From the Sydney Gazette,

Saturday April 27, 1850.

At a turbulent public meeting in Fishmongers' Hall last night, Mr Thaddeus Turnbull, the Point Piper financier and legal eminence, made a vociferous attack upon the contentious proposal for a National Railway Network.

"They tell us the NRN will cost £100,000, an astronomical sum," he cried scornfully. "Yet the final impost for this ludicrous pipedream will be double that. The colony will be beggared, at the mercy of the international bankers!"

This trenchant asseveration prompted vigorous applause from a row of silk-hatted gentlemen seated upon the stage behind Mr Turnbull, but loud jeers from a dissident huddle of professorial figures from the newly opened university, and from a claque of the lower class of working man.

The magnate, however, pressed on stoutly. "Even in the unlikely event of the colonies federating in some distant future, there will be no call for, nor possibility of, an extravagant national network of railways," he boomed.

"As everyone knows, the steam locomotive cannot surmount hills in the manner of a bullock dray or Cobb & Co. And who, pray, would bridge that mighty stream, the Murray? No my friends, commonsense tells us the steam packets of the coastal shipping companies will continue to connect Sydney and Melbourne in the centuries ahead."

At this juncture, there were more ringing cheers from supporters of the conservative cause and more noisy censure from the dissidents. But Mr Turnbull persisted.

"I put to you my practical and indubitably cheaper proposal for what I refer to as the FTTN. The initials stand for Frequent Train to The Neighbourhood," he said. "We shall build a railway line from Sydney to Parramatta with an intermediate stop at Strathfield. There will be two services a day, more than sufficient for the public good. This is all the colony requires and can ever require."

A heckler from the floor demanded to know of Mr Turnbull what speeds he was postulating for his connection. The reply was swift and emphatic.

"I have consulted the best authorities on locomotive traction," came the riposte. "They assure me a speed of 25 miles per hour is both desirable and attainable. A more precipitate velocity would engender dangerous gusts of wind that would dislodge gentlemen's hats and cause the weaker sex to swoon. It would also stampede livestock along the line."

With the meeting waxing clamorous, and eggs and rotten vegetables being thrown from floor to stage, a defiant Mr Turnbull was assisted from the hall by the constabulary.

Next week's address will be given by Mr Ignatius Abbott, the well known sporting figure from Warringah, who will argue that the folly of publicly funded schools for the lower classes would threaten the splendid pedagogical endeavours of the colony's Christian churches.

To Macquarie University last Tuesday. Chancellor Michael Egan had invited me to speak at the graduation ceremony for the latest crop of teachers.

The campus looked a picture, like a Tom Roberts landscape. It was a lovely Sydney autumn day, the air mild and clear; pale sunlight shafted through the avenues and groves of gums, and sparkled on the lawns and lake.

Egan spoke proudly of the newly opened teaching hospital and the library which, he claimed, was the envy of every university in the country. "How could you not learn here?" I said to him.

The kids were keen and bright eyed, with a pleasing spread of multicultural surnames. Their parents, families and friends were proud and happy. They endured my speechifying politely; the best moment came when I broke the news that, just an hour before, Barry O'Farrell had signed up for the Gonski money. That produced a spontaneous burst of applause and a cheer.

Tony Abbott and Poodles Pyne can gnash their teeth and be as churlish about Gonski as they like but it was eloquently clear what the next generation of teachers thinks of the reforms.

The deal is done. As much as he might like to, Abbott as prime minister would find it impossible to claw back the education billions Gillard has gifted NSW.

All week I have been bombarded by emails from Alan Jones fans demanding I apologise for mocking the Great Man's ex cathedra pronouncements on the Boston bombing.

A few were civil. Some of the letters were lurid sado-sexual porn, believe it or not. Many writers were clearly deranged and three people threatened to beat me up. "Remember f---wit, I know what you look like, you don't know me, people slip in toilets daily," wrote a man from Riverstone. What is it about toilets, eh?

Jones shot off his mouth before the suspects were found. The week since has shown how wrong he was. There was nothing "left wing" about the two Tsarnaev brothers, and their plot hardly qualifies as "a conspiracy amongst students".

Scaremongering as usual, Jones conjured up the spectre of teams of trained terrorists sent to infiltrate America by posing as legitimate students. In fact, the brothers had been in the US for a decade - the younger is a fully fledged American citizen - and the FBI has found no link to any Islamist terror network. His assertion that "this was a very sophisticated attack, this wasn't the work of amateurs," was nonsense. The bombs were domestic pressure cookers packed with nails and ball bearings.

Then came the local whammy. "We have to think also very seriously here about our own student numbers," Jones frothed. "We're very keen to have foreign students pay the way of universities in this country without a lot of discernment about who comes in."

Tosh. That's just bog standard shock jockery. Pick your target, whip your gullible audience to fear and loathing, then parade yourself as the crusading public guardian. So no apology, although I am willing to send a conciliatory packet of parrot seed.

On a happier note, my thanks to the hundreds of readers who emailed their concerns about Anzac Day. There were many poignant family stories; I am honoured that you shared them and sorry I simply cannot reply individually to each one.

Finally, with some misgivings, I am back on Twitter: MikeCarlton01. We'll see how it goes.

Mike Carlton