The PR Blog

Bruce Ruxton was an unapologetic patriot and a steadfast advocate for Australian veterans, known for his unwavering commitment to the nation’s values and heritage.

As the long-serving President of the Victorian branch of the Returned and Services League (RSL), he became a household name, boldly championing the rights of ex-servicemen and women while fiercely opposing policies he believed undermined Australia's sovereignty and identity.

A decorated World War II veteran, Ruxton's straight-talking demeanour and passion for preserving Australia's ANZAC spirit often sparked controversy, yet his dedication earned him respect across political and social divides. 

Bruce Ruxton is one of my heroes. I never met the man and these notes are drawn from personal recollection of some of his better known controversial escapades with a bit of research added in. 

He passed on 23rd of December 2011. 

Our Governments need to admit that they were wrong. Cut their losses and get us out of the boathouse and set sail once more.We have been at anchor too long. 

Set sail on already charted waters and dare to venture out of the so called safe harbour that is politically correct, poll driven mumbo jumbo " I am a rabid wanker and you should all be proud of it. " country. 

Can we just start sailing again because I am sick and tired  of being stuck in limbo and my sails, quite frankly, are running out of puff. 

Many decades ago, my late father bought a boat. We called it " The African Queen " because it was an old clinker craft boat in need of restoration and a new motor. After many months of hard graft, the African Queen had a facelift that would have made many a Hollywood starlet proud - unlike theirs, the Queen had a dignified look and was completely free of botox.

In fact, she was dignified and graceful, albeit a bit slower in the journey. She was in short reliable, dependable and a great friend in a storm. 

My Dad decided that she needed a new heart. Gone, the old motor. Enter the Wankel Engine.

A neighbour was telling me about her Christmas shopping expedition to Brisbane recently.

She wanted to buy her young grandchildren a Nativity Scene so she could put it on the table and explain the meaning of Christmas. 

Do you know that none of the shop assistants had a clue what she was talking about or even the real meaning of Christmas. 

This shows how much Australia has lost over the past generation. So much for politicians enriching our society by bringing in aliens. To me it shows how bad Australia has become.

The magic of Christmas for kids isn't the same when they get past a certain age. I often think about my girls when they were little  and how magical it was seeing their little faces as they snuggled up for sleep on Christmas Eve and raced around at dawn ripping presents  open.... And that got me thinking about a Christmas a long time ago. 

On the gusty afternoon of December 17, 1967, a group of five adults arrived at Cheviot Beach, near Portsea, Victoria, and strolled along the Bass Strait beneath the warm Australian sun. Harold Holt was eager for a swim, and after stepping behind a rock outcrop in the sand dunes, he emerged wearing a pair of blue swim trunks. Marjorie Gillespie and her daughter, Vyner, both in bikinis, turned to the water and noticed that the surf, at high tide, was higher than they’d ever seen it.

“I know this beach like the back of my hand,” Holt replied, and walked into the surf without breaking his stride.  Immediately, he began swimming away from the beach. Martin Simpson, Vyner’s boyfriend, followed but stopped when he was knee-deep in the surf. “There was a fairly strong undercurrent,” he said, “so I just splashed around without going in too far.” The third man in the group, Alan Stewart, told the others, “If Mr. Holt can take it, I had better go in too.”

But he stopped quickly when he felt a tremendous undertow swirling around his legs. He watched Holt swim out into what he considered “dangerous turbulence.”

When I was a young lass of 17 or so, I worked in a swanky upmarket tourist hotel in New Zealand. I was a receptionist doing the meet and greet to all guests, and often met with well  known so called celebrities. One afternoon, I met and greeted a particular " celebrity " whom I had admired and thought to be a very nice chap. How wrong I was. He turned out to be a sleasy grubby minded middle aged man with a penchant for young ladies. He was on my naughty list for the rest of his life and mine. 

The reason I tell you this is because, in our lives, we often put people on pedestals and give them an almost hero-like status.  Too often, we are let down when confronted with the reality of the man, not the myth.

When I moved to Australia, I met people who had an almost groupie like fixation with Gough Whitlam. I heard them talk about his service to Australia with stars in their eyes.  How the evil Sir John Kerr and Malcolm Fraser had done an act of such wickedness  that they may as well have been Judas and Pontius Pilate. They worshipped at the altar of Gough, and for them, he could do no wrong.