LEST WE FORGET © ANZAC 2019 ™ ®



Of course I fought at Gallipoli. I was only a fetus, so I had to lie about my age. And my height. I had to lie about a lot of things. I hated the taste of beer and I didn't know the words to Waltzing Matilda, but I was buggered if I was going to let that stand in the way of dying for my country. Or someone else's country. War isn't supposed to make sense.

They say the first casualty of war is truth. In my case the first casualty of war was a Louis Vuitton trunk containing my best dinner suit, three ounces of Turkish opium, and a particularly fine collection of Persian erotica. Sunk without trace after a luggage tender capsized at Alexandria. A tragedy. I was on my way to Paris to cover the war as a freelance correspondent and I had no idea of the horrors I was to face. Without a decent dinner jacket. You people have no idea. Gallipoli. It was hell.

When I say I fought at Gallipoli, I really mean I saw action at Gallipoli. Well, I mean I saw some photos of the place and a pretty decent topographical map. And I read a few letters. All the way through, but.

 Oh all right , I spent the war as any self-respecting war correspondent would - in Paris drinking Pernod and selling hashish to shell-shocked poets, while writing authentic powerful prose about the ghastliness of life in the trenches. Because after all in a very real sense we were all at Gallipoli, weren't we.

And kids, if you want that authentic Gallipoli™ experience, why not join us this ANZAC Day™® at Camp Gallipoli. Spend the night in real tents and share the exact experience the diggers had back in  the day as you greet the morning with latte and croissants after being woken by James Morrison playing Reveille and a medley of period show tunes. Thrill to "Over There" "You're in the Army Now" and "Tipperary" while shivering in the cold dawn light and meditating on death, disfigurement, or the sheer hell of surviving for weeks on that beach without a coffee machine. Book now. Don't risk disappointment. Celebrating tragic failure with beer and a barbecue. It's the Australian way.

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