Australian Wool Innovation Limited (AWI), funds wool research, development and implementation of activities which directly increase the long-term profitability, productivity and sustainability of Australian woolgrowers.
Possibly the only decent idea the AWI has ever had and its "borrowed" from race trailers/trucks in the UK. In Scotland we had a truck in which we shore. The door was a push down type and the sheep ran the other way. Worked really well as the sheep fell almost in the right place each time. This is much better than the expensive machine assisted delivery module thing from 1-2 years ago, and something every shed could add without spending $100,000 or more.
My advice if starting in wool industry n you working as woolhandler is go for been Woolclasser as in 2 years you could be Woolclasser. I did extra study in Shearing course n even though I not great shearer it’s extra skill set. I know few shearer’s that did woolclassing.
Good on ya Peak Hill. The job is important. Now the people can now play with their grandkids. Too late for the ol' man. He would of loved that. Cheers.
ru-vid.com/video/%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B4%D0%B5%D0%BE-c96wgiAF7k4.html ;; Livestock fair, SHEEP SHEARING, I had never seen Exhibition of, Scissors and machine very interesting day of cattle, Cheese, Wool many things, Wool spinning .
My shearing days are over, though I never was a gun, I could always count my twenty, at the end of every run. I used the old Trade Union shears, and the blades were always full, As I drove ’em to the knockers, and I clipped away the wool. I shore at Goorianawa and didn’t get the sack, From Breeza out to Compadore, I always could go back. And though I am a truthful man, I find when in a bar My tallies seem to double, but I never call for tar. Shearing on the western plains, where the fleece is full of sand, And the clover burr and corkscrew grass, is the place to try your hand. For the sheep are tall and wiry, where they feed on the Mitchell grass. And every second one of them, is close to the cobbler class. And a pen chock full of cobblers, is a shearers dream of hell. So loud and lurid are their words, when they catch one on the bell. But when we’re pouring down the grog, you’ll have no call for tar. For a shearer never cuts ’em, when shearing in a bar. At Louth I caught the bell sheep, a wrinkled, tough wooled brute, Who never stopped his kicking, till I tossed him down the chute. My wrist was aching badly, but I fought him all the way. Couldn’t afford to miss a blow, I must earn my pound a day. So when I’d take a strip of skin, I’d hide it with my knee, Turn the sheep around a bit, where the right bower couldn’t see. Then try and catch the rousie’s eye, and softly whisper “tar”. But it never seems to happen, when I’m shearing in the bar. I shore away the belly wool, and trimmed the crutch and hocks, Opened up along the neck, while the rousie swept the locks. Then smartly swung the sheep around, and dumped him on his rear, Two blows to clip away the wig, I almost took an ear. Then down around the shoulder, and the blades were open wide, As I drove ’em on the long blow, and down the whipping side. And when the fleece fell on the board, he was nearly black with tar, But this is never mentioned, when I’m shearing in a bar. Now when the seasons ended, and my grandsons all come back. In their buggies and their sulkies, I was always on the track. They come and take me into town, to fill me up with beer. And I sit on a corner stool, and listen to them shear. There’s not a bit of difference, it must make the angels weep, To hear a mob of shearers, in a barroom shearing sheep. For the sheep go rattling down the race, with never a call for tar, For a shearer never cuts ’em, when he’s shearing in a bar. Then memories come a crowding, and they wipe away the years, And my hand begins to tighten, and I seem to feel the shears. I want to tell them of the many sheds, where I have shorn, Full fifty years and sometimes more, before these boys were born. I want to speak of yarragin, Dunlop or Wingadee, But the beer has started working, and I’m wobbling at the knee, So I’d better not start shearing, I’d be bound to call for tar, Then be treated as a blackleg, when I’m shearing in a bar.
I’m sorry what a load of bullshit, purebred dingoes we’re surplus killing way before the hybridization was taking place. They are the same animal and should be managed accordingly.
