01/08/2025
Elbows, Boundaries & Banter: The Legend of Bluey
A Tribute to a True Local Legend!
By Jo Ross, on behalf of the Burton family and our community of Wilmot.
Bluey – we celebrate you. We know you wouldn’t want any fuss, definitely not be the centre of attention, but Bluey, tough luck matey, this one’s for you, with love, humour and the reverence you deserve.
How could we not honour the bloke who was unofficially declared Mayor of Wilmot, a title he never asked for, but absolutely earned. Bluey the larrikin, the storyteller, the collector, the community stalwart, with elbows like steel, a booming voice, the proud Poppy with a heart of gold and as big as Tasmania, full of love, laughter, and the kind of Aussie grit that makes people unforgettable. He gave everything to his community, and somehow, still had time to stir the pot, crack a joke, or drop a dead magpie pie (cold meat pie) on your doorstep after a Collingwood loss.
Born in Devonport in 1948 to a farming family and raised in Wilmot, Bluey and his brother tore around the countryside with a billycart so fast they’d rocket themselves into the creek. Life on the land was in his blood. School ended at 15; the paddocks became his classroom; and his father, his first teacher – and he handed down this knowledge to his own sons. Whether it was fencing, ferrets, footy or firewood, Bluey knew how to get the job done.
But then came 1969. His birthday was plucked from the barrel, and he was suddenly training at Puckapunyal, then serving in Vietnam. He rarely spoke of it. In between yarns and cheeky digs, sometimes — only sometimes — he’d share the truth of what he had been through. The horror. The pain. The mates lost. The weight carried. I was honoured a couple of times to have been trusted with his truth.
He came back changed, but with the same fire in his belly. He married, raised three strong boys, and eventually had five grandkids who adored their Poppy. The boys still flinch when they hear "put your toys away or they'll go in the fire" — a threat he actually followed through on, ha! But he mellowed with age, and the grandkids reaped the benefits: after-school sugar runs to the shop, early morning wakeups that turned into whole weekends of mischief (Mum quickly learned: “If you wake ‘em, you take ‘em”, smart lady). He loved his family, and every one of his grandkids.
Bluey’s work life was as colourful as his stories. He trucked cattle; worked for the Hydro; drove Maxwell’s coaches taking tourists to Cradle Mountain, a job he loved as he was a fabulous storyteller, his second nickname being Haveachat. He could talk to anyone and everyone, anywhere. A trip to the shops could take all day. A visit to Agfest? He'd never see more than half the displays — too many chats to have, too many laughs to share.
Bluey wasn’t the type to make a to-do list, but he was the kind of man who just got things done. The flag got raised; the cenotaph was tidy; but not the pantry… this was an exception — it had mysterious long-expired food treasures, relics and all. Yet, if there was a job that needed doing, odds were Bluey had already done it. And if you tried to thank him, he’d wave it off with a grunt, a shrug, and probably an offer of a biscuit from that pantry that pre-dated your birth.
Bluey’s sense of humour was as sharp as his cricket shots, and just as likely to catch you off guard. He had that rare Aussie gift for ribbing someone mercilessly, then turning around and offering them a lift home. You’d cop a serve if your team lost, and a serve of something out of a mystery tin if you stayed for cuppa. He could stir the pot like a country cook, and he loved it when you gave it back. That was the real game, the back-and-forth, the banter, the belly laughs — the kind of connection that can’t be faked, only earned.
Sport? Don’t even get us started. Badminton, absolutely. But football and cricket — that’s where Bluey built his legend. Known as Elbows on the footy field (which tells you plenty), Bluey played 198 games for Wilmot. He was tough. Fierce. Once broke his cheekbone mid-game and just played on! Best and Fairest three years running. Life membership. Two premierships. He may not have believed in training, but he sure believed in giving it everything on game day. And he always seemed to be near the ball — though don’t expect him to handball it.
But it was cricket where the tall tales become lore. Let’s start light:
• 192 not out.
• 9 for 26 bowling figures.
• Runs: 27 x 100’s; 48 x 50’s; and many more that were so close.
• Countless, countless sixes.
• Canberra’s first ever hat-trick, playing for Tasmania in the over 60’s.
• Life member and club champion of the Wilmot Cricket Club.
He batted without a helmet. Sometimes only one glove. He was never shy at short balls. Fast bowlers would get riled up when he kept hitting them for 6, so they’d bowl short and he’d just turn his back and wear it without a flinch. He wore those bruises like badges. One young fast bowler once sneered, “You can’t hit that, can you!”. Bluey simply replied, “Won’t get me out either”. He once painted over the small blue stripes on his shoes five times in one night just to meet the dress code the next day — he dried them in front of the fire between coats. That’s commitment, or stubbornness, or both, but he didn’t know he was the target of a practical joke with those shoe’s blue stripes. And still, he never trained. Just showed up and dominated. One mate reckons Bluey would hit two boundaries per over and that he might be understating it. Other district Associations were keen to recruit Bluey, yet he chose to stay with his local community.
The only reason we never got to witness Bluey’s synchronised swimming mastery was because Wilmot didn’t have a swimming pool. But for all the trophies, bruises, and boundary line heroics, Bluey’s greatest achievements were off the field. He was the bloke who’d take your rubbish to the tip. Fix your gate. Find you a spare part in his treasure trove of a shed. If you didn’t have something, Poppy Bluey would. Even if it was a tin of condensed milk dated 1996.
He was the kind of bloke you could hear before you saw. That booming voice would roll across paddocks, over fences, and through the Wilmot hills like a warm front of weathered wisdom and cheek. Bluey always had something to say when he arrived, usually a story or a jab at your footy team, and had something slightly questionable from his shed that he swore would "come in handy one day." He was a full-volume character in a world that too often settles for quiet, and thank heavens for that. He lived with the kind of stubborn loyalty reserved for old tractors and good dogs. Never mind helmets or handballs — he played his own game, in sport and in life. Bluey didn’t bend with the wind; he leaned into it, elbows up and jaw set. And yet, beneath all that tough bark, was a soft heart that looked out for his mates, his family, his grandkids, and anyone needing a hand or a laugh. He didn’t just leave a mark — he left a trail of good stories, bruised bowlers, fixed fences, and locals who’ll be telling “remember when Bluey…” tales for the next fifty years.
He gave, and he gave, and he never stopped giving. He beat bowel cancer. He beat kidney stones. He kept going after losing his toes, and even a rib. He refused to give in. Refused hospital stays even if it meant multiple weekly trips. And insisted on doing things his way. He faced every challenge with grit, humour, and that big booming voice.
Bluey had something rare — the respect of a whole community. Not because he demanded it, but because he embodied it. Steady. Loyal. Salt of the Earth with a side of smart-arse. He showed us what a good life looks like — not showy, but grounded, generous, and never too busy for a yarn.
He didn’t chase legacy. He just lived one. A living, breathing reminder of what it means to belong to a place, to serve without ceremony, to show up — again and again — with boots on, sleeves rolled, and stories ready. You didn’t meet Bluey, you got folded into his world like it was the most natural thing. And now that he’s gone, Wilmot feels a little quieter, a little smaller, and a whole lot luckier for having had him in the first place.
His passing came as a shock. Right up to the day before, he was still booming, still stirring, still having a chat as usual. We were all blindsided and broken-hearted. The truth is, the only people in town who didn’t love Bluey were the ones who’d just arrived and hadn’t met him yet.
Now, the Mayor of Wilmot has left the planet. His stories, his laughs, his legacy – they’re stitched into this town like threads in an old work shirt — a bit worn, a bit weathered, but sturdy as hell and full of character.
And if heaven’s got a local footy side, well… let’s just say they’re about to meet their new Best and Fairest.
Vale Brian Leslie Burton
