffs and casual listeners alike. Whether you know Richard III as Shakespeare’s villain, the last Plantagenet king, or the skeleton under the Leicester car park, Rex Factor: The Animated Show offers a fresh and funny take that’s as informative as it is entertaining.
Perfect for fans of history, comedy, or quirky British
storytelling, this animated outing proves that Richard III’s legacy, however
divisive, still makes for riveting entertainment. Watch it below.
At almost two meters tall, the Noble Rhubarb (also known as
Sikkim Rhubarb) stands out – just a little - in its Himalayan habitat. While
nature has designed its neighboring herbs and shrubs to grow short and stumpy,
this species of rhubarb has other ideas. It towers above the other local plant
life and is often visible from miles away.
How does this strange, ethereal plant survive – let alone thrive – in
this inhospitable environment? Its secret is simple but ingenious: it is its
own greenhouse.
You might mistake what you can see as a rather peculiar flower (once you get over the momentary panic that the triffids are having another day). What you see is not a flower. The conical tower that is visible to the passing traveler is made up of translucent bracts. A bract is a specilaized leaf associated with the reproductive structure of a plant and they come in a multitude of shapes and sizes (often dependent on the plant’s pollinator). In the case of noble rhubarb, these bracts create a translucent curtain which surrounds the stem and flowers contained within.
The title sequence for Murderbot, designed by Elastic and directed by Hazel Baird (Client: Apple TV), is a bold and imaginative visual prelude that captures the essence of the series: the tension between control and individuality. Using Cinema 4D with Redshift rendering, the sequence contrasts rigid, machine-like environments with bursts of surreal, hyper-colourful imagery, representing the internal conflict of a being caught between programmed obedience and a growing sense of autonomy.
What begins as a cold, geometric world — orderly and oppressive — is soon disrupted by strange, vibrant dreamscapes. These playful, almost childlike forms suggest a subconscious rebellion, a fractured yearning for something beyond function and expectation. The use of rubbery physics and toy-like visuals adds a surreal humour that mirrors Murderbot’s neurodivergent, dryly self-aware perspective.
One of the most intriguing touches comes at the end: a glimpse of Murderbot’s eye watching the screen. This fleeting image hints at a metafictional layer — perhaps suggesting that the entire sequence is part of the media the character obsessively consumes, adding a recursive, self-aware twist.
In short, the sequence is not just an aesthetic triumph but a conceptual one, setting the tone for a series concerned with sentience, identity, and freedom — all within 90 seconds of layered, visually rich storytelling. Watch it below.
Inspired by the timeless Chinese myth of The Red Thread
of Fate, this animated short (simply called Red String) by Crystal Kung delicately explores the
invisible bonds that draw destined souls together. According to legend, the
gods tie an unseen red string around the fingers of those fated to meet -
lovers whose connection defies distance, circumstance, or time.
The motif of the red thread also appears in Japanese
folklore as akai ito (赤い糸) — the “red string of fate.”
In this tradition, the string is said to connect soulmates, not around the
finger, but specifically tied to the pinky finger (小指, koyubi),
reflecting the Japanese custom of sealing promises with a pinky swear. Though
invisible, the thread is unbreakable and stretches across time and space,
pulling two destined people together regardless of circumstances. This idea has
permeated Japanese literature, anime, and film, reinforcing the universality
and enduring emotional pull of the legend.
Kung’s interpretation reimagines this myth through a visual
narrative that is both intimate and universal. With no dialogue and evocative
animation, the film invites viewers to reflect on the quiet magnetism of
destiny - the gentle tug of an unseen thread that guides us toward the people
we are meant to find. Or not…
Elegant, emotional, and steeped in folklore (old and new), The Red
Thread weaves a tender story of connection that lingers long after the
final frame. Watch it below.
If you’re an English teacher – or even a student who has done GCSE English Language in a previous year – you will probably have heard this plaintive cry before: “Question 5 was a letter! Noooo! I hate writing letters!” There are many permutations and combinations of this phrase. Most of them revolve around aforementioned deliverer of plaintive cry maintaining that they are much, much better at writing articles or speeches (or even leaflets or essays). But not letters. When it comes to letters they lose whatever literacy they previously possessed and have just written the worst piece of writing ever. Like, literally, ever! In the history of the universe. If only it had been an article! They could write fantastic articles when they were, like, two years old.
That question was so unfair!
I only prepared for writing an article!
I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
Snails are not my favourite animal – not by any means. As a keen gardener I have an aversion to them
which sometimes leads to responses bordering on the maniacal. Yet this is quite
a heartwarming little tale – a story that transcends the interspecies divide. Tale of Snale gives us a protagonist who does
the right thing when they don’t need to and is effectively rewarded at a later
stage. As such, it’s a very simple story
but one that warms the heart (and perhaps remind me that maybe I shouldn’t go
too full metal jacket on the creatures in my back yard: not).
Tale of Snale was created
by Griffiths Watkins in their final year at the University of Hertfordshire
2023. It is the culmination of their
degree in 2D Digital Animation and shows a promising talent both for
storytelling and animation.
You can watch Tale of Snale below.
Serendipity – that happy accident that produces something good. Scientists have made accidental discoveries throughout history that have led to untold benefits to humanity. And then there are the accidents that haven’t. This is one of them.
The Delete Machine was created by Charlie Ledwidge for their
degree in 2D Digital Animation at the University of Hertfordshire in 2023. Hopefully this short tale will lead to big
things – without any serendipity necessary!
You can watch the animation below.
Nestled in the heart of the North Wales countryside is a secluded spot known for centuries as Ffos Anoddun. It is better known, outside the country by its English name – Fairy Glen. Yet there is a little something lost in translation. The Welsh name literally translates as the Ravine of Annwn – which has altogether darker connotations. In Welsh mythology, Annwn is the Otherworld, a realm of eternal youth, beauty, and abundance, often associated with fairies and the afterlife. This connection adds a layer of mystique to the already enchanting landscape of the place. But the fairies you might find here are not those you will see in Disney films, for certain sure.
Ffos Anoddun is located just outside the village of
Betws-y-Coed (which means "Prayer House in the Woods" but is never referred to in translation). It lies along the River Conwy, nestled within a wooded valley
- we'll take a look at the journey there shortly. The site is accessible via
a short, steep path from a nearby car park off the A470 road, making it a
popular spot for visitors seeking picturesque waterfalls, mossy rocks, and a
magical woodland atmosphere. Not to mention fairies.
If you happen to pass by the historic medieval fortress of
Het Steen in Antwerp, Belgium the chances are very likely you will come across
a statue. A real double-take statue. Or
even a triple-take statue. However many
times you eyes are drawn to it, this is one statue that demands your attention.
Created in 1963 by Belgium sculptor Alber Poets, the sculpture represents a
legendary figure in Flemish folklore, the crafty and mischievous giant called
Long Whopper. Sorry, Lange Wapper. Dubious translations aside, he is certainly a
big boy.
Sometimes, something comes along that just leaves you open-mouthed. The Eclipse – an animated short by Gabriel Schemoul is one of those things. It tells – in a beautifully melancholic way (or is that melancholically beautiful?) the story of a winter spirit who, emboldened by an eclipse, decides to take a look at what he has been missing – the world around his icy cave. Yet his joy and awe is short-lived when he discovers that he cannot join this “new world” without endangering it…
With a soundtrack by Kate de Rosset (her beautiful song,
Flowing Into Joy) this animated short looks like it was created by a host of talented
people. Yet this was a solo project for Paris-based
Schemoul. He says, quite simply “I put all my heart
and energy into it” and it shows. It’s a
thing of beauty, steeped in the traditions of European folklore and fairy
tales and a beautifully structured story of... well, you decide. You can watch it below – but be
warned; you might need a tissue.
To the casual eye, it’s a reef. But for those who
linger long enough to observe—not just to snorkel or dive, but to wait, to
float, to listen—it’s something more. A vast network of intricate structures,
grown rather than assembled. A world of coral castles.
They rise slowly. They endure silently. And, like many
of Florida’s most ancient stories, they exist half in myth and half in the
present moment.
In the shallows of the Florida Keys, stretching along
the southeastern coast of the peninsula, coral
polyps go about their invisible work.
They are so small you could line several on your fingernail and still have room
to spare for a droplet of seawater. Yet collectively, they’ve built the largest
coral reef in the continental United States.
Each polyp is a builder, a biologist, a chemist. They
secrete limestone to form skeletons, stacking them millimeter by millimeter
like slow, underwater masons. These skeletal deposits accumulate over decades,
centuries, and finally, millennia—creating reef systems that seem to defy the
chaos of open water.
The Florida Reef is one of only a few in the world
that exist in a subtropical climate. That detail matters. It is what allows a
reef to bloom within striking distance of Key West’s piña coladas and pastel
art galleries. It is what makes it possible for someone to take a morning Key West dolphin watch
tour and, by afternoon, be swimming just feet above coral systems
built by unseeable hands.
It is also what makes this reef system incredibly
fragile.
A reef is not just a structure—it is a city. A living,
humming kingdom where every cavity is an alley, every crevice a hideaway.
Parrotfish grind coral with their beaks like diligent gardeners trimming
hedges. Moray eels curl into shadows like reclusive monks in stone cloisters.
Crabs scuttle across the walls like messengers late for some tiny, unseen
ceremony.
This is not nature as chaos. This is nature as
architecture.
Even when one isn’t diving or snorkeling, the signs of
this submerged world sometimes rise to the surface. Those fortunate enough to
join a Key West
dolphin watch tour may recall a moment when the guide slowed the
boat and pointed down, not up. There, beneath the hull, a ghostly maze of
ridges and mounds—coral. A dolphin may have just leapt across the bow, stealing
the spotlight, but the city below lingered like an afterimage, more ancient
than the dolphin, older than the boat, perhaps older than the path that brought
you here.
In that way, the reef is the backdrop to everything in
the Florida Keys, even when unseen.
Yet not all is well beneath the waves.
In some areas, the reef seems less a cathedral and
more a ruin. Sections have turned ghostly white—coral bleaching, a defense
mechanism against warming seas that often ends in death. Where once there was
color, now there is absence. Not decay, but vacancy.
Climate change, pollution, overfishing—they are not
metaphors in this story. They are active participants. The reef has lost nearly
90% of its coral cover in the last half-century. In places where the coral once
thrived like underwater forests, only skeletal reminders remain, picked over by
passing fish that no longer linger.
But reefs are, oddly, both vulnerable and persistent.
Restoration efforts—many of them based in Key West and surrounding islands—have
taken to planting baby corals back onto the reef, coaxing life to return. It’s
careful work. Divers hang from floating platforms and attach coral fragments to
reef outcroppings like gardeners grafting trees in the wind. These new
fragments must take root, find light, and begin their slow climb toward
reefhood.
And some do.
Perhaps someday, a family on a Key West boat
trip—intent only on spotting dolphins—will pass above one of these reborn
sections. They may never know they’ve floated above a resurrection.
Spend enough time in Key West and eventually, you’ll
feel the tug—not just of the tide, but of the stories. This is an island where
things build up over time: salt on windowsills, layers of paint on porches,
secrets in bars, laughter in the boards of old fishing piers.
And just offshore, the reef continues its slow labor.
It does not ask to be seen. But if you float quietly, if you dive gently, if
you listen between the bubbles—you’ll notice it speaks.
Not in sound, but in rhythm. The reef communicates
through the shuffle of sand, the shimmer of fish scales, the gentle thrum of
life navigating narrow coral canyons. A dolphin may breach in the distance—a
joyous interruption, perhaps witnessed on a Key West
dolphin watch tour that now peppers the coast. But
even they, with all their charisma, seem momentarily humbled when passing over
the reef.
For beneath them lies something more enduring. A
geometry written in limestone and light.
And like all true architecture, it speaks of time,
patience, and a world built not with noise, but with grace.
It’s tempting to believe coral belongs only in the
ocean, that these silent architects never leave their watery domain. But drive
north from the Keys, past mangrove thickets and inland roads with sunburned
billboards, and you’ll find a strange echo of the reef rising from the Florida
limestone.
In Homestead stands the Coral Castle, a bizarre monument
carved by one man—Edward Leedskalnin—over nearly three decades. Made of oolite
limestone, the Coral Castle was constructed in secret, at night, with no
machinery. Leedskalnin claimed to know the secrets of levitation and magnetic
forces. Others say he simply had time, determination, and an understanding of
balance.
The place is uncanny. Gigantic blocks weighing several
tons have been arranged into thrones, gates, and sun-dials—all by one man who
stood barely five feet tall. The story feels half fairy tale, half
architectural mystery.
It’s hard not to draw a line between the undersea
coral cities and this dry-land shrine. Both are intricate. Both are
impossible-seeming. Both were constructed quietly, piece by piece, over a long
stretch of time. Whether coral polyps or eccentric men—both are proof that
builders don’t always shout their plans. Sometimes, they just build.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
History has not run short of weird Australian episodes
that deserve a little more love from the gift shop. Here are just a few:
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.
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.
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.
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.”