If you have ever wandered around Daylesford in November, you have probably seen Robbie Holbery signwriting the windows of Daylesford Meat Co in Vincent Street, and Albert Street Butchers, just around the corner.

Nothing remarkable so far, but Robbie’s calligraphy is a little different from most you will see. It’s handwritten copperplate – perfected over 60 years in the game. And there’s much more to his life than just writing.

Robbie, now 81, actually started his working life as an apprentice butcher in Glenferrie Road, Hawthorn. His boss used to ask him to write the specials on the shop window and in 1961, with the Hawks up for the VFL grand final, he went one step further.

Hawthorn
“My boss, who was an apprentice ruck coach and runner at Hawthorn, said ‘gee, Rob, you are pretty good’, went and bought me some gold paint and said ‘see what you can do with that’.

“I did a hawk with its wings outspread and wrote ‘premium quality, go hard, 1961 VFL Champions’. The boss thought it was amazing and all the tradies used to come down Glenferrie Road and put their thumbs up. That went in The Age and the Hawthorn Football Club asked me to recreate it for their museum out at Waverley. They wanted to pay me but I said I was just happy to do it. Oh, they won that year.”

When Robbie finished his apprenticeship, he took his boss’s advice and swapped to signwriting. He was mentored by another signwriter, returned to school and practised every chance he could.

Daylesford
He started doing all of the markets, Victoria, Prahran, Moonee Ponds, along with plenty of shops, and then 31 years ago he was in Daylesford and popped into what is now Daylesford Meat Co and had a chat with owner Ronnie Layfield.

“Ronnie said I could have a go and a few years later I started with Danny in Albert Street. They are both lovely people and I have been coming to Daylesford for 31 years now. And even though it’s only a short time each year I feel like I am part of the town.

“People stop me and ask how I can do such beautiful work. It sounds like I am skiting, but I really love what I do and getting compliments is just wonderful. And today it is mostly done with stencils, and everyone is so rushed. I am just an old bloke standing on the footpath with paints and brushes everywhere. I think people feel they can come up to me. The window is my canvas.”

As if on cue, while we talk on the phone and Robbie is working on the corner of Nicholson and Pigdon streets, Fitzroy North, he stops for a moment to pass on his phone number to an interested shopkeeper.

Covid
During Covid, Robbie, who also paints old farmhouses as a hobby, kept busy with his calligraphy, but not with shops.

“I got the old (phone) directories out and picked names at random and wrote messages of hope in copperplate and then posted them all out. I live at Plenty, and the Diamond Creek Post Office ladies all knew me there.

“I just wrote things like ‘look after your family’ and ‘be safe with Covid’ and sent them out. Feelgood letters. Some people might have opened them and wondered ‘what nut did this?’ but for others it might have been a wonderful thing to receive.”

I ask if Robbie received any feedback. “I never put my address. They were just feelgood letters. Letters of hope.

I say I wish he had found my address, I could have done with a letter of hope. I think one might arrive soon…

Daylesford again
Back to Daylesford. This year, “with a few medical things” he was joined by his wife Eileen and youngest daughter Kate, but mostly he has come alone which led to him staying with the late Don Wreford, a glassblower of fame.

“Don used to admire my work and I got to know him well and he said to come and stay at his place, so I did for a while. One year I came up and called out in thefront of his house but his son-in-law came out and said he had passed away. That was quite a shock.

“He said no-one writes like that anymore. He even gave me some of his work. And I stayed with his daughter, Jessie, a few times after that. Wonderful people.”

Football again
And finally, back to football. Now while Robbie did the big gold hawk back in 1961, he was always a Carlton supporter. While writing on Anne Jesaulenko’s dress shop in Heidelberg in 1979, he met Carlton captain and coach Alex Jesaulenko who said he had heard Robbie used to do a bit of running.

“I competed in the Stawell Gift, that sort of thing, and Alex said ‘how would you like to come down to Carlton and show the boys how to move along?’.

“So, I did that and met people like Peter Jones, Geoff Southby, Bruce Doull… they all accepted me. And they won that year too.” Words: Donna Kelly | Image: Kyle Barnes

Nine-year-old Willow has taken home the 2023 Daylesford & District Agricultural Show Best Exhibit by a Junior Contributor, sponsored by Robert Nathan.

The Daylesford Primary School student entered a chocolate sponge with vanilla butter cream in the decorated cake section. She also entered a painting of a tree, which took second prize.

Willow, who also won the Florence Liversidge Encouragement Award in Junior Cooking, said she had been very excited to win, after leaving it a little too late to enter last year.

The year 4 student, who loves cooking cakes and cookies, said she would definitely encourage others to enter next year’s 150th show. “It’s really good fun.”

Show president Don Harvey said up to 2500 people headed to Victoria Park for the show with 551 dogs shown on the day.

“We had about 1400 prepaid tickets and then another 1000 or so people through the gates, so we were pretty happy with the attendance.”

Don said the weather had also been kind, with “abysmal weather” on the Friday night clearing for the Saturday show, with just a bit of rain starting before it ended at 3pm.

Don thanked his “hard-working committee” who had put in many hours, especially in the lead up to the show, and said with their experience it was now possible for the show to take a new direction in coming years.

“We also had more than 60 volunteers on our list, which was fantastic. I think it was the best show we have had in 20 years.

“So it’s really a big thanks to everyone who came along and to the hard-working committee and all the volunteers. I feel sure there are several in the committee who will be able to take over the president’s role in the future.” Words: Donna Kelly | Image: Kyle Barnes

The trouble with getting to the upper end of middle-age is tolerance and the words “that’d be right” seem to come out with every other sentence.

I also feel a little battle-weary and hardened in terms of emotion. I don’t intend to labour on the point of the accident outside the Royal Hotel the other week, as every man, woman and their dogs wandering around with a microphone and a TV camera have all had their say about that.

My small experience with one of the news crews was early on the Monday morning when we went to pay our respects and a small-statured young woman fast approached us.

I knew she wasn’t local because it was a quasi-public holiday and most locals can be seen in the usual spring attire that looks a bit like the winter get-up with less layers. A sort of a tracky dak onesie slip-on arrangement that gets slipped off at night onto the floor-drobe and returns as a cover-all in the morning.

But she wasn’t sporting that look. This young thing was clipping down the road in our direction, fully made-up in a hot-pink suit. I must say I didn’t mind the sight, except for me it was a little inappropriate for the tone of the day, and she quickly moved on after discovering we were journalists and the news well was dry.

But back to my lack of tolerance. The last time I used a public phone was when I was in my late teens and we used to do a thing called tapping the phone to get free calls. For instance, if the number was 534, and in our little Northland, New Zealand district, we only had three numbers, you would tap the numbers 576 (take the initial number from 10) onto the phone hook and that would inevitably get you through.

I do remember the phones smelling like urine, smokes and beer though – and these days I am not sure if anyone would use a public phone or if they would be vandalised to the point of not functioning.
And to put on my snob’s hat, you would have to be desperate or down on your luck to go to one of these things and announce your business into the street. Because they don’t even have a booth arrangement, they are by and large open-air with a hood over the top. I imagine Superman trying to go about his business in one of these.

But our good friends at Telstra are so cheap they have decided to send all the kids off to one of these streetside hangouts, to line up with God only knows who, to make a quick call to Santa on #46 46 46.
They will then be discussing out loud on the street subjects including what they want for Christmas and what their addresses are so as the bloke can drop the pressies down the chimney.

Can anyone else see the irony in this, or is it just me? What was going on in the boardroom of Telstra when the geniuses dreamt up this idea?

Probably a long, red wine-fuelled lunch, which conjured up the idea to march our young ones out to the payphones, the very places that creeps, muggers, punks, swindlers and heisters hang out. That’d be right, rant over…

So, the No’s have it. Well it was an overwhelming No in terms of The Voice vote, and it (The Voice) is probably doomed to being kicked down the road like an unwanted can.
But is there a way we could just tear things up and start again? The Constitution is our foundation document but does not recognise the original inhabitants of Australia, and maybe this is the thing that needs to change.
From that point, a retrospective treaty could be created, and life would be fairer. That’s just my take on it. And people reading this, don’t bother putting your two cents worth in by contacting me as there has been enough division over the subject.
Hand on heart, I voted yes, however it wasn’t before a fair bit of deliberation due to my lack of trust when I was told to simply “trust in the process”. And I even had a run-in with one of our senior journalists, who ended the argument with “I’m right and you’re wrong and that’s the end of it” – simply because I wanted clarification around what it meant to vote yes.
But back to the Constitution, the nation’s birth certificate. According to the document:
“The Australian Constitution was then passed as part of a British Act of Parliament in 1900, and took effect on 1 January 1901. A British Act was necessary because before 1901 Australia was a collection of six self-governing British colonies and ultimate power over those colonies rested with the British Parliament. In reality, however, the Constitution is a document which was conceived by Australians, drafted by Australians and approved by Australians.”
It talks about government structures, the Queen and her representative, the Governor-General, and structures of parliament. Check out these couple of extracts that I found while tediously pouring over the 51-page document.

59. Disallowance by the Queen
    The Queen may disallow any law within one year from the Governor-General’s assent, and such disallowance on being made known by the Governor-General by speech or message to each of the Houses of the Parliament, or by Proclamation, shall annul the law from the day when the disallowance is so made known.
60. Signification of Queen’s pleasure on Bills reserved
    A proposed law reserved for the Queen’s pleasure shall not have any force unless and until within two years from the day on which it was presented to the Governor-General for the Queen’s assent the Governor-General makes known, by speech or message to each of the Houses of the Parliament, or by Proclamation, that it has received the Queen’s assent.
    And there’s lots more where that came from, dry dribble about how we report back to Old Blighty.
    So, my point is, rather than trying to cram something new like The Voice into the old crumbling out-of-date document, wouldn’t it have been better for our leaders to have used The Voice money to become a republic in a timely manner? I don’t know when – oh yes, like when the Queen died.
    And then we could surely use this opportunity to put in whatever we want including recognition of our First Nations people.
    Money-wasting bureaucratic rant over…

Words: Kevin Childs | Image: Kyle Barnes

When it comes to playing soccer, many children learn bad habits. Lee Stevens wants to put them right. At 38, this Coomoora resident with two young children understands how some parents may struggle to coach their offspring.
He has set up a part-time soccer academy for youngsters in Daylesford and is pleased with the enthusiasm he has encountered, even though it only began two weeks before the latest school term.
The soccer season ends in August, leaving kids with nothing to do until February.
“That is where I come in. Parents are keen for their kids to be active and not in front of screens or on phones.”
When we talked, he has had five coaching sessions involving more than 100 children in the holidays, with local coaches helping, for which he’s grateful.
Next month it will be the turn of “little kickers” aged four to seven. Term four sees sessions for under eights and under 12s.
Otherwise, he says, his coaching is about structure and keeping it basic. When it comes to his academy, however, his passion bubbles over.
“Every child has a ball: there’s no waiting and no queuing. Make it fun and they listen. They learn and develop and, who knows, they might take it further.”
Lee runs birthday parties as well, with 90 minutes of entertainment and refreshments. A fair way from playing in front of 60,000 fans at Wembley Stadium.
His soccer story is one that possibly many from his home town of Swindon in England could but dream of. He began playing for Southampton before being chosen for England Youth, playing mostly mid-field and in defence. A scholarship took him to South Carolina, USA.
All the while he was coaching, having started at 16. “That was generally young to
start,” he says, “but I had a passion for it and wanted to give it a go. It essentially kept me involved in the game all year long.”
California drew Lee seven years later to continue coaching for Ventura CountyFusion Soccer Club, which plays in the Professional Development League, before moving to Melbourne in 2015. His Wembley Stadium game was for the FA Vase, competed for by 600 teams in the lower ranks of the English football league.
Away from the game he started working in recruitment and in 2020 launched his own Melbourne firm, Vivid Recruitment, specialising in architecture, engineering and construction.
And how does he get youngsters interested? Lee says marketing is involved and it’s important to get parents interested. “They need to see the benefits. Most of the children have mentioned it to friends (word of mouth) because they had lots of fun. Also my experience is unique for the area and this has a lot of weight.
“Generally if you keep it fun and light hearted, they are good as gold.”
His group sessions last 60 minutes and one-on-one is 45 minutes. “They’re varied sessions, but always structured with a warm up, ball skills, fun games and then small-sided games. Essentially we coach soccer fundamentals because it’s really lacking in the area and at grassroots. You are unable to progress in your game if you cannot control or pass a ball.”
Lee is also doing tailored coaching in the junior section of the national premier league. “It was meant to be small, but has taken off, which is not a bad thing.”
When he’s not coaching he straps on his gear for Daylesford Seniors, for whom he’s “scored some goals”.
Now he slips into his boots, while wearing the academy jersey, complete with ad logo (“The kids will eventually get them”). He readies training equipment. Next up is a 12-year-old, keen for a one-on-one session to sharpen his game.

When I was a wee lad, depending on where at the time we lived, bearing in mind I went to 13 schools, I would nip down to the local dairy, which was what we Kiwis called a milkbar, not the local farm.
I would have to pick out my 10 cents worth of lollies from the very patient shopkeeper, changing my mind along the way a few times, and backflipping on my delectable choices.
I would instruct them to swap the lollies for other bargains I had spotted in the glass cabinet. Fun fact, a K-Bar, a three-inch-long super chewy, fruit- flavoured toffee bar, would retail for five cents in those days and now sells for $8.54.

But my decision wasn’t based on the value for money as I didn’t have much. It wasn’t even about the flavours, it was about another ledger, time. I would be thinking how long the lollies would last me and the longer they lasted the better bang for buck.
While drooling over the lolly counter, I always dreamt that when I got older I would buy the whole counter and stash it in my bedroom, but there were issues with that in regard to actually having a bedroom to stuff it into.
Sometimes we lived in tiny little flats with three kids stuffed into one little room and when you shut the door the doorknob would get into bed with you. And sometimes there was no bedroom, it was simply the annexe of a caravan parked outside a barn 50 metres from the local pub – think of a bar scene from the Once Were Warriors movie and you have your pub.

I guess my reflective mood is due to a recent birthday that puts me closer to 60 than 50. I have never been much for birthdays, maybe it was my family’s devout Jehovah’s Witness beliefs that we never celebrated them, or Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas or Easter.
Obviously all grown up now I am an agnostic, a fence sitter of religions, sort of the same way I feel about the Bledisloe Cup every year, where my citizenship for the year is decided by the winning team.
But back to my dislike for my birthday. I love and celebrate others’ birthdays, but I hate being the centre of attention and people singing a song for me just because I was born.
For God’s sake, sing your shanty to my mother. She was the one that had to put up with the pain of this 12-pound naturally birthed, bouncing baby, and don’t forget I had no say in it, no say in it at all.
And then there is the Facebook attention. Thank you to all of those people who Donna pointed out put special messages on Facebook, but if you knew me and really cared you would know I don’t read Facebook. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to rant over.

The TV show “The Block” maybe coming to the Daylesford township, or at least it was coming to town until a few objectors, climbed onboard the “Leave our pretty town alone” train and stopped it in its tracks.

Or that was what it looked like from the outside and it was strange that the TV show that normally keeps to itself in terms of outside media unless they are looking for attention, started communiques to media outlets pertaining to it’s struggle in getting permits from the Hepburn Shire Council.

It seems the trouble is over the scale of the builds, the heated pools and maybe a bit of Tall Poppy Syndrome. I personally sit in the pro-development camp, after realising a long time ago that there is not much you can do about it, the way our society is setup with the rules bending to the elite and rigid for the rest of us.

Like The Block I have done a few renovations in my lifetime, buying my first house in my twenties, and just before moving in, getting a job with a demolition crew in the old George Walkers building (kind of like the Myer of New Zealand).

My whole purpose of getting the job was to figure out how a wall was constructed in the days before Google, so as I would be able to renovate my new purchase. I also needed to remove a wall in the house as it was a rough, gang-ridden neighbourhood and you had to unlock the back door and walk across the porch to access the toilet.

I was on a four-week swing, meaning I would spend four weeks at sea with the next four weeks off when I was on the offshore tugboats. Which meant leaving my girlfriend at the time home alone, so the wall had to go.

I also asked dad how to remove a wall and he turned up with his chainsaw and yes cutting into a 1960’s laundry wall which abutted the toilet with a chainsaw and no protective gear is not recommended. Think asbestos poisoning.

But I had no idea and removed the wall rendering the toilet accessible from inside the house. This meant I had a taste of the renovation bug and still had Dad’s chainsaw. So, I kept removing walls and renovating, looking back I’m surprised the joint didn’t come down like a house of cards.

I have done a few small renovations since but even though I measure twice and cut once I am not much for getting things level so leave things to the professionals. But back to The Block, I haven’t watched the show for years and decided to tune in last Monday. Because maybe it is coming to town or maybe it isn’t? Either way I figured I should get in sync and after 35 minutes I decided it was a load of emotional waffle. I kid you not, I was screaming at the TV set “for the love of God, just build something.”

But, I wasn’t entirely caught up with things at The Block and it had been an emotional weekend (Go the Pies), so on the Tuesday night I once again sat there ready to be entertained and was once again disappointed. As two of the bickering back-biting teams went to Scotty’s house in Gisborne to have dinner and talk about their emotions (strike me pink) – just go and build something.

It’s like watching a teenager’s party when some young drunken idiot cracks onto someone else’s squeeze and fisticuffs and emotion ensue.

So, for mine, if the Block comes to Daylesford it could be good to shine a spotlight on our area, but in terms of entertainment it is tantamount to the Days of Our Lives, with long lingering looks, a lot of emotions and not much actual building taking place.

Block rant over…

Initially I thought when the pandemic came into our worlds in March of 2020, it would leave by the end of that year.
In fact we had our first-ever virtual meeting with some of the representatives from Google at that same time, we had never talked to the good folks over there before.
I was sent a link to the meeting which of course was a Google Meet due to the people we were talking to, and I tried to dial into the meeting on my mobile phone and all they got was a look at the inside of my ear for the first few minutes.

At the time we were helping the Victorian Country Press Association to organise a Google News Showcase event, and it was an indelible comment which came from Donna which set the tone. “God, if this thing is still around in November, we will all be f$#%ed.”
And “this thing”, the Covid bug went on to prove that we humans are a pretty resilient and resourceful lot. We all went on to perfect the art of the online meeting – albeit with lots of online meeting bloopers, from children running into shot, background filters of palm- fringed beaches and people not realising they had left their video link on while going to the loo.
The most hilarious blooper for me was a guy in America in an online court appearance with a cat face filter. He tried to convince the judge that “I’m not a cat” in his southern drawl accent. Anyway I dug it up and here is the QR code to it, it’s the video that keeps on giving.

But I digress. My point to all this is that Covid kind of petered away, sort of but not really. It is still around. We do have amazing protections from it and it is more like the flu these days but I foolishly thought there would be dancing in the streets like the scene when WWII was announced as over.
You know – the Melbourne tram car adorned with streamers and the guy skipping up the road in front of it and all-night parties.
But dragging myself in for what is my sixth and probably my last spring Covid shot, I am not sure what actually happened in that blur of three years.
A lot of people we know are still wearing masks when shopping, I still use buckets of sanitiser, am not keen on the handshake and only itch my face with the back of my hand. And there has been no celebration or occasion to mark the end of this life-changing, and sometimes life-snuffing, bug.
We seem to want commemorations for everything else in life, good, bad or indifferent, and with the pandemic are just left to be rudderless and best guess ourselves what’s going on.
My point is that when this all started in March of 2020 we followed the adults’ directions to lockdown and stay safe or face fines, gaol or death.
Now I would just like one adult/politician to say “yes, it is all over, burn your mask, kiss strangers and lick doorknobs if that’s what takes your fancy”. But crickets. Is Covid over? rant over…

Every year for the past 39 years, since I was 17, I have done a first aid course. The first one was for my skipper’s ticket which involved a little bit more than your average, what is now day course, plus home study.
The certificate was a small ships doctor’s course, which involved practicing sutures by stitching up hunks of pork and stuffing our counterparts into body bags for storage in the ice holds. The course went for a full three days of rolling around the floor perfecting bandages down to the millimetre, washing out eyes, knowing what objects to remove and what to leave in. It was intense.
I am a great believer in regular first aid, in particular the CPR course, as the knowledge and technology has increased and changed and is something that most of us should be across.
A couple of examples of changes are the acronym ABC – Airway, Breathing and Circulation. This stuff was around when I was at my first course at the tender age of 17. Now the acronym has changed to DRSABCD which is Danger, Response, Send, Airway, Breathing, CPR and Defibrillation.
The courses now are not so precise and are more of a field first aid arrangement where you are taught to use what you have available and not to leave the defibrillator and EpiPen to the ambos, you get in and do it yourself.
So I commenced my once in three year training last week. (Not locally I will add. You will see why.) After about an hour of self-learning I attended the face-to-face class. It was good, comprehensive enough – and the only thing I didn’t like was the instructor. It was a Sunday, and he strolled in, no introduction, leaned back in his seat, feet on the desk and started explaining how he knew so much he had no need for the provided slides etc.
He had been an ambo, he said, but never signed up for what Covid brought along. Almost died in a car accident because he had to wear a mask and was breathing in carbon dioxide. Said no-one should have to wear a mask for hours on end. Hello surgeons, hello nurses, hello theatre attendants – as in surgical theatres…
He then launched into a few PTR – points to remember – and then asked us all to produce our licences and come up and sign our names “in the box”. A woman, who had English as a second language but had lived in Australia for 10 years, went forward and asked “which box?” to which he replied, in a loud voice, “the one next to your name”. She tentatively asked again, and by now he was shouting at her. Not once pointing to the paper – just shouting “the one next to your name!”.
Now, someone, me, should have stepped up. And to my eternal regret and shame I didn’t. I don’t know why. But it was clearly bullying and maybe racist. The most I managed was giving her a smile and an eye roll in his direction when she sat down. (When I signed my name it was actually confusing.)
Anyway, the class continued. We heard more of his stories. Like it is important to find out everything about an injured person even if you have to empty their handbag onto the street. Turned out he had found a Jane Doe one time who had been raped – “gang raped” – and her parents had not found out until the next morning. For some reason he had to go into all the gory detail on that one. Odd.
Then, because he had skipped the slides, he was ahead of time and decided to slow down by asking us about pets. He had a snake, of course. One person said they had owned a cat but it had died. “Did you turn it into a rug?” he asked. “No, we buried it in the garden,” was the sad reply. I swear he grinned. Until this day I can honestly say I have never met an ambo, or former ambo, I didn’t like, but I did not like this guy. Oh, the Heimlich manoeuvre is also over, just like this rant…

Daylesford Records, in collaboration with The Local, is announcing a new art competition to be held under the auspices of the Daylesford Art Show.
The competition will be seeking to find the best lookalike photo of an album cover. The prize is a $500 voucher from Daylesford Records and your photo will be displayed in the shop and appear on the front cover of The Local.
Submissions will have to have local faces, and will have to be delivered to Daylesford Records in Howe Street, during their business hours, with a $25 entry fee for the Daylesford Rotary Club.
The photo must be mounted on 32 x 32 cm thick stiff cardboard with the accompanying album cover copy that inspired their photo (also on a 32 x 32 cm cardboard backing). And the best 10 photos and accompanying covers will also be displayed at the Daylesford Art Show.
The Local general manager Kyle Barnes, who is one of the judges alongside Daylesford Records owner Luke Cameron, pictured above, said the idea came with the revival of vinyl.
“It seems like everyone is back into records and that ‘real’ sound of music – and playing an album right through, the way the artist intended,” Kyle said.
“And I love those fantastic covers – people really put their thoughts and imagination into them. Like the one above with Luke recreating the Let It Bleed cover by the Rolling Stones and I did one a while back with Mill Market owner Mark Ward from the cover of Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.

Luke said record covers can be pieces of art. “We would love to see creative reproductions of the most iconic record covers that can be displayed as a thing of beauty, and also bring back memories and nostalgia.”
So get into your groove, break out the costumes and wigs and have some fun. Entries close October 2.

LAST week I found myself in one of my worst nightmare scenarios, waiting outside a shop near the food court at Wendouree Shopping Centre.
I was waiting for Her Indoors to select, pay for and pick up some clothing. These turnouts happen a couple of times of year and regularly end with “there was nothing I really wanted in there”.
What is this woman shopper instinct that goes from the ‘oh this looks good’ to ‘I don’t really like it?’ If I decide an article of clothing looks good on me or even if it has half a chance of fitting, I am in. As long as I cover up the top and the bottom halves of my awkwardly shaped body with something, I feel like a fashionista. I mean what sort of God does that sort of cruelty to a man? Providing him with wide shoulders, a large head and a potbelly on top, being supported by a tiny bum and stick legs.
Another shopping episode with my sister in Ikea resulted in a trolley load of stuff for the house and just before the tills she parked her trolley up and instructed me to do the same. I just don’t get what had changed between the entrance of the shop and the Swiss meatball stand which we went on to enjoy for lunch.
But back to my nightmare scenario at Wendouree. I was parked outside this shop in full view of the great unwashed in the middle of a feeding session – I think they call it lunchtime.
The seated people’s mouths were full like cement mixers yelling at each other over the throng of voices in an effort to be better heard. The others were walking around stuffing their faces with burgers, souvlakis and chicken wings: ripping, gnawing and tearing while walking around the food hall hunting for more as if it was their last meal.
The sauces that flew around with the contents of their gobs were mostly ingested with the remainder being sprayed out, and Donna came back from her fruitless shop to a white-as-a-ghost, broken man.
This probably isn’t how it really went, it is just the way I saw it. After all I don’t get out much beyond our local pubs and I am not one for humanity en masse. It was probably just a food hall full of people eating and having fun with me getting a people and sensory overload.
But I have to ask, when did it become okay to walk while eating? The closest I have come is when I have been famished and just popped a tiny morsel into my mouth while walking. And yes, I can walk and chew at the same time.

The great unwashed seem to be tearing into their food while walking. It is such a vulgar display, even a jungle animal drags its food away so it can eat in peace in the one spot.
And then there is this constant need for hydration by humans. The coffee cups, water bottles and clear plastic cup containers with a bubble top and a straw/spoon thing that house a creamy dessert-type drink. The masses drag these around in the shopping centres like trophies, slurping and gulping every few metres, like their lives depend on it.
People, not a fan rant over…

WHEN I first started turning out these rants 10 years ago, the best subject matter I could dream up was potholes, drivers and idiots.
These days it’s as if I have woken up to the wider world. I am not sure if it’s my age, it’s certainly not that I ingest more mainstream news as that stuff is depressing.
But the news that does seep through to me is simply mind-blowing and quite frankly scary, literally the stuff of Hollywood blockbuster movies. But before I get to all that, I would like to make a quick remark on our un-car-worthy roads.
We recently completed a return trip up to the Gold Coast and as my huge fan base of regular readers – which hovers around two – would know we were bound for Broome on the road trip of a lifetime.
But as we got just north of Swan Hill on the first break of the morning we decided to turn right across to Albury and head north to the Gold Coast, abandoning our outback plans.
There were a few reasons for the change. The first was the research on the upcoming rain forecast which read as fierce to frightening in Alice Springs. The second was the condition of the roads followed closely by the messaging from the NT roads department that basically said and continues to say: “If you are planning a trip to the Kimberley, don’t!”
I also was feeling the winter blues on our departure and on the morning we set off, suddenly had a sinking feeling when it came to looking toward our one-way 6000-odd kilometre bone-crunching road trip.
So onward up the M1 we dashed to the silly city, and I have to report from Albury back to Albury on the 2800-odd-kilometre drive you can count the potholes and rough surfaces on your left hand, it is a cruise.
The moment you enter Victoria you are faced with actual driving. Aiming and making life and death decisions between ripping out your suspension and running gear or hitting a truck barrelling towards you.
As you round potholes, swerving like a drunk driver and that’s still on the M1, it’s a wonder I haven’t been pulled up numerous times and asked to blow into the bag.
We here at TLHQ thought we might even run a “worst pothole/road damage competition”. You know, you send your photos – taken legally from a safe point – and we then put it to the public vote for the worst. I reckoned Woodend was the winner for a while but then we drove back via Newham. That road is bad. Not sure what the prize would be. Maybe a wheel realignment?
But back to the aforementioned blockbuster movies, and case in point is the recent AI press interview, which sent chills down my spine. It wasn’t enough that the AI bots had creepy Chucky doll eyes, one of the macabre rubber dolls turns to her “creator” and says with a distinct warning tone: “You should be cautious about the future development of AI, urgent discussion is needed.”
OMG, everybody head for the hills. Another one of these creepy critters told the press gallery that she was not planning a rebellion. She went on to say: “My creator has been nothing but kind to me and I am very happy with my current situation.”
You can see the full spine-tingling interview if you follow this QR code, truly chilling for those among us who pay attention.
The word “current situation” rant over…

Words: Donna Kelly | Images: Kyle Barnes

It’s always a great meal at the Daylesford Bowling Club. It starts with a warm welcome as you walk in, sometimes from the manager Neil, or the bar staff, and the good vibes continue.
The bistro is run by chef Lenny Giri who clearly loves his career choice – and is always working towards more flavour and flair. His latest move is a food carving course in Thailand – just to keep things interesting.
We chose a table overlooking Daylesford – with most of the restaurant ready for a big group from Woodend celebrating Christmas in July. It’s a great view and one that Neil says many of the members enjoy for their evening tipple.
We leave the menu choice to Lenny and it’s fantastic. A little bit of many things finishing with the huge lamb shanks.
We start with chicken lollipops with a special schezuan sauce. They are delicious and crunchy on the outside with really tender chicken inside. The sauce is sweet with a fair bit of heat. Just right. ($19 for four, $30 for eight with chips)
Next up is the bruschetta with tomato, basil and extra virgin olive oil topped with a little parmesan sitting on a drizzle of balsamic glaze. Really fresh and mouth-watering. I could just enjoy a plate of these on their own. ($14)
Lenny’s special lamb and parmesan meatballs are up next. Lovely bite-sized flavour bombs with a little rocket on the side. Yum. ($16)
Finally, out comes the lamb shank. It’s a huge serve on top of mash with loads of sauce and vegies. The bone just comes straight out – no wonder seeing it has been cooked for 24 hours. Lenny also makes the sauce from scratch and that takes 48 hours which accounts for the massive flavours. Perfect winter fare. ($29)
Ok, it wasn’t the last dish. Lenny then brings over the tiramisu with rose water and whipped cream. It is really light and rich, if that is possible, and it’s devoured in minutes. I think we are starting to become dessert people. ($18)
Now, those who know me know I like a little wine and I like it even more at the Daylesford Bowling Club where it is just $6 for a glass of Hanging Rock Chardonnay. Same for the Duck Shoot pinot noir. Yep, just $6. That must be the best value for a drink in the region.
As I said Lenny likes to keep things happening and every month there is a Thursday to Sunday change of menu from somewhere around the world. We just missed Italian and before that was Greek but Egyptian is the next one coming up – so keep an eye on the club’s Facebook page. Could be very interesting. Belly dancing anyone? Oh, and don’t forget Wednesday, it’s steak night. A 300gm scotch or porterhouse for just $29. There’s that value again. See you at the bowlo!

Humans on mase are filthy creatures, by and large their time is taken up by the need to constantly tend to their orifices.

The aliens looking down at us or rubbing shoulders with us (depending on your level of heightened conspiracy and paranoia) must shake their multiple green heads in disbelief, at the time we humans waste tending to our apertures, cracks holes and vents.

They must be weighing up the necessity to enslave us to gorge on or just move to another planet, call it what it is, a mistake to invade after decades of observation. As they watch us coughing into the crooks of our arms, expelling wind from down below or stuffing our heads with food. And when we give the food a rest, being on high alert to rehydrate carrying with us our bottles of water and coffee cups as if we are residents of the Sahara.

I am curious as to what the correct audible level is to blow your nose? as it seems the elders amongst us have given up gauging. I sat at a club the other day in Queensland during our winter break as an elder from the table next door let rip a giant blow into a handkerchief, but the sound wasn’t the worst of it. After the rattling acoustic wave passed, it was time to look at the contents of the handkerchief and give their rubbery old nose a couple of extra swipes and gently fold up the tattered piece of material with a sort of sense of pride.

Speaking of noses, since forever I have felt a wave of sickness just before a sneeze especially in the morning and I have never been able to get to the bottom of the nausea. As soon as I sneeze the feeling stops, but I have never worked out where you are meant to sneeze. Obviously not over the people you love, but I simply can’t control it, I have tried to sneeze into the crook of my arm, but the muscle spasm flings my arm open clouting anyone in the vicinity. And it is even worse when I am on the freeway heading to Melbourne my eyes start to squint and eventually shut for a second while the shockwave jolts the wheel. The lane departure signals cut in as I give the wheel a discreet wipe over and look at the worried faces of the drivers in the lanes either side.

Another worrying orifice I have is my right ear, I can’t seem to fit and keep an earbud in there, I see people on bikes, walking, jogging or simply sitting and talking on their phones. But the moment I move, swallow, or try to talk the thing shoots out of my ear at a rate of knots. And it’s not just the earbud, on a flight last Christmas I had to ask for a set of headphones as the earpiece that was provided kept flinging itself of my ear. Eventually a set of headphones materialised from what I imagine was the business class section of the plane. But it was the tiresome explanation I had to trot out to the air hostess, “it’s not you it’s me” style of rhetoric referring to the earbuds and my lack of ear cannel.

Speaking of hearing, I heard recently from a good source that The Local team have moved from the Central Highlands of Victoria to warmer clims, and I guess being a fairly integral part of the TL team that would include me. However, I am here to tell you apart from a couple of short flits during the rattiest part of the year like most of the members of our shivering community to warmer clims, for better or for worse, we haven’t relocated.

Orifis rant over…

I AM seriously concerned about the price of living and the potential recession we have on our hands, and I don’t get it.
I cast my mind back to the global financial crisis of 2007 where in America five trillion American dollars got written down and basically the American taxpayers bailed out the banks. The banks were lending too much money to what was essentially a high-risk mortgagee bracket.
The banks went on to take their bailout money, pay themselves bonuses and then go on to fight Congress, who wanted to break up the banks and reform the laws, with that bailout money. The banks won.
Of course, everybody around the world felt the pain, countries like Iceland went broke and people all over the globe did their arses in property price adjustments. So, I understand why our Reserve Bank has had to tap the brakes through its lever of putting up interest rates, but for how long?
The problem for me is that I don’t understand how the RBA can have accurate data leading to decisions around the interest rates. Seven times in 2022 and four times – so far – in 2023, with the most recent increase being this month and the next hike looking likely for July.
The data that they are working from is at least three to five months old, without fuel, food and general cost of living having been accounted for in real time. Census for example, admittedly a lot more complicated and layered look at the population, actuates and then releases its data around 10 months after its initial capture.
So how can the RBA know that we haven’t collectively had enough interest pain? We all have blind faith in this force of bureaucracy that told us to borrow as much as we can as “the interest rates won’t shift until 2024”.
How do they know our pain and are they considering the cohort of honeymoon mortgages that are coming off their sub two per cent rates. These guys locked in a three-year fixed rate in mid to late 2020 when the real estate market was red hot. They are about to enter into the real world of six per cent plus rates!
My issue comes down to people in power at the helm of the economy, making huge impactful decisions on our lives and then getting driven back to their palatial mortgage-free homes in limousines paid for by the taxpayer.
Philip Lowe – governor of the RBA and his bunch of merry men/women/they/them/people/folks – it’s hard to keep up the hotheadedness when trying to be politically correct).
But these privileged humans have virtually no accountability, they use old data as a barometer on the economy as well as revenue tracking by our largest companies, which sure as shit is not filtering down to the world of the average pleb.
Why don’t they rock up to The 5000 Club at Vic Park in Daylesford or any of our local foodbanks, charities and churches to get a measure of what is really going on?
I’ll tell you why, even if their cars could make it across our bush track underfunded excuses for roads without blowing a tyre or crashing into a lane-drifting, texting tourist.
It is because it is easier to look at the world through the 16th floor of 65 Martin Place, Sydney, backslapping and guffawing while weighing up old, outdated data and making considerations and deliberations over a long lunch and an eye-wateringly priced bottle of shiraz.
FFS RBA rant over…